by Wole Soyinka
Often, I have wondered how something as sublime as Salia could have come out of something as crude as he, or how my personification of love could have been the progeny of as loveless a marriage as her parents had had. But Salia seemed to have handled her troubled childhood with grace as she had everything else. She had been forced to mature early, be wise and prudent and learn to look the other way when her father was at his worst, which, unfortunately, was often.
I happened to be passing by the bathroom one morning when I saw a beige chemise hung out to dry through the half-open door. I had the notion that it would be hers, it must be hers. I pushed the door and went in. It was soft and alluring – silky, just as I imagined her skin would be. It smelt of her; the warm smell of cocoa butter. I crumpled it and tucked it under my shirt and scurried away.
I spread the garment on my bed and imagined her in it, imagined it to be her. I caressed it affectionately as I would her tender skin. I lay on the bed, next to the chemise, dreaming I was lying down next to her, feeling her warm breath on my face, her smooth skin against mine. I imagined kissing her lips, caressing her breasts. It was so real to my mind that I gasped involuntarily and a sublime sensation rippled through my body. I rolled and rolled on the chemise until I was exhausted and fell asleep, dreaming of my dream girl.
‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ Audu thundered. I started and discovered I was encumbered by Salia’s beige chemise. I was embarrassed.
‘What the hell were you doing?’ Audu asked again, sniffing me, looking about him.
‘Nothing,’ I said unconvincingly.
‘What do you mean nothing? What the hell is going on here?’
‘I said nothing.’ I struggled into a sitting position fearing he would soon alert the whole house.
‘Whose stuff is that?’ he fingered the chemise, trying to draw it away from me. I held on to it.
‘Let go,’ I gasped. He was stronger and was gaining. I could see the shadow of menace creeping into his scowling face and I knew he would soon resort to underhand methods.
‘Let me have it!’
‘Please, let go,’ I pleaded.
‘What on earth were you doing with it?’ He was still tugging.
‘I said nothing!’
‘You want to be a transvestite, right, dan daudu, eh? You pathetic puppy!’
‘No!’
‘Then what in heaven’s name are you doing with ladies’ stuff?’ He grabbed my hand and started twisting my wrist.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘It fell. I picked it off the ground.’
‘Shameless boy, I will . . .’
‘What is going on here?’ Ladidi’s voice rang with alarm from the door. I looked over Audu’s shoulder at her face, trying to make sense of our dubious entanglement. Audu turned, using his bulk to shield her view so she could not see me trying desperately to wriggle out of her friend’s underwear.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice. She started coming towards the bed.
‘Ah . . . nothing, just rough-housing,’ Audu stammered. He stood in front of her. She tried to look over his shoulders but he was taller.
I got out, crumpled the chemise and tucked it between the bed and the wall and jumped off the bed.
‘There’s something going on and I would like to know,’ she demanded.
Audu held her by the shoulders, pushing her gently backwards.
‘Nothing is going on,’ he said. Looking over his shoulder and seeing that I had concealed the incriminating evidence, he smiled wickedly and let her go. ‘What do you think is going on?’
She looked from me to him. He was smiling and I was sweating. She pushed him aside and came towards me and I feared she would find the underwear.
‘Ladidi.’ Salia’s golden voice floated into the room and filled it with a subtle light. Instead of joy, on that occasion it filled me with dread. She was standing by the door, looking into the room.
Ladidi turned to her.
‘Hi, Audu,’ Salia said.
‘Hello,’ he said. He was obviously enjoying my dilemma and would have done anything to make it last. ‘Why don’t you come in?’
While she weighed the invitation, I prayed she would decline.
‘I was just looking for Ladidi,’ she said.
Ladidi eyed Audu and me with menace before going past Audu and leaving with Salia.
