Terrorist
Why wouldn’t I be suspicious of her? What I imagine about this young woman pulls up images of young people carrying automatic weapons, wearing suicide vests, and killing other young people in bars and cafés and at concert halls. But suspicion didn’t mar those moments when I first noticed her sitting across from me.
When did suspicion sneak in?
We were on the number 4, a crowded metro that cuts north/south through Paris, mid-morning, mid-week. She was sitting in front of me, off to the left. I noticed her shoes. They weren’t shoes you can buy in France. They weren’t new or old. They were simply dark brown and not from here. Her legs were bone thin under her black jeans. She must be a young, in her late teens, I thought to myself as I stared at her shoes. But her small frame belied her age, her eyes were mid twenties eyes. Her exhausted face resisted my gaze. There were so many refugees in Paris now. It would make sense if she was afraid of being noticed.
I wanted to smile, to reassure her. Instead, without warning I became suspicious. Suspicion is so efficient.
I started taking inventory: no gloves, no heavy coat, no wires. In August I had seen a young man get on the metro wearing a wool cap, a heavy jacket, one glove, and pulling a big duffle bag on a small cart. I got off and notified the transit staff. She had a blue Nike back pack. And she was uncomfortable. If she hadn’t had that back pack I would have smiled. Fear, loneliness, cold and hunger were likely her only crimes. But she had that back pack and her shoes weren’t from here, so I looked away.
