by Edem Awumey
They followed the lighted arc curving and moving back and forth in the space and the silence of the walls. In front of them the Songhai frescos, three-quarters destroyed. Petite-Guinée sighed and carried on with his inspection. The meddling flashlight illuminated the shadows, the secrets of that corner on the right, where a rustling noise made them both jump. The shadow leaped forward, brushing against Petite-Guinée’s jacket before scurrying away. Askia dashed after it into the black hole of the stairway where it had disappeared. When he finally got outside, the shadow was turning the corner of the first street on the right. He glimpsed something falling from the flounces of her long white dress, little pieces of cardboard that turned out to be train tickets bought in various cities, some far away — Matera, Coimbra, Naples, Saragossa — others nearer — Marseilles, Nantes . . .
Petite-Guinée came out behind him and shut the door. He said there was nothing up there but mysteries and shadows. Among the tickets that had fallen from the shadow’s pocket, the one from Nantes seemed ancient, printed in another century, at the beginning of the mass insanity that had cast people out on the road. Beings belonging to Askia’s kind, when other niggers named Sidi were bartered for a double-barrelled shotgun and expelled from Ouidah, Saint-Louis du Sénégal, to be shipped as slaves and deported ultimately to Virginia.
31
A FIELD IN Virginia, the journey’s endpoint, where the curse could finally be played out. Collapse in the weariness and emptiness of the body of Sidi’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, who bore the same forename, which on arriving in Virginia he was forced to relinquish in exchange for the ludicrous moniker of Waldo. Meanwhile, another Sidi put out to sea in Guinea as the manservant of a shipowner and ended up loading crates in Nantes before the slave ship weighed anchor for the trading posts of Gorée, Joal-la-Portugaise, Assinie, Coromantin, Winneba, Fort Saint-Antoine, Mitumbo, Saint-Georges de la Mine, and Gwato, where the voyage began again.
In the entrails of the slave ship, Sidi the slave ancestor hoisted a heavy bale on his back, climbed up on the deck, and found himself facing a lady who was standing on the wharf in the shade of a tiny parasol. Salt breeze. Grey waves. The two individuals eyed each other. Surreptitiously. Around them, a beehive of activity. Traders and shipowners, the noise of unloading and, farther along, beyond the docks, shuttered buildings and silent streets. The lady with the parasol saw this man, Askia’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, and felt certain urges. She saw herself being fucked by the fury of the ancestor, who meanwhile wondered how it would be to venture into the belly of the parasol, if it would be like exploring the open forest of his Keidou, the generous one, with whom he had fathered a clutch of kids before being captured in the Gulf of Guinea early one cynical morning.
He set his bale down on the deck and began to arrange crates as the parasol looked on. Steadily. She followed his movements, his heavy chest bending over, crashing into a body she imagined was her own, stretched out on the deck.
Eventually she walked away, and the ancestor, watching her out of the corner of his eye, saw her disappear into the corridors formed by the large crates and barrels arrayed in blocks in preparation for loading. He left the deck and followed her. Caught sight of the edge of the lady’s white dress just as she turned a corner. Hurried over and found her on the floor of desire, a big crate full of boards, her genitals offered up like a crêpe.
“My name is Camille,” she told him before squeezing him between her thighs. Soon, crying out, he poured the water and butter of his pain into Camille’s crêpe. And inside Camille’s crêpe he sowed the blighted seed that, centuries later, would continue to people the suburbs with dirty-footed bastards forever railing against the skies.
It happened on the docks of Nantes, and afterwards the parasol and the ancestor returned to their respective spheres.
32
IT WAS LATE when Askia and Petite-Guinée returned from their fruitless excursion into the ruins of the loft. Midnight had come and gone, and a breeze nibbled at their faces, prompting them to hurry over to Montmartre, where Petite-Guinée wanted to show something to his friend — his intimate country tucked away in the depths, where he believed he had resolved the question of his constant urge to run away. Somehow Askia found the tranquil, silent winter night beautiful. They went back to the bar with the understated facade where the wooden door stood out against the grey beige of the roughcast. The old man said they would go down to the cellar. Askia was under the impression that, as usual, Petite-Guinée wanted him, his only public, to see a drawing in his workshop.
They slipped behind the bar and went through the hatch that led to a stone staircase whose steps had become polished over the years. Askia shivered when he touched the slightly damp walls. He could not get used to it, even though this was not the first time he had come this way. They reached the first landing, where to the right there was another opening: the cellar door, behind which Petite-Guinée painted his pictures. But the master of the house passed this door by. They continued to descend and arrived at the very bottom, in front of a third door. Petite-Guinée inserted a massive iron key. It opened the moment the timer on the stairs shut off the lights, plunging them into pitch-darkness. The old man swore at the timing device, which must have been malfunctioning. But he nevertheless managed to feel his way to the corner of the wall directly inside the entrance, and a dusty fluorescent light filled the space.