Audu was snickering as he closed the door and turned to me. He looked at my face and broke into a wild laughter that would have startled the night spirits. I never thought I would hear him laugh like that. He fell to his knees, his body jerking, his laughter ringing in my ears. I was, above all, relieved that in his own mischievous way, he had bailed me out. I felt exhausted by my trauma and slumped on the bed. He picked himself from the floor and came and sat next to me, laughing all the time.
‘So, you like her, eh, don’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘But she is older than you, you know, do you think it would work?’ he asked seriously.
I turned my back to him.
‘Hey, come on, I am on your side, you know. I could talk to her for you.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘This is a free offer, you know. Just take it and I will work things out for you.’
‘No.’
He laughed. ‘Well then, if you want to be rolling in ladies’ underwear all your life, fine, but don’t say I didn’t offer to teach you like any decent big brother would do.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, frowning.
He pulled me to him and started tickling me. I did not realise I was laughing at first, perhaps because the sound of my laughter sounded strange even to me. But Audu tickled so hard I was trying to get away, screaming for him to stop and laughing up to the ceiling without inhibition.
When he stopped and we were lying side by side, trying to catch our breath, it occurred to me that I too, and Audu as well, like Princess, had desecrated the memory of Mammy. We had laughed in the house in which she died. And I felt as if I had betrayed her.
But Audu lifted himself on his elbow and said, ‘Wow! It’s been ages since you laughed.’
And he was tickling me again and I was laughing and laughing and laughing.
The Old Man and the Pub
Stanley Onjezani Kenani
Monsieur Bentchartt’s offices are on Rue de Chantepoulet, on the same side of the street as the Payot Bookshop, which is to the right when coming from the Cornavin train station. If you were the well-fed type intending to burn some fat, you could walk all the way to the seventh floor via a steep, dimly lit staircase. But I chose the easier option, via a lift, as I had no intention of arriving here panting.
In the tiny lift, I stood face-to-face with a petite strawberry blonde whose height matched mine. As is often the case in these parts, you don’t greet or so much as nod, much less smile or arch and collapse your eyebrows or look into the eyes of a stranger, so I minded my business as she minded hers, my eyes pinned on the digital panel that indicated floor numbers as we ascended. You can imagine, then, how awkward it was to find that both of us got out on the seventh floor and came to the same office where, I discovered, she was Monsieur Bentchartt’s secretary returning from lunch.
At once her demeanour changed. She said bonjour and showed me a seat as she told me her name – Alina – and I likewise told her mine, Kadam’manja, which she asked me to write down as I had no business card. She attempted to pronounce it loudly, but managed to reach only as far as ‘da’, and gave up. I put it down to my poor handwriting. Alina started flipping through the pages of her diary, eventually stopping at one where her finger jabbed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘From the Irish pub?’ she said.
‘Yes, I am the owner of the Irish pub,’ said I, hoping I did not sound boastful.
‘Monsieur Bentchartt will see you soon,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile.
This is how I now find myself ensconced in a chair in this office, facing the small, dark-haired b
espectacled man who goes by the name of Bentchartt, and who, a week ago, surprised me by sending me a letter summoning me in a matter concerning his client, Mr Brandenberger. Unfortunately for me, today is not an easy day to see this man, who is now leafing through an enormous file, and who, so far, has not said a word to me beyond a greeting. I am supposed to be at the pub, quelling a protest, which may very well flare up into some sort of third world war. All my five bartenders are threatening to resign and, from the glares I got last night when we last discussed the matter, especially from the guy from Burkina Faso and also the one from Guatemala, some are likely to resort to violence. I haven’t paid them last month’s wages, and we are now well into the middle of another month.
