The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana

by Maryse Conde

  This feeling of uncertainty lasted for almost a week, until shortly before midnight on the evening preceding the attack Ivan smashed open the door of his sister’s bedroom with a mighty kick. He was beside himself and seemed inebriated, although he never touched alcohol. He was streaming with sweat and his eyes were red and bulging.

  “What do I hear?” he screamed. “You’re the mistress of that bloody idiot?”

  Ivana gently placed her hand over his mouth as she had done hundreds of times when they quarreled as children.

  “Listen, I’ll explain what happened.”

  Without waiting, Ivan sent her sprawling on the bed with a knee jerk, then, throwing himself onto her, he ripped off her clothes, stripping her attractive body naked. At the same time he stripped down to his blue Calvin Klein briefs, which he wrenched off in one go. His hands groped Ivana’s throat and breasts and she began to moan.

  “Take me, take me, if that’s what you want!”

  “I should have done it long ago,” Ivan retorted savagely.

  But just as he was about to penetrate her with his monstrous erection, he got up, looked at her apologetically, and ran out of the bedroom.

  Ivana managed to sit on the edge of the bed, and called out in a whisper, “Come back, come back.”

  Her tears streamed down her cheeks making glistening streaks along her face. Why exactly was she crying? Because of this carnal act they had both so desired and seemed unable to accomplish? Ivana cried all night long. In the morning she sadly slipped on her police uniform and set off for the retirement home, which she reached at 6:30 a.m. Every morning before starting classes in The Narrow Gate building she spent one or two hours helping the nursing auxiliaries who adored her and nicknamed her “Little Mother Teresa.”

  But we know what’s bugging you. You want to know what became of Ivan and his monstrous erection. Let’s rewind. Adjusting his clothes as best he could, Ivan ran out of his sister’s bedroom, shot across the living room, and landed outside the front door just as Stella Nomal, the neighbor, back from the movies, was opening the door of her small apartment. Stella Nomal was a young Guyanese girl come to Paris to study law. Unfortunately she had no success with her law studies and at twenty-two found herself without a job. Ivan knew Stella because for over a year they had both rubbed shoulders cleaning the classrooms and sweeping the dead leaves from the recreation yard at the Marcellin Berthelot College. There was once a time when Stella had been greatly attracted to Ivan, such a handsome stud, but, confronted with his total indifference, she had resigned herself to looking elsewhere. When she saw him on the landing half undressed, attempting to button up his fly, she exclaimed, stupefied, “What on earth is going on?”

  Without listening, Ivan dragged her brutally inside her apartment. Without saying a word he threw her onto the sofa and violently penetrated her. Faultfinders will say it was a rape, for that’s what any non-consensual sexual relation is called. We will not argue this point. Rape or not, Stella savored the pleasure which was long overdue. But suddenly Ivan burst into tears.

  “What’s the matter, my darling?” Stella sweetly murmured. “You seem to be so unhappy.”

  Ivan dried his eyes with his fists and for the first time in his life launched into a confession he had never shared with anyone.

  “You’re sexually attracted to your sister?” she cried, both shocked and excited. “Is that possible?”

  He remained deaf to her questions and went on talking. Stella and Ivan spent the rest of the night cuddled up against each other, sleeping, dreaming, making love, and discussing intimate matters. Ivan cried a lot and Stella comforted him.

  “If you desire her so much,” Stella asked, “why didn’t you make love to her when she asked you?”

  “She is both the light of my life and my damnation,” Ivan continued sadly.

  When Stella awoke at six in the morning, she found herself alone in bed. She automatically got dressed and set off on her daily routine to the Marcellin Berthelot College.

  The following day when Ivan’s face was sprawled all over the front pages of the press together with unflattering comments such as “brute,” “assassin,” and “monster,” Stella thought she had dreamed the previous night. Was this the same man who, bruised and vulnerable, had pressed himself up against her and sucked her breast like a child? Was this impenitent barbarian Ivan Némélé? In despair she went to find the psychological support unit which had been set up by the city hall of Villeret-le-François. The psychologist was a pretty woman with a scatterbrained look, not at all like a psychiatrist. She listened to Stella without saying a word, then asked, “Do you realize you came close to death? He could have killed you.”

