Scraps

by Michel Leiris

  However, this day, which I thought would be the most open, the least confined, was not for me, in actuality, even a day spent outdoors, since I remained until quite late in the evening with some Levantine merchants who were celebrating the Victory with my luncheon hosts and a few of their acquaintances. Wiser than I, my two companions from the mission left us early and went off to the small bistro where we ate our meals to join an old Saharan officer—no fool and a rather good fellow—whom the geographer and I had met at Bamako and with whom we had traveled for nearly three days in the Sudan Express. By the time they left, I had already drunk too much whiskey to be in the least attracted by the idea of a peaceful dinner and preferred to remain where I was, like a gambler who is not persuaded by the most obvious losing streak to leave the gaming table as long as it is still materially possible for him to tempt chance.

  The gathering I allowed myself to become swept up by was, in fact, only a very ordinary cocktail party that derived no particular dazzle from the historical conjuncture that had inspired it. We drank, danced, and flirted innocently with the ladies in an atmosphere that was really quite genteel and resembled a small family party. I don’t know what drunken mood induced me to leave the large living room on the second floor and go down to the ground floor, where I found some pleasure in weighing myself on a scale that was part of the equipment of the shop; with me—also weighing herself—was one of the mistresses of the house whom I had made, for perhaps the past hour, my official partner and who (quite unfamiliar with any Eastern languor) was a good middle-class woman, a shade too loud, not at all unattractive with her pink-tinged white carnation standing out against her black hair and her even blacker dress. This took place among crates of merchandise in a courtyard or inner room that had the stale old smell of an Indian mail train and served as a warehouse, and after each weighing we began dancing again; since my weight was rather minimal, I think this test on the scale was really something of a demonstration to flatter my vanity. Later, having very platonically and lyrically paid court (as does someone who has alcoholic love in him) to a rather pretty woman—the wife, also brunette, of a minor civil servant or merchant from the interior—I discovered that despite my bacchanalian dizziness, my demonstrative galantry, and the childish pleasure I took in defying the law that forbids a respectable European living in the colony from mixing with Syrians, I was, in truth, very lonely. Reclining indolently because her leg was afflicted with one of those ailments that people make into something almost stylish because they are the price exacted by the tropics, immobilized in an armchair that had been transformed into a sofa by the addition of a chair or a stool, the beautiful Frenchwoman declared that she was no longer in any condition to dance and could pay attention only to one of the young men who had brought me there, saying she was in love with his eyes, so deep and so blue (something she could announce without fear of being taken at her word, because the man she was saying this to was, by vocation, as unsuited as could be to appreciating feminine charm).

  In that living room where a number of people were moving about, between one and two dozen though I cant say exactly how many (just as, upon reflection, I can’t guarantee that it was on the second floor that I should situate this scene and not on the ground floor, on the same level as the commercial part of the house), in this living room with its sham opulence where it seems to me some sandwiches were served, if not an improvised light meal, plates on our knees, and where probably (but not at all certainly, because it may be that yet another room was the setting for this edifying episode) we all adopted for a moment a position close to standing at attention and sang the Marseillaise with an old couple from Alsace, I felt, as I became more and more drunk, somewhat more in difficulty. The thread which I had been determined up to then to grasp in my fingers, not wanting to let go despite fate working against me, suddenly broke: quite simply, I stood up and walked across the room in silence with the demeanor of someone constrained to leave for a moment by a physiological need. But without even dreaming of pretending to make my way toward that private spot they call quite plainly the privy, I reached the exit with a steady step and—still possessed by the desire I had had since noon for some kind of fellowship—went out into the darkness.

  Here I am, not surrounded by snow, wind, or bolts of lightning (like a Hoffmannesque character emerging, haggard, toward midnight one December thirty-first from the tavern within whose smoky walls he had left his shadow or his reflection) but under the incredible multitude of stars that tattoo the tropical sky. As I crossed the threshold, I probably breathed in a large gulp of air—like someone starting a long-distance race—and lifted my eyes romantically toward those stars which I sometimes wish I could eat, as though, absorption by mouth being the most elementary means of incorporating what one loves, it were natural that the desire one has for a thing be accompanied sometimes by an irrepressible cannibalistic desire. Unable to consume the stars, I probably breathed furiously and diligently at the same time, pinching my nostrils as though to squeeze more tightly the otherwise impalpable current of air created by my lungs, and exhaling noisily. I was probably also striding along rapidly in the very middle of the road the better to feel above my head that heavy burden of luminous pinpoints, sparkling too brightly to remain pure geometry, each of which seemed to derive its particular density and savor from the very violence of the attraction that all of them together exerted on me.

