Exclusive-Le360. AB25. The good leaves of Mustafa Kebir Ammi’s “Mc Bronkovich” story

Before this last trip to London I had everything in order. As I was leaving I took out the boxes that Jane had left and kept them in the basement of the Earls Court and in this kind of mountain corner where I had stored my chair. I was afraid that the disease that had been devouring me for many years would pass on to my descendants.

Jane!

I said his name over and over again.

Jane!

I wrote her a note and if she reads it she will understand, one day, why I do not want to have children.

As darkness fell on the city, I began to write about the black waters of the River Thames. One always writes about the waters of rivers. Yes itself? That is all there is to washing away this guilt. I wrote passionately. I wanted to believe that I had just come to this city and that it promised to weave a crown for the most courageous. Something told me that everything could go back to the way it was and that this city had committed no crime against me.

I waited for the evening.

The sailors parked their boats.

It was cold.

I was not well dressed, I was wearing a simple military jacket, which I had bought many years ago at the Flea Market in Camden, and my legs were bare. I had no cane, but I held myself very straight; I have long wanted to get rid of this stick. I heard the voice of a sailor like Sr. Alves. Another like Mrs.. Jenkins. Get out of there! They were worried about what I was doing in the water. I do not have to go far, you know I only have to climb one floor to get back to my room.