anti-governmental activities entering the country illegally. The public was informed that he was dangerous and any person having information as to his whereabouts was asked to contact the militia immediately.
Jesus Christ, not only am I a murdered, but I’m also a terrorist!
Two hours later after another nineteen kilometres, he reached Mur. The small town was neglected, the houses in the town centre were much less well maintained than the houses he had seen on the road. Sheets hung out the windows and the parking areas were mostly filled with old or abandoned vehicles of every kind.
A little further he passed a housing project dating from French times, it was shabby and rundown, the walls were streaked with black, like he had seen in Bombay or the poor districts of Hong Kong. Piles of rubbish smouldered in the parking areas amongst the carcasses of old dismantled vehicles.
There had been little traffic on the départementale, just the occasional truck overloaded with agricultural produce and one or two crowded buses that he recognised as old Parisian models. The cars had been for the most part old Mercedes-Renault hybrid models that were overtaken, at high speed from time to time, by more recent BMW hydrogens.
After another ten or twelve kilometres he saw the red stop lights of a line of vehicles. It was a police roadblock. He stopped and slowly got of his bike inspecting the front wheel whilst wondering what to do. Calmly he laid the bike a little way back from the grass verge then took out his bread and opened a can of tuna. Looking at the map he saw a detour would have been long and tiring, he checked his watch, it was a quarter to twelve, the police would soon be gone for lunch.
An Intruder
The third night he slept off the road in an old olive grove to avoid any chance of being discovered. He was out of luck, he was awoken in the night by noises, the sky was clear, at first he thought it was animal or perhaps his imagination, then he saw something move. He froze, the noise continued, he slowly pulled out his pocket torch, pointed in the direction the movement and switch it on. He was surprised to see the form of a man who cried out frightened by the beam.
“Who’s there!”
“I’ve done nothing!”
“Who are you?”
“I’m doing no harm, I looking for a place to sleep.”
Ennis pointed the light into the intruder’s face, a Black, a Black tramp. He was frightened and seemed inoffensive.
“There’s no problem, I’m sleeping here myself,” replied Ennis, his own fright dissipating.
The Black, an older man had a white beard, his backpack lay at his feet where he had dropped it.
“I was lost.”
“Where are you going?”
“No where, I’m a just a wanderer.”
“Sit down,” he said switching off the torch, keeping his finger on the button just in case.
It took a couple of minuets to get used to the obscurity then he could see more clearly.
“You want to drink something, I’ve got some beer?”
“That would be great.”
Ennis dug into his sack and pulled out two cans of beer.
“You’re not from these parts? asked the Black, then regretting his inquisitiveness added, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be asking so many questions.”
“It’s no problem. I’m German.”
“German!”
“Yes, I was hiking and my money was stolen, now I have to get home as best I can.”
“Me, I lost everything a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
They sipped their beer. In the distant they could here the piercing tones of oriental music borne by the warm night air of the Midi. Ennis was now awake, he was curious to hear the man’s story, who in spite of his presence misfortune seemed to have a good education. His accent was from the Paris region.
“Are you French?”
“Me, I’m French, I mean I was French. My parents came from Guadeloupe to the Metropole in the eighties. I was born in Paris where I went to school, not brilliant, but I got my bac, then studied marketing for a couple of years and graduated. After, I joined France Telecoms.
He sipped his beer then looked at the can pensively. Ennis let him take his time, there was no hurry, the night would be long.
“Then I married, but it’s a long since I last saw my wife. A Parisian, white. I was grabbed in a razzia by the RASE, that Jewish son of a bitch Boublil deported me down here, said I was an African, me a Frenchman!”
He let out a sad laugh.
