by Maryse Conde
One evening, right out of the blue, he asked Ivan, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
Ivan blushed and was incapable of giving an answer.
“I’ve never seen you interested in a woman,” Ali continued. “Or get excited about one. It’s as if you don’t notice them.”
Ivan, who had somewhat gathered his wits about him, launched into a complicated explanation.
“It’s because I’m deeply in love with a girl I left in Guadeloupe. If I looked at another, I’d get the impression of having betrayed her.”
“You can’t pull that one on me,” Ali chuckled. “Every man has in mind an ideal woman he respects and adores. That doesn’t prevent him from taking his pleasure with other mere mortals. So that fine instrument you have down front has never been put to use? Hard as a spur it has never penetrated a woman’s secret cocoon and made that delicious marine water well up? Unbelievable.”
The day following this conversation Ali invited three women to dinner who were visibly destined for his friend Ivan: Rachida, Oumi, and Esmeralda. They were lovely and wasp-waisted, showing much cleavage and with buttocks that curved provocatively under their wrappers. Although Rachida and Oumi were home-bred, Esmeralda was an Indian from Kerala. She had spent seven years in a temple studying lovemaking techniques more daring than the sexual positions of the Kama Sutra. One of her specialties was called “the nibble,” where the caress was so insidious it drove those on the receiving end out of their mind. Another one, using small rings, we do not dare describe here.
As soon as they had downed the last bite, Ali got up and suggested to the women:
“Tire him out. Spare no effort regarding your techniques. Give him all you’ve got: fondle him, suck him, sodomize him. Devour him with kisses. Leave no inch of his skin untouched.”
Thereupon he closed the door behind him and disappeared. This first night of initiation aroused in Ivan a sensation of indescribable pleasure as well as a deep feeling of shame. He compared the moaning, groaning, and shouting of his body to that of a swine wallowing in its mud. Once it was over, having lasted several hours, without troubling to thank the three women, Ivan dashed home. He would have liked to rush into Ivana’s arms and beg her forgiveness. But she was out of reach since she slept chastely in the compound reserved for girls. Consequently, he threw himself into the wash room and soaped himself from head to foot so as to wash away the memory of these disgusting acts.
The following morning a battle began which he had not foreseen.
“You must become a Muslim,” Ali shouted at him sharply. “You must convert to Islam.”
“And for what reason?” Ivan responded. “One must remain faithful to your mother’s religion in which she brought you up and to the society you belong to.”
“There’s no question, you must convert,” Ali insisted. “I’m thinking only of your own good. If you die while fighting, you’ll go straight to the Garden of Allah. There you’ll have seventy-two virgins to deflower while houris with their long black hair dance around you.”
“Who’s talking about fighting?” Ivan asked.
Ali went back to his office and pulled out a bundle of documents.
“We must leave this country which, under the pretext of being Muslim, is merely subject to the diktat of the West: this same West which has transformed your country into a French overseas department. Everything is written here. We’ll go to Amharic in Algeria and from there to Iraq.”
Ivan then brandished his ultimate argument.
“I cannot abandon my sister. We arrived together in Mali. We’ll remain together. We’ll leave together.”
Ali turned red with anger.
“Your sister couldn’t care less if you left. It’s come to my knowledge that El Hadj Mansour has fallen in love with her and asked your father for her hand.”
Ivan hurled himself on Ali as if to strangle him.
“What are you saying, filthy liar?”
“I’m only telling you the truth,” Ali stammered, struggling to free himself.
Ivan dashed outside into the thick black of night. He made straight for the house of El Hadj Mansour, the imam of the Kerfalla Mosque. But the imam was at somebody’s deathbed, the servants said. Ivan then headed for the Sundjata Keita orphanage where he knew his sister was working even at this late hour. In actual fact, in the bedroom allocated her she had just taken off her white uniform bordered in red and was standing bare-breasted, dressed only in her panties. Ivan shouted at her.
“What do I hear?” he screamed. “El Hadj Barka Mansour wants to marry you?”
Ivana clasped Ivan in her arms and showered him with kisses.
“That’s his problem if he’s in love with me,” she said softly. “He has in fact asked our father for my hand but I refused since you know full well I only love you.”
Ivan returned her kisses passionately, pressing his body on fire against her nakedness. That evening they were both very nearly consumed by love.
Once they had left the orphanage and reached the main square they witnessed a surprising sight. A group of armed men masked in black were climbing out of two or three jeeps. Terrified, the twins plunged into a side street and managed to get home. On waking they learned that a commando of terrorists had killed thirty or so men and women during the night, shooting haphazardly at innocent customers sipping their mint teas outside cafés, and setting light to several neighborhoods in the town.
