The Fugitive by Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar Page B

thought he could appeal to their sense of civic duty. In fact, the cab driver began to show off all his inborn talent at quarreling, and just five minutes later the police officer was throwing in the towel: “You, down there!” he yelled to the policemen manning the traffic barrier. “Move that out of the way before I arrest this pain-in-the-ass.”
    We drove through the checkpoint under the astonished eyes of all the other drivers. The cabbie roared through the streets like a madman until we reached the destination I’d given him, grunted his refusal of the generous tip I offered, and pulled out, tires squealing, cursing Italians and the police with equal venom.
    *
    When I lived in Pigalle, at my Peruvian friend’s house, I used to avoid the Metro station because there was a little group of intelligent-looking undercover policemen there. I would enter and leave the neighborhood by making my way through a network of narrow lanes and winding streets lined with seedy bars and night clubs. At every corner, there were girls of all races and colors, day and night.
    Everyone who lives in Pigalle knows everybody else. After awhile I became a familiar face, and no one tried to sell me cheap thrills anymore. The girls called out greetings to me whenever they saw me, and it was a source of some embarrassment. I always felt a little vulnerable and exposed, because the profession they practice endows them with a special gift for seeing through people.
    One evening two pimps decided that the best thing to do with their time was to shoot one another in a bar. The one with the slow draw and the unsteady aim wound up dead on the floor, side-by-side with a chance victim, a customer who’d picked the wrong bar that night. The other pimp got away but the police were sure that he was still in the neighborhood and began a full-fledged sweep.
    As seems to be practically routine with me—finding myself in the wrong place at the wrong time—I got out at Notre Dame de Lorette, two stops short of Pigalle, and I began to wend my way through the narrow streets with only one thing in mind—getting home and going to sleep. I immediately noticed that something wasn’t right. The street corners were empty and the shutters of the clubs were all pulled down. Just as I walked into the Place Saint-Georges, I saw a fleet of police vans from the Gendarmerie coming up behind me.
    I started walking faster, but by the time I reached the Rue Condorcet I saw some men in dark-blue uniforms coming toward me and stopping everyone they met. I turned on my heel and started looking around for an unguarded cross street to dart down when I saw one of the girls opening the street door of an apartment building.
    I walked over to her: “Let me in, please!”
    â€œI’m not working tonight,” she said, and closed the door in my face.
    But the patron saint of fugitives whispered in her ear that that was a day for good deeds, and a few seconds later she opened the door again. “What do you want?” she asked.
    â€œThere’s a police sweep, I don’t have my documents, and I don’t want to be arrested. Please, please let me in.”
    She read the fear on my face: “All right, come on in.”
    I followed her to a studio apartment that reeked vaguely of humanity and stale smoke. “This is where I work; I live in Clignancourt. You live in the neighborhood, don’t you?”
    I smiled at her, I offered her a cigarette, but didn’t say a word. Shaking her head, she said: “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
    â€œAnd I didn’t mean to be rude,” I answered. “Thanks for the hospitality, but I’d rather talk about generalities.”
    â€œHey, you know, everybody here knows that I’m a girl you can trust. Felix cares about those things.”
    â€œWho’s Felix?” I asked.
    â€œMy man.”
    â€œWould he get mad if he came in and found me