by Maryse Conde
“This makes me so happy,” Aminata moaned, once the act had been consumed. “I never thought that one day I would be so happy. I’ve been watching you for some time now and I’m not the only one. But you seemed out of reach and inaccessible.”
Annoyed by this verbiage, Ivan found nothing to say. Unexpectedly he was ashamed of himself and had the loathsome impression of being a seducer. He rapidly took his leave and returned home.
The night was jet black, which added to his feeling of having committed a despicable crime. Very quickly, however, the news of his relationship with Aminata made the rounds of the compound.
One evening Ivana rushed into his hut.
“I’ve just heard the news and am so glad,” she cried. “I hear you want to marry my friend Aminata Traoré?”
“Marry?” Ivan groaned. “That’s saying a lot.”
“What exactly do you intend to do?” Ivana asked severely. “She’s young and innocent and deserves to be your wife.”
Her insistence was not entirely without reason. On learning of her brother’s liaison, Ivana had cried a lot. That brother she believed was hers ever since they were born. Her brother who some called her lover. Then she blamed herself for being jealous, which was uncalled for. Her brother was not her property.
“I’ll make no bones about it,” Ivan explained. “Men have certain desires unknown to women.”
He then hugged his sister passionately, which only increased tenfold his indifference to fondling Aminata. The hollow between his pectorals was made for Ivana to nestle her head. Her legs were designed to wrap around his. Her sexual desire, ah her sexual desire, Ivan didn’t dare think of it. Seeing as Aminata’s mother and young sister had moved house to God knows where, Ivan soon moved in with her. Living with her had its positive side. She polished and shone the buttons on his militia uniform. She made him long flowing boubous so that he could relax coming home from the barracks. She waxed and polished his shoes and fitted him with oriental slippers to rest his feet. All these considerations, nevertheless, irritated him. Was that all a woman was good for? He compared her with his sister who was independent, spoiled by her mother, and hopeless at housekeeping. Yet she had read André Breton, Paul Éluard, and René Char and was cultivated.
Ivan was bored in Aminata’s company. Once the evening meal was over he would read his Koran, noting down the particularly difficult passages so that he could ask Ismaël, his superior in the Army of Shadows, for an explanation. Meanwhile Aminata would watch stupid programs on the television, a habit he had not taken the trouble to cure her of since at least during that time she wasn’t talking.
One evening she came over to him with a winsome expression, which made him fear the worst. She crouched down at his feet.
“I have a wonderful, big surprise for you,” she said. “The Lord has blessed our union. I’m carrying your baby.”
Pregnant! Already! Ivan thought, horrified. They had only been together three months. She continued, little doubting the reaction her words echoed in him.
“Tata Rachida felt my stomach and she thinks it will be a boy. You must be so proud.”
The following day at the barracks Ivan returned from practice, scarcely recovered from his emotions, to the announcement that someone was waiting for him. It was Ivana, overexcited.
“She’s pregnant,” she cried. “You have to marry her.”
“Why?” Ivan calmly retorted. “Did Lansana marry our mother when she discovered she was pregnant? Was Maeva, our grandmother, married? I won’t be the first man to father a bastard.”
Thereupon Ivana went into a violent fit of rage, which Ivan of course could not resist, and the wedding was decided. From the information we have, we can safely say that Ivana’s anger was pretense. Thanks to the tearful explications of the innocent Aminata, Ivana knew all about her brother’s behavior: a reluctant lover, little prone to caresses, preferring to snore with open mouth rather than fondle the naked body cuddling up to him.
“He turns his back on me in bed,” Aminata moaned. “He turns his back on me and I have to sleep beside this mountain of indifference.”
Ivana knew her empire was intact. This liaison was nothing but a sham designed to hide a passion that was unshakeable.
