I Was an Elephant Salesman: Adventures between Dakar, Paris, and Milan

The End of Ma

74 Pap Khouma meat or vegetables. For our friends in Massa, it’s only rice. Selling, they say, is not going well these days and so there’s not much money to speak of. We can see that. The Peugeot clan calls a meeting: “What are we doing here? Our friends have no room for us. There’s no work.” “We at least have a car. We can move around.” “But we also need to find a place and get settled.” “Yeah, but where?” “In Milan.” “In Milan?” “Let’s go to Milan. It’s a big city and there’ll be enough room there for us.” I couldn’t care less about Milan. I’m tired and I can’t stand this life anymore. If I had even a tiny bit of money I would go back to Senegal. I say this again and again and still that tiny bit of money never comes my way. OK, fine. I try to put it another way: “Why should we be scared of Milan? It’s hard everywhere, as we know. So, let’s try Milan. At least there we’ll have more opportunities.” After one night in Massa we leave. They all seem convinced. At least for a few kilometers. It’s still snowing as the red Peugeot now heads in the opposite direction, to Bologna. But what are we going to do there? The Peugeot once again changes gears. “Milan, Milan!” We’re not short on ideas in this group. This time it’s the driver who proposes Piacenza: “I heard of a cheap hotel there.” The hotel really exists, just as promised, and it’s right across the street from the station. It costs seven thousand and five hundred lire a person a night. The five Senegalese passengers of the red Peugeot look at each other and say in unison, “What do we need Milan for? This will be great! We have all the piazzas of northern Italy right at our fingertips.” On its second or third day of life in Piacenza, however, the Peugeot starts to let us know that it hasn’t quite taken to the snow and ice. On the iron bridge between Cremona and Piacenza it bumps and bangs against the guardrail. The red Peugeot is on its last legs. As we say our farewells, we just manage to get her back to Piacenza, where we leave her to I Was an Elephant Salesman 75 hibernate. From now on we would have to travel by train to Lodi, Casalpusterlengo, Genoa, Cremona, Crema. The carabinieri come looking for us, though, at the hotel room at two in the morning. They knock, but then decide to let us sleep. Unfortunately they come back four hours later. We have no choice but to open the door this time, and they take As, who had been sleeping with Falou and me. I tell Mordiarra and Mara. As usual we can’t abandon our little brother. So the emergency squad hits the road. Falou is a bit hesitant, though. “Are you scared, Falou?” someone asks. Of course he is. Falou’s scared. He’s got a slew of deportation papers. No problem, Gran Falou, we’ll go without you. It’s too risky for you.” “Yeah, that’s just it, guys,” he replies sheepishly. In Senegal you’re called “grand” if you’re the oldest friend. We’ll go alone, Mordiarra, Mara, and I. We already have a plan. We’ll tell the police that we’re just passing through and we want to get to Paris as soon as possible. But when we get there they don’t believe our little tale. Too many others before us have tried it. They come to the conclusion that we have to leave. A very tall officer with good posture and this way of carefully articulating his words informs us: “You have forty-eight hours to leave.” All right. We’ll go. The group seems decided: Riccione this time. But on this one I don’t agree: “Guys, listen, let’s not fight. You guys go to Riccione. I’ll stay and then leave for Milan.” “No, come on. It’s better to go all together to Riccione.” “But if we don’t even have a place to stay . . .” “So, we’ll stay here too then.” “But there’s still the problem of little brother. It would be best for him to go to Riccione so at least they won’t...