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routine, this change of scenery in the city where he lived. He had often wished he could drive his taxi across the landscapes hanging on the fence.
    This time the exhibition was about volcanoes. Beautiful shots. The work was titled “Of Volcanoes and Humans.” Impressive, the orange summits with little yellow flecks, a music of lava descending a slope, the lava flowing, and standing there in front of the scene framed on the board, Askia thought, The lava had better not descend too quickly. It had better cool before reaching the valley. It must remain an image and not engulf the lane where he stood. The lane, the city, and Askia’s quest. In the valleys where the lava was heaped, everything was grey. Roofs of ash on the houses and trees. The valley town inhabitants forced to leave. In long lines, bundles on their heads, their shoulders. He had not left because of volcanoes or lava. Instead it had been the murderous nights, the violence he had had to escape, even if, in that coastal city on the Gulf of Guinea devoted to torture, it was he, Askia, who had done the torturing.
    Eventually he went up to Olia’s apartment. She came very quickly to open the door, gazing at him intently, and he saw Modigliani’s Anna Zborowska . He had seen the portrait in one of Petite-Guinée’s art books. Olia wore a white collar like the woman in the painting and resembled her, but without the sadness or the long neck, like that of an Akagera giraffe. He called her Anna. In the painting, Madame Zborowska’s first name could be discerned through the purple overlay of the background. Olia was surprised.
    â€œAnna?” she said.
    â€œAnna Zborowska. An invention. Listen, are you sure you didn’t invent the man with the turban? Those portraits you said you made, did you see them in a dream? What if the man and the portraits never really existed?”
    â€œDoes he matter to you, that man?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou know, Zborowska, that sounds Bulgarian. Do you want to know where I come from? I’m from Sofia. That’s what they call me, my colleagues at the magazine I work for. I take fashion photos, of models. I’m not crazy about fashion, but I have to make a living. I can’t complain. It’s well paid. I’ve been at it for ten years. The rest of the time I do things I enjoy. With my Leica.”
    They went out. She put her hand in his and confessed that she was famished. She took him to Le Bulgare, near Austerlitz. The train station. She wanted to give him a taste of Sofia, as she put it. The restaurant owner, who must have known her, gave them a warm welcome. He and Olia exchanged a few words in Bulgarian. She asked for the table in the back. They sat down. She ordered shopska salata as a starter because she had a craving for fresh vegetables. The main dish would be a pork kavarma with mushrooms and lots of onions. On the recommendation of their host, Askia chose tarator as his appetizer, a delicious cold soup made with yogurt and cucumbers. And for his main course, pulneni chushki , peppers stuffed with meat, tomatoes, and rice.
    They ate with gusto. Askia focused his attention on the face of the girl sitting in front of him. She was hungry and savoured her kavarma with a lack of inhibition that pleased him. She did not hold back. She licked her fingers. She was not one of those high-society ladies with affected manners. She was Olia. Askia licked his fingers too. He felt good with this girl in the present tense of his story.
    She confided that she wanted to go back. She missed her parents. It had been ten long years. Since she had seen her family, and Sofia. She had set aside enough money to provide for contingencies back home. She had finished building the house where she would live with her parents. In Sofia she would ask forgiveness of Saint Nedelya for having sold her body in the arenas of Lutetia. At first, in 1999. She had arrived in the city with a head