Slim phoned his parents and got them to come and pick him up. ‘They were convinced I’d been turned back at the border or murdered or something – it was complete panic, the old man was already on the phone to Paris,’ he said, laughing. Slim is a spoiled royal pain in the arse. While we waited, we watched the comings and goings in the airport. The whole place was deathly silent. The people looked normal but maybe they were being extra careful. At one point we saw some cop dragging away a gang of young guys handcuffed together in pairs. They’d obviously thought they could just up and leave the country. They’ve had it now. Trying to leave the country is an insult. They’re bound to be gassed. We were trying to get into the country and we’d been through the third degree. Later, I saw the special agents, who’d been sitting in the cafeteria, suddenly get to their feet, button their raincoats, slip on their dark glasses and march off quickly. They walked straight past us, but we ducked out of sight just in time. Compared to Algiers Airport, our estate is like an old folks’ home, everyone hanging out, bored senseless. Or it used to be – because since the new imam and his emir showed up, the Fourth Reich is well under way. By the time I left for Algeria, it was all set, the propaganda machine was up and running, strict security was being enforced and you could smell Blitzkrieg in the air. I wonder what it will be like by the time I get back, whether my family, my neighbours, my mates will still be there. I miss them already. I can’t imagine a future without my mates, without Momo, Raymond, Togo-au-Lait, Idir-Quoi, Cinq-Pouces, Manchot and Bidochon, the coffee jockey who can’t even make a decent cup of coffee, all sons of dirt-poor, honest working men. Slim, the royal pain in the arse, told me about his life in Paris, his mates, his girlfriends, and he told me about what he did in Algeria during the holidays, days spent playing video games, big family meals, little parties at the house, his sisters inviting their friends over pretending they needed to revise. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. I told him about life on the estate and he looked at me like I was from another planet. Just then, his father showed up, frantic but happy, he’s some important professor at Algiers Hospital, he used to work in some hospital in Paris. They gave me a lift, dropped me at the bus station. Slim, the royal pain in the arse, winked at me and said, ‘Come by the house when you get back from that godforsaken hole you’re going to, we can do some revision.’