Tuareg

The bus he found himself bumping along in was the filthiest, most rickety, clapped out, old vehicle imaginable. It gasped and chugged along asthmatically, through the bushy plains and rocky terrain, at a speed that could not have exceeded fifty kilometers per hour.

It had to stop almost every two hours, either due to a puncture or because the wheels had got stuck in the sand and the driver and the conductor would ask the passengers, with their goats, dogs and baskets of chickens to get out of the bus and either push, or sit down on the roadside and wait while they changed the wheel.

Every four hours they had to stop and refill the petrol tank, using the primitive method of attaching a hosepipe to an old drum that was tied to the roof. Every time they reached a steep hill, the men would be asked to get out and walk.

For two days and two nights they were squashed in there like dates in a rabbit-skin sack, sweaty and woozy due to the intense heat, not knowing how much more of the torturous journey they could take and longing for a change in the monotonous desert landscape.

Every time they stopped, Gazel felt the overwhelming urge to abandon the filthy vehicle and continue on foot, however long it might take him. But he also knew that it would take him months to reach the capital on his own and that every day and every hour he gained, brought him closer to Laila and his children.

So he stayed with the bus, despite the overwhelming repulsion he felt at being so hemmed in. This man, who loved solitude and freedom above all else, now found himself sandwiched between chatty traders, hysterical women, noisy children and pesky chickens. He could not turn himself into a stone in amongst that chaos as he had done so in the “lost land,” cutting himself off from his surroundings by forcing his spirit to temporarily abandon his body.

Every pothole, every lurch forward, every burst tyre or human belch brought him sharply back to reality and he was unable to sleep, even in the dead of night. He longed to sleep, if only to return, in his dreams, to his family and draw on them for the strength he needed in order to endure that interminable journey.

Finally, on the misty dawn of the third day, which brought with it an insistent and warm wind that blew clouds of grey choking dust into the passengers’ faces, making it impossible too see further than fifty metres ahead, they drove past a huddle of mud huts, a dry ravine and a filthy square, before finally lurching to a halt in the middle of what looked like an old, abandoned souk.

‘End of the line!’ the conductor shouted, stretching his arms and legs and looking around him with what seemed to be an expression of astonishment on his face. It was as if he could not believe that once again he had taken part in the mad odyssey of driving to El-Akab and made it there alive. ‘Thanks be to God!’

Gazel got off last, gazed around at the old, crumbling walls of the souk that looked as if they might collapse around him at any moment and walked hesitantly over to the conductor.

‘Is this the capital?’ he asked.

‘Oh no,’ the man said with a smile. ‘But we only go this far. If we took that thing on to the main road we’d get arrested as madmen.’

‘So how do I get to the capital?’

‘You could get another bus, although I recommend the train, it’s faster.’

‘What’s a train?’

The man did not seem at all surprised by the question because Gazel was the first Bedouin he had seen on a bus in twenty years.

‘You had better go and see for yourself,’ came his reply. ‘Go down this street and three blocks down you’ll see a brown building, it’s there.’

‘Three what?’

‘Three streets down, three blocks…’

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘None of this exists where you live I suppose. Go straight on until you see the building. There’s only one.’

Gazel nodded, took his rifle, sword and leather bag full of ammunition, a little food and all his belongings and set off in the direction that the man had indicated, but the conductor shouted to him from the roof of the bus.

‘Oy! You can’t walk around with all those weapons on you..! If they see you you’ll get into big trouble. Have you got a license?’

‘A what?’

‘A license for the gun. No, I can see you haven’t. Hide them or you’ll end up in jail!’

Gazel stood stock still in the centre of the old souk, unsure of what to do. Then, on seeing one of the other passengers walking in the opposite direction with a bag on both shoulders and some rolled up carpets under his arm, he had an idea and ran over to him.

‘I’ll buy those carpets from you,’ he said, holding out a gold coin to him.

The other man did not even reply, took the money, lifted up his arm to let him take them away and hurried off, as if he were afraid that the stupid Targui might change his mind.

But Gazel did not change his mind. He unrolled the carpets, wrapped up his weapons in them, put them under his arm and carried on to the station.

The conductor, who had been watching him from the roof of the bus, shook his head and burst out laughing.

