A City Made for Setting Out: K’s Story at Maison Effatà

A Friend at Maison Effatà

Suddenly, the room emptied; everyone got up from the table and went up to their rooms. Perhaps there’s still someone out there in the darkness of the garden, smoking the last cigarette of the day. Only K remained seated, looking rather gloomy.

K doesn’t live in the house; he’s been in the city for a long time. He arrived, like so many others, to attempt the crossing, but was stopped by a serious accident that left him scarred and still forces him to undergo regular checkups and ongoing treatment. But he received good care, and this convinced him to try to stay in France. So he obtained permission to remain, and today he rents a small studio apartment on his own. K is a friend of our household and is a fellow countryman of most of those who live here. He often comes to visit and never arrives empty-handed—he always brings a few full grocery bags and an idea for a traditional dish to cook for everyone.

The Need for Respect and Invisible Wounds

– Boss, can I talk to you?

– Of course you can—that goes without saying! Tell me everything.

– Thanks, Boss. You see, I talk a lot—maybe too much—and sometimes I joke around with everyone, and I try to help everyone: everyone who deserves it. But I’m not stupid!

– Of course not! But why do you feel the need to tell me this right now?

– Because respect is all I have left, ever since I failed to see that damned train coming—the one that took so much from me. But I still have respect: respect for myself and respect from others, because all I ask for is respect, and when I don’t receive it, it hurts me more than the wounds that cursed train left me with.

– I don’t quite understand: was I the one who disrespected you, K?

– Of course not, boss! Not you, but I needed to tell someone this: I’m sorry to bother you.

– Don’t even say that as a joke! No problem…

– Boss, I’m too shy to show you all the scars the accident left on my body, and the ones it left inside me can’t be seen. I take all my medication, and even so, every now and then my head feels like it’s going to explode, and I feel like I’m losing my mind. So many times I’m just so tired! But thanks to God’s goodness, I’m still alive.

Documents, dignity, and the desire to get back on track

At this point, K picks up her old-fashioned faux-leather purse and pulls out a document holder so stuffed with cards and paperwork that it looks like it’s about to burst. Then, barely lifting her bottom from the chair, she moves it closer to me and continues:

– I stood in line every time I was asked to, with patience and faith, and now I’m a legal resident in this country. Look at this card, Boss. I noticed you read better with your glasses, and I see you set them down on that cabinet—I can bring them to you, if you’ll let me.

I can barely hold back a laugh that’s somewhere between nervous and sarcastic, and I decide to accept the role of “elder” that K has just foisted on me: I wouldn’t let anyone else do it.

– That would be very kind of you, K, and it would really help me out: the text on these cards is always in such small print… It’s your residence permit, and it’s valid for another ten years—that’s really great.

At that point, he begins to pull out a whole series of cards, giving the hinge of his poor, overloaded document holder a little respite:

– This is my Carte Vitale. And here’s my credit card. This is a Revolut card—have you heard of it, Boss? I also have my Carrefour loyalty card and my Leclerc loyalty card…

At this point, a deep sense of tenderness washes over me, and I decide to put an end to this display of titles, which is starting to border on the naive—trying to do so with as much grace as I can muster:

– I think I understand what you’re trying to show me, K, but you don’t have to prove anything: I think you’ve come a long way, and I have a lot of respect for that. In far fewer years than I have, you’ve come further than I ever will in my entire life.

– Thanks, Boss. Lately, I’ve been thinking it’s time to get back on the road, to leave this city behind.

– Maybe you should give it a try. After all, you have people who can help you with it, and you’d still have plenty of people to come back to if you didn’t find what you’re looking for elsewhere.

– Yeah, maybe I should. But right now, I’d better start heading home: I’ve talked way too much, and you’ve been way too patient…

On the Way to Beau Marais: A City Made for Traveling

– Let me give you a ride in my car—just give me a minute to put on my shoes.

– Normally I wouldn’t be able to accept, but tonight I’ll say thank you and accept: I’m so tired, Boss.

– OK, I’m Michele. Just call me Michele.

– Okay, Boss Michele!

– Nice one… But get in the car, come on! And be quiet!

K chuckles, feeling satisfied and relaxed. In an instant, we leave the last houses in the city center behind, cross the swing bridge over the mouth of the Saint-Omer Canal, and turn onto the avenue that runs along the harbor. Through the mesh of the tall metal fence, the full moon offers a glimpse of the foam on the waves. Above the barbed wire that tops the fence, the sky is starry. The car radio is tuned to Radio Classique, which is playing the notes of a romantic piano piece—probably something by Chopin.

– What other kind of music do you like, Boss?

Laughing, I ask him:

– Would you like us to add anything else?

– Do you like Sudanese music?

– You’re asking me? It’s my favorite!

He pretends to believe it and fiddles with his cell phone, looking for a song that suits his mood. After a short stretch on the beltway, we arrive at the stadium, and not far away we can see the tall white buildings of Beau Marais, where K lives.

– Boss, please don’t ever tell anyone about the house I’m renting. I’ve told a lot of people that I have a friend—an elderly French gentleman who’s letting me stay with him so he won’t be alone—and to others I’ve made up a story about an Algerian girlfriend who shares the house with me but has a terrible temper and can’t stand any of my friends. You have to understand that if I didn’t do this, the whole Jungle would be knocking on my door asking for a place to stay. And I’d really like to, but I just can’t afford it.

He must have asked me this at least fifty times before. But I have to say that I fully understand his anxiety, so I reassure him yet again that I’ll keep the secret. Meanwhile, a Sudanese song plays in the background, repeating: “I am nothing without you, nothing but myself… You are my desire, you are my destination.” K sighs and says:

– Maybe it really is time to go somewhere else. This city is built around a harbor and is meant for setting out, not for staying…