The town was at the mercy of the sky. Nobody knew where to run. Clothes clung onto bodies. Sweat rolled down broken backs, blurred the pedestrians’ vision and made every being smell of the earth. The rains were late in coming. The sun had definitely decided to show itself in its full glory. It made the inhabitants speak in hushed tones, and hurry so as not to be found lingering in the scorching heat. The tall trees wilted in the dense atmosphere.
But when the evening announced itself and the first breaths of cool air descended on the city, men gathered in large and boisterous clusters. Crowds of people dispersed in all directions. You could hear the staccato pounding of pestles. Smoke rose slowly from the courtyards. The city came alive for just a few hours. Forgetting its charred past, it purified itself in the night.
Yet he was there in the morning. He was rooted, as always, to the same spot where he had been yesterday and where, no doubt, he would still be tomorrow. There he was, wearing his dirty boubou and his faded turban, sitting against a tree, a cane at his side. He had a haggard face and his hands were bony. He seemed to be dreaming. But what are the dreams of a jaded man made of?
Why had he chosen that spot? Was it because of the smell of warm bread wafting from the ovens or was it because of the smell of the white flour early in the morning?
He was homeless. He was there as he might have been anywhere else.
He remained in front of the bakery day and night, through the seasons. It did not matter whether it was the mango or orange season, whether flame trees blazed in their fiery splendour, or whether the grass turned brown like the straw used to make baskets. He was tired of waiting for some glance to be cast in his direction and for a hand to be held out towards him. The comings and goings of customers were no more than furtive images. The faces he saw remained unfamiliar and ordinary. He knew that at the end of the day there was no more to him than his mendicity.
But this was his territory and the red tinge from the dust on his boubou was the evidence. The customers at the bakery were his customers. They were his daily bread. Nothing in the world would move him from there. Until, one day, the child arrived from out of the blue. Nobody knew where he came from, but one day, he was there, entrenched like a young mango tree.
In the beginning, he hung around the bakery watching people and playing alone in his corner. But, very soon, he drew nearer. The old man was oblivious to his presence until the day when they both ran towards the same customer.
Colliding into the child filled the old beggar with horror. He looked at the child from head to toe. A grave error had been committed. This profanation of his territory went well beyond reason.
He had to be there alone. That was clear. He knew no other way of being. He withdrew under a tree and set about meditating. Was it possible that a child could disturb his peace? He looked keenly at the boy. He weighed and analysed each gesture, and each coin that people gave him felt like a blow. He had to talk to him. He was sure the boy would go away.
But the child was imprisoned in profound silence. No sound filtered into his ears. No words issued from his mouth. His world was plunged into an immobile stupor, into a deep abyss. For him, the gurgling of water and laughter did not exist. His eyes could record only mute images.
The boy was alone, the city like a carnival without music, a dance floor without a band.
Very soon, the old beggar was filled with exasperation by the presence of this other being. The situation deteriorated. Money grew scarce. Customers ignored him, preferring the outstretched hands of the young one. The hot air beat down on his face. He wiped his hot forehead. This heat, this heat. Was this wretchedness?
He went towards the child shouting threats. He performed menacing gestures, but the child did not understand the contortions of the old man’s mouth, his rolling eyes and his face distorted by anger. Then, the old man hit him. The child retreated and fled. On the road, loud braking was heard, then nothing moved. The pedestrians waited for the shock. After the sound of braking would come the crash and then the thudding sound of a falling body. But that was not the child’s destiny. The car stopped without touching him.
The old beggar thought for some time that his threats had worked but, the following day, there was the child. You could make out his silhouette against the shimmering sky. He stretched his hand to the bakery workers who gave him pieces of warm bread. He took them delicately, and then went and sat down in a corner to eat in small, slow, respectful bites. When he had finished eating he sketched strange patterns on the red soil.
The old beggar had now ceased all activity. He found getting up to beg and suffer a fresh rejection each time, pointless. It was obvious to him that he was of no interest to anyone.
He thought that he now had to take more drastic measures. He had to recover the peace he had known before, regain the feeling of satiation and the certainty that he could face tomorrows without dread.
Once his mind was made up, he waited until the sun had retired leaving the city in a glow of red, orange and gold. At the hour when goats went back to sleep, when dogs came out of their kennels, when bicycle headlights came on, the rhythmic pace of the city could be heard humming everywhere.
At that hour when people slumber in oblivion and when stars twinkle with gold and mystery, the child slept, curled up in an empty cardboard box. The nearby shop had shut and he had stationed himself in the doorway.
The old man picked up a piece of wood and silently approached the sleeping form. Without looking, he hit him hard and fast. He struck him until he ran out of breath. The furious pounding of his heart made him throw away the stick and flee.
Just as the cocks began to awaken the city with their crowing and cats stretched, a worker, setting out on his long morning walk, found the child’s body. The deep wounds on his face were covered in blood.
It was the mango season. Fruits choking with juice were rotting under the trees. A strong stench filled the air. A dust‐cloud drifted across the sky. The city was awakening. It must have been well past six o’clock.