Ivan’s wedding was twice as splendid as the celebrations for his baptism. Not only did the Diarras, the Traorés, relatives, and friends crowd into town from all over Mali, but also from every corner of this earth where they had scattered to find a living. Everyone lamented Lansana’s absence. How happy and proud he would have been to see his son married and throwing down roots in the soil of Mali. Ivan had come back home.
Nevertheless, the glitziest guest was Aminata’s sister, cousin, or aunt—you never know what to call them—Aïssata Traoré, who taught at McGill University in Canada. She had had to leave Mali in a hurry after publishing her first book, Africa up for Auction, and regularly printed scathing political pamphlets in which she criticized Africa in general. She was a very pretty woman. It was said she lived with a Canadian but had been careful not to bring him with her. Those who passed her in the street lingered to watch her, intrigued by her dress: baggy sarouel trousers usually worn by men, and a military-style tunic. Aïssata kept open house at the Three Aces bar in the center of Kidal where dozens of youngsters, skipping classes at the teachers’ training college, gathered to listen to her. For the very first time, Ivan found himself uncontrollably attracted to a woman. He liked the shape of her face, her graceful and well-proportioned figure, but above all her biting and scornful frame of mind. When he accompanied her back home of an evening Ivan imagined he could spend the night with her, chatting or necking, he didn’t know which. He was not surprised, then, when Ismaël asked him to convey an invitation for her to give a lecture for the Army of Shadows. Aïssata first of all tried to be difficult and she only agreed at the last minute, the day before she was due to leave for Canada.
When she arrived at the Army of Shadows headquarters, the courtyard was packed with people. Extra benches and chairs had to be added. Aïssata was seated on a platform surrounded by the entire staff of teachers. She began her speech in her pretty foreign accent.
“I am not endeavoring to make apologies,” she said, “but to understand. Jihadism is the result of centuries of oppression and exclusion. It did not emerge from the Gulf War, and the Bush family, both father and son, are mere puppets. It took root in colonization and perhaps even before that.”
She suddenly raised an avenging fist.
“But the jihadists are only intent on killing and killing. Death is not an answer. What we need is to engage a new type of dialogue between peoples so that there are neither oppressors nor oppressed.”
Listening to her, Ivan’s entire body began to tremble. Did she realize where she was? Did she know the true nature of those around her? All it needed was for Ismaël to signal to the many militants carrying Kalashnikovs and roaming at liberty for her to be gunned down.
But the evening went off without a hitch and ended with a standing ovation. Then Ismaël and some members of his team took Aïssata to dinner at La Criée, a seafood restaurant owned by a Frenchman from Marseille who boasted that he had spent fifty years in Africa and never been put off by the numerous terrorist attacks. They were served oysters flown in overnight, which they downed with ginger beer since most of the guests were Muslim and didn’t drink alcohol.
In the early hours of the morning Ismaël asked Ivan to accompany Aïssata back home.
“Take good care of her,” he smiled. “You know at this early hour anything can happen.”
The streets in Kidal were in fact jet black, and the street lamps set at irregular intervals lit up just a few squares of sidewalk. Apart from these small patches of light, they were wrapped in dense darkness. With beating heart Ivan took Aïssata’s arm and they arrived home safe and sound. Moments before entering her bedroom Aïssata grabbed h
is hand and drew him close to her whispering, “You want it as much as I do. Why should we deny ourselves?”
The next morning Ivan woke up all alone in his bed, half-covered with a crumpled sheet. He tried to stand up but his legs were shaking. Why were they shaking? It was as if a fire was raging inside him and had drained him of all his strength. He managed to walk into the next room where Aminata, in tears, was embracing Aïssata who was formally dressed in a navy-blue suit and carrying her coat over her arm while the concierge was loading her luggage into a taxi. Ivan couldn’t understand what he was feeling. Had he imagined the passion and frenzy of the night he had just spent? How had he managed to get back into bed with his wife? In the meantime, Aïssata and Aminata were holding each other in a passionate embrace. As Aïssata dived into the taxi, Aminata again burst into tears.