  Of course, I was heading toward the center of town, toward what I supposed was the heart of the whirlwind, not feeling defeated after that party which, for me, had ended in disappointment, and wanting, to the exclusion of everything else, to attach myself to a seething crowd. The difficulty I feel as I try to reconstruct the fabric of these events without leaving too many gaps in it proves to me that from the beginning of the afternoon I had lost any exact notion of what I was doing; nevertheless, though I had no coherent vision, my own avidity guided me through the confused stages of my day, no less effectively in the unlimited spaces of the streets as within the confined perimeter of that house where I had just now been in despair: to blast through the barriers, to abolish the distances that separated me from other people—such was my pillar of fire and pillar of clouds in that zigzagging quest for a promised land.

  Here I am, now, in the very midst of that exuberance I had been looking for: in the din of a square or broad avenue, I plant myself across from a large café with some sailors who are protesting because they have been refused admittance into the establishment. Disgusted at seeing that on a day like this anyone should dare to act in such a discriminatory manner toward men from the navy, I side wholeheartedly with them, posing, in my own eyes, both as an outlaw prepared for any conflict and as a defender of the indefeasible rights of human integrity. But our recriminations remain futile and at last we take off, without risking the scuffle that would surely have broken out if we had tried to force our way into that paradise of dazzling lights and noisy customers. Brothers from the Potemkin, rebels from Kronstadt, mutineers from the Black Sea, my companions the outcasts would perhaps fall from their heights, surprising me today as I ask myself if the halos they all wore and the Soviet national anthem I had heard that morning had anything to do with the fact that a rather tipsy civilian quite naturally threw in his lot with several of them, once the incident whose rather sheeplike victims they had been was over and done with . . .

  The sailors in white uniforms with large blue collars and the civilian in tweed and gray flannel pants (for the weather is nice in Dakar at the beginning of May that year) have entered a dance hall, this time without encountering any opposition. After standing together at the bar and chatting a little with the barmaids, each of us goes off to try his luck. The sailors want to dance, but this poses another problem: no single women, and the stuck-up chits who are here show no interest in anyone of lower rank than an NCO. No doubt a few words will be exchanged, because my buddies with red pompoms don’t hesitate to offer their services to accompanied ladies and even try to separate co
uples on the dance floor by taking possession of the women. As for me, I am standing near the platform where the orchestra is playing and without a black velvet mask or Venetian hooded cloak am watching the spinning dancers. Did I demand with a vulgar insistence that they play the Soviet national anthem? Did I incite a few of my humiliated, my insulted friends (who were quite otherwise occupied) to make noisy demands along with me? Did I go too far in demonstrating my solidarity with these rakish, guzzling Volga boatmen with their Punch-and-Judy antics? A petty officer from the navy, also in white but without the blue collar, tries to pick a fight with me and invites me to step outside, which I agree to even though I know for a fact that there is no difference between us to settle. To fight for the sake of fighting seems to me totally absurd and this is what I undertake to explain to him, deliberately but firmly, assuring him that I have absolutely no intention of avoiding it, that I am completely prepared to give him satisfaction, but that if it is permissible to fight, one still needs to have a reason for fighting. As I say this, I do not feel in the least inferior; it seems to me, on the contrary, that I am in control of the situation and I am proud to observe that at least this time I am mastering my drunkenness enough to avoid, with honor, a meaningless brawl in which I would definitely be defeated, and from which I would emerge having made a fool of myself, my face covered with degrading bruises. After having been Hoffmann the madman I become Nicklausse lecturing him and burst with contentment at the idea of such wisdom lurking within the fantasy. Before the entrance to the dance hall, the petty officer and I argue for a long time: I affirm with equal energy my willingness to fight and my conviction of how nonsensical it would be without either protagonist having suffered any insult. I play the roles of both witness and possible duelist, delighted to prove to myself that I have kept my head completely and am capable of getting myself out of this idiotic business with as much dignity as composure. At last the petty officer calms down and yields to my arguments: we take leave of each other like two adversaries whose appointed arbitrators have not reconciled but summarily dismissed them, believing that the conflict they were supposed to decide does not justify the shedding of blood.

  So here I am once again wandering through the streets, still tormented by the greed that took the place of thought in me and whose profoundly benevolent nature had been strongly affirmed only a few minutes before when I had been able to make the necessary speeches, without retreating an inch, for my enemy to feel disarmed by such indisputable goodwill. I had left the liveliest part of town behind and was walking without any specific goal, only determined not to give up that night, as though something were waiting for me at the end of my sleepwalker’s ambling. Seeing a lighted café, I went in. The place was sinister: a small group of colonials, men and women, were there celebrating the Victory in a family group, gathered around one or two tables which they left several times in order to dance. I sat in my own spot, drinking a brandy and water or something like that. These people paid no attention to me; despite one or two women with whom—if we had been able to break the ice between us—I would have been happy to dance because their physical appearance seemed pleasant to me, I found them vulgar and, wanting to talk to someone, settled for a Frenchwoman of about sixty who had to be the proprietor or a relative of the proprietors and who, occupying a seat near me, told me in a rather friendly way about the difficult life she had lived in Dakar, which had been her home for some thirty years now. This was undeniably a form of company, and equal in value to many another. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before I was feeling very lonely again.

