French Love

In the train between Italy and France, November 2018.

The train stopped just before the border to let Police and Customs agents get on. They were squeezed into thick black uniforms. When the train restarted, they passed in the carriages, selecting at a quick glance the candidates for identity check and the luggage that their owners will have to unpack. “— Quickly please, the train is waiting”.
Two policemen approached a passenger and turned their back at me, exposing the grips of their weapon. One of them was marked with Tipp-Ex, “AIMÉ”. “AIMÉ“— an old French name from latin amatus for “loved by God “— is perhaps the first name of its owner. I do not know what sociology would reveal about the choice of such a first name, but in these circumstances, a derivative of the verb to love — aimer— furthermore by God — to be written on this instrument gives me a deep impression of unease. Did the writer who took care not to engrave the weapon provided by the Police but to mark it with a corrector fluid that you can scratch off, would not have thought about it?