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"Do you know what I'd like to do," it was Mikhail's voice, but I couldn't see him because he was concealed behind a shelf. "I'd like to change the labels on everything in this shop. People would be completely lost. They wouldn't know whether things should be eaten hot or cold, boiled or fried. If they don't read the instructions, they don't know how to prepare a meal. They've lost all their culinary instincts."
Everyone who had spoken up until then had done so in perfect Parisian French. Only Mikhail had a foreign accent.
"May I see your passport," said one of the policemen.
"He's with me."
The words emerged naturally, even though I knew what it could mean--another scandal. The policeman looked at me.
"I wasn't talking to you, but since you're obviously with this lot, I hope you've got some kind of document to prove who you are, and a good reason for being surrounded by people half your age and buying vodka."
I could refuse to show my papers. I wasn't legally obliged to have them with me. But I was thinking about Mikhail. One of the policemen was standing next to him now. Did he really have permission to stay in France? What did I know about him apart from the stories he had told me about his visions and his epilepsy? What if the tension of the moment provoked an attack?
I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out my driver's license.
"So you're..."
"I am."
"I thought it was you. I've read one of your books. But that doesn't put you above the law."
The fact that he had read one of my books threw me completely. Here was this shaven-headed young man in a uniform, albeit a very different one from that worn by the tribes in order to tell each other apart. Perhaps he too had once dreamed of having the freedom to be different, of subtly challenging authority, although never disrespectfully enough to end up in jail. He probably had a father who had never offered him any alternative, a family who needed his financial support, or perhaps he was just afraid of going beyond his own familiar world.
I said gently:
"No, I'm not above the law. In fact, no one here has broken the law. Unless the gentleman at the cash register or the lady buying cigarettes would like to make some specific complaint."
When I turned around, the woman who had mentioned the artists and bohemians of her day, that prophet of imminent doom, the embodiment of truth and good manners, had disappeared. She would doubtless tell her neighbors the next day that, thanks to her, an attempted robbery had been averted.
"I've no complaints," said the man behind the register. "I got worried because they were talking so loudly, but it looks like they weren't actually doing any harm."
"Is the vodka for you, sir?"
I nodded. They knew that everyone there was drunk, but they didn't want to make a big deal out of a harmless situation.
"A world without stupid people would be complete chaos!" said the boy wearing leather and metal studs. "Instead of all the unemployed people we have today, there would be too many jobs and no one to do the work!"
"Shut up!"
My voice sounded authoritative, decisive.
"Just stop talking, all of you!"
To my surprise, silence fell. My heart was beating furiously, but I continued talking to the policemen as if I were the calmest person in the world.
"If they were really dangerous, they wouldn't be talking like that."
The policeman turned to the cashier:
"If you need us, we'll be around."
And before going out, he said to his colleague, so that his voice echoed around the whole shop, "I love stupid people. If it wasn't for them, we might be having to tackle some real criminals."
"You're right," said the other policeman. "Stupid people are a nice safe distraction."
They gave their usual salute and left.
The only thing that occurred to me to do when we left the shop was to smash the bottles of vodka. I saved one of them, though, and it was passed rapidly from mouth to mouth. By the way they were drinking, I could see they were frightened, as frightened as I was. The only difference was that they had gone on the offensive when threatened.
