Free Tram 83 by Fiston Mwanza Mujila

picked up a volume lying on a shelf of the small bookcase. Buried his nose in it.
    Another phone call.
    â€œRequiem, my merchandise is sacred!”
    Ever since he’d been bed-bound, he regularly received calls for the Negus laden with death threats. He had even gotten adjusted to this rain of blackmail that fell every half hour. He hung up, returned to the publication. 7:16 P.M. Another phone call. He continued his reading. The telephone was insistent. He hesitated, then picked up the receiver, exhausted by these gymnastics.
    â€œGood evening, Ferdinand Malingeau. May I speak with Mr. Lucien?”
    â€œWhat do you want with me?”
    He answered, after rather a long silence:
    â€œYes, Mister Lucien, I must first of all beseech your forgiveness for the other evening. Your friend gave me to understand that you were going through a bad patch and needed a little more money.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œI am still interested in your literature and I would like to meet to discuss things.”
    â€œCan you leave me the hell alone?”
    â€œSir … It is for your benefit. Your friend told me all about the difficulties you’re currently experiencing. I thought, after the fivethousand dollars, to come to your aid again.”
    â€œWhat five thousand dollars?”
    He was dumbstruck.
    â€œThe five thousand I gave to your friend as compensation!”
    He was speechless.
    â€œDo you have any other texts?”
    Five thousand dollars, damn that Requiem! He shook with rage.
    â€œCan you hear me, sir, see you at the Tram at 11 P.M. at the latest?”
    â€œThat’s perfect.”
    He collapsed onto the couch. The phone rang:
    â€œHi, Lucien, Requiem here, I won’t be back this evening.”
    For the past week, Requiem had been ringing to apologize for not being able to come home, on the pretext of some deal to tie up.
    â€œOk.”
    â€œHi, Lucien, what’s with you, my blood brother?”
    â€œNothing.”
    He hung up surreptitiously for fear of uttering some idiocy. He nodded off.
    The phone rang:
    â€œRequiem, my merchandise or nothing, it’s a matter of life or death …”
    He suddenly had a crazy idea. A leap into the void. He thought of Jacqueline, and replied without mincing his words:
    â€œRequiem, my merchandise, Requiem, my merchandise, shut it!”
    He got back to his reading. 7:47 P.M . He stood up, took theonly beer sitting in the fridge, went out, his imitation-leather bag under his arm, and tried the broken-down elevators.

11.
    IF EVERYONE WERE LIKE REQUIEM, THERE WOULD NEVER BE ANY POVERTY. HE KNEW WHERE AND PRECISELY WHEN TO STRIKE. WHETHER HE RETURNED WITH A CRIPPLED LEG AND A RIPPED EAR, HE SET OFF AGAIN THE FOLLOWING MORNING, HEAD HELD HIGH: REQUIEM, FOR AN IDENTITY REGAINED .
    Requiem brought Lucien ten newspapers a week. He went without his smokes to provide him with “food for the mind,” as he liked to banter. Lucien was terribly ashamed when he saw him reach into his haversack and pull, from between two sandwiches, the newspapers he triumphantly handed him like a poker player laying down his last cards. Lucien paid no mind to the joy Requiem procured from this humanitarian service, but, over time, the Negus started to go too far. He used his actorly qualities against him. His little performance was mechanical, yet not without purpose: that Lucien would tire and eventually move out!
    Requiem often returned home around 11 P.M. , sometimes even later, much later, pushed open the door with his left foot, leered at him, greeted him, set down his near-sighted glasses, questionedhim about the health of his characters, wanted to know if Lucien had got himself something to eat, if Lucien actually read the ads, took off his grubby vest, his scuffed kicks, his socks, and trained his little eyes on him for a long while before continuing with the stage that tortured him the most. With a writer’s sensibility, Lucien grasped the four