The train was even dirtier, more uncomfortable and noisier than the bus and although it had the advantage that its tyres did not burst, it had the unpleasant habit of filling up with smoke and ash and of stopping with annoying regularity in every city, village, shantytown and farmhouse along the way.

When he first saw it appear in the shiny station, grunting and belching out smoke like a monster, just as the old black man Suilem had described in his stories, Gazel had been overwhelmed with a feeling of panic. He had been forced to draw on all his strength as a warrior and all his composure as an inmouchar of the glorious veil people to let himself be carried along in the wave of passengers and then to be bundled in alongside them into one of the dilapidated coaches with their hard wooden benches and windows with no panes.

He copied everyone else, by leaving his carpets and leather bag in the luggage rack and then, huddling into a corner, he tried to convince himself that he was just travelling on a type of big bus that moved along iron rails in order to avoid the dusty roads.

But when the whistle blew and the locomotive lunged forward and the sound of grating metal, creaking rails and the driver’s shouts filled the air, his heart leapt again and he had to do everything within his powers to stop himself from leaping back out onto the platform.

Later, as it hurtled downhill at almost one hundred kilometers an hour, the air and smoke rushing in through the windows, Gazel sincerely thought he might die of fright. He watched as electricity pylons, trees and houses whizzed past him, making him dizzy and desperate to get off, but he bit down hard on his veil to stop himself from shouting out and ordering them to stop the rollercoaster and let him off.

Then, in the middle of the afternoon, the mountains suddenly sprung up before his eyes and he thought that he must be imagining things. Not even in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined that such a mass could exist, such an impenetrable barrier, sheer and proud, its peaks brushed with white.

He turned round to a fat lady, sitting behind him, who had spent most of the journey breastfeeding her twin boys and asked:

‘What is that?’

‘Snow,’ the lady replied with an air of superiority, as if she was privy to some inside information. ‘I’d wrap up because you’ll soon start to feel the cold.’

And a cold like the Targui had never known before descended as the freezing air and flurries of miniscule snowflakes invaded the coach, forcing the shivering, stricken passengers to cover themselves up with anything they had to hand.

Just as it was starting to get dark, they stopped at a tiny mountain station and the ticket collector informed them that the train would be stopping for ten minutes, which would give them enough time to go and get their supper. So Gazel, unable to contain the urge, jumped off the coach and ran out of the station towards the snow.

He picked it up with his bare hands and was more amazed by its consistency and texture, than by its coldness. The powdery substance had an indescribable, light, crunchy softness to it that fell apart in his fingers, quite unlike sand, water and stone, different in fact to anything he had ever touched before. It was some time before he realised that his feet, which were naked apart from a pair of light sandals, were starting to freeze.

He walked back slowly and thoughtfully, almost horrified by his discovery. Then he bought a heavy, thick blanket from one seller and some hot couscous from another and returned to his seat to contemplate the night and the snowy landscape that was disappearing into the shadows. He studied the coach’s slatted wooden walls, which had been covered in all kinds of graffiti, no doubt the scribbles and scratchings of bored passengers, trying to while away their journey. It was there, at that station, with his feet in the snow that Gazel Sayah suddenly realised that the predictions of the old lady Khaltoum were about to be fulfilled.

The desert, his beloved desert where he had been born, was now way behind him at the foot of those mountains that were covered in green pastures and huge trees. He was, he realised, heading, blindly and ignorantly into unknown and hostile lands, with the aim of taking on world leaders with only the help of an old sword and a pathetic rifle.

He was awoken by a screech of brakes, a sharp jolt and voices that seemed to come from beyond the grave. Sleepy voices echoed around him as the train ground to a halt inside what looked like a huge empty cave.

He put his head out of the window and marvelled at the high dome made of iron and glass, made still larger by the reflections coming from hundreds of small light bulbs that were hanging from the ceiling and the dusty, neon signposts that lit the way.

The passengers who had been on board for the entire trip got off the train, their shabby cardboard suitcases in hand and ambled off sleepily, cursing the ridiculous timetable of the Methuselan train that always arrived at its destination about six hours behind schedule.

