The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana
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The latest novel from the grande dame of Caribbean literature
Born in Guadeloupe, Ivan and Ivana are twins with a bond so strong they become afraid of their feelings for one another. When their mother sends them off to live with their father in Mali they begin to grow apart, until, as young adults in Paris, Ivana’s youthful altruism compels her to join the police academy, while Ivan walks the path of radicalization. The twins, unable to live either with or without each other, become perpetrator and victim in a wave of violent attacks. In The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana, her most modern novel to date, Maryse Condé, winner of the 2018 Alternative Nobel Prize in Literature, offers an impressive picture of a colorful yet turbulent twenty-first century.
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Praise for Maryse Condé
“She describes the ravages of colonialism and the post-colonial chaos in a language which is both precise and overwhelming. In her stories the dead live close to the living in a world where gender, race, and class are constantly turned over in new constellations.”
ANN PÅLSSON, Jury, New Academy Prize in Literature
“Condé is a born storyteller.”
Publishers Weekly
“Maryse Condé is the grande dame of Caribbean literature.”
NCRV Gids
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Praise for The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana
“With this story of a young man from Guadeloupe who finds himself persuaded by the pull of jihad, Condé has written one of her most impressive novels to date, one that seamlessly resonates with the problems of our time.”
Le Monde
“Condé’s latest novel is a beautiful and dramatic story with its origins in the Charlie Hebdo attacks. Masterly.”
Afrique Magazine
“Maryse Condé addresses very contemporary issues in her latest novel: racism, jihadi terrorism, political corruption and violence, economic inequality in Guadeloupe and metropolitan France, globalization and immigration.”
World Literature Today
“This new novel, written in an almost exuberant style, contains many typical Condé elements, in particular the mix of a small family story with global events and the nuances of existing images.”
De Volkskrant
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Praise for Segu
“Condé’s story is rich and colorful and glorious. It sprawls over continents and centuries to find its way into the reader’s heart.”
MAYA ANGELOU
“The most significant novel about black Africa published in many a year.”
The New York Times Book Review
“Exotic, richly textured and detailed, this narrative, alternating between the lives of various characters, illuminates magnificently a little known historical period. Virtually every page glitters with nuggets of cultural fascination.”
Los Angeles Times
“A wondrous novel about a period of African history few other writers have addressed. Much of the novel’s radiance comes from the lush description of a traditional life that is both exotic and violent.”
The New York Times Book Review
“With the dazzling storytelling skills of an African griot, Maryse Condé has written a rich, fast-paced saga of a great kingdom during the tumultuous period of the slave trade and the coming of Islam. Segu is history as vivid and immediate as today. It has restored a part of my past that has long been missing.”
PAULE MARSHALL, author of Daughters
“Segu is an overwhelming accomplishment. It injects into the density of history characters who are as alive as you and I. Passionate, lusty, greedy, they are in conflict with themselves as well as with God and Mammon. Maryse Condé has done us all a tremendous service by rendering a history so compelling and exciting. Segu is a literary masterpiece I could not put down.”
LOUISE MERIWETHER
“A stunning reaffirmation of Africa and its peoples as set down by others whose works have gone unnoticed. Condé not only backs them up, but provides new insights as well. Segu has its own dynamic. It’s a starburst.”
JOHN A. WILLIAMS
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Praise for Crossing the Mangrove
“Condé writes elegantly in a style that beautifully survives translation from the French. She gives readers a flavor of the French and Creole stew that is the Guadeloupan tongue. In so doing, Condé conveys the many subtle distinctions of color, class, and language that made up this society.”
Chicago Tribune
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Praise for Tales from the Heart
“Honest, exquisitely measured—inspiring in its reminder of the human spirit’s capacity to endure.”
The New York Times Book Review
“An astute study of family and place.”
Washington Post Book World
“Upon reaching the final page and the start of Condé’s journey to adulthood, readers will regret that this brief, colorful, and lively remembrance has ended.”
Publishers Weekly
“A useful look at the psychological consequences of intolerance.”
Kirkus Reviews
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Praise for Windward Heights
“Condé is a masterly storyteller who also proves deft at reinterpreting other people’s stories, as she shows here with this energetic reimagining of Wuthering Heights set in Cuba and Guadeloupe at the turn of the century.”
The New York Times Book Review
“Through Condé’s transformation of the tragedy in Wuthering Heights, she creates a narrative that seduces, evokes, and makes us think about the kinds of emotions that have moved human beings throughout our existence.”
Chicago Tribune
“Condé gives Brontë a cultural context—a fine and unique accomplishment.”
