The Tight Rope

We were sitting on rickety old chairs facing a big square. It was hot. The square was surrounded by shops and stables and looked dirty. Small alleys converged on it from every direction. We sat there drinking tea and listening to strident, dull music, music talking about cigarettes and alcohol, but not women. There were some animals as well, lolling around the square in the heat and looking for a cool spot under overhanging roofs or close to walls that shade had long since deserted. People sat close to their pack animals; most of them were eating bits of dry bread and olives without showing any hint of disgust. Some dirty Europeans were sitting next to us on rickety chairs too, staring vapidly at nothing in particular. A small group of wealthier Europeans crossed the square and started taking pictures of us and other people who were sitting close to their pack animals, eating.

Once in a while some men and children would emerge from the narrow alleys and gather in the square. The square would empty, then fill up again. It was incredibly hot, but that meant nothing to the children; they just kept on playing.

Then we spotted another group of children coming out of a small, narrow alley in single file. They were heading for the square, slowly and listlessly. We kept watching them intently because they seemed so regimented and in line. When we noticed that their hands were tied, we assumed it was a kind of game that downtrodden children played. Not only that, but they were all barefoot; in fact, one of them had no pants, and his tiny genitals showed unashamedly.

By now the small group was getting closer to the square, all regimented and in line, but the other group of children seemed completely uninterested. Now we observed that each child in the small group had a rope attached tightly to his hand; actually, it was a single rope that was tied to all their hands. The children kept walking across the square in a single motley row. Some of them were crying.

We now realized to our utter amazement that this was no game, but something much more serious. Some of the Europeans picked up their cameras and started taking pictures of the naked children, who kept on crying as they continued across the square, all tied together by a single rope with its end trailing behind them. Just then, we spotted some men who came rushing out of another small, narrow alley into the square—men with hats and uniforms. Later we discovered that they were the police. We did our best to construct a picture of what was going on.

Eventually the policemen started grabbing the children who were playing listlessly in the square in the hot sun. We watched the entire scene: policemen using a long rope to tie the children to one another and laughing out loud. As they arrested the children, we watched Europeans taking pictures. At this point, the policemen started to leave the square, pushing the two groups of weeping children ahead of them.

The sun was hot, the square was dirty. All over the place people were crammed together like pack animals, eating bread and olives. No one seemed to care. For them it was perfectly normal for the police to tie up dirty children and take them away.

“Why are they doing that?” the man next to me asked, as he sipped iced tea. “Is it some sort of game?”

“Yes,” I replied, “it’s a special game.”

“They are ridding the city of dirty kids,” said the other man next to me. “But they keep forgetting the dirty elderly people.”

“Those policemen are certainly hard-hearted,” the first man said.

“They’re bastards,” I replied.

With that he leapt to his feet and stood in front of me. “Are you insulting the police?” he said. “Get up and come with me to the station.”

I stood up nonchalantly, without even paying for what I’d already drunk. I walked on ahead of him. We crossed the square, walking among all the men and pack animals. No one bothered about me. In spite of everything, I wasn’t worrying about my fate. To the contrary, I walked ahead of him with supreme confidence.