Dirty Feet - Edem Awumey [35]
That was how Askia pictured Zak’s last moments, the final chapter of the book of his friend’s flight.
He left the apartment on Rue Auguste-Comte and returned to the parking lot, feeling he had found his solution. He did not get in behind the steering wheel. Instead he sat down with his back leaning against a pillar and waited. Hoping to end like Zak. He unfolded his limbs, stretching his legs out on the cement, stretching his arms out along his thighs. To offer up his body to whatever violence happened to come along. He was not aware of the cold. He would not count on that to kill him. It would be more brutal.
He checked his watch. At least an hour had gone by with him sitting in this position. Nothing had happened. Then an idea occurred to him, one that could speed things up. He got up and ran over to his cab. Rummaged through the glove compartment, where he had carelessly stuffed the money from his last fares. He took the cash and went back to the spot he had chosen for his torture and death. He tossed the money onto his stomach and all around his body. In plain sight. All that was left for him was to hope that a random passerby would take the money and kill him. He would make a show of putting up a fight, of violently resisting his aggressor, who would then have no choice but to act decisively.
At dawn a man arrived. Wearing a long coat and a felt hat. The hat slightly skewed over his left ear. A cigarette hung in his fist. A plume of smoke rose from the cigarette. The man walked with a limp. He looked like a veteran. A veteran of all the crimes he must have committed in the night, a veteran of the life that must have eaten up his leg. He stepped resolutely towards Askia. Askia stayed calm. There was an air of mystery surrounding the man. A magnificent picture: the long coat topped with the felt hat, which bent down, the cigarette smoking in his fist, the whole scene set against the background of an unreal night striped with rows of cars in the parking lot. He advanced. Would soon be touching Askia’s feet. A splendid tableau. The only thing missing was a colour, in fact, two colours: the gleam of a blade catching the pale light in the parking lot and the red of the victim’s blood.
The man touched Askia’s feet. Plunged his hand into a pocket on the right side, froze for an instant, coughed, knelt down, touched the banknotes that rested on his stomach. Askia was ready. As soon as the man made another move, he would jump on him. Again the man coughed. Touched his chest. Askia closed his eyes. He could not see the aggressor. He could smell him. The man spoke: “Can I help you, sir? Would you like me to call the police? Have you been assaulted?”
The man shook his shoulder. Askia opened his eyes. “Everything’s fine,” he answered. “I’m an actor. I have to play a role — mine. I’m in training.”
The man uttered a few words that Askia did not catch. He stood up and walked to his cab. Meanwhile the man went back to his Cadillac, which was parked on the far side of the pillar. Askia checked his watch. Five o’clock. Daybreak. It would not happen this time. On another night, maybe in the next movie, he would be killed like Zak. He started to laugh.
41
IN THE LATE afternoon he once again found Monsieur Ali of Port Said and his chestnuts. Business had been very slow and he had amused himself all day by making cones and pyramids out of wrapping paper. Dozens of them under