Perfume

I make my way down the broad pedestrian street that runs from the Basilic down to the station , strolling past the fruit stalls and halal butchers, munching a brownie purchased from the sandwich counter at the entrance to the metro. Uusually there's one or two street hawkers, but today there's a buzzing crowd of them, pushing packs of cigarettes or scented water under the noses of the passers-by. "Here - for your girlfriend. She'll like it. Can't get a better price anywhere." I have to walk the gauntlet between two rows of determined salesmen, pushing my way through. I emerge and continue down to the café on the square; as I walk I see a group of policemen moving towards me. There must be a dozen of them, most in uniform, but two or three in track-suits and trainers. As I draw up to them, they break into a trot, and then into a run, one of the plainclothes men drawing out his pistol. I turn to watch them as they pass me, and see them continue along the wide street, now lined with men and women whose heads, like mine, turn with the movement of the running men, a slow, silent Mexican wave.