When I came up with the idea of opening an Irish pub ten years ago, after losing my job at Hope for Humanity, there were all the indications that I had made an excellent decision. My bank did not hesitate to support me with capital – a quarter of a million francs – with which I rented the premises on Rue de Lausanne, opposite the old Catholic church of Notre Dame. Although it was a one-man business, I went ahead and called it the Three Little Boys Irish Pub, believing, as it were, that the name gave it an Irish air, and that customers would have no reason to think that the owner of the pub was neither Irish nor that he had never been to Ireland. This, I told myself, was not deception. It was business. I assume you don’t need to first visit China to offer Chinese cuisine in your restaurant, or to visit Italy for you to obtain a licence to sell pizza. And I presume any outfit that sells pizza or pasta reserves the right to call itself an Italian restaurant, or whatever nationality the owner wants the restaurant to be identified with, because, as anyone may agree, over his business an individual is sovereign.
The tiny community of Malawians to which I belong was obviously disappointed, but I did not mind. Naming my business the Malawian Bar would signify that I was angling for a slice of the market that comprised African expatriates as customers, and there was already a joint on Rue de Monthoux – the Nairobi Bar – enjoying the lion’s share of that clientele. Mamadou Niang, a fellow I once made the acquaintance of, opened a Senegalese Bar on Rue de Berne a few blocks from the Nairobi Bar, and Mamadou’s was way better than the Nairobi, as it was more spacious and had two washrooms, but he was unable to attract many clients from the African community, and he found himself compelled to close shop a few months after opening. So, in my case, I had a choice to call it the Malawian Bar, and struggle to build the business – seeing that nobody I met on the streets of the city seemed to be aware of Malawi as a country – or to make a decision that made more business sense.
I did some things to make the place resemble some of the Irish pubs I had been to. I put shamrocks on the walls, fixed television screens in every corner to show football games, piped in the music of Chris de Burgh and other Irish musicians, sold Guinness on tap, and made sure that the atmosphere in the bar was conducive mostly for conversation, with alcohol only as a lubricant. From time to time I tried my best to ensure that some of my bartenders were Irish students looking for opportunities to make an extra buck.
For a while I believed I had hit the jackpot. Not only did I have the whole of Ireland under the roof of my bar, but also clients from mainland Europe flooded in, such that it became necessary to make minor improvements, in the form of interspersing Irish music with classical hits. We were probably among the best Irish pubs in Switzerland. Until a year ago, that is, when real Irish fellows opened a pub right next door. Now I consider myself lucky on those nights when as many as seven customers turn up, and on many nights nowadays the clientele is entirely Malawian. I am even considering renaming the pub the Malawi Bar. I guess I have no choice. I figure I could wrestle business from the Nairobi Bar. I will bring Anna-Maria Ramirez, the girl from Santo Domingo who serves at the Nairobi Bar, to my pub. I will make her an offer she cannot refuse, as they say. I will stop playing Mozart and Mahler, and fill the room with Fela Kuti and Allan Namoko. I anticipate that with such a remake I will stand a chance of attracting more than seven customers. In this awfully expensive city of Geneva, a bar cannot run on the custom of seven people. All my savings have gone towards the rentals and the replenishment of stock and the taxes. I am no longer as lucky with the banks as I was ten years ago. Now things are getting out of hand, as the boys have lost their patience.
In the middle of the brewing riot I was forced to come here. I am curious why this lawyer wants to see me.
‘Monsieur,’ he is now speaking. ‘I act on behalf of the estate of our client, Mr Brandenberger.’
‘So you said in your letter,’ I say.
‘Your name is rather unusual. Where do you come from?’
‘What is a usual name to you?’
‘I mean no offence. It’s simply unusual because I am failing to pronounce it. Which country do you come from?’
‘Malawi.’
‘Mali,’ he smiles. ‘I had a friend once who came from Mali—’
‘I said Ma-la-wi.’
‘Je me suis trompé. Where’s that?’
‘Have you heard of Mozambique?’
‘Yes, I have. There was a war.’
‘Two wars, actually, before and after independence. We share a border.’
‘I see. And what do you do in Switzerland?’
‘I own a pub.’
‘A pub?’
‘Yes. The Three Little Boys Irish Pub on Rue de Lausanne.’
‘Why Irish?’
‘Why not Irish?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘That’s a business secret.’ He does not laugh.
