A woman, small and somewhat older, served breakfast. She didn’t say “Good morning,” that wasn’t her style. Shepassed out little trays and each one came with a big cup ofvery hot, plain tea, two pieces of buttered bread, someLaughing Cow cheese, some orange marmalade and a chocolate Mars bar.

No one said a word inside the immense room they used as a dining area. There were about fifteen of us, evidently ofdifferent nationalities. Since there were only three tables,there was no way to avoid each other but, sooner or later,we’d wind up looking at one another and then we’d lookdown, without a smile, without a friendly gesture. We wereashamed to be there. All of us already wanted to forget ourpast, forget last night, forget the troubles that brought us hereand couldn’t be shared no matter who asked. Each one of ushad his story, his secrets, his tragedies, the parents he leftsomewhere else, the dreams he hadn’t fulfilled yet, the love hecould declare or not declare, his still raw wounds. Each of uscarried his fate on his shoulders and though it wasn’t toopleasant right at the moment, each of us tried to keep that flameinside us from going out, kindle that inner light that gave usthe ability to live, to walk, to move forward regardless of setbacks, to earn some money and some of that happiness whichwe could (or thought we could) buy with a few Swiss francs.

It looked like I was the only Arab. Everyone else seemed to be from Eastern Europe or Asia. No Blacks.

At the most, the breakfast lasted fifteen minutes. You had to be off the premises by 7:45.

That meant a quarter of an hour to fill your stomach. A quarter of an hour to get yourself ready to leave this place,this place that despite everything did offer you some comfort,maybe even some warmth, before you had to face your immediate future: Where would you go? Where to spend the day?

There he was, at the door. Tall, strong, attractive, reassuring. Just the way I pictured a real man to be. Michel Foucault had reappeared. As people were leaving, he’d tellthem: “Goodbye! Have a nice day!” Some of them said “thankyou,” others remained silent, probably because they didn’tunderstand French.

It felt so good to run into him again, see this face I’d known for such a long time, meet this man constructed ofwords, words I first encountered in books and later in thelove story he was reading, this man who stood there, alreadysmiling, even though it was still dark. A man who wasn’tdead, even if the real world said he was. I couldn’t helpadmiring him. Loving him.

“Goodbye, young man! Have a nice day!”

“Thanks. You too.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well ... I think I have ... all ... my ...”