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 passion to destroy is a creative passion. 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 attitudes'; 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 passersby. 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 embassy, 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 space 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 circumstances. 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 passed by the Tour Saint-Jacques where, centuries before, pilgrims heading for Santiago de Compostela used to gather. We passed 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.
"Who's he?"
"A friend of ours," replied Lucrecia. "In fact, you've probably read one of his books."
The newcomer recognized me, but showed neither surprise nor reverence; on the contrary, he asked if I could give him some money, a request I instantly refused.
"If you want to know why the tape is there, you'll have to give me a euro. Everything in life has its price, as you know better than anyone. And information is one of the most expensive products in the world."
No one in the group came to my aid, so I had to pay him a euro for his answer.
"The tape is here because we put it there. As you can see, there are no repairs going on at all, just a stupid orange-and-white tape blocking the stupid pavement. But no one asks what it's doing there; they step off the pavement, walk along the road at the risk of being knocked down, and get back on farther up. By the way, I read somewhere that you'd had an accident. Is that true?"
"Yes, I did, and all because I stepped off the pavement."
"Don't worry, when people step off the pavement here, they're always extra careful. It was one of the reasons we put the tape up, to make people more aware of what was going on around them."
"No, it wasn't," said the girl I was attracted to. "It's just a joke, so that we can laugh at the people who obey without even thinking about what they're obeying. There's no reason, it's not important, and no one will get knocked down."
More people joined the group. Now there were eleven of us and two Alsatian dogs. We were no longer begging, because no one dared go near this band of savages who seemed to enjoy the fear they aroused. The drink had run out again and they all looked at me and asked me to buy another bottle, as if I had a duty to keep them drunk. I realized that this was my passport to the pilgrimage, so I set off in search of a shop.
The girl I was interested in-and who was young enough to be my daughter-seemed to notice me looking at her and started talking to me. I knew it was simply a way of provoking me, but I joined in. She didn't tell me anything about her personal life, she just asked me how many cats and how many lampposts there were on the back of a ten-dollar bill.
"Cats and lampposts?""You don't know, do you? You don't give any real value to money at all. Well, for your information, there are four cats and eleven lampposts."
Four cats and eleven lampposts. I promised myself that I would check this out the next time I saw a ten-dollar bill.
"Do any of you take drugs?"
"Some, but mainly it's just alcohol. Not much at all, in fact, it's not our style. Drugs are more for people of your generation, aren't they? My mother, for example, drugs herself on cooking for the family, compulsively tidying the house, and suffering over me. When something goes wrong with my dad's business, she suffers. Can you believe that? She suffers over me, my father, my brothers and sisters, everything. I was wasting so much energy pretending to be happy all the time, I thought it was best just to leave home."
Another personal history.
"Like your wife," said a young man with fair hair and an eyebrow ring. "She left home too, didn't she? Was that because she had to pretend to be happy all the time?"
So she had been here too. Had she given some of these young people a piece of that bloodstained shirt?
"She suffered too," laughed Lucrecia. "But as far as we know, she's not suffering anymore. That's what I call courage!"
"What was my wife doing here?"
"She came with the Mongolian guy, the one with all the strange ideas about love that we're only just beginning to understand. And she used to ask questions and tell us her story. One day, she stopped doing both. She said she was tired of complaining. We suggested that she give up everything and come with us, because we were planning a trip to North Africa. She thanked us, but said she had other plans and would be heading off in the opposite direction."
"Didn't you read his latest book?" asked Anastasia.
"No, I didn't fancy it. People told me it was too romantic. Now when are we going to get some more booze?"
People made way for us as if we were samurai riding into a village, bandits arriving in a frontier town, barbarians entering Rome. The tribe didn't make any aggressive gestures, the aggression was all in the clothes, the body piercing, the loud conversations, the sheer oddness. We finally found a minimart: to my great discomfort and alarm, they all went in and started rummaging around on the shelves.
I didn't know any of them, apart from Mikhail, and even then I didn't know if what he had told me about himself was true. What if they stole something? What if one of them was armed? As the oldest member of the group, was I responsible for their actions?
The man at the cash register kept glancing up at the security mirror suspended from the ceiling in the tiny shop. The group, knowing that he was worried, spread out, gesturing to each other, and the tension grew. To cut things short, I picked up three bottles of vodka and walked quickly over to the cash register.
A woman buying cigarettes said that, in her day, Paris had been full of bohemians and artists, not threatening bands of homeless people. She suggested that the cashier call the police.
"I've got a feeling something bad is going to happen any minute now," she muttered.The cashier was terrified by this invasion of his little world, the fruit of years of work and many loans, where perhaps his son worked in the morning, his wife in the afternoon, and he at night. He nodded to the woman, and I realized that he had already called the police.
I hate getting involved in things that are none of my business, but I also hate being a coward. Every time it happens, I lose all self-respect for a week.
"Don't worry..." I began.
It was too late.
Two policemen came in and the owner beckoned them over, but the young people disguised as extraterrestrials paid no attention-it was all part of standing up to representatives of the established order. It must have happened to them many times before. They knew they hadn't committed any crime (apart from crimes against fashion, but that could all change with next season's haute couture). They must have been afraid, but they didn't show it and continued talking loudly.
"I saw a comedian the other day. He said that stupid people should have the word 'stupid' written on their identity card," said Anastasia to no one in particular. "That way, we'd know who we were talking to."
"Yeah, stupid people are a real danger to society," said the girl with the angelic face and vampire clothing, who, shortly before, had been talking to me about the number of lampposts and cats to be found on the back of a ten-dollar bill. "They should be tested once a year and have a license for walking the streets, like drivers do to drive."
The policemen, who couldn't have been very much older than the tribe, said nothing.
"Do you know what I'd like to do," it was Mikhail's voice, but I couldn't see him because he was concealed behind a shelf. "I'd like to change the labels on everything in this shop. People would be completely lost. They wouldn't know whether things should be eaten hot or cold, boiled or fried. If they don't read the instructions, they don't know how to prepare a meal. They've lost all their culinary instincts."
Everyone who had spoken up until then had done so in perfect Parisian French. Only Mikhail had a foreign accent.
"May I see your passport," said one of the policemen.
"He's with me."
The words emerged naturally, even though I knew what it could mean-another scandal.
The policeman looked at me.
"I wasn't talking to you, but since you're obviously with this lot, I hope you've got some kind of document to prove who you are, and a good reason for being surrounded by people half your age and buying vodka."
I could refuse to show my papers. I wasn't legally obliged to have them with me. But I was thinking about Mikhail. One of the policemen was standing next to him now. Did he really have permission to stay in France? What did I know about him apart from the stories he had told me about his visions and his epilepsy? What if the tension of the moment provoked an attack?
I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out my driver's license.
"So you're..."
"I am."
"I thought it was you. I've read one of your books. But that doesn't put you above the law."The fact that he had read one of my books threw me completely. Here was this shaven- headed young man in a uniform, albeit a very different one from that worn by the tribes in order to tell each other apart. Perhaps he too had once dreamed of having the freedom to be different, of subtly challenging authority, although never disrespectfully enough to end up in jail. He probably had a father who had never offered him any alternative, a family who needed his financial support, or perhaps he was just afraid of going beyond his own familiar world.
I said gently: "No, I'm not above the law. In fact, no one here has broken the law. Unless the gentleman at the cash register or the lady buying cigarettes would like to make some specific complaint."
When I turned around, the woman who had mentioned the artists and bohemians of her day, that prophet of imminent doom, the embodiment of truth and good manners, had disappeared. She would doubtless tell her neighbors the next day that, thanks to her, an attempted robbery had been averted.