Walter Agnew Moore II, Roving Reporter
11 December 2001, Amiens, France 

So Francois is back in town for the weekend as usual, and he calls me for lunch. Well, I'm skipping lunch to do some rank laundry, but we agree to get together for supper at his parents' house.

You know Francois. Underground Journalist, writes for Fakir available here in Amiens at all the finer newsstands. Recently taken to court by an incompetent wasteful city official for exposing that city official as wasteful and incompetent. That Francois. If he interviews you, get him to pay you the court costs up front. Less paperwork for all concerned.

It's cold when we get together later. Iced-up windshield. "Jeez, I was thinking of hiking in this weather!" I say.

He laughs as he scrapes the frost, "No, Walter, there are better things to do than hike in this weather." 

He keeps asking me if everything is alright, and I don't know why. 

We go pick up Liovain. Liovain is a black guy who lives on the north side of town in the HLM, a project. Nicer than a US project, but still... A few weeks back some kids kidnapped a driver here so the police would come into the projects, then they ambushed the police using shotguns. Very well planned-out, but everything is more organized in France. 

We are all driving back towards the south-side where Francois' parents live, taking the big boulevards to avoid the tiny streets through the middle. I talk to Liovain some. He doesn't write for Fakir, no... He is in school at the University, knows the American Economics professor I met the other day. He answers Francois that he still hasn't found work, and they talk about other leads. 

We park and walk to the house. Liovain has that old-style African politeness, very much in the "after you, no, please, I insist" mode like a gentleman of a bygone age. 

There is a fat warm cat on the sofa in the house, another on the stuffed chair, and another darts off into hiding. Maman greets us and takes our coats and scarves. Maman gives us snacks to eat and aperitifs, nut wine, whisky. We chat in the den waiting for Papa, all around the low table munching crunchy things. My fat sofa cat stretches. 

Papa is amused that I referred to this area, Picardy, as "the Tennessee of France". I don't know why I say the things I do, but he likes the idea. We are at the dinner table. The potage (thick vegetable soup) is warm and rich, with what I think is the taste of mushrooms, but Maman says no, it is (some French vegetable whose name escapes me). Still, it is tasty and filling. I have two bowls. So does Liovain. We take bread and sop up the soup from the brown ceramic bowls. 

Papa is joking with me about Texas, does everybody really ride a horse? He's messing with me for fun, so I tell a joke or two back, we laugh. Francois and Papa are discussing the new airport down the road causing so much controversy. 

Liovain pours us all some cider, and Maman is making gaufres, ie, waffles. She has the waffle iron on the table. First she brushes on butter, then she pours the batter in, first to the left, then to the right. Then she closes it, turns it over, and heats it for about a minute. Next she opens it, and she pulls out two connected waffles each time. Papa and Francois split theirs, and Liovain and I split ours. Maman obviously is of the "food equals love" school, because we don't lack for waffles. I burn my fingertips as I pass the other side of the waffles to Liovain to pull apart. 

There is butter for the waffles, and powdered sugar, and strawberry jam. 

We talk about weapons in the US. I go on a tirade about how pistols are mostly good for committing suicide, or for letting your kids find them and accidentally shoot somebody. I say if you really need to fight, you're better off with a good old pump shotgun. Best to talk things out first, but if that doesn't work, don't use a pistol, use a shotgun! Everyone gets big-eyed and laughs at the American maniac. Maman gives me another waffle to split. 

Liovain is talking to Maman and Papa: he has not found work, but he may have a lead on something in Switzerland over Christmas holidays. No, his grades in school are miserable.

Papa and Francois go off to work on something in the house. Maman brings out a pair of pants that she mended for Liovain, he looks at the repair, smiling, looking relieved, praises her work. "I broke lots of needles on that denim!" she says. Liovain thanks her. 

It is late. We all three get back in Francois' car, full bellies, groggy. We drop Liovain off first. Pulling out of the parking lot, Francois says, "It can't be easy, being a refugee in a strange country."

"Who is a refugee?" "Liovain. He had to leave Rwanda. They are killing people left and right there." 

Turns out that Liovain's father had already been killed in a terrorist attack. His mother, murdered on a different occasion. One day, Liovain is in Rwanda in a cafe, watching a football match on television. It is the same day that the President's plane is shot down. Soldiers break into the cafe, and pull everybody out into the street. They line nine men up in a file, one behind the other. They announce "We are going to fire one shot into you nine, whoever dies, dies. Whoever lives, you better get out of here fast."

They pull the trigger. The first man in the line, of course, is hit. By some fluke, the bullet misses the number two man. Man number three is hit, and the bullet goes through him into the next man. The men farther back are all spared.

Francois says "So number one, three, and four are dead right there on the spot."

"And Liovain saw that?"

"Liovain was at the end of the line. He was the ninth man."

"JESUS, and there I was telling that stupid story about pistols and shotguns--"

"You couldn't have known. That's life. I don't think you offended him. In any case, you had everybody laughing for an hour."

"How does he go to school after that? If I saw something like that, I would be destroyed inside."

"I think Liovain is half-destroyed inside. At least his father was some kind of important person when he was alive."

"How do you know that?"

"If he wasn't, Liovain would still be stuck in Rwanda, like most people down there."

Nine men in a row. Sometimes I find that a walk helps to sort out disturbing thoughts. The next day I start walking. The day after that, I stumble into Beauvais, 40 miles south of here.