Outside there were all the sounds of the morning, children chatting as they set off for school, taxis honking, the neighbor sliding back his gate. I thought that if I didn’t go out too, if I didn’t present myself outside, to the day, to the morning, life would continue without me and I’d be stuck there like that, crouching beside Marie’s body, for the rest of my life.
So I went to school, I don’t know what I did there, who I spoke to, I didn’t go home for lunch, I went to watch the planes taking off from the airport and I didn’t stop walking until my footsteps brought me back to the house. At that moment the woman next door came out and told me Bosco had been barking without stopping since the morning. Her neck and face were red and as she said the word “barking” she put her hands over her ears. I shrugged and quickly went into the yard. Bosco came up to me, rubbing himself against my calves, thrusting his head between my legs. He kept uttering plaintive sounds eee-eee-eee, and I began to cry.
I don’t know why I didn’t call the police, the hospital, or Moussa or even the woman next door. I was fourteen, I was alone, I was afraid and, even if all those reasons aren’t enough, they’re all I’ve got.
During the night the smell grew stronger, maybe intensified by the darkness or by ghosts, I don’t know. There were noises coming from the kitchen, scratching, rustling and squeaking noises. I shut myself in my room with the dog. Bosco quickly went and hid under the bed, I could hear him breathing and at intervals he came out of his hiding place, went over to the door and began growling, showing his teeth. Those were strange hours when everything seemed to be caving in all around me, I no longer knew who I really was, I no longer knew where reality ended and the nightmare began in which Marie was dead and I was alone in the world.
Next morning I fled. I locked the house, took the ferry across to Mamoudzou with Bosco and on the jetty, on the other side, I waited for La Teigne.
Bruce
You’re the only one does any talking, and you talk well, yeah, that you do, coming out with those nice clean, tidy, French words, nice white words. Well, look at you now. What good did all that do, if you ended up here?
I’m looking at you now and I hate you like I did when I was alive. I hear every word you say, even when your mouth is shut and your eyes are closed, I hear them and now I’m the one telling a story.
La Teigne told me about you, he told me he’d met a black muzungu but he thought you were African, a proper negro, one of them who wears shirts and pants and speaks French, not one of them dying in the gutter in Rwanda, the Congo or Somalia. He said you followed him everywhere like a dog, that you put your hand into your pocket without a second thought and you were called Mo and had a weird eye. Weird, that’s the word he used, the dumb bastard.
I can tell you now that we made us a film, La Teigne, Rico and me. We said we were going to take you along with us, give you stuff to smoke and then kidnap you and demand cash from your African mother and father who speak French and drive to work in posh black Nissans with smoked glass windows. We were going to nab you coming out of school. Watch out for my cousin La Teigne said. I don’t give a shit about your cousin I said. We were going to lock you up in the banga up on the hill and tie you up so tight you couldn’t move. What are you worth, Moïse? So that’s your real name is it, Mo-ïse, a name it hurts your mouth to say, Mo-ïse. Everyone has their price, everything on earth has a price, anything at all, just like, say, that there bench has a price, that cop just now, he has a price, and you have a price too and we told ourselves we were going to work out what your price was by watching you carefully. La Teigne was on the case, he’d learned that you lived alone with your mother, so your price went up, my dear Mo-ïse, you were your maman’s darling, she’d pay lots of dollars, lots of cash, money money money but …
You came to us, my little darlin’. You were waiting with your dog in the parking lot by the market, I don’t know what you did to get a mutt as ugly as that, we’d been watching you for a good while, we’re at home there, that’s our turf.
We watched you all day you know. If you knew all the things you can learn about a person just quietly watching them! You were waiting in the shade, you can’t handle sunlight, I guess your maman has shielded you all your life, with sunscreen and all that. Not for a second did you take off that fucking cap of yours with NY on it. What is NY anyway? A band? A shop? You went and walked around in the market several times. You came back with a bag and a few bananas you ate in the shade. You gave some to your stinking dog, you fed him with your fingers, for fuck’s sake, that’s disgusting. You drank two bottles of water, you went and had a piss at Caribou Café and got a pain au chocolat. You went up the hill as far as the bookshop and spent a long time looking in the window rocking your head from side to side, I don’t know what you were doing. You came back to the parking lot, you waited some more and then you went and bought a roast chicken sandwich, half of which you ate and, fuck me, you gave the other half to your dog. That was when I knew what kind of a guy you were. The kind that’s blind to poverty, takes holidays, has A/C in his bedroom and overflowing trash cans, the kind that’s never known hunger, and doesn’t know where he’s from, the kind that’s forgotten he’s black. If you’d been within reach I’d’ve smashed your face in. In the afternoon you hung around some more, I thought you’d go back on the ferry but you changed your mind, you bought another pain au chocolat, when would you tire of filling your face? Then you went and sat down. In the afternoon the police came on the scene, a couple of them in a car together, just like two homos, they got out and as for all the kids hanging around the market and the cars, hey presto, they all vamoosed. But you stayed there squatting down, stroking your dog, waiting.
