“Nothing,” came his answer. “I’m just looking at you. It’s not every day I get the chance. I’m making the most of it.” His eyes were shining with tenderness. “Damn, you’re quite the paradox, aren’t you. You always lower your eyes whenever anybody speaks to you, like you’re shy, but at the same time you’re giving off this feeling of kick-ass confidence — like the very worst scum bags in fact.”

I internally acknowledged his perceptiveness, making a mental note to be a little more open in future — without carrying on like some character in Crime and Punishment, obviously.

“And that’s a compliment, I suppose.”

He smiled sweetly: “Of course, because compliments are all I have for you . . . You still haven’t told me how you really learned Arabic.”

“I’ve told you plenty of times. I’ve got a gift for languages and I studied it!”

“Can you believe that yesterday, one of the Moroccans I was interviewing about the murder of that young dealer specifically asked for you, in personam . . . He wouldn’t take no for an answer — he had to have you, only you! According to him, you translate better than anyone else.”

“What murder? Which young guy? Which Moroccan? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

And it was true, at the time, I had no idea what he was referring to, when suddenly the driver who had come up from the bled together with Afid Benabdelaziz popped back into my head. I’d forgotten all about him.

“It wasn’t that long ago, you know, when those drug dealers were arrested on 14 July . . . Even I’m up to speed and I didn’t even have the job at that point . . .”

“Yes, yes, so much has happened in the meantime . . . my mother . . . the hospital . . .”

“The dog . . .”

“Yes, the dog, too!”

“It’s a good thing, what you’ve done for that poor creature . . . If you need a hand looking after it, I’m around!”

“I really love him.”

“One of the dealer guys had his throat slit in prison.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“You could have read about it in the papers!”

“In Le Monde diplomatique?”

He laughs.

“In all the papers, except Le Monde diplo. For sure it’s a settling of scores because a week before, his mother was attacked outside her place. We haven’t been able to find out anything more because she died of a heart attack.”

“Yes, yes, I remember — the Moroccans who dumped their load on their way up from Spain . . . Somebody must have recovered the drugs by now.”

“Probably, but something’s telling me it’s not the rightful owners. There’s a lot of chatter about it out there, especially that they were transporting it for other people . . . Anyway, to cut a long story short, the driver was saying nothing.”

“So, what ended up happening . . . ?”

The driver . . . Shit . . . What did he want from me?