Washington Post
“Exotic and eloquent. Condé takes Emily Brontë’s cold-climate classic on obsessive love and makes it hot and lush.”
USA Today
“A confident and incisive Caribbeanization of a European master-text by a master novelist of African descent.”
Village Voice
“The author weaves in the history of the region along with themes of passionate love, color prejudice, oppression, and social unrest to create an engaging and well-written book that is difficult to put down.”
Multicultural Review
“Condé has given readers an astonishing new way in which to contemplate our ancestral past.”
Black Issues Book Review
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MARYSE CONDÉ was born in Guadeloupe in 1937 as the youngest of eight siblings. She earned her MA and PhD in Comparative Literature at Paris-Sorbonne University and went on to have a distinguished academic career, receiving the title of Professor Emerita of French at Columbia University in New York, where she taught and lived for many years. She has also lived in various West African countries, most notably in Mali, where she gained inspiration for her worldwide bestseller Segu, for which she was awarded the African Literature Prize and several other respected French awards. Condé was awarded the 2018 New Academy Prize (or “Alternative Nobel”) in Literature for her oeuvre. The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana is her latest novel.
RICHARD PHILCOX is Maryse Condé’s husband and translator. He has also published new translations of Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth and Black Skin, White Masks. He has taught translation on various American campuses and won grants from the National Endow
ment for the Humanities and the National Endowment for the Arts for the translation of Condé’s works.
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AUTHOR
“We were raised with the prospect that the world would gradually improve and one day life would get better. The consequences of colonialism, racism, and intolerance would disappear and, finally, the earth would be round again. Today we realize in amazement that nothing of the sort has happened and the world has become an incomprehensible, blood-stained enigma. The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana mirrors this incomprehension and this anxiety which increasingly seeps into our lives.”
TRANSLATOR
“As husband and translator of Maryse Condé, in that order, I feel I’m in intimate conversation with her while translating. She is writing back to me and I can see in her novel all the small details and cultural references of our life—the music we listen to, the journeys we have made together, and even the people we have met. The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana reflects a new phase in her writing—far from the historical novels of I Tituba, Black Witch of Salem, Victoire, My Mother’s Mother, or the autobiographical What is Africa to Me. In this work, she has placed the reader at the very heart of our modern times and preoccupations, and I, the translator, have the task of adapting her language to a modern idiom.”
PUBLISHER
“I fell in love with Maryse Condé upon reading her epic novel Segu and am extremely happy to be allowed to publish her latest work. I deeply admire her for her strong and independent mind, her subtle sense of humor, the vibrancy of her style, the liveliness of her characters, and the international scope and topicality of her work.”
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MARYSE CONDÉ
The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana
Translated from the French
by Richard Philcox
WORLD EDITIONS
New York, London, Amsterdam
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Published in the USA in 2020 by World Editions LLC, New York
Published in the UK in 2020 by World Editions Ltd., London
World Editions
New York/London/Amsterdam
Copyright © Editions Jean-Claude Lattès, 2017
English translation copyright © Richard Philcox, 2020
Author portrait © P. Matsas Leemage/Hollandse Hoogte
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed therein are those of the characters and should not be confused with those of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is available
ISBN Trade paperback 978-1-64286-069-6
ISBN E-book 978-1-64286-077-1
First published as Le fabuleux et triste destin d’Ivan et Ivana in France in 2017 by JC Lattès
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Book Club Discussion Guides are available on our website.
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For Richard and Régine, without whom this book would never have been written.
For Maryse “savannah of clear horizons, savannah that quivers from the fervent caress of the wind from the East” (so sung Léopold Sedar Senghor).
For Fadèle, whose world perhaps will be entirely different.
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Gradually your life knocked you out.
Alan Souchon, Le Bagad de Lann-Bihoué
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IN UTERO
OR
BOUNDED IN A NUTSHELL
(Hamlet by William Shakespeare)
As if acting on a signal, an invincible force besieged the twins. Where did it come from? What was its purpose? They got the impression of being brutally dragged down and forced to leave the warm and tranquil abode where they had lived for many weeks. A terrible smell clung to their nostrils as they gradually, helplessly, made their descent, a smell that resembled a noxious stench. The twin who had a button between his legs preceded the smaller less developed other whose sex was hollowed out by a large scar. He butted his way down the narrow passage whose walls slowly widened.