Ali was brought before an exceptional military tribunal presided by El Cobra. He was accused of being an accomplice and having aided the terrorists by shooting down innocent tea-drinkers. After less than an hour’s deliberation, he was sentenced to punishment by the sun’s rays, which dates back to the time of Emperor Kankan Moussa (yes, him again), whereby an individual is tied up and abandoned totally naked to the sun’s violent rays in the desert until the veins in his head swell up and burst. El Cobra ordered Ivan to bring back the bloodied corpse of his friend to Kidal which was then thrown into a common grave without further ado. Ivan thought he too would die. Risking retaliatory measures he never again set foot in the Alfa Yaya barracks. All day long he lay prostrate on his mat incapable of feeding himself. He only emerged from his torpor to answer Lansana’s stupid comments.
“He deserved everything he got, this Ali. He was a traitor and a terrorist.”
Relations between Ivan and his father worsened. Certainly they had never been as cordial and affectionate as the bond between Lansana and Ivana. Nevertheless, father and son had always displayed a facade of being on good terms. That was now over. Lansana grumbled to anyone prepared to listen: “He’s an ex-prisoner. His mother hid that from me. He’s been in prison twice.”
As for Ivan, he told everyone that Lansana was nothing but a product of the West and that his music came nowhere near the genius of Ali Farka Touré and Salif Keita. The major bone of contention was that Ivan refused categorically to return to the barracks. Furious, Lansana belched, “You can’t expect me to keep this good-for-nothing who won’t lift a finger.”
One evening while Ivan was idling on his mat as usual they came to inform him that a visitor was asking for him. A small man with a shaved head was waiting for him at the entrance to the main hut.
“My name is Zinga Messaoud,” he introduced himself. “Let us not stay here, for the walls have ears.”
It was only once they reached the street that Zinga made up his mind to speak.
“You were a great friend of Ali Massila, weren’t you?”
“He was my brother,” Ivan replied, holding back his tears.
“There are many of us who cannot tolerate what they did to him,” Zinga continued. “And we are resolved to avenge him. Please follow me.”
Zinga guided Ivan to a secluded neighborhood of public housing all of which looked the same. Once they arrived in front of one of the buildings Zinga preceded Ivan up to the
third floor. There he took a tiny instrument out of his pocket and whistled three times. Then he knocked twice against the wooden door. After a while the door opened from the inside and they entered a meagerly lit living room where a forty-year-old man was waiting for them. The latter stood up, walked around his desk, and held out his hand to Ivan.
“Call me Ismaël,” he declared.
Ismaël was originally from India and came from the Muslim village of Rajani. He had a crown of smooth hair and wore flowing dark-colored clothes.
And that’s how Ivan was recruited into the Army of Shadows. They called the Army of Shadows those recruits who as members of the official militia had nothing better to do than thwart the plans of their military command and put a spanner in its works. Ivan therefore had to put on his uniform again and, pretending to eat humble pie, return to the Alfa Yaya barracks. On his return he was greeted by El Cobra in person and by his venomous smile.
“You’ve regained your senses.”
“Forgive me if I’ve been stupid.”
El Cobra’s smile broadened.
“I don’t hold it against you,” he said. “It’s not your fault. This Ali managed to dupe you sexually. Rachida, Oumi, and Esmeralda described to us the whole affair. Esmeralda had a camera hidden in her clothes and we were able to witness the crime.”
“Rachida, Oumi, and Esmeralda are spies then!” Ivan exclaimed in amazement.
El Cobra looked pleased with himself.
“They work for us. Let’s say they’ll service you the same way but this time it’ll be free.”
In the meantime El Hadj Mansour, the imam of the Kerfalla Mosque, was determined to marry Ivana. He already possessed three wives and seven children, which should have satisfied any man. But this chick from far away who babbled a bit of Bambara with her adorable accent and stretched out her long, naked legs in her white cotton shorts, that no woman in Mali would be seen wearing, got his blood flowing. It wouldn’t be the first time that a young beauty, having refused a suitor, changes her mind, provided the spurned suitor knows how to make her reconsider her decision. El Hadj Mansour could count on the help of Garifuna, a dibia from the Igbo country, who had been dragged to the outskirts of Kidal by the fortunes of life. His reputation was well established. He lived ten or so kilometers away on a semi-barren plateau where his mud-brick hut rose up, strange and mysterious. He was not a sorcerer, or an evil creature who unleashes the worst catastrophes on individuals provided he is paid to do so. He was rather a man who worked with both hands, the right and the left, the good and the bad. In other words he did both good and evil. In the midst of the cacti and wild grasses around his hut were jars of every height in which he locked up the spirits of the dead before they were allowed to slip inside newborn infants.
