“Be killed,” I finish his sentence, still gazing out of the window.
“Exactly. I’m glad you get it.”
“I’m guessing this rules don’t apply to rich people, right?” I already know the answer.
“Your guess is right.”
* * *
Four long hours go by, the heat is suffocating, but I won’t tell him to stop, not until we reach the city. The faster we get there, the sooner I’ll find Bruno.
The way the Frenchman drives this van really blends with traffic. Nobody is looking at us. He really knows how to not make waves. From afar we’re just two men traveling.
The picture outside the window changes a lot since we left Esmeralda in her doorway. It goes from barren, desolate places, to some mildly crowded cities with highways, tall buildings and all that jazz you’d find anywhere in the world.
“Can I ask you something?” I finally speak.
He arches an eyebrow but then adds a slight nod.
“Why was Esmeralda so defensive all of a sudden?”
The Frenchman sighs without taking his eyes off the road.
“There is something about my life that she doesn’t understand. I like it just the way it is and she…”
“She wants you to settle,” I add.
“Oui. Every time I stop by, she reminds me how much she hates it. She took it out on you, but she was actually angry at me, though you know how this is.” He waves his right hand, and his bracelet tingles.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, the thrill, the adrenaline of this kind of life. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He glances at me.
I want to say he’s wrong, I’m here because of my love for Bruno, but there’s a tiny voice in my brain that tells me he might be right. This adventure is awakening things in me I didn’t even know I had, pushing my boundaries to new limits.
But love has that effect on people also… Usually.
“Merde,” The Frenchman utters.
“What is it?” I ask him in a hurry.
“There’s a checkpoint ahead. We will need to take the long road,” he announces, looking for a way out of our lane.
He changes direction and heads for an exit, as angry men start shouting. I’m not sure if they are shouting at us or the traffic jam. The only thing that matters is that we’re off that freeway, thanks to his skills behind the wheel.
* * *
He parks the truck in a secluded spot, lets out a heavy sigh and says, “We’re here. Let’s change our clothes.”
He’s wearing a big tunic called aThawb, a word that’s nearly impossible to pronounce in English but it rolls off his tongue easily, at least that’s how it sounds for me. A “Ghutra” rests on top of his head.
I’m wearing the same old type of clothing but darker and a little dirtier.
The Frenchman leads the way and only stops as we reach a crossroad. “Let’s make a right turn here,” he murmurs.
“Gotcha.”
“Try not to talk, especially with that accent.”
