I can boil some coffee, but no doughnuts, I said. What’s up?
Otto wants to see you, Tammer said. It’s urgent. He said to bring him some booze, cash, and food.
Where is he?
He’s staying with us.
Your mother’s place?
No, under the bridge.
Let’s go, I said.
When we arrived, I looked at the traces of campfires and the pigeon bones, the empty booze bottles, and the hobo clothing scattered around on the ground. Otto emerged from behind a cement column that was spotted with bird droppings. He looked hungover and cold. I handed him a bag with the food and alcohol, and an envelope with a bit of cash. He broke off a piece of bread and opened the screw-top of the wine and started to gulp it down. Tammer had stayed in the taxi and I could see him fiddling with the radio dial.
You know what our problem is, Fly? Otto said. No matter how much we try, the rituals and the symbolism beat us. You’ve brought me bread and wine. He started to laugh. It must be my last supper. He laughed again and then he said, They’re coming to get me.
Who is coming to get you? I asked.
I killed a man last night, Fly.
You killed a man.
Yes. I killed that journalist.
He moved away from the dark and into an open space. The cars above us rattled and shook the metal beams of the bridge. I stood there not knowing why I was paying attention to the sounds that shook and rattled above us. And suddenly I repeated, You killed a man.
It just happened, Fly. I don’t know how. It felt feverish, I felt as if I was under a blasting sun. We were talking about Camus and I thought of Algeria and its million dead. I can’t remember pulling the trigger. I remember telling the journalist that Camus was an asshole. The journalist answered, Yes, but he was a great thinker nevertheless. I insisted: An asshole, you hear me? Anyone who supports the colonial power to deprive the indigenous of their rights and their land is an asshole. And people like you supported the Pieds-Noirs, you and your republic are assholes. And then the Frenchman turned his back on me and left to sit at another table. .
I left, Fly, and I was going to go home, but I kept on thinking of Algeria. . I waited in the alley until he came out and then I followed him to his hotel. I think I put the clown nose on my face. It was in my pocket. And I had my gun. After that I don’t remember. It was dark. We were in an alley. I made him repeat the names of places, Napoleon’s Spain, Haiti, Vietnam, Algeria. The man started to cry. My gun was up against his head, Fly. I remember him telling me, You don’t need to wear a mask. You don’t need a gun. I know who you are. We can talk like two civilized people. But then I made him repeat: My country is not civilized, my country is not civilized, I am not civilized, I am not civilized, Camus was not civilized. . and I felt something rush to my head, almost like a heat wave, and the gun went off and the man was on the ground. I don’t remember what happened next. I must have been drunk. The gun just went off, Fly. I don’t remember. Fly, I can’t remember.
And Otto ran his hand through his hair, which looked clumped and greasy. I offered him another cigarette and I pulled out my lighter, and he sheltered my hands with his hands to protect the fire.
I told him I would help him and I asked him what he wanted to do.
I will be moving around for a while, he said. I won’t let them catch me, Fly. I am not going back to that asylum.
The gun? I asked.
I am keeping it as a last resort.
Throw it in the river, I said.
I told you, Fly, I am keeping it as a last resort. Capture and submission are no longer options. But I can’t stay here. This play is almost over. And we should know when to bow and when to leave.
Wait, I said.
And Otto held my head and kissed my forehead goodbye.
THE NEXT DAY, two officers knocked at my door. I let them in. Ironically, they stood between the crime section and the culinary section, both situated next to the window as a precautionary measure against arson, grease fires, and food poisoning, among other methods of murder.
Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Otto Blake? they asked.
Yes, he is a friend.
How long have you known Mr. Blake?
Twenty years, maybe more.
Did Mr. Blake ever reside here?
He has crashed here occasionally.
But some of his mail is sent to this address?
Yes, he moves around. He must have given this as a permanent address.
Did he ever mention a Mr. Bouchard to you?
No. I don’t know who that is.
He is the French journalist who was killed two nights ago. Shot in the face. With a nine-millimetre gun.
I shook my head.
Mr. Blake was seen having an argument with him at the Irish Pub on Curtis Street. Do you know anything about that?
No, I don’t, I said.
Were you at that pub on the night of the seventh? That was Friday.
Yes, briefly.
Was Mr. Bouchard present?
I wouldn’t know. There were too many people.
Here is a photo of Mr. Bouchard. That is before the damage.
I can’t recall, with the Carnival and all. It was chaotic. I only talked to Otto.
Was Mr. Blake talking to Mr. Bouchard?
Like I said, it was crowded.
Do you know if Mr. Blake had a gun in his possession?
No, I have no idea.
Where did you go after you left?
I went back to my job. I drive a taxi. I put gas in my car.
Do you have a receipt?
Yes. I can locate it if you give me a minute. I grabbed my wallet from the kitchen table. I went through a bunch of receipts until I located the one from that day and I handed it to the detective, who was already snooping through my books.
Do you mind if we hold on to it?
No.
Anything else you did?
I drove all night and picked up customers.
Any customers who might remember being driven by you? Is there a record from a dispatcher we could use to verify your whereabouts?
No, I am an independent driver. I don’t rely on dispatchers in my job.
So you drive around. .
Yes, I wander and pick up customers off the street. I find it tedious waiting for a call to come to me.
Could you give us the name of any person who could confirm that you were driving that night?
I did drive an old man and his daughter to a seniors’ home in Eastmount. I helped the man inside.
Do you remember his name?
No, but I remember that he was crying. And afterwards I drove his daughter back to her place. I could give you that address if you want to check it. We had a conversation and she gave me a good tip and asked me my name. I am known as Fly; she should remember me.
What did you talk about?
Death.
Death as in murder? the inspector asked.
No, death as in old age.
Are you staying here for the next while?
Do you mean here at home?
No, I mean in this town. Would you be taking a plane somewhere soon?
I have no need for airplanes.
Thank you for your help. Oh, one more thing: do you belong to any political party?
No.
If I may ask, do you subscribe to the views of any particular political party?
Like I said, Officer, I am an independent driver.
I see the metaphor, the policeman said. Do you mind if we take a quick look around?
Not at all, but please watch your head.
THE KILLING OF the French journalist was all over the news. The police were looking for a person of interest, they said, and they mentioned Otto’s name. And it didn’t look like a robbery, they added, because the wallet of the journalist was found, untouched, in the victim’s pocket.
Later that evening, while I was driving and following the news, I heard a reporter conducting an interview with Otto’s roommate. The old lady was under the influence and her husky voice had the sound of smoke and relentless cigarettes. She called Otto an angry man and a loner. She also said they’d had an argument about God. Which god? the lady reporter asked. None, she replied: he hated them all and he never respected me because I am a believer. Every time one of those good people on TV began preaching the gospel or asking for donations, he cursed and called them quacks, slammed the door, and went to his room. He was an angry man, like I said.