Dirty Feet - Edem Awumey [41]
He had spoken for a long time, and when he began to grow tired, Petite-Guinée lay down on his side. He had kept on conversing with the children. They told each other jokes. The children in the photos laughed at the jokes, and so did Petite-Guinée. They giggled happily. Had more fun than they had ever had. They felt good. Until his heart stopped beating.
Above Askia’s head the mayhem continued. The black jackets were demolishing the bistro that Petite-Guinée had bought with his mercenary earnings. They tittered . . . The Wedding . . .
Askia watched over his friend and laughed out loud. The expression on the dead man’s face had changed. He was radiant, and Askia envied his good fortune. He lay down on his side like the dead man and continued to laugh, hard, hoping that his heart would stop beating, that death would take him like a righteous man, bedded down on this cold floor. He chuckled for a good half-hour, but his heart would not give out. Above the cellar, the uproar diminished. The skinheads were taking a break and the barman was drowning in his own blood. The street was deserted.
48
OVERHEAD, THE black jackets got back to work. The steel bars pulverized the counter. Askia was in the basement, but at the same time he had his hands on the steering wheel of his cab. He was not going to wait for the black jackets. He would turn the ignition key and press down on the accelerator. One last run. He was both the driver and the fare. He was ready, and so was the passenger. The passenger did not need to specify the address of his destination. He knew it. The destination and the street number were infinity. The night was sad.
To depart in his taxi, the site of his quest. Open the glove compartment and take out the cloth that served to clean the dashboard. Unlock the door, get out, and go to the back of the vehicle. Insert the cloth into the exhaust pipe. Remove his shoes, take off his socks, and stuff them into the exhaust as well. Go back to his seat, lock the door again, roll up the windows. His hands on the steering wheel.
The noise from the bar came down into the cellar. The black jackets were walking down the cold steps. Askia imagined his windshield, stared at the heavy door that stood between him and the stairway. He saw a screen, the one from his childhood, a picture at the foot of his bed, the same one where his father’s silhouette would appear. There it was, the shadow of his father, Sidi Ben Sylla Mohammed, faithful, impressive in the night, through the windshield. The shadow was not threatening. It faced him and played with a clown, who had large wings on his back.
Sidi was looking at him. Askia knew what he must do. Tilt the seat back, close his eyes, turn on the ignition.
The black jackets swung their steel bars against the door of the land of the cellar, Petite-Guinée’s tomb — what is referred to as a profanation. An event like the most mundane sort of news item: the steel bars and the boots smashing the tombstone. On their lips, a battle song. The three men unzipped their pants and pissed on what was left of the stone. After which they lowered their pants and emptied their bowels on the broken sepulchre and on the remains of a body that had no right to be there. The leader of the group pulled out a spray can and drew a cross on the stone. A cross in the shape of a swastika. Once the cross was done, a salute: right arm extended and raised to a god far away. Or close by.
Askia wished that Olia would thump on the back door and ask if she could come along for the ride. The engine thrummed; he sensed the girl sitting in the back. She was there. She stuck her head out the open window and photographed the passersby: men, women,