In the dank, shadowy enclaves beneath the highway, a patchwork encampment of domed tents had been set up, hundreds of them, multicolored mushrooms springing from every crevice for blocks. Their occupants milled about in droves, spilling onto the streets, unmindful of the traffic passing within inches. The smell of burning wood and unwashed hordes penetrated the car.
“Keep going,” said Mattias. “Turn left here. Find a place to park, then we can call him.”
“A place to park,” said Omar, surveying the uninterrupted line of automobiles filling every space. “You might as well ask me to fly to the moon.”
They made six circuits of the surrounding area before finding a space. Omar killed the engine and the three men climbed out of the Volkswagen Polo. It was a small car for the tall men and the long drive had been taxing. They stretched and clapped their arms and joked around. Mattias spotted a boulangérie and went inside to buy them sandwiches and drinks.
“You must pay,” shouted the clerk, his arms gesturing for him to get out.
“I have money,” said Mattias in his soft voice.
“Pardon me,” said the clerk. “I was rude. It’s just that…” He shrugged, motioning to the camp city outside his window.
Mattias purchased three cheese sandwiches, soft drinks (Fanta orange—his favorite), and an éclair for them to split. His companions devoured the food as if starving.
Omar tried the number for Mohammed, then frowned. “No longer in service.”
“He said he was selling cigarettes,” said Mattias.
“In a kiosk? He doesn’t have a work permit.”
“I think he meant on the streets. Loosies.”
“Spread out,” said Omar. As the driver, he had assumed the role of de facto leader.
Mattias crossed the road and started along a band of asphalt skirting some of the tents. The men were from everywhere. Tunisia. Algeria. Egypt. Libya. Sudan. Somalia. Ethiopia. “Do you know Mohammed from Tunis?” he asked over and over again, stopping at each knot of immigrants. It was like asking a European“Do you know Pierre from Paris?”The answer was either a laugh, a dark look, or a simple “No.”
He continued another two hundred meters, arriving at the end of the encampment. He found no sign of Mohammed and, to be honest, was no longer sure he remembered him. It had been a long time and not something he cared to remember. Still, a small, wiry man with an eye patch shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
“My friend, my friend, come here.” Three men looked him over. Not immigrants; locals, Parisians, though one might have had Middle Eastern blood. He knew their types, regardless. Bad news. They spoke to him in English. “Who are you looking for?”
Mattias’s English was good. “A friend. I couldn’t find him.”
They didn’t bother asking the man’s name. “You have a job? Doing something here? Anything?”
“I’m from Sweden,” said Mattias. “I’m not staying.”
“Sweden. Pretty girls.”
Mattias said, “Yes,” and turned to leave. One of the men blocked his path. He was shorter than Mattias, but thick. “Maybe you work for us,” he said. “Give your friends something to smile about. A little fun. You can make a lot of money. Understand?”
Yes, Mattias understood. Drugs. “Excuse me, but I must go.”
A hand in his chest stopped him. “Have a look. If you want, take a smoke. Good stuff.”
The hoodlum opened his palm to reveal a small plastic canister with ugly pale rocks inside. Crack cocaine or methamphetamine. “We front you. You sell it. Pay us later.”
“Before you go back to Stockholm,” said a second man, to his friends’ amusement.
“No, thank you. Really. I must go.”
The men closed in, the thick man pressing his chest against him. He smelled of garlic and cigarettes, and mostly of perspiration. Mattias held his eyes. Something inside him tensed. He was not afraid of fighting. He was not afraid of anything anymore.
The hoodlum backed off, offering his colleagues a disappointed shrug. “Out,” he said. “On your way, Swede.”
They found Mohammed two hours later, returning from Clichy, where he had spent the day selling cigarettes for one euro apiece. He had gotten fat over the years but still wore his eye patch. Mattias remembered him without it, on the raft, after the Ghanaian had torn his eye out. They’d killed the Ghanaian the next day.
“Should I get my things?” Mohammed asked.
