Free Sila's Fortune by Fabrice Humbert Page B

large office. Sila liked to come up in winter to enjoy the warmth and thick, richly coloured rugs which Roger had acquired through one of his dodgy business dealings.
    As any estate agent would have pointed out, one of the features of the property – besides being preferable to sleeping under a bridge – was its proximity to the Bois de Vincennes. After arriving on the cargo ship, Sila had got a job washing dishes in a tourist restaurant in Montmartre. Fos, who had contacts all over the world, had put him in touch with a friend whom he had asked to find the boy a job and somewhere to live. Then he took his leave of Sila, telling him, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. You have the light.’
    The exact nature of this ‘light’ was difficult to understand. And given Sila’s fate, Fos’s prediction might seem like a mocking laugh. But it is true that for a long time, Sila seemed to benefit from the light. It took Fos’s friend less than a month to find the boy a room in the warehouse and a job at the restaurant. At first, Sila was grateful to his employer – he was, after all, employing an illegal immigrant – until he realised that the man was simply exploiting him, paying half the minimum wage and no social security. In short, Sila cost his boss a quarter as much as a French employee. Even so, Sila grew accustomed to hisjob. He became a perfect illegal immigrant, commendable in every respect.
    But still Sila missed the natural world. Surrounded by a sea of concrete, he felt suffocated. He took deep breaths, tried to suck in lungfuls of air … but it didn’t work. Everything was so polluted, the crashing waves of grey concrete and stone were impossible to escape. So the Bois de Vincennes was not simply an estate agent’s talking point. In these woods – though crisscrossed with man-made paths that were often deserted during the week - there was air, he felt he could breathe. Sometimes one of the other residents at the warehouse would go running with him, but who could keep up with Sila when he ran? How could anyone measure up to that natural energy, that boundless ability to run? Sila was indefatigable; running to him was as natural as walking. He would set off along the paths, jogging slowly so as not to leave his running mate behind, but as time passed and the other runner began to tire, struggling to keep up, Sila would suddenly take off, flying like an arrow for the sheer thrill of the speed, crashing through thickets, hurdling hedges. No one could keep up. ‘Sila’s a champion,’ they said in the warehouse. ‘He shouldn’t be a waiter, he should be an Olympic runner.’ And Sila would smile and shake his head, then go back to the basement of the restaurant.
    It was on his return from one of his runs that he discovered Roger’s wife, Céline, was celebrating her birthday ‘upstairs’.
    â€˜Which birthday?’
    â€˜We don’t know. But it’s her birthday. She’s been cooking since this morning, making dinner for everyone in the warehouse.’
    â€˜Dinner? With what?’
    â€˜We don’t know. It’s a surprise. We’ll find out soon enough.’
    Sila, who was not without a certain pride in his appearance, washed himself carefully, slicked down his hair with a cream that made it look even blacker and shinier, put on his best clothes and, at the appointed hour, appeared in the apartment upstairs.
    â€˜Sila!’ his hostess greeted him. ‘How handsome you look. I’m honoured.’
    The others laughed and poked fun at him but he didn’t get annoyed, he simply sat down; he knew they all liked him. Through the window, beyond the city, beyond the motorway, he could make out the trees of the Bois de Vincennes.
    â€˜Did you have a good run?’ asked Céline. ‘You were out there for hours apparently.’
    â€˜Yes. I caught a rabbit.’
    â€˜A