I asked her what her name was. She said she had no name, that I could give her one if I wanted. I asked her where she came from. She said she had no country she could call her own, that she was a refugee although she didn’t know from where, and from whom she was fleeing and to what safe shelter. I asked her if she had any parents. She said she had no parents. In short, she was a young girl, more or less the same age as myself, a girl without a name, without a country, without parents — but a girl and not a boy.
I held my hand out to her.
She said, “Do not touch me.”
I asked why
“Because I am standing in a skin I’ve borrowed,’ she said.
I asked what else had she borrowed ?
“The tongue I’m speaking with isn’t mine either,’ she said.
I inquired if there was anything she could claim as her own ?
“At times,” she said, “all I own, the only thing that I can hold on to for as long as I want, the one and only thing no one has come for so far, is, would you believe it, a shadow ?” and she smiled.
“A shadow ?” I repeated, in disbelief.
She nodded.
Nuruddin Farah, Maps
639 mots pour Eff, matin. D’ordinaire suis pas un bon client pour ça le matin. Le ciel est blanc, ça ne va pas. Mais néanmoins. Done. Pluie tout le jour et même pire. Très humide. Flaques immenses à Bercy mais La part inventée qui prend un tournant vif, intéressant. C’est après que Fresàn évoque le terrorisme chronologique. Quand il se met à parler de Tender Is the Night. Jamais lu mais là oui. Allé mangé au Jolant avec le père de H. et H.. Et Logan. C’est un western crépusculaire.