  “Ivan!” Stella cried, shrugging her shoulders. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “And yet he murdered sixty people at the retirement home,” the psychiatrist retorted.

  Angel or demon? Ivan was definitively classified in the second category.

  The details of the attack at Villeret-le-François are common knowledge since they made headlines the world over, even in the tabloids of Indonesia and Turkey. The attack was especially loathsome as it targeted retired police officers who had devoted their lives to defending their community and who were now victims bent by the weight of their years. However, there is one aspect which caught Henri Duvignaud’s attention and which nobody would understand if he hadn’t read The Ballad of Reading Gaol by the famous Irish author, Oscar Wilde. Below are a few lines from this ballad:

  Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard

  Some do it with a bitter look

  Some with a flattering word

  The coward does it with a kiss

  The brave man with a sword.

  We shall now describe the facts we have been able to piece together. When Ivan and his three associates got out of their car parked at the corner of the rue du Chasseloup-Laubat, given the early morning hour, the neighborhood was asleep, virtually deserted. Only some stray dogs were rummaging in the dustbins. Ivan and his co-assassins arrived at the René Colleret retirement home at 7 a.m. on the dot. One hour earlier a shrill alarm had sounded to wake up the residents and inform them their sleep was over and a new day was beginning. The nurses would soon be scrambling up the stairs, pouring onto each floor, and taking the pensioners who could no longer control themselves to the toilets. Taking advantage of the situation the nurses would reassure the pensioners, since old men are as terrified of the night as little children. They are scared to death by darkness. They imagine it filled with menacing or frightening creatures. In the dormitory on the second floor ex-sergeant Piperu, who had always been an amateur poet, was feverishly writing down his nightly dream in a spiral notebook as he did every morning. He had no idea that in a few minutes’ time a bullet would pierce his chest, and his hands would let fall his bloodied notebook containing an unfinished text. In the basement kitchen the employees were busy preparing the breakfasts that would then be taken up to the rooms.

  All Ivan and his companions had to do was to enter each room and fire at anything that moved. Ivan remained calm and determined for it wasn’t the moment to harbor vain misgivings and wonder whether this was the way to change the world. He had to accomplish his task.

  Yet we all know that one blip is enough to bring a perfectly well-oiled machine to a grinding halt. This time the blip was called Elodie Bouchez, the latest recruit in the contingent of health-care workers. Previously Elodie Bouchez had dreamed of becoming a nurse but had failed the profession’s entrance exam. She had made do with a career as a health-care worker, at first with a pinch of contempt until gradually she had begun to like it and to carry out her work conscientiously. That very day, because of delays on the regional express metro, she arrived late for work. From the pavement she could hear the rat-tat-tat of the Kalashnikovs as well as the screams of the wounded and wondered
what was going on. Could it be an attack? Not out of the question, given the times we were living in. She ran therefore to a bar close by named A Verse Toujours (Keep Pouring) to raise the alarm. The bar had only just opened and the server, a young curly-haired Arab, was half-heartedly mopping the tiled floor. Both of them dashed to the phone and called for reinforcements from city hall.

  In the meantime Ivan and his associates had arrived on the third floor of the retirement home. That’s where Ivan found Ivana leaning over the gendarme Rousselet, who was ashamed once again of having relieved himself in bed. Ivana and the gendarme Rousselet got along like a house on fire: Rousselet had been posted to Deshaies on the Leeward Coast of Guadeloupe for many years and he knew the island inside and out. Both of them remembered the golden sand of the beaches, the grandiose sea, the view that stretched as far as the island of Antigua, and the almond trees whose large varnished leaves turned sometimes green, sometimes red. They reminisced too about the wooden shacks radiant under the sun despite their poverty and the children of every color playing together.

