Abstract

The tin can rolled across the grimy tiles of the hallway. Dondog barely grazed it, with his left foot, I think, yet there it rolled. The thick cover of darkness made it impossible to know if it was a can of beer or of Coke. Empty, light, the tin cylinder followed its noisy course then stopped, no doubt because it had come up against heavier, grimier trash.The floor slanted. Like everywhere in the City, the masons who added blocks of housing on top of existing ones had little regard for horizontality. They were of the mind that the cement would hold and, what's more, the walls would sink and undo any effort at getting it right. The hallway therefore had the look of a sordid and shabbily dug trench. It reeked of fish...