TE20 Migrant Mosaics

The Sad Guest

stress.

I suddenly fancied he kept repeating the word Assad, the name of the tyrant from Syria, which was where he might come from himself and part of his family might still be living. But then I thought I probably only thought I was hearing that word, omnipresent as it was in the news. The fat man wasn’t speaking particularly clearly; it might just as well be Amad or Hassan. The hairdresser, by now cropping my hair at the back, didn’t seem to be listening to him any longer. He was immersed in his own thoughts, looking out of the window to where trapezoids of sunlight took shape on the pavement. Then I saw him nodding in the mirror, and I heard him directing an affirming word behind him. He turned around to the fat man, who had put his telephone down but gone on speaking with the same urgency in his voice, which sounded slightly hoarse by now. I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask the large man behind me something, address his situation in some way. But I didn’t knowwhat tosay. And so I sat there insilencewhile thehairdresser brushed the clippings off the back of my neck. Soon the hairdresser put the razor aside. My face in the mirror was strange and unfamiliar, like some other person’s. I paid eight euros, said goodbye to them both and smiled at them. They returned my goodbye and smiled back. The fat man simply went on speaking, and I was glad to be outside on the pavement. As I turned back ontoour road, I decided I was thinking toomuch 31