“She didn’t stay long enough,” she groaned.
Ivan was at a loss for words. Had he really dreamed it all? Every morning after that he began to look for the mailman’s bicycle hoping for a letter from Aïssata, but he never heard from her. He even went so far as to buy her latest book, The Rape of a Continent, but he could never make it past page ten.
Gradually he fell into a rut of boredom. Aminata no longer felt like making love or begging for meagerly dished-out kisses. She was only concerned with the movements inside her body, running her husband’s hand over her belly so he could feel the frolicking of her fetus.
“It’s a boy,” she said. “Look at the shape of my belly. What’s more, the doctor said so after my last ultrasound. We’ll call him Fadel. I’ve always loved that name. It was the name of a little boy turned into a bird by the magician Soumaoro Kanté. He managed to escape from the cage where Kanté had locked him up. Do you know this story?”
Ivan, who had heard this story over a hundred times, politely shook his head. Sometimes he caught himself crying without understanding why. The only consolation could have been to throw himself into the arms of his sister and be devoured by her kisses. But Ivana was invisible. Courted by half a dozen suitors, she spent most of her time fighting off their advances. In short, life for Ivan had become insipid. It was then that an unexpected event of a very serious nature occurred.
One morning the militiamen were summoned to one of the rooms in the Alfa Yaya barracks. Those who were due to go on exercises stayed behind, those on leave were called back, and those who patrolled in the North seeking out terrorists were brought back to town by the truckload. At the end of the morning, in front of an assembly of officers in full uniform, Abdouramane Sow took to the floor, speaking in a solemn tone of voice. The ballistic tests conducted in Germany had proved today that the attackers of El Cobra, responsible for the massacre at the Ultra Vocal concert hall, were not jihadists but members of the militia.
“There were four of them,” he hammered out. “Two armed with Kalashnikovs, whose numbers we have, and two others armed with Lugers which they must have procured from an arms trafficker. Soon we will know the names of these scum. We’ll arrest them and inflict on them the punishment they deserve.”
Ivan managed to make it home, where he learned, thanks to the television which was left on all day long by Djenaba, the little servant, that a curfew had been declared. A curfew! This meant that nobody was allowed out of doors after 10 p.m. and identity checks would start at 8 p.m. Aminata was not home to discuss these terrible events and was probably busy talking about the contents of her womb with one of her friends.
Anyone who has not experienced the fright of their lives has no idea how a human being reacts at such a moment. The blood becomes more intense, more alert, and flows faster. A series of rapid decisions run through the brain and one has to weigh the arguments for and against in next to no time. In other words, one’s intelligence is galvanized. Ivan immediately realized that he was in terrible danger and had to flee as quickly as he could. Leave town. Leave the country. He wrote a letter to the only person who counted in his eyes, his sister Ivana, and rapidly described his plan. He would not travel north, east, or west, all of which were bristling with militia patrols. He would take the southern route and make for Gao where it would be very easy to reach Niamey in Niger. Once there, since his French passport was still valid, he would have no difficulty in taking a plane to France. As soon as he was settled in Paris he would have her come over. Once he had finished writing his missive, a thought crossed his mind. Would he need money? He knew that Aminata distrusted banks, for some unknown reason, and kept sums of cash in the chest of drawers in the bedroom. He dashed in and, after emptying some of the drawers, laid hands on the treasure and pocketed it without remorse. As a precautionary measure he decided it was better to leave the house and run to the Cheikh Anta Diop hostel, where all sorts of homeless converged. A young girl wearing a thick scarf in jihad fashion sat at the reception. She examined him from head to foot.
“You homeless?” she said jokingly.
Ivan invented a preposterous story on the spot: he had quarreled with his wife and did not want to spend another night with her under the same roof. The young girl shrugged her shoulders signifying she did not believe a word he said, but nevertheless allocated him a bed in an overcrowded dormitory.
