"No, it wasn't," said the girl I was attracted to. "It's just a joke, so that we can laugh at the people who obey without even thinking about what they're obeying. There's no reason, it's not important, and no one will get knocked down."
More people joined the group. Now there were eleven of us and two Alsatian dogs. We were no longer begging, because no one dared go near this band of savages who seemed to enjoy the fear they aroused. The drink had run out again and they all looked at me and asked me to buy another bottle, as if I had a duty to keep them drunk. I realized that this was my passport to the pilgrimage, so I set off in search of a shop.
The girl I was interested in--and who was young enough to be my daughter--seemed to notice me looking at her and started talking to me. I knew it was simply a way of provoking me, but I joined in. She didn't tell me anything about her personal life, she just asked me how many cats and how many lampposts there were on the back of a ten-dollar bill.
"Cats and lampposts?"
"You don't know, do you? You don't give any real value to money at all. Well, for your information, there are four cats and eleven lampposts."
Four cats and eleven lampposts. I promised myself that I would check this out the next time I saw a ten-dollar bill.
"Do any of you take drugs?"
"Some, but mainly it's just alcohol. Not much at all, in fact, it's not our style. Drugs are more for people of your generation, aren't they? My mother, for example, drugs herself on cooking for the family, compulsively tidying the house, and suffering over me. When something goes wrong with my dad's business, she suffers. Can you believe that? She suffers over me, my father, my brothers and sisters, everything. I was wasting so much energy pretending to be happy all the time, I thought it was best just to leave home."
Another personal history.
"Like your wife," said a young man with fair hair and an eyebrow ring. "She left home too, didn't she? Was that because she had to pretend to be happy all the time?"
So she had been here too. Had she given some of these young people a piece of that bloodstained shirt?
"She suffered too," laughed Lucrecia. "But as far as we know, she's not suffering anymore. That's what I call courage!"
"What was my wife doing here?"
"She came with the Mongolian guy, the one with all the strange ideas about love that we're only just beginning to understand. And she used to ask questions and tell us her story. One day, she stopped doing both. She said she was tired of complaining. We suggested that she give up everything and come with us, because we were planning a trip to North Africa. She thanked us, but said she had other plans and would be heading off in the opposite direction."
"Didn't you read his latest book?" asked Anastasia.
"No, I didn't fancy it. People told me it was too romantic. Now when are we going to get some more bo
oze?"
People made way for us as if we were samurai riding into a village, bandits arriving in a frontier town, barbarians entering Rome. The tribe didn't make any aggressive gestures, the aggression was all in the clothes, the body piercing, the loud conversations, the sheer oddness. We finally found a minimart: to my great discomfort and alarm, they all went in and started rummaging around on the shelves.
I didn't know any of them, apart from Mikhail, and even then I didn't know if what he had told me about himself was true. What if they stole something? What if one of them was armed? As the oldest member of the group, was I responsible for their actions?
The man at the cash register kept glancing up at the security mirror suspended from the ceiling in the tiny shop. The group, knowing that he was worried, spread out, gesturing to each other, and the tension grew. To cut things short, I picked up three bottles of vodka and walked quickly over to the cash register.
A woman buying cigarettes said that, in her day, Paris had been full of bohemians and artists, not threatening bands of homeless people. She suggested that the cashier call the police.
"I've got a feeling something bad is going to happen any minute now," she muttered.
The cashier was terrified by this invasion of his little world, the fruit of years of work and many loans, where perhaps his son worked in the morning, his wife in the afternoon, and he at night. He nodded to the woman, and I realized that he had already called the police.
I hate getting involved in things that are none of my business, but I also hate being a coward. Every time it happens, I lose all self-respect for a week.
"Don't worry..." I began.
It was too late.
Two policemen came in and the owner beckoned them over, but the young people disguised as extraterrestrials paid no attention--it was all part of standing up to representatives of the established order. It must have happened to them many times before. They knew they hadn't committed any crime (apart from crimes against fashion, but that could all change with next season's haute couture). They must have been afraid, but they didn't show it and continued talking loudly.
"I saw a comedian the other day. He said that stupid people should have the word 'stupid' written on their identity card," said Anastasia to no one in particular. "That way, we'd know who we were talking to."
"Yeah, stupid people are a real danger to society," said the girl with the angelic face and vampire clothing, who, shortly before, had been talking to me about the number of lampposts and cats to be found on the back of a ten-dollar bill. "They should be tested once a year and have a license for walking the streets, like drivers do to drive."
The policemen, who couldn't have been very much older than the tribe, said nothing.