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,