Part 15 (1/2)
He was talking about something I had already noticed and which seemed to be growing by the day: this was how young people dressed, in grubby, but highly imaginative outfits, based on military uniforms or sci-fi movies. They all went in for body piercing too and sported highly individual haircuts. Often, the groups were accompanied by threatening- looking Alsatian dogs. I once asked a friend why these people always had a dog with them and he told me-although I don't know if it's true-that the police couldn't arrest the owners because they had nowhere to put the dogs.
A bottle of vodka began doing the rounds; we had drunk vodka when we were with the beggars and I wondered if this had to do with Mikhail's origins. I took a sip, imagining what people would say if they saw me there.
I decided they would say, ”He's probably doing research for his next book,” and felt more relaxed.
”I'm ready now to go and find Esther, but I need some more information, because I know nothing about your country.”
”I'll go with you.”
”What?”
That wasn't in my plans at all. My journey was a return to everything I had lost in myself, and would end somewhere in the Central Asian steppes. It was something intimate and personal, something that did not require witnesses.
”As long as you pay for my ticket, of course. I need to go back to Kazakhstan. I miss my country.”
”I thought you had work to do here. Don't you have to be at the restaurant on Thursdays for the performances.”
”You keep calling it a performance. I've told you before, it's a meeting, a way of reviving what we have lost, the tradition of conversation. But don't worry. Anastasia here,” and he pointed to a girl wearing a nose stud, ”is already developing her gift. She can take care of everything while I'm away.”
”He's jealous,” said Alma, the woman who played the instrument that looked like a cymbal and who told stories at the end of each meeting.
”Understandable, really,” said another boy, who was dressed in a leather outfit adorned with metal studs, safety pins, and buckles made to look like razor blades. ”Mikhail is younger, better-looking, and more in touch with the Energy.”
”He's also less famous, less rich, and less in touch with those in power,” said Anastasia.
”From the female point of view, things are pretty evenly balanced, so I reckon they're both going with what they've got.”
Everyone laughed and the bottle went the rounds again. I was the only one who didn't see the joke. I was surprising myself, though; it had been many years since I had sat on a pavement in Paris, and this pleased me.”The tribe is bigger than you think. They're everywhere, from the Eiffel Tower down as far as the town of Tarbes where I was staying recently. But I can't honestly say I understand what it's all about.”
”They can be found farther south than Tarbes, and they follow routes every bit as interesting as the road to Santiago. They set off from somewhere in France or somewhere else in Europe, swearing that they're going to be part of a society that exists outside of society. They're afraid of going back home and getting a job and getting married-they'll fight against all that for as long as they can. There are rich and poor among them, but they're not that interested in money. They look completely different, and yet when people walk past them, they usually pretend not to see them because they're afraid.”
”Do they have to look so aggressive?”
”Yes, because the pa.s.sion to destroy is a creative pa.s.sion. If they weren't aggressive, the boutiques would immediately fill up with clothes like these; publishers would soon be producing magazines about the new movement 'sweeping the world with its revolutionary att.i.tudes'; TV programs would have a strand devoted to the tribe; sociologists would write learned articles; psychiatrists would counsel the families of tribe members, and it would lose all its impact. So the less they know about us, the better: our attack is really a defense.”
”Actually, I only came tonight so that I could ask you for some information, but, who knows, perhaps spending the night with you will turn out to be just the kind of rich and novel experience to move me on from a personal history that no longer allows for new experiences. As for the journey to Kazakhstan, I've no intention of taking anyone with me. If I can't get help from you, the Favor Bank will provide me with all the necessary contacts. I'm going away in two days' time and I'm a guest at an important supper tomorrow night, but after that, I'm free for two weeks.”
Mikhail appeared to hesitate.
”It's up to you. You've got the map, the name of the village, and it shouldn't be hard to find the house where she's staying. I'm sure the Favor Bank can help get you as far as Almaty, but I doubt it will get you much farther than that, because the rules of the steppes are different. Besides, I reckon I've made a few deposits in your account at the Favor Bank too. It's time to reclaim them. I miss my mother.”
He was right.
”We've got to start work,” said Alma's husband.