‘So,’ says the man, getting down to his business. ‘How did you know Mr Brandenberger? How close were you?’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘What has happened to him?’
‘Maybe you should first answer my question. Did you know him?’
‘I know him, of course.’
‘Would you mind telling me on what grounds?’
‘But, sir, what do you want to know? What has happened to Mr Brandenberger?’
‘First answer my question please, Monsieur. The information you will share is very important for me.’
‘Is it to do with the police?’
‘The police? Not at all, Monsieur.’
‘Ah, Mr Brandenberger . . .’
Tall, lean and feline, Mr Brandenberger was an old man who came to the pub every Friday night, always at seven on the dot, and always in a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt, his white hair combed backwards, his chin clean-shaven, with a pair of large spectacles resting on his nose. There is a corner – the one whose window faces the Notre Dame church – where frequent patrons of the pub avoided sitting on Friday nights, and new customers were discouraged from occupying. It was this corner Mr Brandenberger would walk to at the appointed hour and sit without a word, drinking carafe after carafe of Cabernet Sauvignon Syrah at an alarming but steady rate. He was always alone. He would sit there the whole night, except when he made occasional trips to the washroom, at which point one of us would make sure that his drink was secure until he returned to the table. I never saw him wave or smile at a familiar face. I never saw him tap his foot to the music that filled the air until two in the morning when the bar closed down. As soon as the clock struck two he would take out money from his wallet, and, whatever the number of carafes he had drunk, he would count the cash accurately. He would then add five francs on top as a tip, the meanest tip of the week, all of which he left on the table, put a carafe on top of it, as though he feared some wind might blow it away, after which he walked out of the bar without a word.
For nine years he did that. New bartenders were discouraged from attempting to engage the man in conversation. It was clear his preference was to be left alone. I personally made sure that every Friday night Mr Brandenberger’s wine was adequately stocked. If there was none in the nearby Denner shops, suppliers in neighbouring France would be called. The most reliable of them was in Ferney-Voltaire.
A
bout nine months ago, Mr Brandenberger stopped coming. It was a Friday and his corner was reserved but he did not arrive. Other customers asked, ‘Where is the old man today?’ But nobody knew the answer. He failed to come the following week, and the week after that, and the month after that, to this day. I concluded that he, too, had followed the others to the real Irish pub.
‘Is that all?’ Monsieur Bentchartt interrupts.
There is more. There were some nights, though such were few and far between, when he would try to outdo himself. On average he drank six carafes a night, which makes three bottles of wine. But on those rare nights he would attempt to take eight or more carafes, after which he would throw up in his corner.
We took care not to reprimand him. He was an old man, about the same age as my father back home. We would at once call for a taxi. I would personally take him to his apartment on Avenue Pictet-de-Rochemont across the lake, where he lived on the eleventh floor. This was how I got to know his name, more than a year after he had started drinking at our bar. I noted on his door that the name panel read ‘V. Brandenberger’. I never found out what the V stood for. On some of those nights, he was in no position to pay for what he had consumed, but we never brought the bill to his attention the next time he showed up. We wrote it off. For the trips to his apartment, we met the taxi bills from the bar’s takings.
There was one night when, on arrival at his apartment, he seemed to have recovered a reasonable slice of his sobriety. He insisted that I should come in. He asked me my name and where I came from. To my surprise, not only did he know my country, but he also knew the name of its founding president. ‘Hastings Kamuzu Banda,’ he said. ‘A charming fellow, wasn’t he? Always going about carrying a white horse-tail for a flywhisk. Why did he do that?’ In a city where nobody knows whether your country exists at all, finding someone who knows it well is like chancing upon a man from home. I was in a hurry to return to the bar as it was after the ungodly hour of 2 a.m., but I accepted a shot of whiskey, as he himself reached for tonic water. His apartment was spacious, but its furniture was cheap. There was an old piano in the corner, a painting of a woman on the wall, and lots of books in German, French and English.