Just a few minutes, before the stop Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, a young woman
Dressed in a T-shirt that shows the word Belfast sits down beside me, reading Nabokov’s Pale Fire, page 38-39, ‘She was my darling: difficult, morose -- But still my darling …’
So, he asks me: ‘What happened with that friend of yours you couldn't reach, that one in the US ...' It ended up being okay, I guess you could say that, um; it turns out he was depressed - he's fine now.
You can understand, you can understand – just imagine, just imagine … How it would be.
‘Maybe, though me, I’d much prefer it,’ he says, so says Fousseyni. ‘Better than how it is here, with all the hehehehehehehehehe …’
Scrunching up his face, he repeats: ‘Hehehehehehehehe’
Giggling once more, this man from Mali does his best impression of the fake-laugh of a white Frenchwoman, la blanche in all her hypocritical duplicity.
‘Come on, now Fouss, here, in Paris you can breathe;
they leave you be. It’s not like when you’re out on the street you’re being shot by the police,
it’s not like in the Etats-Unis.’
Mmmm, Fouss pauses, scrunches his face once more, says, mmmm.
He’s not so sure.
Says he’d much prefer it over there, in the US, at least over there in the US, it’s direct,
It’s in your face, the racism and all that bullshit, and all that crap and nastiness is made explicit, it’s something you can see.