He got off last, carrying his carpets, his leather bag and his heavy blanket and followed them all as they disappeared through a large, opaque, glass door. He walked slowly, impressed by the grandeur of the station, in whose high ceilings bands of bats were flying around. The only sound that remained was the noise of the locomotive, snorting and sighing, as if it were trying to recover its breath from the long and tiring journey.

He crossed the large waiting room with its dirty marble floors and long benches, upon which entire families were sleeping, still clutching their pitiful luggage, found the exit and walked outside. He stopped at the top of a wide staircase as he took in the huge square that lay before him and the massive buildings that surrounded it.

He was completely taken aback by the wall of windows, doors and balconies that sealed off, almost hermetically, the area and he shook his head in disbelief, as a hideous assortment of smells assaulted him, like hungry beggars who had been waiting to pounce on him.

It was not like the smell of human sweat, excrement or dead and rotten animals, or like the stench of putrid water from old wells or a male goat on heat. It was more subtle, less notable, but equally disagreeable and intense for a man used to the smells of the open spaces. It was the smell of people crowded together, of thousands of different meals being cooked at the same time, of boxes of rubbish that had been emptied out by starving street dogs and sewer smells that came up from the drains, as if the city were, and in fact was, built on a sea of faeces.

The air was dense; still and dense on that hot night; humid, salty, still and dense and it tasted of sulphur and burnt petrol and of cooking oil fried a thousand times over.

He stood very still, wondering whether to enter into the sleeping city or go back and rest on one of the benches until it was light. Before he could make a decision a man in a worn-out uniform and red hat had walked over to him and stopped next to him.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked and when the Targui shook his head, he nodded in turn.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s your first time in the city. Do you have anywhere to sleep?’

‘No.’

‘I know of somewhere near my house. Maybe they’d take you in.’ He realised that he was not making a move to accompany him, so he gestured with his arm for him to follow. ‘Lets go,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m not a faggot or a thief.’

He liked the man’s face, which was tired and marked with lines that told of a difficult life. His skin had an almost yellowish hue to it from working nights, his eyes were bloodshot and he sported a limp moustache that was stained with nicotine.

‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘I know what it’s like to be alone in a city like this. I arrived from the cabila some fifteen years ago with less luggage than you and only a cheese under my arm,’ he said, laughing. ‘And now look at me. I’ve got a uniform, a hat and a whistle.’

Gazel went over to him and together they crossed the square towards a wide avenue that led off the other side of the square, down which a lone vehicle would drive from time to time.

Just as they reached the middle, the man turned to look at him intently.

‘Are you really a Targui?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And is it true that you only reveal your face to family and close friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well you’re going to find that hard here,’ he said. ‘The police won’t let you walk the streets with your face covered. They like to control us. Everyone has to have identity cards, with their photo and fingerprints on them.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever had an identity card, am I right?’

‘What’s an identity card?’

‘I thought as much.’

They started walking again, at a leisurely pace, as if the man in the red hat was in no hurry to get to wherever it was that he was going and was actually enjoying his nocturnal stroll and chat. ‘Lucky you, for never having needed one. But what brings you to the city?’

‘Do you know the minister?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Minister? What minister?’

‘Ali Madani?’

‘No!’ he said quickly. ‘Luckily I don’t know Ali Madani and I hope you never have the misfortune of meeting him either.’

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

‘At the ministry I suppose.’

‘Where is the ministry?’

‘You continue down this avenue and carry straight on. When you get to the esplanade, turn right. It’s a grey building with white awnings over the windows. But if I were you I wouldn’t go anywhere near it. They say at night you can hear the screams of prisoners being tortured in its basements, although some say they are just the cries of souls who have been murdered down there already. At night they take the bodies out through the back door and throw them into a delivery van.’

‘Why do they kill them?’

‘Politics,’ he replied with an expression of disgust. ‘In this damned city it’s all about politics. Especially since Abdul-el-Kebir escaped. There’s going to be quite a rumpus!’ he exclaimed. He pointed to a side street and they crossed over the main road to it. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s over here.’

But Gazel shook his head and pointed towards the end of the avenue.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the ministry.’

‘To the ministry,’ the man said, surprised. ‘At this time of night? Why?’

‘I have to see the minister.’

‘But he doesn’t live there. He just works there, during the day.’

‘I will wait for him.’