Up till now their routine had been dominated by the single fact of being huddled one against the other. Their only inclination was to cling to each other and breathe in the sour but agreeable smell in which they were wrapped. The abode where they had spent many long weeks was somber: dark, but nevertheless porous to every sound. Among the many sounds they heard they had ended up recognizing one in particular and realizing it came from the woman who bore them. Soft, lilting, and consistent, it washed over them its wave of harmony. Sometimes it alternated with other sounds, sharper, less intimate and pleasant. Then all at once there would be a genuine hullaballoo, a concert of indistinct, metallic tones.
While the fetuses continued their helpless descent they suddenly found themselves between two rigid walls that seemed to go on forever. Then they landed in a circular, oddly mobile space. Once they had made their way through, they abruptly fell onto a flat surface and were blinded by the light. Here they were gripped by the shoulders, a feeling that afflicted them as much as the light that hurt them. They instinctively rubbed their eyes with their fists by way of protection. Meanwhile a strange wind filled their lungs, making them suffocate and unconsciously open their mouths to let out uncontrollable cries. Without further ado they were soaked in a lukewarm liquid which neither smelled nor tasted like the one they were accustomed to. At the same time they became aware of their bodies as they were wrapped and laid onto a cushion of ample flesh whose penetrating smell filled their nostrils with perfume. Such was the feeling of well-being that it made them forget the horrible downward journey they had just made. They guessed they were lying against the breast of the woman who had borne them, recognizable only by her voice. With voluptuous pleasure they discovered her smell, they discovered her touch. They began to suck greedily on the bloated nipples full of a sweet-tasting liquid which were placed in their mouths. It was then, at that very moment, their life began.
Simone whispered into the ears of her new-born twins:
“Welcome, my two little ones, boy and girl so alike that one can easily be mistaken for the other. Welcome, I tell you. The life you are about to embark on, and from which you will not get out alive, is not a bowl of arrowroot. Some even call it wicked, others an untamed shrew, and some a lame horse with three hoofs. But who cares! I’ll grab a pillow of clouds that I’ll put under your heads and I’ll fill them with dreams. The sun that lights up the desolation of our lives will not burn brighter than my love for you. Welcome, my little ones!”
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EX UTERO
The twins’ first months on earth proved difficult. They were unable to cope with living distinct lives: sleeping in separate cradles, being washed one after the other, and taking turns to suck their baby bottle. At first all it needed was for one of them to start gurgling, crying, or screaming and the other would immediately follow suit. It took time for them to rid themselves of this annoying synchronization. Gradually the world around them took shape and color. They were at first filled with wonder by the ray of sun that entered through the shack’s wide open window and landed on the mat where they lay. On its way through it took on mischievous shapes which made them laugh, and this laugh tinkled like small bells. They rapidly remembered their names, pricking up their ears and waving their little feet at the mention of these syllables so easy to retain. What they didn’t know was that the priest at Dos d’ne, a fat, dull-witted man, had almost refused to chr
isten them.
“How could you give them such names,” he shouted angrily at Simone. “Ivan, Ivana! Not only do they not have a father, but you want to turn them into true heathens!”
Simone’s family was used to both multiple and singular births. In the nineteenth century, her ancestor, Zuléma, the first of a litter of quintuplets, had been invited to the Universal Exposition in Saint-Germain-en-Laye in order to prove what could become of a descendant of a slave when he breathed in the effluvium of civilization. Dressed in a tie and three-piece suit, he was a surveyor by trade. He had learned opera arias all on his own by listening to a program on Radio Guadeloupe called Classical? Classical indeed! It was he who instilled the love of music that had trickled down to all his descendants.
The twins quickly discovered the sea and the sand. How wonderful it was to feel the warmth of the sand that cascaded through their chubby fingers, their nails pink like seashells. Every day Simone would put them in a wheelbarrow which served as a pram and push them to one of the creeks near Dos d’ne where the sea breeze caressed their faces mingling with the sounds of an ample maternal voice.
How many years passed blissfully, four or five? They discovered very early on the beautiful face of their mother, who was always leaning over them, and her black velvety skin and sparkling eyes which changed color depending on the mood of the day. She hummed songs to them, much to their delight. When she went off to work with sweat on her brow, she placed them in a sort of basket which she covered with a cloth and set down under the trees. And the women who worked with her came to peek at them in raptures. They soon realized their mother’s name was Simone: two harmonious syllables easy to remember and repeat. Gradually the decor of their lives took shape. They had neither brothers nor sisters and had only to share their mother’s love with an old grandmother, and that was okay. They never tired of letting that wonderful sand trickle through their fingers: golden sand, endowed with a smell that filled their nostrils, sand that made an imprint of their bodies and could be tossed playfully into the air.