You’re not scared of the law, of course. You’re a real muzungu, of course you are. People were beginning to be around, the offices were closing, the market too and I gave the sign. La Teigne came down the hill, I followed him and, hey, when you saw La Teigne I thought you were going to leap into his arms or kiss him, something like that. Then I saw your eye for the first time and I wanted to kick La Teigne’s ass. Why hadn’t he noticed you’ve got one green eye! For fuck’s sake! The eye of the djinn!
You see, Mo, you shouldn’t believe everything you see, or that I was worth nothing. Forget all the crap you hear about what those fools in charities and NGOs and Christian rescue committees call unaccompanied minors, those people don’t know a thing.
Me, I was born here. Of all the kids here I’m the only real Mahorian from Mayotte, I’ve got my papers. Whatever you want, I’ve got them all, birth certificate, identity card, even a French passport. Back home we’d say our prayers at the mosque and then went and left bottles of eau de cologne on the djinn’s stone at Longoni. My father told me a woman possessed by a djinn always gives birth to weird children. Either they’re very hairy, or very tall, or they’ve got green eyes. It’s a great gift but it can be a great curse for someone who doesn’t know how to use it. You see, I believe in those things, I watch the sky to check if the bats aren’t flying too low, I watch the sea to see if it hasn’t turned brown, I watch the color of other people’s eyes, I watch to see if they have lots of hair on their arms. Those beliefs are handed down from father to son and that’s how my father lives on in me, as well as my father’s father and my ancestors, the original ones, the slaves. I’m not ashamed to say I’m descended from slaves. I don’t spend my time moaning like you, asking myself why me, why are things like this, what have I done.
I pulled La Teigne backward and asked you What do you want? Your dog began to growl and I had to make an effort not to kick it in the teeth. You answered So who are you?
Ha, ha. You dumb bastard.
La Teigne began speaking half in French and half in Shimaore, it was all rubbish. I told La Teigne to chill. Then I answered My name’s Bruce and I’m the Don of Gaza. You looked at me with one dark eye and one green eye and let me tell you, what’s it to me now I’m dead, my heart began beating very fast. Inside my head my thoughts were s
pinning, going off like fireworks and I couldn’t catch hold of any of them, it was all going off wham wham wham, your eye made me confused. My hands went up to my head, my fingers grabbed my hair and I began twisting the curls this way and that which calmed me down. I needed a smoke to collect my thoughts. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Need a smoke. This spliff, I could see it coming toward me in slow motion just like in the films, I’d’ve swallowed it whole, I love it so much, but no, easy does it, that first puff, easy does it Sssh when I inhale Foooo when I let go. Out of habit I felt in my pockets. As usual they were empty. You said I’ve got money. The ferry was coming. I heard the siren in the distance once, twice.
I’ve got money.
The siren sounded a third time, it woke me up and I said We’re out of here.
Moïse
La Teigne was in front, Bosco and me in the middle, Bruce brought up the rear. I had no idea what I was doing, where I was going. I’d been waiting there all day and nobody, not one woman, not one man, not one cop had asked me what I was doing there with a dog. I was tired and lost but I knew I didn’t want to go back to the house. Marie. On the ground. The smell. The rodents. The ants in the cereal. The sour milk. The noises. Bosco howling. The emptiness of the night. No.