‘Without sleeping?’

The railway worker was about to say something, but stopped as he became aware of the steely determination in Gazel’s dark eyes, just visible between his turban and his veil. His gaze then fell onto the bulky roll of carpets that the Targui was holding against his body and he suddenly, without knowing quite why, began to feel quite uneasy.

‘My, it’s late!’ he said anxiously. ‘It’s very late and I have to work tomorrow,’ he added hastily.

He crossed the street quickly, almost colliding with a rubbish truck, before turning into a backstreet, looking back constantly to check that the Targui was not following him.

The Targui did not blink an eyelid. He waited for the stinking truck to disappear from view and then continued on along the wide, poorly lit avenue, the image his tall figure and billowing clothes, against the backdrop of tall buildings, dark windows and closed doors, somehow vaguely absurd. He was master of the sleeping city, aside from a few stray dogs.

A yellow car passed by and a woman whistled to him from a doorway. ‘Pssst.’

He went over to her out of respect and was taken aback by her low neckline and split skirt that revealed a leg. As soon as he stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the streetlamp, however, she looked even more taken aback than he had been, as she took in his appearance.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, hesitantly.

‘No, nothing. I got you mixed up with someone else.’

‘Good night!’

‘Good night!’

He had only gone another two streets further down when he heard a humming noise in the distance that, with each step, seemed to get louder and louder. It was a monotonous, constant noise that he did not recognise, but that sounded like a giant stone being repeatedly and rhythmically smashed against a smooth surface.

He crossed the wide walkway, which seemed to mark the city’s limits and walked past a line of tall streetlamps that lit up a sandy, wide beach. He stopped, dumbfounded. Right in front of him, out of the blackness of the night, a monstrous mass of water rose up in front of him and he could hardly believe his eyes. He stood there transfixed as it swelled and gained height, then crashed back down onto the ground with a dull thudding noise, only to pull back again with a sigh and repeat the attack, all over again, with renewed vigour.

The sea!

He realised that this was the magnificent sea that Suilem had spoken so much about and what the more adventurous of his visitors had described to him, on the nights that they had spent at his jaima. Another wave, more daring than the others, crashed onto the sand impetuously, threatening to drench his sandals and the edge of his djellabah, but he was so taken aback by the spectacle before him that he did not even jump out of its way.

The sea. This was where his garamant ancestors had come from. The sea that washed over the Senegalese coast and where the great river that edged the southern desert, went to die. The sea where all the sands ended and the unknown began and that took you to far off places and to where the French lived.

The sea. That impassable frontier that the Creator had imposed on the sons of the winds — the eternal wanderers of the sandy, rocky lands — was something that even in his wildest dreams, he had never imagined he would behold. It was a concept so alien to him that he had always presumed that it was as far away from him as the furthest stars in the final galaxy were. He had reached the end of his journey and he knew it. That sea was the limit of his universe and its furious roar was the voice of Allah telling him that he had pushed himself beyond his own limits. He gone further than an Imohag from the plains was permitted to go and he realised that he was about to pay for the magnitude of this insolence.

‘You will die far from your own world,’ the old lady Khaltoum had predicted and he could not imagine anything further from his own world than this groaning barrier of white foam that rose up furiously, before his very eyes, beyond which lay nothing but the dark night.

He sat down on the dry sand, out of reach of the waves and remained there, very still, remembering his life and thinking of his wife and his children and his paradise lost. He let the hours wash over him in that way until, with the first light of dawn, a greyish and uncertain light spread through the sky and he was finally able to appreciate the immensity of the great extension of water that stretched out before him.

He had imagined that the snow, the city and the waves, would have exhausted his capacity to be surprised by anything, ever again. But the spectacle of dawn, unfolding before him, only proved him wrong as the lead-grey, metallic colour of the unsettled, threatening sea, hypnotized him all over again. He entered into a profound trance that rendered him silent and unmoving, like an inanimate statue.

Then, he watched as the first rays of sunlight broke up the grey, turning the water a luminous blue, mixed with opaque green. The white of the foam became more intense and in the distance he saw a black, menacing storm cloud, approaching from the west. It was like an explosion of shapes and colours that he could never have imagined existed, however hard he might have tried. He would have remained there, rooted to the spot, had not the insistent humming of the vehicles behind him, pulled him sharply out of his revelry.

