soon, all the beggars in the car park surrounded Hector, stretching out their hands and saying, ‘Monsieur, monsieur, monsieur, monsieur, monsieur . . .’
Hector could see that some of them were very ill, very thin, and some only had one eye. They seemed barely able to stand up, but they continued to surround him like ghosts, holding out their hands.
Jean-Michel strode ahead, and appeared not even to see the beggars. He carried on talking to Hector.
‘I’ve found you a good hotel . . . Well, it wasn’t difficult, there are only two.’
By the time they reached the car, Hector had already given away all his coins and even his bank notes, and it was only then that Jean-Michel noticed what was going on.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ he said, ‘it’s your first time here.’
Jean-Michel’s car was a big white four-wheel-drive vehicle with letters painted on it. Next to it, a young African man with a pump-action shotgun stood waiting for them.
‘This is Marcel,’ said Jean-Michel, ‘he’s our bodyguard.’
The car left the car park and took the road into the city. Through the window, Hector again saw the scorched mountains, the beggars who were watching them drive away, the sun beating on the potholed road and then, sitting in front of him, Marcel with his pump-action shotgun resting on his knees. He told himself that in this country he was perhaps going to reach a better understanding of happiness, but no doubt with quite a few lessons in unhappiness, too.
HECTOR DOES A GOOD TURN
T HE hotel was very pretty. The grounds were large and full of flowering trees and small bungalows for the guests, and there was a big wiggly-shaped swimming pool, which even passed under a tiny wooden footbridge. But it felt a little different from the kind of hotel people go to on holiday. First of all, at the entrance there was a sign saying: ‘We kindly request our guests and their visitors not to bring weapons into the hotel. Please go to reception.’ And inside the hotel there were white men in uniforms (a funny-looking uniform with shorts) drinking at the bar. They belonged to a sort of small army, which all the countries in the world had formed to bring some order to this country. But since this country wasn’t very important, nobody had wanted to pay much money towards the small army, and so it was scarcely big enough to defend itself and didn’t manage to bring much order even though it tried.
A man at the bar explained all of this to Hector. He was white, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform; he wore the kind of clothes Édouard wore at the weekend: a nice, light-coloured shirt, well-pressed trousers and what looked like golf shoes, and a watch that must have cost as much as Ying Li’s. (These days, lots of things made Hector think of Ying Li.)
The man was a foreigner, but he spoke Hector’s language very well and only drank sparkling water. And funnily enough, he had almost the same name as Édouard; he was called Eduardo! Hector asked him what country he came from and Eduardo told him. It was a country that didn’t have a very good reputation, because almost everywhere there people grew a plant, which was made into a very harmful stimulant, which was illegal in Hector’s country, and in every country in the world for that matter. As a result, many people were prepared to pay a lot of money for it. Of course, it wasn’t Eduardo’s fault that he was born in that country, and so Hector did not think much of it. He asked Eduardo where he’d learnt to speak his language so well.
‘In your country! I spent several years there.’
Eduardo sounded as if he didn’t want to say any more about it. And so to change the subject, Hector asked him what he was doing here in this country. Eduardo looked at Hector, and because, as previously mentioned, people sensed that Hector meant well — particularly clever people like Eduardo — he replied with a chuckle, ‘Farming!’
Hector thought that this was interesting for his
Hector could see that some of them were very ill, very thin, and some only had one eye. They seemed barely able to stand up, but they continued to surround him like ghosts, holding out their hands.
Jean-Michel strode ahead, and appeared not even to see the beggars. He carried on talking to Hector.
‘I’ve found you a good hotel . . . Well, it wasn’t difficult, there are only two.’
By the time they reached the car, Hector had already given away all his coins and even his bank notes, and it was only then that Jean-Michel noticed what was going on.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ he said, ‘it’s your first time here.’
Jean-Michel’s car was a big white four-wheel-drive vehicle with letters painted on it. Next to it, a young African man with a pump-action shotgun stood waiting for them.
‘This is Marcel,’ said Jean-Michel, ‘he’s our bodyguard.’
The car left the car park and took the road into the city. Through the window, Hector again saw the scorched mountains, the beggars who were watching them drive away, the sun beating on the potholed road and then, sitting in front of him, Marcel with his pump-action shotgun resting on his knees. He told himself that in this country he was perhaps going to reach a better understanding of happiness, but no doubt with quite a few lessons in unhappiness, too.
HECTOR DOES A GOOD TURN
T HE hotel was very pretty. The grounds were large and full of flowering trees and small bungalows for the guests, and there was a big wiggly-shaped swimming pool, which even passed under a tiny wooden footbridge. But it felt a little different from the kind of hotel people go to on holiday. First of all, at the entrance there was a sign saying: ‘We kindly request our guests and their visitors not to bring weapons into the hotel. Please go to reception.’ And inside the hotel there were white men in uniforms (a funny-looking uniform with shorts) drinking at the bar. They belonged to a sort of small army, which all the countries in the world had formed to bring some order to this country. But since this country wasn’t very important, nobody had wanted to pay much money towards the small army, and so it was scarcely big enough to defend itself and didn’t manage to bring much order even though it tried.
A man at the bar explained all of this to Hector. He was white, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform; he wore the kind of clothes Édouard wore at the weekend: a nice, light-coloured shirt, well-pressed trousers and what looked like golf shoes, and a watch that must have cost as much as Ying Li’s. (These days, lots of things made Hector think of Ying Li.)
The man was a foreigner, but he spoke Hector’s language very well and only drank sparkling water. And funnily enough, he had almost the same name as Édouard; he was called Eduardo! Hector asked him what country he came from and Eduardo told him. It was a country that didn’t have a very good reputation, because almost everywhere there people grew a plant, which was made into a very harmful stimulant, which was illegal in Hector’s country, and in every country in the world for that matter. As a result, many people were prepared to pay a lot of money for it. Of course, it wasn’t Eduardo’s fault that he was born in that country, and so Hector did not think much of it. He asked Eduardo where he’d learnt to speak his language so well.
‘In your country! I spent several years there.’
Eduardo sounded as if he didn’t want to say any more about it. And so to change the subject, Hector asked him what he was doing here in this country. Eduardo looked at Hector, and because, as previously mentioned, people sensed that Hector meant well — particularly clever people like Eduardo — he replied with a chuckle, ‘Farming!’
Hector thought that this was interesting for his
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