We crossed the market square, people were coming out of everywhere and walking in all directions. There was all this noise ringing in my head, in my stomach. We branched off to the right and walked along on quite a narrow low wall that ran between the road and the mangrove swamp. The mangrove plants grew in earth or black sand, I don’t know which. All along next to the low wall on the swamp side there were plastic bags, old shoes, toys, worn-out mattresses, colored electric cables. The sun was setting and, in this light, as it turned blue-gray at first, then dark gray, I was beginning to feel oppressed. I felt so vulnerable, so small, edging along in this half-light with Bosco’s fluorescent yellow leash clasped in my hands. Very quickly night descended upon us like a thick blanket. The sound of engines. The explosive noise of motorbikes. Shouts, I couldn’t tell if they were friendly or threatening. Impassive faces suddenly lit up by headlights. People walking in the same direction as us or the other way, back toward Mamoudzou.
I didn’t dare speak, I didn’t dare look back to see if Bruce was still behind me, all I did was concentrate on where I was putting my feet. I don’t know which I was more terrified of, falling over to the left under the wheels of a car or tumbling down to the right into the dirty black sandy earth of the mangrove swamp. Yet I went on because each time I felt like turning back I reminded myself of what lay in wait for me, over there, in the house on Petite-Terre.
We’d reached Kaweni, on the outskirts of Mamoudzou. Now on both sides of the road there were businesses, factories, restaurants and finally a bit of sidewalk, streetlamps. We went on without hurrying, through the noise, the dust. What was I thinking? Nothing, really. I looked around and went on walking, as if I had no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other, drawn forward by La Teigne, thrust on from behind by Bruce. I walked.
At a junction, Bruce suddenly crossed the road and went to talk to some homeboys sitting quietly under a streetlamp. Then he came back toward us, his face expressionless. He asked me how much I had, I replied Fifty. I thrust my hands into my pockets and took out two coins as well, one of two euros and the other twenty centimes. So then I said Fifty-two euros and twenty centimes. Bruce started laughing and the thought struck me that he really had a lot of teeth and they were very white. He held out his hand and I gave it all to him, the two coins bundled up in the notes. He crossed the road again and went up to the homeboys. Under the yellow light from the streetlamp the boys rose to their feet and in one brisk movement sucked in Bruce. I looked at La Teigne who was staring at the spot where Bruce had disappeared into the midst of the group. His arms were crossed and his face was impassive, he didn’t look like he was fifteen, he looked like a man without fear. I told myself I should do the same, contract my facial muscles, fold my arms and stare at a fixed point.
I can remember those long minutes when the cars were speeding past, engines roaring. There were motorbikes coming and going and men endlessly walking along both sides of the road and beneath the streetlamp, on the far side, the homeboys stood there, looking around, motionless, showing no emotion. Bosco was pressed up against my ankles, I sensed him trembling a bit, I gently stroked his left flank and I could feel his soft skin shifting across his bones. I whispered Bosco Bosco good dog with the thought that these words might perhaps remind him of the house, the terrace where he liked to sleep in the shade and the long grass in the summer where he liked to play.
Suddenly the headlights of a car picked out the figure of Bruce on the far side of the road. He was holding a plastic bag in his hand. I wondered how long he’d been standing there watching me stroking Bosco, for I was convinced it was me he was watching, not La Teigne, not the passing cars, not the people still walking past, not the flashing sign for the mobile phone company that was behind us. I felt as if I’d been caught doing something wrong and I straightened up abruptly, my heart suddenly beating faster. Bosco stood up as well, growling.
We went over to him and made our way into Gaza. I don’t know who it was that gave the name Gaza to the Kaweni neighborhood, I’m not sure I know where the real city of Gaza is, but I know it’s not good. Even if that person had given this place a nice name, one not evocative of war and dead children, a name like Tahiti, redolent of flowers, a name like Washington, redolent of broad avenues and people in suits and ties, a name like California, redolent of sunshine and girls, would that have changed the lives and the mindset of the people living there?
