Black Bazaar (10 page)

“You should have had a mixed-race kid! You haven't understood the first thing about this country and here I am declaring until I'm blue in the face that the most urgent problem facing us lot from the nigger-zone is to seize here and now the compensation for what we were made to suffer under colonisation. We should sing along with the musician Tonton David that we come from a people who suffered a great deal, from a people who want
to suffer no more. I'm fed up of sweeping the streets of Gaul when I've never seen a White sweeping the streets of my Ivory Coast. Since no one wants to know that we exist in this country, since they pretend not to see us, since we're hired to empty the bins, let us not make things more complicated than they are, the maths is simple, my friend: the more we go out with French women, the more we're leaving our mark on this country so we can say to our former colonisers that we're still here, that they've got to come to an arrangement with us, that tomorrow's world will be packed with negroes at every crossroads, negroes who will be as French as they are, whether they like it or not, that if they don't repay us double-quick for the damages we're seeking, well then we'll go right ahead and bastardise Gaul by all means necessary! You really haven't understood the first thing, you don't listen to me, today you've just proved that the Congolese are the biggest fools on our continent and that they make a lot of noise instead of cutting straight to the chase. Is it with babies like yours that we'll be able to advance our cause, eh? This baby doesn't count in my eyes, it's setting us back a hundred years. What future will it have in a Gaul that will treat it as an immigrant from dawn to dusk? I don't mince my words, now if you don't agree you can do what you like. For me this birth is nothing, it doesn't count! Zero!”

Roger the French-Ivorian was pacing around the pram. He stuck his nose in as if looking for goodness knows
what clues. Everybody watched him carry out his inspection. He wheeled the pram over towards the door for more light.

“What on earth's that Roger doing?” asked Paul from the big Congo.

“Is he baptising the little one or something?” wondered Willy.

Roger the French-Ivorian took off my daughter's woollen bonnet to get a better look at her. Then, pulling a face, he stood up again:

“Hold on a minute, Buttologist, this child in question, is it yours?”

“In your opinion, who else would make a child like that here, eh?” Yves the just-Ivorian fired back to his half-compatriot.

The two of them are always feuding, sometimes they go off to fight by the fountain at Les Halles.

Roger the French-Ivorian stood tall, giving a dirty look to his perennial enemy:

“Yves, am I even talking to you? Have you ever shown your child here? I am directing my comments at Buttologist, not you! You do not even exist in my eyes! Go and wait at home for France to pay you compensation for being colonised, as if your own parents hadn't cooperated and benefited from the system! If I were the Minister for Immigration and National Identity in this country, I'd have taken away your resident's card!”

Yves retaliated by insulting his half-compatriot as he walked out of Jip's:

“This White-Negro is starting to get on my nerves! I'm going to have to leave, or things could turn out nastily for him. It's not with half-castes like him that we're going to win the case in this country. While we're busy defending our rights, White-Negroes are auctioning us off the way they did back in the days of slavery. This man will never understand our struggle because he has sold out like all the other half-castes. When the system is anti-Blacks he calls himself White, and when the Whites remind him that a half-caste is just another negro he rejoins the negro crowd! This Roger you see in the bar is French by day and Ivorian by night, never the other way around! I want him to be Ivorian twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and for him to stop playing out his little hypocritical game! Sell-out! Pro-slaver brown-nose!”

Roger the French-Ivorian didn't respond to these attacks. It was business as usual.

He turned towards me:

“Aren't you warm-blooded, or what?”

“Why?”

“How can you have a child who doesn't look like you?”

Calmly, I told him to have a good look at my daughter. I took off a shoe to show him my foot.

“Look, we've got the same toes …”

“Toes and all that nonsense is for when the grandparents want something to cling on to. We need something concrete, a signature that's authentic and indelible. Are you sure this is your child, eh?”

Just then the little one woke up and started crying. I picked her up to soothe her …

Paul gave me several bottles of perfume for Original Colour and tried to cheer me up in a corner:

“Don't listen to that crackpot of a French-Ivorian! It was King Solomon who said that a child is still a child, be he red, yellow or brown. I heard that in a Francis Bebey song. There is also someone who said that woman is the exact place of our birth, and he was right. I can't remember who said it now, but it must have been someone with a brain in his head. People can always argue about the father of a child, there's nothing new there. Take Roger, can he really say that he is his father's son?”

Pierrot the White came over to join us in our corner with the three Pelforts he'd bought me. He put them down on the table:

“Down these three beers for me! One for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit!”

He reminded me that in the beginning, there wasn't just the Word, but also the verb and the subject and the direct object, and that it was Man in his wickedness who introduced the indirect object. And it was this
same wickedness that motivated some of my pals at Jip's. I couldn't make head or tail of his argument, but I found his words comforting compared with what the others had thrown up.

I didn't go back again to Jip's with Henriette. If someone asked me to bring her in, I replied that my baby was not a specimen for some colonial exhibition …

I still haven't
told the Arab on the corner that my ex cleared off to the home country a few months back. I'll have to come clean about it one of these days, I'm going to run out of excuses soon. If I've kept quiet about it until now it's because I know he'll have a heart attack when he finds out.

When I'm opposite him, he's the one who always does the talking, he won't let me get a word in edgeways. Once he's finished with his rant he asks after my ex and my daughter, and I always tell him the same thing: they're on holiday in the Congo. It's like he's delivering the same speech from the day before, he just adds a few new hand gestures here, a few new frowns there. As soon as I walk into his bazaar, I know he'll want to bend my ear for at least twenty minutes' worth. It won't be long now before I need what our neighbour, the young man on the seventh floor, Staircase A, the one whose mother is poorly over towards Champagnac de Belair, calls a “cast-iron alibi”. But my tactic is to deal with the problem as it arises. I just can't see myself saying, out of the blue:

“I've been lying every time you asked me for news
about my daughter and my partner, it's been ages now since they left for the home country with that good-for-nothing, the Hybrid.”