  Another departure into the night, and there is a good deal of obscurity in my memory about this next stage also. My stop in the little café, with no other human contact but that conversation about hard times with a woman tired out by too many years of work and life in the colony, had doused the modicum of satisfaction I had experienced at feeling so reasonable and at the same time so resolute after the storm of abuse at the dance hall. Also gone was the glimmer of reason that had allowed me to settle quietly a foolish quarrel arising from drink, so that as I persisted in walking along these streets I couldn’t have been more than a drifting shadow. The only thing that could have compelled me to continue on my way instead of going back home to bed was my initial plan to attack the prejudices of the whites by fraternizing with Africans.

  Did I encounter those three Negroes at an intersection? Or, when I approached them, had I already spoken to several of their fellows standing in the light of a crossroads to ask my way, though I don’t know whether “my way” was to the African quarter, or the port, or the center of town, or was perhaps a simple, melancholy return to the house where my comrades from the mission had probably gone to bed by now after spending the evening chatting with the old Saharan officer? Or perhaps, realizing I was lost, had I merely wanted to find out where I was without asking the way to any particular place?

  However it was that I approached the three Negroes, whether I went up to them right away, advancing in a burst of cordiality, or whether I approached them with the polite restraint of someone asking for information and, since the air was fresh under the stars and we were at loose ends now that the hour had struck midnight, we began a conversation and I was escorted by these people, who first appointed themselves my guides and then turned me over to still other hands—however it was, I told them I would take great pleasure in going for a walk with them. They did not offer the least objection to this and the four of us set off, they flanking me like tall, robust bodyguards.

  Exactly how long did that walk last? Where did we go? And what did we talk about? Our conversation was probably limited to a rambling monologue during which I affirmed my desire for better understanding between the races, my love of Africa, and the very great esteem I had for Africans, who were closer to real life than Europeans. Most likely, too, my three attendants, not very open to the Platonism of my speeches, offered me some women, and I remember some vague whispered confabulations between them and some great black caryatids reposing on verandas and almost melting into the night, commercial negotiations, no doubt, that resulted in nothing. Soon, I believe, I was no longer speaking: I was simply savoring the joy of walking arm in arm through the soft shadows. Making full use of my vigorous supporters and moving my legs without thinking about it, perhaps I was on the point of dozing off when a violent punch on my chin recalled me to myself and, more than half dissipating my drunkenness, made me realize in a flash that my three attendants were trying to knock me out in order to rob me.

  Thrown to the ground by the uppercut or hook to the jaw, I felt my ankles twisting as my aggressors tore the shoes from my feet without bothering, of course, to unlace them. Still quite stunned, I heard the three strapping fellows run off at full speed and found myself half draped over a flight of stairs as a stocky European in white shorts and a short-sleeved overshirt came up to me. He was a petty officer from the navy (did he tell me or did I see his gold anchors?) who, attracted by the noise, had scared off my robbers and was now helping me to stand up. Some distance away I recovered one of my shoes, abandoned in the panic flight; but I found that my wallet had disappeared from my right hip pocket, which had a large tear in it.

  I put on my one shoe, brushed myself off, breathed in the smell of the greenery surrounding the vast building the sailor had been evidently assigned to guard, and answered his questions: no, I wasn’t hurt, no bruises, just rather sore ankles. But what the devil could I have been doing with those Negroes? “I was taking a walk with them.” “What? You were taking a walk with some Negroes? More likely you were getting yourself buggered!” I immediately responded by calling him a filthy name, we fought, and it all happened very fast: since he was stocky, as I said, it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to deal me a second knockout and send me back down on my stairway.

  When I returned to my senses all I could do was set off again, limping this time, since the only heel and sole I had for one of my feet were those of my sock. I was pretty much cle
ar of my alcoholic fog, but drunk with rage. I felt no resentment at all against the thieves, who had laid me out quite neatly even though they weren’t necessarily experts in the notorious Senegalese fighting that so excites the Sunday crowds in Dakar. Fair enough: since I had been stupid enough to trust complete strangers—as though Dakar, a black town, had to be a paradise on earth and not a port like all other ports with its underworld quite prepared to beat someone up—I could only blame my own naïveté if the loyal Othellos into whose hands I had meekly consigned myself had suddenly changed into perfidious Iagos; and wasn’t it comical that after priding myself on managing things so well I had ended up getting my face pushed in after all and had also been relieved of the few thousand francs I had left? What I regarded as truly inexcusable was the conduct of that petty officer who was so convinced of the absence of any common measure between the black and white races that he couldn’t conceive of someone going out at night with Negroes except for reasons having to do with sex, and this on a day when people were celebrating the fact that Hitlerism had been crushed! The only suitable retort I could make to this cop was by way of the cops: I intended to go to the police station and lodge a complaint against the shameful white man who had ignominiously insulted and struck me, in defiance, actually, of his own prejudices, which should have stopped him from displaying toward me a solidarity that turned out to be so fickle.