It was night. I think it was raining. Ahead I saw a long, low vehicle blocking my way. Flows of water slid down its armoured side. I pressed forward, swinging my cane from left to right, until the shadow of a policeman appeared, tall, his face invisible under a helmet.
Can I pass? I said.
He raised a gloved hand in reply and placed it on my shoulder. I felt my body propelled sideways, the policeman processing beside me, his movements slow, mournful, as if they cost him a great deal of effort.
I wish, he said, speaking through a sigh, I wish you wouldn't use a black stick.
Why not?
It makes it so much harder to see you. It's much less safe.
Should I use a white stick instead?
I think so.
Then the shape of his helmet looked away, over the top of my head to whatever was happening on the rainy streets behind me. I knew there were important things going on, other people, jostling, shouts. Something violent was about to happen.
