Since Lalla is looking at him in surprise, he says, “Oh yeah, you don’t know, the boss is a gypsy like me, his name is Lino, and the place where we all live — we call it the hotel — is a big house where there are lots of children, and they all work for Lino.”
He knows the names of all the beggars in the city. He knows where they live, and who they work with, even those who are more or less bums and who live alone. There are some children who work as a family, with their brothers and sisters, and who also shoplift in the department stores and the supermarkets. The youngest ones learn how to keep a lookout or distract the shopkeepers; sometimes they’re used as relays. Above all, there are the women, gypsy women dressed in their long flowered dresses, faces covered with a black veil, and all you can see are their shiny, black eyes, like those of birds. And then there are also the old men and women, poverty-stricken, hungry, who cling to the jackets and skirts of middle-class people and won’t let go, mumbling incantations, until they are given a small coin.
Lalla gets a lump in her throat when she sees them, or when she runs into an ugly young woman with a small child hanging at her breast, begging on the corner of the main avenue. She didn’t really know what fear was before, because back there in the Hartani’s land, there were only snakes and scorpions or, at worst, evil spirits making shadowy motions in the night; but here it’s the fear of emptiness, of need, of hunger, unnamed fear that seems to seep in from half-opened transoms into the horrid, stinking, basement rooms, well up from dark courtyards, enter rooms as cold as graves, or, like an evil wind, sweep along the wide avenues, where people are endlessly walking, walking, going away, pushing and shoving one another like that incessantly, day and night, for months on end, for years, through the unflagging sound of their rubber soles and, rising into the heavy air, the rumbling of their words, their motors, their grumbling, their gasping.
Sometimes your head starts spinning so fast that you have to sit down right away, and Lalla glances around for something to lean on. Her metal-colored face turns gray, her eyes blink out, she’s falling, very slowly, as if into a huge well, with no hope of stopping her fall.
“What is it? Miss? Are you feeling okay? Are you all right?
The voice is shouting somewhere very far from her ear, she can smell the odor of garlic on the breath before her sight comes back. She’s half-crumpled-up against the foot of a wall. A man is holding her hand and leaning over her.
“… It’s okay, it’s okay…”
She’s able to speak, very slowly, or maybe she’s only thinking the words?
The man helps her walk, leads her over to the terrace of a cafe. The people who had gathered around move away, but even so, Lalla hears the voice of a woman saying very clearly, “She’s simply pregnant, that’s all.”
The man has her sit down at a table. He’s still leaning toward her. He’s short and fat, with a pockmarked face, a moustache, hardly any hair.
“You need something to drink, it’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m hungry,” Lalla says. She feels apathetic about everything, maybe she thinks she’s going to die.
“I’m hungry.” She repeats the words slowly.
The man panics and begins to stutter. He stands up and runs over to the counter, comes back soon with a sandwich and a basket of brioches. Lalla doesn’t listen to him; she eats quickly, first the sandwich, then all the brioches, one after the other. The man watches her eat, and his fat face is still agitated with emotion. He speaks in bursts, then stops, for fear of tiring Lalla.
“When I saw you fall like that right in front of me, it really threw me! Is this the first time it’s happened to you? I mean, it’s awful with so many people in the avenue there, the ones just behind you almost walked over you, and they didn’t even stop, it’s — My name’s Paul, Paul Esteve, and you? Do you speak French? You’re not from here, are you? Have you had enough to eat? Would you like me to get you another sandwich?”
His breath reeks of garlic, tobacco, and wine, but Lalla is glad he’s there; she thinks he’s nice with his somewhat shiny eyes. He notices that, and starts talking again, like he does, every which way, asking questions and then answering them.
“You’re not hungry anymore? Will you have a little something to drink? A cognac? No, better have something sweet, it’s good for you when you’re feeling weak, a Coke? Or some fruit juice? I’m not bothering you, am I? You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone faint right in front of me like that, fall on the ground, and it — it really threw me. I work — I’m an employee for the Post and Telecommunications, you see, I’m not used to — well, I mean, maybe you should go and see a doctor all the same, would you like me to go and phone one?”