It was a minuscule room, measuring no more than eight square metres. The ceiling was very low, the walls were porous, and the floor was covered with red slabs. In the middle stood a large wooden table that at one time must have been a family dining table. On it were little cards, that is, photographs. Petite-Guinée, who had not spoken for many minutes, said, “I want you to look, Askia.”
“. . .”
“And to appreciate this little room where I’ve installed my country.”
“. . .”
Askia focused on the table. On it were photos of girls and boys who were barely adolescents. Portraits of children. On the back of each picture was a given name: Kadia, Feyla, Chinga, Cabral. Askia didn’t get it. The events in the photos meant nothing to him. Petite-Guinée, who was close behind him, spoke up. Those children’s faces, he said, their smiles — he had stolen them. In 1969. That year he was in Biafra. On which side? On both. He had worked for the rebels and the government. In arms. It was exciting to have signed contracts with both sides. Because he saw that none of it made any sense, that in time the anger would cool down, and during that time the arms dealers and mercenaries would stuff their pockets. He hadn’t invented the Biafra War, nor the ones before and after. He needed to tell himself this to be able to go on, to convince himself that he wasn’t more of a shit than anyone else. To pass the time between deliveries he would take a few pictures of the landscape and the children. Because they were beautiful, the little ones. His lens stole the innocence of their faces ravaged by war. He figured that later the pictures would help him decide to stop. Did he become attached to the faces, the land, the countries that weren’t supposed to mean anything but contracts, deliveries, such-and-such, a place on his job list? He said that Africa was a passage. For him, for those who’d come before him, for those still going down there and those yet to come. New warlocks come from near or far would pass by there again to re-colonize the niggers.
In the country of his cellar he tried to put an end to the torment of his soul. Askia looked once again at the pictures of the children. Petite-Guinée had gone quiet. Tired out. They climbed back up the stone stairway.
“Askia, it’s boiling inside me and I can’t control it.”
“The emotions?”
“Whenever I go down to look at those photographs. It hits me in the gut and galls my skin every time.”
At the bar he served them both a whisky. Outside, through the gap between the curtains, Askia caught a glance of the white shadow spying on them, perhaps trying to retrieve her train tickets.
33
HE WENT BACK to work wishing for a final meeting with the shadow. One more night, the last act of the dying winter. Once out of the parking lot, he turned right at the first corner. He had driven barely a hundred metres when a man flagged him down. It was unusual, especially at night, to pick up a fare so quickly. He found this piece of luck somewhat odd but could not turn it down. He hoped the client would be the friendly sort, someone he could have a conversation with. The man wore a hat. He settled into the back of the car, removed his headgear. Silence.
“How’s it going, Askia?”
“. . .”
Askia recognized him. The man in the back seat chuckled.
“It’s good to see you again.”
“. . .”
“I must say, you haven’t changed.”
“You neither.”
“Thanks. For the compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment. Just the truth. You haven’t changed, Zak.”
“Yeah, but it’s been a while, Askia. Lots of water and a few corpses under the bridge. And through our hands.”
“. . .”
“And here you are, in this city so foreign to what we were. I guess you left, deserted, because you thought this city, the night here, which knows nothing of your past, could protect you. But you know very well that the past is like a woman who’s in love with you and won’t leave you alone. Your new situation doesn’t change a thing. Sorry, friend. Believe me, I would have preferred to meet you under different circumstances and celebrate another kind of Mass.”
“. . .”
“Like meet you for a drink, have some fun the way we used to, or just shoot the breeze, sitting on the hoods of our cabs after the night shift. But life is cruel. Isn’t it, Askia?”
“. . .”
“You can’t always choose the Mass you’re going to celebrate. You want to stay a choirboy, pure and innocent in your white robe, but then you end up playing the monster. I understand. It was hard work, and eventually it got to you. You’re human. I understand and I respect that. But you know that in our case it’s better to blow yourself away than to run away. Don’t you think it’s better?”
“. . .”
“You’re out of luck, Askia. We found you. This really isn’t the best town to hole up in. Did you forget that it’s called the City of Lights? You can’t hide in the light . . . Sorry.”
“. . .”
“I’m telling you this because we respected each other. Otherwise I would have finished the job by now, but I find this contract repugnant — knocking off a colleague. I see it as another role, a new one, one more after all the roles we’ve had to play. It’s a character role, something completely original; for once, you’ll be the choirboy. Let’s go. Drive, my friend. Go to that wood — you know, where the night shoots its wad in the bellies of the filles de joie.”
Askia did not have to wonder whether the man was pointing his weapon at him. It was a basic precaution. And Zak — the Terrible, they used to call him — had always been very efficient. He had joined the Cell before Askia and had shown him the ropes. The reflexes and moves needed to be good at what you did. Meticulous. Zak seemed to be thinking. For a moment Askia heard nothing. He spoke up:
“What have you been up to, Zak?”
“What have I been up to?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s say I haven’t been able to make a career change like you. I’m still . . . you know.”
“And the others? What about them?”
Zak coughed.
“The others . . . Some stayed, some got out; a lot of them are dead.”
“You mean eliminated.”
“Dead. Camilio was found in a ditch with his stomach ripped open; Martin, burned to a crisp behind the wheel of his car . . .”
