But being a white man’s hero doesn’t make any difference to me. Maybe that’s why I’ve spent the last two weeks remembering what happened in Pariah, and looking at the Eiffel Tower, rather than thinking about this white man’s war.
Maybe, if I have a son one day, and he asks me about the war, I’ll tell him about the time I had in Pariah. I’ll tell him that that was my real war.
When they asked me where home was I said Houston. It wasn’t until that night, hours after I was asleep, that I realised I had bought a ticket back to Etta and Raymond and everything I had left behind.
But it didn’t bother me. There were gangs of white American soldiers roaming the streets, killing solitary black enlisted men. There were gangs of black soldiers getting their revenge.
All over Paris there were thieves, escaping Nazis, and loaded guns in hungry men’s’ hands. I had a transport ship to survive and America yet to see again. Every step could mean death to a black man like me.
Why worry about the destination when the road is full of vipers? Mouse is probably dead by now anyway. How could a man so violent and reckless survive? And if he has endured, then married life has changed him. Maybe he’s fat now, working as a cook in some hotel.
There’s no way for me to tell the future from this room in Paris. All I can do is follow my footsteps, not at all like my father, and go back home.
The End
FB2 document info
Document ID: b9e7e407-449e-40b4-bb56-4af8eaef8970
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 25.7.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Walter Mosley
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