He’s already getting up, but Lalla shakes her head, and he sits back down. Later, she drinks a little hot tea, and her exhaustion dissipates. Her face is once again copper-colored, light is shining in her eyes. She stands up and the man accompanies her out into the street.
“You’re — you’re sure you’ll be all right now? Can you walk?”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” Lalla says.
Before leaving, Paul Esteve writes his name and address on a scrap of paper.
“If you need anything…”
He squeezes Lalla’s hand. He’s barely any taller than she is. His blue eyes are still all misty with emotion.
“Good-bye,” says Lalla. And she walks away as quickly as she can without looking back.
THERE ARE DOGS almost everywhere. But they’re not like the beggars, they prefer to live in the Panier, between Place de Lenche and Rue du Refuge. Lalla looks at them when she passes by, she’s wary of them, their coats bristle up, they’re very scrawny, but they don’t look anything like the wild dogs that used to steal chickens and sheep back in the Project; these dogs are bigger and stronger, and there’s something dangerous and desperate about the way they look. They go around scrounging for food in all the piles of garbage, they gnaw on old bones, fish heads, the waste the butchers throw out to them. There’s one dog that Lalla knows well. He’s always in the same spot every day, at the bottom of the stairway, near the street that leads to the big striped church. He’s all black with a collar of white fur that grows down onto his chest. His name is Dib, or Hib, she’s not sure, but in the end, his name isn’t important at all because he doesn’t really have a master. Lalla heard a little boy calling him that in the street. When he sees Lalla, he looks kind of glad and wags his tail, but he doesn’t come near her, and he won’t let anyone get near him. Lalla merely says a few words to him; she asks him how he is, but without stopping, just in passing, and if she has something to eat, she throws him a little piece.
Here in the Panier neighborhood, everyone knows everyone, more or less. It’s not the same in the rest of the city, where there are those streams of men and women flowing along the avenues, creating that great din of shoes and motors. Here in the Panier, the streets are short; they twist and open into other streets, alleyways, stairways, and it’s more like a big apartment with halls and rooms that fit together. Yet except for the big dog, Dib or Hib, and a few children whose names she doesn’t know, most people don’t even seem to see her. Lalla slips along without making a sound, going from one street to another, she follows the path of the sun and the light.
Maybe the people here are afraid? Afraid of what? It’s hard to say; it’s as if they feel they are being watched, and they have to be careful about everything they do and say. But no one is really watching them. So maybe it comes from the fact that they speak so many diVerent languages? There are the people from North Africa, the Magrhebis, Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians, Mauritanians, and then people from Africa, the Senegalese, the Malians, the Dahomeyans, and also the Jews, who come from all over, but never really speak the language of their country; there are the Portuguese, the Spaniards, the Italians, and also the odd people, who don’t resemble the others, the Yugoslavians, the Turks, the Armenians, the Lithuanians; Lalla doesn’t know what those names mean, but that’s what everyone here calls them, and Aamma is quite familiar with all of those names. Most of all, there are the gypsies, like the ones who live in the house next door, so many of them you never know whether you’ve already seen them, or if they’ve just arrived; they don’t like Arabs, or Spaniards, or Yugoslavians; they don’t like anyone, because they’re not used to living in a place like the Panier, so they’re always ready to get into a fight, even the little boys, even the women, who, according to what Aamma says, carry razor blades in their mouths. Sometimes, at night, you’re awakened by the sound of a battle in the alleyways. Lalla goes down the stairs to the street and, in the pale light of the streetlamp, sees a man crawling on the ground holding a knife stuck in his chest. The next day, there is a long gooey streak on the ground that the flies come buzzing around.
Sometimes people from the police come too; they stop their big black cars at the bottom of the stairways and go into the houses, especially those where the Arabs and the gypsies live. There are policemen with uniforms and caps, but those aren’t the ones who are the most dangerous; it’s the others, the ones who are dressed like