“Maybe accidents?”
“Lika hanged himself. Leo got married to a colonel’s daughter. Now he’s got a nice house and a big family. Upward mobility, you might say. Tino, the old guy, the veteran, he’s retired and spends his days on a seafront terrace drinking pastis. Carno lost his mind and walks around naked in the alleys of the old market. Faustin is getting contracts in North America; John’s on the run. That pretty much covers the old crew. How far are we from the wood? You know, Askia, the sooner this gets done the better. Sorry, friend.”
34
HE PARKED AT the edge of the wood. Zak ordered him to get out of the car and walk ahead of him. This is what Askia did, and they advanced through the trees. A milky moon in a clear night sky. Zak told him to turn around and step towards him. He obeyed. Zak, his arm fully extended, held his pistol level with Askia’s head. Askia walked towards him. He could not see his face: the other man had lowered his hat over his eyes. A trace of wind came up. Askia concentrated on the wind, on its trace. He received a blow in the stomach. He did not register anything akin to pain. He found himself down on his knees. Then Zak’s voice sounded: “You’ve gone soft, Askia. All I did was push you. Lie down.”
Now he was lying on his back, immobile, with the cool grass underneath him. Already dead. Zak swore: “Damn it, I still have to do this bit! I don’t like taking pictures of the stiff, but — and you know this — I have to bring back proof that I finished the job. Oh well, you’re almost dead anyway. They won’t notice the difference. I’ll take the pictures and then . . . There’s no way I’m going to put a stiff in my camera.”
Askia was struck in the face by a kind of light, a flash. Zak repeated this a dozen times. Capturing the moment. Askia heard one more click, the flash. Zak sighed. “Goodbye, my friend.”
Askia closed his eyes. Waited. The shot hit him right in the face. The shot. Zak’s booming laughter, his voice:
“Gotcha! Admit it, Askia, I really had you.”
“. . .”
Zak was in stitches.
“Tell me, do you really believe I’d go through that whole song and dance to finish you off? Hey, you should have seen yourself. Come on, tell me, what does it feel like? Eh? What’s it like living your last moments?”
“. . .”
“You don’t want to get up?”
Askia could barely grasp what was happening. He lay glued to the grass, trying to persuade himself that this could not be a joke — Zak was toying with him, playing with his nerves. Then Zak told him that he too had deserted. He had had enough — the routine of murder had worn him out. But what had finally pushed him over the edge was what he had said in the taxi: the guys started to disappear. Mysteriously. He didn’t understand. There were rumours about goings-on inside the Cell. It felt strange to go over to the other side, to become the prey, he said. Like a wedge of cold iron in your gut. He had been obliged to slip into a woman’s body. A disguise to get across the border in the north. After that, a long journey: Bobo-Dioulasso, Bamako, Niamey, Tripoli, Tunis, Malta, Athens . . . How had he managed? He would tell him another time. Askia was stretched out on the grass. His face was suddenly struck by a light, but from a different source. He opened his eyes. The headlights of a car that must have been parked at the edge of the wood. Then a voice, very loud: “Identify yourself!”
Zak whistled. “Shit! See you later, friend. Be careful, the Cell is looking for us!” At this point he punched Askia in the face. The light grew stronger. Zak fled, vanishing into the shadows behind Askia. Into the night. Askia heard footsteps on the grass. He sat up and shifted backwards on his rear end. He raised his elbow, trying to shield his eyes against the beam of the flashlight. The policeman questioned him. He had been cruising when he saw quick flashes of light in the wood. His partner ran up behind him. Askia explained that a thief had mugged him and tried to kill him. He had picked him up thinking he was an ordinary fare. The policeman with the flashlight held out his hand. He clasped it and hoisted himself to his feet. The officer told him he’d been lucky. Probably his number hadn’t come up. Once he had lodged a complaint, Askia could go to the hospital to have them take care of the bump over his right eye. He would have to follow them to the station in his cab. The one
who had found him shone the light on his face again. He wanted to make sure he was not too badly beaten. But Askia wasn’t listening. He was far away. Isolated in a cell. Inside the walls of the past.
35
THE CELL WAS a murky organization. Unofficial intelligence body, militia specialized in kidnapping, torture, and murder. The standard mission statement. Askia was a member and his role was to keep things under control. To keep the populace quiet. He had volunteered for this work, which involved total engagement in what was, what is a program of purges. He was to observe and report, and in the course of many nights on the job he had become a ripper, whose weapons were his efficiency, his hands, a revolver, a belt of explosives, a taxi called “The Passage,” a steadfast will, ironclad insensitivity, and indifference.
He had joined on an October night in 1984 because the money was good. Just what was needed to avoid relying on his student bursary, which came as often as rain in the desert. Just what was needed to fatten up that all too paltry purse. Just what was needed to pay for the operation on a sick mother, exhausted by housework in other people’s homes in the real city perched high above their slum. But in the lower part of town the mother breathed her last, and the son’s ultimate efforts to raise the money for an operation were left hanging.