Free Dirty Feet by Edem Awumey Page A

downstairs neighbour. That maybe none of this was real. That the steps she heard were in her troubled mind, that the turbaned man returning to Paris, asking for lodging, food, and water to wash his feet, was all an invention of hers.
    The footsteps stopped. It was not Sidi. No one knocked. In a rage she sent the pizza box flying against the door and went up to the mezzanine. Finally she could not bear it any longer. Disregarding the late hour, she put on her boots, grabbed her coat, and ran out. She hailed a cab and took it to the wreck of the burnt building. She roamed the neighbourhood for a good two hours, walked around the building several times, came back to the front and concentrated on the shutters of the top floor, where the loft was. Hoping for something. An apparition. That the man with the turban would stick out his head and tell her he agreed to another photo session, another attempt to fix his movements in the face of any and all fires. But the stranger was not at the window. So it occurred to her to go to the plazas, the city squares, where a few illegals could always be found loitering. The stranger might be there — alive, burned, or dead.
    She flagged down another cab. She found, in the middle of the Beaubourg square, a man. Alone. A countryman, dressed like Sidi. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his coat, which he wore over his boubou, his head was bent, and his eyes studied the pavement like a beaten man. She ran towards him. He turned and looked at her. She was disappointed — this was not the man she sought. Nevertheless, she questioned him:
    â€œHave you seen a turban?”
    â€œ. . .”
    â€œI mean Sidi.”
    â€œ. . .”
    From his coat the man pulled out a long shepherd’s knife. No, not a knife, but a crippled hand that he raised above his head.
    â€œThe turban, he’s dead!”
    â€œYou mean Sidi?” she asked.
    â€œYes, Sidi.”
    â€œHow do you know he’s dead?”
    â€œSimple deduction. You can’t find him. So he’s dead.”

28
    BLACK NIGHT . The dark sheet of the sky. Askia left the parking lot and went for a drive. Over to the dead end where he would routinely stop for a break. Down a long avenue, three or four turns, a big man in a curbside phone booth yelling at the top of his lungs, a cobblestone lane smelling of urine and blind alleys. Blind alleys and muffled noises. It was hard to see ahead of him. A blurred view of black jackets and shaved heads. Busy making a muffled noise. Busy hitting. Kicking someone in the ribs. The sound grew more distinct. A length of steel chain flashing in the cab’s headlights. Groans. He revved up his engine. The three men turned around, charged towards the cab, cursing loudly as they ran past. The steel chain striking the trunk.
    He stopped. In the dead end, the man by the wall tried to stand up. Then he collapsed again on his right side. His head bloody. Opening one eye, he felt obliged to explain:
    â€œRomania.”
    â€œI’ll take you to the hospital.”
    â€œRomania.”
    â€œYou’re bleeding. I’ll . . .”
    â€œNo. No hospital.”
    â€œIt’s not far.”
    â€œNo.”
    The Rom left him there in the dead end and hobbled away. He was afraid of the hospital, of the questions they might ask there. Or at the police station: “How did you enter the country?”
    The Rom, his bloody head. A red ball. As on that maliciously sunny day when he had managed to beat the dog Pontos on the head with a chunk of hard mortar. For weeks it dragged its wound around the garbage dump in Trois-Collines. Askia wanted to give it time to heal before striking again. And Father Lem was never there to protect his dog with the peculiar name, the name of some obscure divinity. An unsettling omen. A sign that the children would soon abandon Trois-Collines for the high seas and adventure. No, it wasn’t the dog — it was the