Yesterday, the little old man in front of the entrance, paper w/code in his hand, asked M to explain how it worked, the code, the square box on the wall w/numbers and symbols. M showed how. The lock went ‘tack,’ opened a gate to long years of history on the run.
Everywhere around the neighborhood stores and streets got ready for the arrival of the Euro.
The little old man kept us. He wanted to talk. In Polish. His hand rested on M’s arm.
I admired the little old man’s trousers. They looked sharp. Thought, I could wear a pair like those. Wool, silverywhite/ black thread woven through it, wide around the waste, kind of Kid Coconut style. Cuban jazz.
What was his story, I asked. Well… M said. He talked about the war. He spent four years in a Russian camp. We started walking. Somewhere else in the world it was Polanski’s birthday.