That evening Gaza was all black and white. The white of the little boys’ tunics on their way to prayers or coming home, the black of the gutters I was afraid of falling into, the white of the plastic pails and bottles lined up near the standpipes, the black faces and whites of eyes. I breathed in the smell of Mayotte’s Gaza and I now know, without ever having travelled, that it’s the smell of all the ghettos in the world. The sour urine on street corners, ancient shit in the gutters, chicken being grilled on top of old oil drums, eau de cologne and spices outside the houses, the sour sweat of men and women and musty reek of limp laundry. The constant noise that drowns out all thoughts, all memories, all dreams. The music from cars passing with open windows and, spilling out from every floor in all the buildings, the muezzin’s call to prayer, a TV weather forecast, the shouts of children at play, the crying of hungry babies too famished to sleep, and I walked along in the middle of it all, holding Bosco’s leash gripped in my hand as if, without it, I’d be the one to slip into a dark gutter brimming with who knows what. I followed Bruce who moved like a dancer, darting here, swerving there, then going off at a tangent. He went into a garage, there was a dirty yellow light bulb in the ceiling, half of a car on a dark floor, a smell of gasoline and metal that set my teeth on edge. In the corner a man was chewing a piece of cassava, I could hear his teeth crunch-crunching away at this hard root and from the height of my fourteen years I wanted to say to him Cassava has to be eaten cooked, you need to boil it first. He didn’t even look up at us. We walked out again and strode down into a gully. Bruce didn’t once look around to see where I was, maybe he wanted to shake me off, but I’d never been so focused and agile. My feet sank into something soft and oozing, it was the bed of the gully but it wasn’t water flowing there. I glanced either side of me, there were a few lights here and there, a brazier further down and shadowy figures above the flames, but we had to keep going, we were on sloping ground, it was slippery under my sneakers and it stank, I smelled of shit, I stumbled, there was a fragment of rock like a dagger going into my knee but, like the others, I kept my mouth shut and went on climbing. The noise had faded, the smells of the ghetto subsided, when I held out my hand I could touch leaves, branches, my heart was pounding in my chest. I was afraid but at the same time I was excited. Bosco was running at my side, his yellow l
eash glowed in the darkness, and I was climbing up toward Gaza’s sky, without knowing who or what awaited me.
We ended up in front of a banga and Bruce opened the door and went in. Suddenly everything had become very calm, Bruce and La Teigne sat down on mattresses on the ground. Rico, another guy, came in and settled down as well. There was a light bulb in the ceiling and an electric cable dangled, forming a U in the air and disappearing into the darkness. My jeans were torn, there was blood and mud on them, my sneakers were black with filth. We drank Oasis, tropical flavor, straight from the bottle. I asked for water for Bosco and the boys stared at me as if they hadn’t understood what I’d just said. Then Bruce nudged La Teigne with his elbow and he got up and disappeared into the hut’s other room. He came back with a Coke bottle filled with water and half a coconut shell. I held the coconut shell in front of Bosco’s nose for him to drink and the three boys watched me, openmouthed, as if fascinated. Bruce asked Does he bite, your dog? I replied No, not at all, he’s very friendly. Then Bruce laughed the way he had earlier and said Hey, that’s a pity! La Teigne started laughing as well, emitting a metallic sound from his mouth and I asked myself how it was that I’d never heard this before, but I think La Teigne had never laughed before and when Bruce stopped laughing he fell quiet at once. We divided up two baguettes and a tin of tuna between us. I gave half of my portion to Bosco. Bruce asked me Do you share everything with your dog? I replied Yes of course, he has to eat, and this time Bruce didn’t laugh, he just looked at me nodding his head and repeating my words He has to eat, he has to eat.
After that they put on some American rap with lots of words like nigga fuck ghetto. Bruce liked these words a lot. I thought for a moment about the mgodro music my friend Moussa liked listening to, but that memory seemed to come from another era. While the music played Bruce emptied three cigarettes onto a sheet of paper. The tobacco formed a neat mound like a miniature hill. Then he took a little package out of the plastic bag and undid it with great care. Inside it there were three pills. He put them beside the mound. He took out another package, a larger one that he undid very carefully. This contained some grass. I remember Bruce’s nimble fingers and how they moved very gracefully from one heap to another. He crushed the pills with the handle of a machete, then he drew the blade across the powder several times with regular movements to make the powder lie evenly. He scattered tobacco, grass and powder from the white pills onto some cigarette papers. He did it like a chef, a pinch of this a pinch of that. La Teigne was on his feet, jumping up and down on the spot and from time to time Bruce gave him a look and he calmed down for a moment. He rolled several spliffs and handed me one, saying This is Papa Bruce’s good spice and when I thanked him he inclined his head in an exaggerated bow and said No, thanks to you Mo. La Teigne and Rico repeated Thanks to you Mo.
Tropic of Violence Page 5