The city was waking up.

What had just been high walls, closed windows and random patches of dark vegetation by night, had, by day turned into a riot of colour. The violent red of the buses clashed with the building’s white facades, as the yellow taxis and bright green, bushy trees all screamed for space against an anarchic background of loud, brightly-coloured posters that covered the walls for miles on end.

And the people.

It seemed to him as if all of the Earth’s inhabitants had made an appointment to meet each other on that particular morning, along the wide esplanade. They hurried in and out of the tall buildings, bumping into each other and dodging each other in a kind of bizarre dance. Then, at a certain point on the pavement they would all launch themselves in unison across the wide road, as the buses, taxis and hundreds of different vehicles all screeched to a halt. It was as if an invisible and powerful hand had stopped them dead in their tracks.

Then, having observed the scene for some time, Gazel realised that this hand belonged to a chubby, apoplectic man, who was moving his arms up and down continuously, in a seemingly random and insane manner. He was also blowing on a large whistle with such insistence and fury, that it made the pedestrians stop dead, as if He himself had ordered them to do so.

He was an important man, without doubt, despite his reddened face and sweat-stained uniform, as even the biggest lorries stopped when he raised his hand and then only dared to continue once he had given them permission to do so.

And there behind him, protected by high railings and set behind a small courtyard with bushy trees in it, stood the tall, solid and elaborate grey building with white awnings that the railway worker had described to him.

The Minister of the Interior, Ali Madani, lived there, or at least he worked there. The man who had seized his family and children.

He made a snap decision, gathered together his belongings and crossed the road with a resolute step, over to the apoplectic, fat man, who looked at him in surprise but continued to wave his arms around and blow his whistle.

He stood in front of him:

‘Does Madani the minister live there?’ he enquired in his deep and serious voice, which startled the man even more than his strange clothes and veiled face.

‘What did you say?’

‘Does the minister Madani work there?’

‘Yes. He has his office there and in about five minutes, at eight o’clock on the dot, he’ll be there. Now go away!’

Gazel nodded silently, crossed the street again as the disconcerted policeman, who had momentarily lost his rhythm of work, watched him go, then stopped at the edge of the beach to wait.

Exactly five minutes later he heard a siren and two men on motorbikes appeared, followed by a long, black Sedan car. All the traffic on the avenue ground to a halt and the procession passed by unhindered, before turning majestically into the small courtyard in front of the grey building.

From afar, Gazel could make out the tall silhouette of an elegant and proud man. He watched as the figure stepped out of the car and was immediately surrounded by a rabble of porters and workers, all giving him small ceremonial bows. He then made his way slowly up the five marble steps that led into the wide entrance, flanked on both sides by soldiers, armed with submachine guns.

As soon as Madani had disappeared, Gazel crossed the road again over to the nervous policeman, who had been watching him all the while out of the corner of his eye:

‘Was that the minister?’ he asked.

“Yes it was! And I told you to get out of here! Leave me in peace!’

‘No!’ the Targui said in a tone that was dry, resolute and threatening. ‘I want you to pass on some information for me: If, the day after tomorrow my family is not freed, and brought here to this very spot, I will kill the President.’

The fat, traffic policeman looked at him in astonishment, unable to respond at first and then stuttering stupidly replied:

‘What did you say? That you’ll kill the President?’

‘Exactly,’ he said. Then, nodding towards the inside of the building he continued:

‘Tell him that I, Gazel Sayah, who freed Abdul-el-Kebir and killed eighteen soldiers, will kill the President, if they don’t return my family to me. Mark my words. The day after tomorrow.’

He turned on his heel and walked away between the buses and lorries that had come to a standstill, all beeping their horns insistently, as the man in charge of directing the traffic stood there transfixed. It was as if he had turned into a salt statue, as he stared out with the eyes of a dead cow at the tall Bedouin, as he disappeared into the crowds.

Over the next few minutes the guard tried to regain his composure and get the traffic flowing smoothly again. He also tried to tell himself that what he had just heard made absolutely no sense at all, that it had been either a dumb joke or the hallucinatory effects of a stressful job.