There's no point in jumping ahead of things, I'm not ready to give the game away. It's a matter of honour, and dignity …

From his cash till, our Arab on the corner can see everyone who comes out of our building. His shop isn't actually on the corner but in the middle of the street, right opposite our block. Which means, properly speaking, we should call him the Arab opposite instead of the Arab on the corner. Then again, since the dawn of time, people have always talked about the Arab on the corner, and it's not for me to snap my fingers and start a revolution. I mean, if we decided to question everything that reminds us of how unfair, or even offensive, the French language can be towards certain groups of people, well, we'd never hear the end of it. There would be civil wars in the former territories of the French Empire, and Gaul herself would be torn apart to fall into the hands of the Romans. We would have as many trials as there are dead leaves waiting to be shovelled up. We'd lose all track of who was complaining about what, not to mention the date of this or that injustice. So the Members of the Académie Française would finally have a full-time job on their hands. I'm imagining the prostitutes would be keenest
to hold people to account because the French language is a real bitch when it comes to them. They might want to know, for example, why a man with the common touch is a national treasure while a woman with the common touch is a whore? Why is a man with an eye for the ladies a charmer while a lady with an eye for the men is a trollop? Why is a “courtier” someone who is close to power while a “courtisan” is a streetwalker? No, I don't want to fight that battle. People talk about the Arab on the corner, and so do I, even if his shop is opposite our building, while down on the corner there's a locksmith who's your typical Frenchman, except that he hasn't got a beret and a baguette …

If you're not in the mood to greet our Arab on the corner, he'll step outside and give you a curt lecture on good manners. Even when you think he's got his back turned and you can dodge him, he manages to lay his hands on you. It's as if he's got a third eye in the back of his neck that's more powerful than the Bible stories about the eye watching Cain. And since, like every Arab on the corner, ours doesn't close shop until very late, about one in the morning, there's no deceiving his lynx's eye. His life is his shop, and vice versa. The kids who steal his bananas from the display stand outside have firsthand experience of this. He doesn't say a word, he just watches and then waits for their parents to show up at his grocery store. And that's when he gives them a
remedial class in bringing up young people today. If the kids are stealing it's because their parents have failed to educate them properly. So it's not the children you should blame, but their mothers and fathers …

He eats behind his till, and he reads his old copy of the Koran there too. I sometimes wonder when he goes to the toilet. If he's human like us, he must hear the call of nature at some stage in the day. But no, he's there, unbudgeable, energetic, everywhere at once, never in the least bit tired.

The Arab on the corner is bald with a small paunch and a grey goatee. He's got these thick hairs that have taken root in his ears and he tugs on them from time to time when he's talking to you. The local residents can buy goods on credit at his shop, he has a large exercise book just for them. The surnames of slow payers are marked in red. He calls everybody “comrades”, and I'm treated to “my African brother” because according to him Africa is the land of helping each other out, it's the continent of solidarity. He maintains that the first man on earth was African, the other races came later. So all men are immigrants, except for the Africans who are at home here down below. And what's more, according to him, we Africans are Egyptians and we followed the Nile in order to spread ourselves across the continent. He whispers in my ear that the West will never be able to teach that fact because it would call too many things into question:

“For too long the West has force-fed us lies and bloated us with pestilence, my African brother! Do you know which black poet spoke those courageous words, eh? It's not easy telling Europeans that in reality they are nothing but immigrants themselves and that their continent actually belongs to the Africans who were the first men on earth! Take that Senegalese man, for example, a great historian, a great scholar, I've forgotten his name … What was he called again? It's on the tip of my tongue … Well, it will come back to me, and anyway it's easy enough with the Senegalese, there's no point in overcomplicating things, they're all called Diop, what matters is finding out their first name. The Senegalese man I'm talking about was so strong, my African brother. When he demonstrated to the Whites, with scientific evidence to the ready, that there were plenty of Blacks in ancient Egypt, and that those Blacks were the masters, well, Europe categorically refused to recognise this. People claimed that the Blacks weren't capable of building the pyramids, that they'd been cursed since the dawn of time when Ham, one of Noah's sons, saw his father naked. The Blacks would therefore be condemned to the curse of Ham with a male organ so oversized that no underpants could ever conceal it. The Senegalese historian fought against these kinds of prejudices. At the Sorbonne, the Whites refused to let him defend his dissertation! Can you, in all good conscience, call that normal behaviour, eh? In your opinion, why does Europe behave in this
way towards Africans, eh? Well, let me tell you: if the Europeans conceded that there were Blacks in Egypt, intelligent Blacks, Black leaders, Blacks with regular sized male organs, they would also have to concede that the European philosophers who'd been coming to Egypt since Antiquity did so in order to steal our ideas and go off to develop their own philosophy without so much as a by your leave. And that is why, my African brother, Europe will always tell you that Egypt is not Africa! But everybody knows now that Europe has, for a long time, force-fed us lies and bloated us with pestilence …”

* * *

I remember that when our daughter was born, the Arab on the corner used to come to our building in person to bring us mineral water, milk and Pampers. I had this idea that he was off-loading damaged stock in the same way that developed countries send their out-of-date medicines to underdeveloped countries. I was wrong and I felt ashamed for doubting the Arab on the corner's generosity. He would knock on our door, stop to talk for a minute or two and treat us to his jokes, which were generally about the Jews and the Arabs. You had to laugh even if you didn't understand them at all. And we would force out big guffaws and sometimes even tears of laughter. It wasn't difficult for my ex because laughing came easily to her. And if I laughed it was because I was laughing at the way she laughed.