  Hearing the noise made by the assassins entering the dormitory, Ivana looked up and collapsed on gendarme Rousselet’s bed clutching the old man’s bony shoulders. She looked Ivan straight in the eye. All the love and desire they felt for each other was revealed in this look. They relived their entire life like those who have come close to death might. Ivan and Ivana therefore relived every moment from when they emerged from Simone’s womb on a warm, fragrant September night right up to this gray frosty autumn morning. Some memories lingered more than others. When they had begun to stand on their own two feet Simone would measure them against one of the house walls. For a long time they stayed the same height as each other. Then one year Ivan began to grow and within a few months had grown taller than his sister. At the time Ivana admired in bemusement his body that stretched out beside her. What a magnificent package of muscles. They had accompanied their mother many times to the choir and sang with the same childish voices that nobody noticed. One fine day a miracle occurred: unexpected, like every miracle.

  At the church of Dos d’ne, like everywhere else in Guadeloupe on August 15th, there is a ceremony for crowning the Virgin Mary. For the occasion the priests search for the most light-skinned children they can find as well as the prettiest kids of mixed blood. They deck them out with a pair of angel’s wings and a loose sky-blue robe and have them climb up the altar to place a crown on the head of a plaster statue representing the Virgin Mary.

  In the meantime a children’s choir stands in a corner of the church churning out psalm upon psalm. Ivan and Ivana were members of this choir. One day Ivana’s voice burst out of her throat supreme and filled the nave with its harmony. Ivan listened to her and wondered what marvels his sister’s body contained. From that moment on Ivana was given a wide array of names such as “siren” and “nightingale” and was invited to perform solo in all the churches of Guadeloupe. Following a concert at the cathedral in Pointe-à-Pitre a writer who had just been awarded the Prix Carbet named her “The Magic Flute.” Such terms proved that Ivana was outside the normal order of things.

  The day of the attack Ivan didn’t think twice. Without hesitating he aimed his gun at Ivana and fired. It was the only thing to do, the only act that had meaning to it. Ivana understood perfectly. Consequently she arched her breast in order to acknowledge the blessing from the bullets. Fatally wounded, she collapsed at the foot of the bed. After this, Ivan’s intention was to turn his arm against himself and commit suicide. Alas, things turned out quite differently.

  City hall had alerted the French gendarmerie intervention force who dispatched two squads of sharpshooters led by Sergeant Raymond Ruggiani. He urged his commando to take the jihadists alive, thereby getting them to talk and obtaining information on those who were giving the orders. Before Ivan had time to react as he intended, Raymond Ruggiani had fired at his legs. Ivan collapsed, knocking over his co-assassins as he fell. Covered in blood, they were thrown into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital at Villeret-le-François.

  Several thousand kilometers away, given the time lag, Guadeloupe was still plunged in darkness. A night frequented by the usual suspects, Little Sapoti, the monstrous Bête à Man Hibè, and Masala Makalou; just another ordinary night. But not for Simone who always slept like a baby. She had gone to bed with a burning fever as if she were suffering from malaria, dengue fever, or the zika virus—in short, one of those many diseases common to countries where the mosquito reigns supreme. Three times she had got up to down a cup of water to prevent her teeth from chattering so as not to wake Father Michalou lying by her side. Simone was glad she had married him. He only had one fault: he liked to scribble their accounts on a slate and complain they didn’t have any money. In any case, not enough to go and spend Christmas at Villeret-le-François, he declared categorically. Tired of hearing him repeat the same thing over and over again, Simone, who hadn’t seen her children for some time, bypassed him and negotiated with Ivana, who had obtained a loan from her employer to have her mother and stepfather come for Christmas.

  In her agitated sleep Simone saw her mother in tears and knew she was bringing her terrible news. But what? Feeling oppressed she woke up before dawn and cautiously climbed out of bed so as not to disturb Father Michalou, who always slept soundly after having sex. In the dining room she automatically switched on the radio to get the latest news. Another bomb attack in France! This time in a police retirement home, the speaker announced. She would normally have shrugged off the news since it was the third attack in two years, but an unexpected pain ripped through her breast. This time, she felt it, things were very different. They would concern her directly.