But there was something in the way that the madman had spoken to him and the determination in his voice that had unsettled him, particularly the fact that he had mentioned Abdul-el-Kebir and his freedom. It was now public knowledge that he had escaped and was in Paris, calling on his supporters to mobilise themselves.

Half an hour later, no longer capable of concentrating on his work and aware that he was about to cause a total collapse in the city’s traffic flow, or a serious accident, he abandoned his post, crossed the road and went into the ministry’s small courtyard. Then, trembling at the knees, he walked into the wide reception with its tall marble columns.

‘I need to speak with the head of security,’ he said to the first porter he came across.

Fifteen minutes later he was sitting before the Minister of the Interior, Ali Madani himself, who was looking at him with a worried expression, his eyebrows set in an almost comical frown, from the other side of a beautiful, lacquered, mahogany table.

‘Tall, thin and his face covered with a veil?’ he repeated, as if to make sure that the man had not been mistaken. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely, your Excellency. A real Targui, the likes of which you and I only see in postcards. Years ago they used to hang around the kasbahs and souks, but since they’ve forbidden the use of veils you don’t see them any more.’

‘It’s him, there’s no doubt about it.’ the minister concluded, as he lit himself a long, filtered Turkish cigar and appeared to drift off, lost in his thoughts.

‘Tell me again, as precisely as you can, what he said,’ he demanded.

‘That if you don’t return his family to him the day after tomorrow, leaving them on the corner there, free, then he’ll kill the President.’

‘He’s mad.’

‘That’s what I said to him, your Excellency. But these madmen can be dangerous sometimes…’

Ali Madani turned to face Colonel Turki, director general of state security and his right-hand man and exchanged a look of profound uneasiness with him.

‘What the devil is he talking about anyway?’ he asked. ‘As far as I know we haven’t touched his family.’

‘Maybe it’s not the same one.’

‘Come on Turki, there can’t be many more Tuaregs in the world who know about Abdul-el-Kebir and the death of those soldiers. It has to be him.’ He turned to the policeman and waved him away with his hand. ‘You can go now,’ he said. ‘But not a word of this to anyone.’

‘Don’t worry, your Excellency!’ he replied nervously. ‘When it comes to matters of national security, my lips are sealed.’

‘You’d better be,’ came his curt reply. ‘If you’re true to your word then you’ll be up for a promotion. Otherwise, you’ll have me to answer to personally. Is that understood?’

‘Of course, your Excellency, of course.’

Once he had left the building, Madani got up, walked over to the large windows and pulled open the lace curtains. He stood there for some time looking over at the sea and the beautiful effects of light and shadow that the rainfall, coming from a large black cloud in the distance, was making on it.

‘So, he’s here,’ he said out loud, so that the other man could hear, but mainly to himself. ‘That accursed Targui isn’t happy with the million and one problems he’s already caused us and has the cheek to turn up at our door and provoke us even more. It’s an outrage! Ridiculous and outrageous!’

‘I’d like to meet him.’

‘Crikey! Me too,’ the other man said enthusiastically. ‘You don’t often meet someone with balls like his.’ He stubbed out his cigar on the glass of the window. ‘What the hell is he looking for anyway?’ he muttered bad-temperedly.

‘What’s this about his family?’

‘I haven’t got a clue, your Excellency.’

‘Get in touch with El-Akab,’ he ordered. ‘Find out what’s happened to this madman’s family. Shit!’ he muttered as the butt he had thrown out of the window landed on his car, which was parked at the furthest end of the courtyard. ‘As if Abdul wasn’t enough to be getting on with!’ He turned to look at his accomplice.

‘What the hell are your people doing in Paris?’

‘They can’t do anything, your Excellency,’ the colonel said apologetically. ‘The French have him completely protected. We haven’t even been able to find out where he’s hiding.’

The minister walked back over to the table and picked up a handful of documents that he proceeded to wave around accusingly.

‘Look at this!’ he said. ‘Reports of generals that are deserting, of people crossing the border to join Abdul, of secret meetings in the garrisons of the interior! All I need now is a mad Targui, trying to hunt down the President. Find him!’ he ordered. ‘You know what he looks like: A tall guy dressed like a ghost with a veil that covers his face, revealing only his eyes. There can’t be too many that match that description in this city.’