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The vodka ran out and was replaced by rum. I hate rum, but since that was all there was, it was best to adapt to the circumstances. The two musicians continued to play and whenever anyone was brave enough to come near, one of the girls would hold out her hand and ask if they had any spare change. The person approached would normally quicken their pace, but would always receive a "Thanks, have a nice evening." One person, seeing that he had been offered thanks rather than abuse, turned back and gave us some money.
After watching this scene for more than ten minutes, without anyone in the group addressing a single word to me, I went into a bar, bought two bottles of vodka, came back, and poured the rum into the gutter. Anastasia seemed pleased by my gesture and so I tried to start a conversation.
"Can you explain why you all use body piercing?"
"Why do other people wear jewels or high heels or low-cut dresses even in winter?"
"That's not an answer."
"We use body piercing because we're the new barbarians sacking Rome. We don't wear uniforms and so we need something to identify us as one of the invading tribes."
She made it sound as if they were part of a important historical movement, but for the people going home, they were just a group of unemployed young people with nowhere to sleep, cluttering up the streets of Paris, bothering the tourists who were so good for the local economy, and driving to despair the mothers and fathers who had brought them into the world and now had no control over them.
I had been like that once, when the hippie movement was at its height--the huge rock concerts, the big hair, the garish clothes, the Viking symbol, the peace sign. As Mikhail said, the whole hippie thing had turned into just another consumer product and had vanished, destroying its icons.
A man came down the street. The boy in leather and safety pins went over to him with his hand outstretched. He asked for money. However, instead of hurrying on or muttering something like "I haven't any change," the man stopped and looked at us and said very loudly:
"I wake up every morning with a debt of approximately 100,000 euros, because of my house, because of the economic situation in Europe, because of my wife's expensive tastes. In other words, I'm worse off than you are and with far more on my mind! How about you giving me a bit of change to help me decrease my debt just a little?"
Lucrecia--whom Mikhail claimed was his girlfriend--produced a fifty-euro note and gave it to the man.
"Buy yourself some caviar. You need a bit of joy in your 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."