He couldn’t sleep a wink all night, constantly disturbed by the chattering and comings and goings of those who claimed they were looking for sleep. From the open window came the meowing of cats squabbling over a quarry or territory, and the sound of rats scampering after each other.
At five in the morning Ivan was already at the bus station. Alas, all the bush taxis for Gao had already left and he had to make do with a bus which served the neighboring localities. He set his sights on El Markham, a small town situated five kilometers from Gao according to the tub-of-lard bus driver who was scraping and polishing his teeth. Ivan sat right at the back and wrapped a sort of keffiyeh scarf around his face so as to hide his features. They reached El Markham only at nightfall.
If Ivan had been in another frame of mind he would certainly have noticed the splendor of the landscape around Kidal, where the desert edges into a realm of fawn-, ochre-, or mauve-colored sand, depending on the whim of the sun that sat in the middle of the sky like an unblinking, wide-open eye. Gradually a landscape of stone reappears and sharp, jagged cliffs emerge. They stopped to eat at an inn owned by a couple of Italians. The menu consisted of vegetable soup, chicken, and a delicious polenta. Ivan would have liked to ask these two jovial and smiling Italians why two Westerners had left behind the splendors of the Capitol in Rome and the Leaning Tower of Pisa to end up in this godforsaken hole.
Apart from the moiré silk of the river winding as far as the eye could see, the village of El Markham was not much to look at: two or three streets intersecting at right angles and lined with corrugated-iron and mud-brick shacks. The village was swarming with men of all ages, including human smugglers, recognizable by their superior airs, riding on spluttering motorbikes.
Ivan was shivering in his cotton shirt, for the night was cold. In order to warm up he entered La Bonne Table, a dirty, cramped little restaurant, as unappealing as the rest of the place. A tiny television set was crackling in a corner. It wasn’t long before a young man came and sat down at his table and began talking.
“I’m sorry,” Ivan replied. “I don’t speak your language.”
“It’s Bambara, brother,” the young man said in surprise. “You must be a foreigner. Where are you from?”
This innocent question brought back memories of the years Ivan had lived in Guadeloupe. He forgot the dark side of those years and embroidered them with nostalgia. It was a time when it seemed he had been happy and carefree. Above all he thought of his mother.
“Don’t call me brother,” Ivan replied drily, since he had taken an instant dislike to the expression when he lived in Lansana’s compound. “Let me tell you, I come from far, far away, from the other side of the world. And how about you? Are you from El Markham?”
/> Instead of answering, the young man pointed to the bag set down beside him.
“Is that your bag?” he asked. “Is it well locked? Is the key in a safe place? Around your neck for example?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Ivan said, exasperated.
“It’s because El Markham is a dangerous place. It’s a nest of thieves, crooks, and con artists. I know what I’m talking about. My name is Rahiri. My brother and I have a jeep and we’ve been smuggling travelers for five years. We know all the border points and all the customs officers.”
“You own a jeep?” Ivan interrupted him, suddenly interested. “Could you take me as far as Niamey or even to Gao? I have a valid passport and I’m looking for an airport where I can fly to Europe.”
The young man made a face.
“Niamey’s too risky, too many police officers over there,” he said. “Well, we’ll think it over once my brother is back, since he’s the one who decides.”
While they were finishing their meal of mutton stew a man burst in, a fat, fleshy, bald individual whose clothes were too tight for him. Rahiri suddenly got up and ran towards him.
“This is Ousmane,” he exclaimed. “My older brother. Have you had a good journey?”
Without answering, Ousmane held out a limp hand for Ivan and sat down at their table. Rahiri explained the conversation. With a negative grimace Ousmane shook his head in turn.
“Niamey is too dangerous,” he repeated. “But we’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’ve just driven five hundred kilometers and I’m dead tired. First of all let us get some rest.”
The three men went out into the night lit only by the glimmer of a new moon. They walked down the main street until they reached a kind of square, where they skirted the men who were lying on public benches, mats, or even on the stony ground.