”Why do you want to go with me, Mikhail? Is it really just because you miss your mother?”
He didn't reply. The man started playing the drum and Alma was clanging the cymbal, while the others begged for money from pa.s.sersby. Why did he want to go with me? And how would I be able to draw on the Favor Bank in the steppes, if I knew absolutely no one? I could get a visa from the Kazakhstan emba.s.sy, hire a car and a guide from the French consulate in Almaty-what else did I need?
I stood there observing the group, not knowing quite what to do. It wasn't the right moment to discuss the trip, and I had work to do and a girlfriend waiting for me at home.
Why didn't I just leave now?
I didn't leave because I was feeling free, doing things I hadn't done for years, opening up a s.p.a.ce in my soul for new experiences, driving the acomodador out of my life,experiencing things that might not interest me very much, but which were at least different.
The vodka ran out and was replaced by rum. I hate rum, but since that was all there was, it was best to adapt to the circ.u.mstances. The two musicians continued to play and whenever anyone was brave enough to come near, one of the girls would hold out her hand and ask if they had any spare change. The person approached would normally quicken their pace, but would always receive a ”Thanks, have a nice evening.” One person, seeing that he had been offered thanks rather than abuse, turned back and gave us some money.
After watching this scene for more than ten minutes, without anyone in the group addressing a single word to me, I went into a bar, bought two bottles of vodka, came back, and poured the rum into the gutter. Anastasia seemed pleased by my gesture and so I tried to start a conversation.
”Can you explain why you all use body piercing?”
”Why do other people wear jewels or high heels or low-cut dresses even in winter?”
”That's not an answer.”
”We use body piercing because we're the new barbarians sacking Rome. We don't wear uniforms and so we need something to identify us as one of the invading tribes.”
She made it sound as if they were part of a important historical movement, but for the people going home, they were just a group of unemployed young people with nowhere to sleep, cluttering up the streets of Paris, bothering the tourists who were so good for the local economy, and driving to despair the mothers and fathers who had brought them into the world and now had no control over them.
I had been like that once, when the hippie movement was at its height-the huge rock concerts, the big hair, the garish clothes, the Viking symbol, the peace sign. As Mikhail said, the whole hippie thing had turned into just another consumer product and had vanished, destroying its icons.
A man came down the street. The boy in leather and safety pins went over to him with his hand outstretched. He asked for money. However, instead of hurrying on or muttering something like ”I haven't any change,” the man stopped and looked at us and said very loudly: ”I wake up every morning with a debt of approximately 100,000 euros, because of my house, because of the economic situation in Europe, because of my wife's expensive tastes. In other words, I'm worse off than you are and with far more on my mind! How about you giving me a bit of change to help me decrease my debt just a little?”
Lucrecia-whom Mikhail claimed was his girlfriend-produced a fifty-euro note and gave it to the man.
”Buy yourself some caviar. You need a bit of joy in your miserable life.”
The man thanked her and walked off, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be given fifty euros by a beggar. The Italian girl had had a fifty-euro note in her bag and here we were begging in the street!
”Let's go somewhere else,” said the boy in leather.
”Where?” asked Mikhail.
”We could see if we can find the others. North or south?”
Anastasia chose west. After all, she was, according to Mikhail, developing her gift.
We pa.s.sed by the Tour Saint-Jacques where, centuries before, pilgrims heading for Santiago de Compostela used to gather. We pa.s.sed Notre-Dame, where there were a few more ”new barbarians.” The vodka had run out and so I went to buy two more bottles, even though I wasn't sure that everyone in the group was over eighteen. No one thanked me; they seemed to think it was perfectly normal.
I started to feel a little drunk and began eyeing one of the girls who had just joined us.
Everyone talked very loudly, kicked a few litter bins-strange metal objects with a plastic bag dangling from them-and said absolutely nothing of any interest.
We crossed the Seine and were suddenly brought to a halt by one of those orange-and- white tapes that are used to mark off an area under construction. It prevented people from walking along the pavement, forcing them to step off the curb into the road and then rejoin the pavement five meters further on.
”It's still here,” said one of the new arrivals.
”What's still here?” I asked.