A Kind of Third Part

“We will not exaggerate; sometimes this cherub of the gutter does have a shirt, but then only one; sometimes he has shoes, but then they have not soles; sometimes he has shelter, and he loves it, because there he finds his mother; but he prefers the street, because there he finds his liberty.” Hugo, Les Miserables

* * *

By November, I am living like Gavroche, wandering the villages, spending most of my time at train stations, collecting icons and flags, keeping them in an old military satchel, slung low over my side. I have an odd habit in these days of removing the little steel hood from the disposable lighters, re-setting the plastic cog that governs the butane flow.

A soldier wanders from the platform, and stands above me, an AK-47 slung awkwardly over his shoulder. I sit on the ground, cross-legged, and nod my greeting. He pulls out a cigarette and makes the hand gesture that signifies his need for a light.

“Vrei foc?” I ask, quite literally, “Do you want fire?”

He bends over as I put the lighter to his face, and I give him fire. Sparkwheel meets flint and a 5-inch flame scorches his eyebrows, and he jumps back. In horror, I apologize, and tear off the little steel hood, sending it flying over the tracks. I twist the plastic cog down as far as it will allow, and test the new flame, so small and safe, it barely glows blue and faint. The soldier bends over again, but holds his face to the side, inhales the lit cigarette and walks off.