  And she was not mistaken. She was about to drink her coffee when three men dressed in suits and ties burst in and stammered frantically, “Simone, your daughter’s been killed in a bomb attack!”

  “Killed!” exclaimed Father Michalou, who at that very moment emerged from the bedroom.

  “You must not waste time. You must go straight to France,” the three men sent by the town hall shouted.

  “Where do you expect us to find money for that?” Father Michalou said.

  “We’ll pay,” the three men replied in unison.

  Don’t be surprised if at that time there was only mention of Ivana. Ivan’s identity, like that of the other terrorists, had not yet been clarified; that would take several days. On the other hand, it was easy to identify Ivana Némélé, a police cadet from Guadeloupe, a volunteer helping the team of care workers.

  Consequently, by early afternoon, the entire island of Guadeloupe knew that once again it had produced a martyr. In fact, nobody was surprised. Although Bernadette Soubirous and other Mother Teresas were white of skin, the island was packed with unbeatified black women, husbandless, penniless, who nevertheless had raised their children out of respect for God’s commandments and the church. A TV crew made a point of interviewing Simone. Unfortunately she cried so much she was of no help, repeating over and over again: “Pitite an mwen! Pitite an mwen! (My poor little darling!)”

  To compensate they filmed Father Michalou, who had time to slip on his best suit and look his Sunday best. Everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes, Andy Warhol declared, and that’s what happened to Father Michalou. He explained smugly in front of the cameras that although Ivana was not his biological daughter she was certainly his spiritual child. He had known her from the time she was born: the midwife had placed Ivana in his hands when she came out of her mother’s womb. In order to back up what he said he went and fetched Simone’s photo albums from the chest of drawers, showing Ivana at every stage: from the toddler making her first steps, to the young girl showing off her first front teeth, to the teenager exhibiting her first straightened hairdo.

  As news of the bomb attack gradually spread around the island, people stormed onto the buses and charabancs and converged at the Pôle Caraïbes Airport from wher
e they had learned Simone was to fly off at the end of the afternoon. Those who had the possibility went and prayed for a moment in church. It was by no means a carnival atmosphere. On the contrary, there were no masqueraders daubed in tar, no masqueraders with horns, and no akiyo band. Joy was not on the agenda. An air of distress hung in the air, mixed with pride because at last a girl from Guadeloupe was making headlines. In the Air Madinina plane, the overexcited crew offered Simone glass after glass of champagne, shrimp cocktails, caviar, and salmon canapés which she left untouched for Father Michalou. The eight hours flew by in minutes.

  When Simone arrived at Orly Airport, the frenzy came to an abrupt end. Two self-important-looking men were standing in a corner brandishing a placard.

  “Are you the mother of Ivana Némélé?” one of them asked coldly enough to make you shudder.

  He and his colleague had been sent by the authorities at Villeret-le-François. The attitude of these two men, so different from the warmth Simone had left behind in Guadeloupe, made her blood run cold. Fortunately she could count on Father Michalou and nestled up closer to him.

  Since the two emissaries did not have a car, they had to pile into a G7 taxi which set off for Villeret-le-François. Although it was barely nine in the morning a crowd was already forming in front of the imposing town hall: bystanders had come for a look as well as a load of journalists from the press and TV stations. Cameras flashed and reporters had been sent from as far away as Marseille, Nice, and Strasbourg. In a dismal room on the first floor, the crush was unimaginable. The mayor, a tall, wishy-washy individual whose white face was lined with a colorless moustache, was attempting to deliver his homily over the noise.

  “France has been smitten,” he declared, “by this new tragedy, horrified by what has just happened, a monstrosity which adds to so many others. France is bathed in tears, afflicted, but remains strong, will always be stronger, I can assure you, than the fanatics who want to destroy it.”