I was maybe four years old when my mother died. I say “maybe,” not because I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but because I don’t know exactly how old I am. That’s what comes of being an orphan.
I was born in a bordel and there was no birth certificate. In fact, the first official documentation of my existence was created on 20 April 1978—my juvenile arrest report. I don’t know my date of birth, my surname, or what kind of blood flows in me. Is it even French blood? Who knows? My father would, but who’s he? The only father I ever had was Bruno, and he told me I have cop blood in my veins.
From time to time, I try to remember my mother just to keep some bit of memory alive. But the truth is, I really don’t know what’s memory and what’s memory remembered. At times I see her as small and dark, other times, tall and fair—it’s all soft and shifting and covered over by years and years. Sometimes in the quiet of the morning, just as I’m waking, I hear her calling to me. Odd thing is, she’s calling me by another name only I can’t make it out. Or maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to be a mystery.
Not knowing who I am or how old I am—there’s a strange feeling of power in that, like I’ve escaped time and space. It’s total freedom. I could be anyone, or no one. I am only defined by what I do, not who I am. That’s how it should be, yes? Maybe it’s no accident that my life officially began the day I met Bruno. Maybe I was born for this life, a blank slate to be filled in case by case. If that's true, then maybe there will be one case that will prove to be my defining moment. The reason I was born.
