Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Joy

competition in it is severe. I’m confined by a cyclist who’s claiming his right to saunter about, nose in the air, in the midst of all of the fighters. I brush past him, overtake him, and find him in my rearview mirror, suddenly rigid. I ask Ange who his adversary is and he jumps on my question like he was jumping on him. “Some black idiot, I made him swallow his pride. You should have seen him at the end, back at square one, on the floor, blood streaming out of his nose – end of the Black Power!” I tell him that I no longer have time to drop him off. “No big deal,” he responds, “I’ll go with you and be your assistant. By the way, who’s your client?” It’s the biggest French alcohol brand. I sold them a new concept for an event; I’ll introduce Ange as a partner. The north highway is empty this afternoon, we devour the

or hide and go seek. Life, little by little, returns to normal, deep down each person asks only for that.

14

We are cruising with the windows down. Ange tells me about his last boxing match: it all comes from the legs, even the power of your punches, evenyourmentality, everything; if your feet move well, really well, everything else follows. I sense him at my sides, sense that he wants to keep striking, jumping, dodging, and striking again. It’s far from over with him. There is some traffic in Paris, maintaining speed despite the delivery trucks and taxis is a different fight. The bus lanes are like accelerating lanes, it’s important to know when to take your chance, the

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