A Trail of Shadows
Translated from French into English by El Hadji Moustapha Diop
I
I get out of bed early in the morning, while the city is still sleeping. At the back of the living room, I quietly edge my way through the French doors. Our balcony. Cramped. Cluttered. The worm-eaten wooden planks crack under my feet. Yesterday Myriem was washing Sydia's clothes, and the laundry, still wet, is hiding the street from view. I push it aside. Moving shapes whirl across the vacant lot. Neighborhood stray dogs. I heard them bark in unison, just before I jolted out of bed. As if on cue, in a single movement they look up toward me, and I can sense anxiety in their eyes. They're starved and dirty. They're scared of everything. They scare everybody. They may have rabies, you never know. This vacant lot is the last sign of life amid the concrete blocks. I enjoy contemplating its shards of broken bottles, its tufts of grass, its crackled and dry earth, burned black in some places. Its rifts, its scattered remains grip me deep in the guts. They bring back memories of my wandering childhood years, over there.
Of course the lot doesn’t have much longer to live. Last Sunday, two solemn-faced strangers came with people from City Hall. They were stomping the ground, casting wary glances at the surrounding houses, taking measurements, and talking among themselves, on and on. I know it, they're going to cut its throat and feed it to the dogs. I can already see blood on their hands. Soon they will bulldoze these dilapidated walls that look like decayed teeth, with their plain red bricks. Only God knows why. They're going to hit us smack in the face, with some damned building complex. Maybe even a tower. Sure, the lot is tiny, but these people can pull it off, nothing can stop them, they're completely nuts. Maybe it won't even be a tower, just a nice little mini-mart, the kind that is open until late at night, with ninety-nine-cent junk and bleary-eyed salesgirls. I dread their return here. Digging and boring holes. Siphoning off the air. Then one day construction workers simply jump down from their scaffolds and go elsewhere, helmets under their arms. Afterward, the restless streets will be caught in the grip of wilder dreams. You can hardly see the horizon on its downhill course to the abyss.
Clear skies, with winding spots of light in the distance.
A green neon sign is putting on a show, swinging to and fro, dancing amid the last fading stars. House blocks look like so many imbricate matchboxes. Some are gigantic and full of pretense, others are quite charming, with flowers adorning their balconies. Soft-hearted poets are probably meditating in there. What's really the point, I wonder. This silence makes me think of a grave.
After the morning prayer, here I am, standing in the elevator. It's cramped and stinks of urine and grease. Creaking dusty floorboards. Big dirty letters on the walls, hurling expletives at the world.
The morning breeze is brushing against my face. Is the city greeting me with a friendly pat on the back ? No, I’d rather say life itself is dealing with a hard blow. Upstairs, Myriem and the boy haven't budged, not even once, as if they were one single body in tiny bits, under the blanket, the same body scattered over couch, floor, and mats. Even in his sleep Sydia is facing the TV. Over the years, I have mastered the art of tiptoeing through the apartment. I can’t give them much, but I want them to sleep safe and sound. When they lie so peacefully, it feels as if I were resting my own tired head.
Every now and then, right over my head a car speeds down the highway, southbound. I can smell the gasoline vapors rising in the air. Then the whir of engines seems to draw closer to my ears, by the minute. It's as if the city were collecting and expectorating refuse from the night, to clear its throat and belch louder. Growl harder. The city is a young, sprightly predator about to leap on its prey.
The first dead have already risen from their graves. Here they come now, tumbling down en masse onto the boulevards.
