Yes, fuck, you are that cabbie who used to wait for the blond every Thursday at the strip bar.
Yes, I said. That is me.
Sure it is, I recognize you. Small world, he said. I quit over there. This place I’m working at now is happening, I’m much better off. I get one of them clubbing bitches every night. They stick their number in my jacket and I bring them to the front of the line. Too bad about your girl, man, what was her name, Sally?
Yes. What about her?
You should know, man.
I should know what? I said.
I thought you were banging her.
No. We were friends. Do tell me what you know.
It seems to me that you were more than friends. Look at you sad and all. Anyway, man, all I know is that one night, she locked herself in the bathroom and she wouldn’t open up or go onstage. She cried and cried and I had to break down the bathroom door. I found her lying on the floor naked, crying in her high heels and bikini. She wouldn’t say anything. She just cried. I called another girl and we brought her clothes. She said that her best friend Maggie, another dancer, had died in a motorcycle accident that night. I gave your friend some water and she took her bag and left. And that was it. Your girlfriend never came back to work.
Do you know where she went?
No, man, those girls come and go. I don’t get involved in their personal lives. But, I tell you, your girl needed help. Whatever she lost must have been hard on her.
Here’s the door, he said. I’ll get out. Drop by one night and I’ll buy you a drink.
And he walked towards a long line of women who stood, half-naked, shivering and waiting in the cold.
ACT FOUR. THE KILL
I CHECKED MY mailbox and found junk mail, some bills, and a few letters for Otto. Traces from the time he lived with me.
So that evening I decided to look for Otto to give him his mail. I went to the bar where he liked to hang out but couldn’t find him. I asked the bartender, who told me Otto usually showed up a little later. I drove to his apartment, the one he shared with the old lady. He often complained about how she was always smoking and getting drunk on rum and Cokes. Her room was stuffed with empty Coke cans, hundreds of them arranged in rows covering the bedroom walls. The biggest existential question in her case was whether she would die from diabetes or liver failure. Otto thought it would be obesity. Just like the rest of this nation, he said. Communists and Muslims are not the enemies to fear in this land, Fly. It is the food consumption that will eventually blow up in everyone’s face.
But Otto wasn’t home, so I went back to the bar and, this time, I saw him sitting on a stool talking animatedly to a well-dressed man.
I approached them and found myself in the middle of a heated argument. The man had a thick French accent that reminded me of the bearded lady. Otto was telling him that the French empire and its culture were dead, and rightly so.
The man said something about a lasting contribution to world culture.
Otto looked revolted and said, Culture? Let me tell you about culture. I walk through the museums and I look at the monuments, those celebrations of theft and oppression, and all I can think of is the suffering of the slaves and the starving workers who shaped those massive stones and carried them on their backs. You know what culture I believe in? I believe in the slave revolt of Eunus against the savagery of the Roman Empire; I believe in Haiti’s emancipation from the colonial French, and when they gave it to Napoleon the Third up the ass. Violence and resistance are the only answer. Empire has to feel pain or it will never stop devouring you. It is only when a gun is put in a person’s face that anything changes. All empires are hungry cannibals. .
Let’s go for a stroll down to the river, I said.
No rivers, Fly. The only liquid I need to see right now is in a glass in my hand. You go ahead to your river. How many chances do we get to speak to a journalist and a colonizer?
I beg your pardon, sir, said the Frenchman. I am not a colonizer.
Well, let’s talk Algeria then. Let’s talk about your culture and your celebrated writers.
At this point I told Otto I was leaving. I offered to give him a ride back to his place. But Otto stayed, drinking and talking to the French journalist.
I drove to the nearest station and filled my car with gas. I picked up a bag of peanuts. I ate it and went looking for work.
ONCE LINDA DISAPPEARED for days and she left her son alone. She was getting high in a crack house. Luckily, Otto had decided to visit Tammer that week. Aisha was in the hospital and had been asking for him. But when Otto entered the apartment he saw the boy hungry and dirty, his face full of snot and drenched in tears. The neighbour woman, hearing Otto arrive, opened her door and said, That kid has been whimpering like a puppy. He’s been asking for food. The woman stood there frowning. She looked Otto in the eye and said, I was about to call the cops. If the kid’s mother can’t take care of the child, someone should. The city has got to know about this.
Otto assured her that all was well and immediately closed the door and took Tammer in his arms. He opened a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti that he found on an upper shelf and heated it.
Soon Tammer was shoving the food inside his mouth and looking at Otto with droopy eyes of disbelief and sadness. Otto called Fredao, shouted, and ordered him to come at once. After Tammer finished eating, Otto took him to the bathroom and gave him a bath, and then he combed his hair, put him into his pyjamas, fixed his bed, told him a story, and tucked him in to sleep. He washed the dishes and tidied the house. He picked up the clothing that was lying all over the floor and lit a cigarette and waited for Fredao.
When Fredao got there, Otto opened the door and grabbed him by the collar. He pushed him against the wall and said, You fix this mess.
Fredao pushed Otto away and went over to the neighbour’s apartment. Fredao smiled and introduced himself as the father of the child, saying that the boy’s mother had been in an accident and had been taken to the hospital, and that he had been coming to look after Tammer but got held up in a long traffic jam and his car broke down. He’d had to wait for the tow truck. . You know, Fredao said, when it rains, it pours.
The woman didn’t buy a word of it. She looked at Fredao’s flamboyant hat and flashy suit and said, The kid is skinny: he has always been skinny, ever since I’ve known him. He comes here and begs for food. I give him candy, but I ain’t his mother, I shouldn’t be giving him food. I think somebody else should take care of him. You people are not doing a good job.
Fredao smiled and said, We appreciate your concerns, ma’am. Here is something for your trouble.
Are you trying to bribe me, mister? The woman filled the hallway with her shouts. This kid is about to starve to death. Do you think I will watch a child suffering and be quiet?
Well, ma’am, like I said, it is for your trouble. You gave the kid some candy and in return I am giving you something sweet. There are two ways to taste things in life: the sweet way and the bitter way. I didn’t offer you the bitter because I like to start with the sweet, but if people don’t want my sweets I have no choice but to offer the bitter way. Now, what is it going to be, lady, this or that?
I ain’t calling this time. You can keep your stuff to yourself. And the neighbour slowly and reluctantly closed her door.
AND NOW, YEARS later, here was Tammer knocking at my door. It was morning and I had just fallen asleep after a long shift. I heard banging, and then a voice calling: It’s Tammer. Open up!
I let him in. He looked much older and skinnier than I remembered. When I asked him about his mother, he asked me if I had any coffee and doughnuts.