“Arabs, Gypsies and Blacks thrown out like vermin, and for once the Jews were lucky with their pal Boublil.”
o0o
The next morning he left the bike with the old man, who pointed the way up to the pass, through the mountainous Foret Domaniale de Venasque, on the other side, near the ancient town, he would find the frontier crossing point. He followed the old path, probably used by hikers in the past, now forgotten by a population who had other concerns. It rose steeply and after two or three hundred metres his lungs felt like they would explode. Three days of pedalling with a very sore backside was already difficult, but the climb was another story. He paused, sitting on a marker stone that bore traces of paint that were at least fifteen years old. He looked below at the countryside, the sky was thankfully filled with heavy grey clouds, he was pleased he would not have to affront the mountain under the heat of the Mediterranean sun.
There was not a soul to be seen, just the white rock of the hills and the sparse vegetation. The trail was not easy to follow over the rocky terrain, overgrown after years of neglect. The sound of the cicadas echoed like endless rolls of thunder. After two hours walking he finally found his breath and a steady rhythm, he calculated he had another fifteen or twenty kilometres march before he reached the frontier, at a rate of three kilometres an hour he would need another six or seven hours.
The Frontier
From the hill top he could see the lights of Carpentras in the distance, directly below he watched the buses arriving and the long queues at the frontier crossing point. Night was falling and he decided to wait until the early morning before daylight, it would be the best time, when people were less alert and he could melt in with the crowd. Security should be lax, no one fought to get in to Algharb. Observing the layout of the terminal he sought a point where he could slip in unseen, where there were fewer offices or other building, it was not too difficult, the toilettes and rubbish bins were relatively separate, near the bus area for obvious reasons, in addition there was adequate cover with a few pines, low shrubs and other vegetation.
It was still dark when he slipped into the toilettes, to his surprise there was a lot of coming and going. He joined the crowd, almost exclusively composed of Neos, as though he was looking for his bus. At first he did not understand, the destinations indicated on the buses were in France, then it clicked, it was the early morning crowd of day workers leaving for their jobs in France, admitted daily during their working hours. It was like the Tijuana border crossing in San Diego, where Mexican day workers were admitted daily, returning home in the evening or at whatever time their work finished.
He observed the pass check points, they seemed to be minimal, no doubt due to the more severe police controls on the French side. Many of the buses’ passengers hurried to the toilettes, taking advantage of the stop, certain had come from as far as Salon-de-Provence and still had a bus ride of another hour or more ahead of them.
Ennis returned to the toilets where he took time washing his hands. He looked around and saw a bag on the floor, there was a wallet half stuck into one of the pockets, turning his head he saw that the owner had gone to urinate. Ennis quickly picked up the back and slipped into a WC. He sat down to wait, it was no more than a few seconds before he heard the shouts.
“My bag! Where’s my bag! Someone has stolen by bag!”
Then there were hurried footsteps that faded as the owner of the bag disappeared outside. Ennis looked into the wallet, there was an identity card, a bus ca
rd and a work permit for a factory in Montpellier.
He abandoned the bag in the WC, then making sure the way was clear he casually walked out, found the bus for Montpellier and climbed in taking a seat near the back. A few moments later, as the bus pulled away, he saw the Neo, an Arab, gesticulating to a border guard who was shrugging his shoulders.
At the crossing check point an Algharbi frontier guard climbed in, he proceeded to inspect the passengers’ identity cards and work permits without looking too closely at their owners. He was looking for fake cards. Ennis, his skin darkened by the hot sun and with a four day beard, bowed his head and turned slightly towards the window, as he had observed the other passengers do so, their faces masks, without expression, wax masks of submission.
By the time the controller reached his seat he seemed satisfied, just touching the outstretch cards with his finger, he then left the bus. Twenty metres further was the French check point, the routine was the same except at 5.30 in the morning the controller yawned, his evident indifference was in the best Gallic tradition, after a cursory check the bus slowly started off in the direction of Montpellier.
Nobody spoke, they were deep in their thoughts no doubt thinking of the long nights work ahead of them, or perhaps it was the long line of buses they passed with their load of deportees waiting to cross into Algharb, watched by heavily armed RASE Guards, who displayed none of the indifference of the controller.
An hour later