El Hadj Mansour arrived at nightfall, as certain deals are best made in darkness. Garifuna had no trouble recognizing him.
“You again! What brings you here this time?” he cried out.
“I need a woman.”
“Another one!” Garifuna guffawed. “You’re collecting them.”
El Hadj Mansour made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
“That’s life! Women are our only consolation on this earth inhabited by the wicked. That’s what the Koran teaches us.”
Thereupon he handed the dibia a sample of white percale and kola nuts he had brought by way of payment. Garifuna grabbed them then poured a concoction of plants he had taken from the jars on the shelves into a calabash, carefully washed his face, especially his eyes, lit seven candles, a fateful number, and began to chant softly a string of incomprehensible words.
After half an hour of this he gave a start, looked straight at El Hadj Mansour, and cried out, “This woman of yours is totally possessed by another man.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” El Hadj Mansour retorted. “That’s why I’ve come to see you. You’re clever enough to solve this problem. I trust you entirely.”
Garifuna relit two of the candles that had gone out and once again carefully washed his eyes. After a while he continued, “What I don’t understand is the nature of this man. He is not an ordinary lover. He was born with her and shares the same life.”
He remained silent, and once again peered into the invisible. Suddenly he uttered a cry.
“Does she have a twin brother?”
El Hadj Mansour didn’t have a clue. He had sometimes caught sight of Ivan in Lansana Diarra’s compound but had no idea of his relationship to Ivana.
“This business of yours seems extremely complicated,” he told El Hadj Mansour. “Make inquiries and come back to see me in four days’ time. There will be a full moon then and I’ll take advantage of the vapors transmitted by its light. I’ll know exactly what to do.”
“How much is all that going to cost me?” El Hadj Mansour asked worriedly.
“A lot,” Garifuna declared, lighting an oil lamp set on a low table. “As I said: it’s complicated.”
El Hadj Mansour traveled the ten kilometers back to Kidal lost in his thoughts. The moon which sat pale and imposing in the middle of the sky was not yet full. Its light transformed the dunes and cliffs into prehistoric animals that seemed about to pounce on travelers. But the imam was not afraid. He was too absorbed in his thoughts. He didn’t understand a thing. How could a sister be fully possessed by her brother? What did Garifuna mean when he said he shares the same life?
El Hadj Mansour was not naive. It’s just that in Mali incest is unknown and they are not used to the wild theories of psychiatrists and psychoanalysts.
He reached the gates of Kidal safe and sound. While driving past Lansana Diarra’s compound he caught sight of a small crowd at the entrance guarded by armed militia. He made inquiries and learned that the famous jazz singer Herbie Scott was singing together with Lansana and backed by the Grand Orchestra of Cairo. These types of musical fusion were hardly to El Hadj Mansour’s liking as he considered all music to have a distinct, particular, and foreign voice that does not necessarily match up with those of others. He parked his car, however, and entered the compound so as to observe what was going on. Refusing to sit in the VIP section, he chose a more discreet place from where he could watch the youngsters crowded to the left of the stage, including Ivan and Ivana. He had never noticed how alike those two were: the same sparkling, black, almond-shaped eyes, Ivana’s slightly more languishing; the same full lips, Ivan’s slightly pulpier; the same dimpled chins, Ivana’s slightly rounder. What was striking was that the twins moved in the same way, making identical gestures and expressions. At that moment the annoying El Hadj Amadou Cissé came and sat down presumptuously beside El Hadj Mansour and started up an insipid conversation. El Hadj Mansour was at his wits’ end and interrupted him.
“Lansana must be glad to have such lovely children.”
El Hadj Amadou Cissé made a face.
“He’s not as glad as all that, believe me. His son is a good-for-nothing. He refuses to go with the militia to the North where he’ll get better pay. Poor Lansana has to double his musical engagements in order to survive. Believe me, those twins are by no means a blessing.”
That was exactly what El Hadj Mansour wanted to know.
When the concert was over the audience gave the musicians a standing ovation. It was not a sign of appreciation, El Hadj Mansour thought, always prepared to criticize; the spectators simply wanted to show they had adopted Western ways.
Four days later El Hadj Mansour went back to see Garifuna. He found the dibia sitting outside his hut staring at the flames of a blazing fire.
“I’ve understood everything,” he said. “Bring me a spotless white hen and a red-feathered cockerel. Neither of them must be older than five months. I’ll work on them and probably make a purée you’ll mix with a pigeon pâté. You’ll serve them up to Lansana and his children when you invite them to dinner at your place, which shouldn’t be difficul
t.”
The time needed to obey his directives was fairly long, as was the time it took to convince Lansana and his children to come for dinner. In the meantime, Awa, El Hadj Mansour’s first wife, his bara muso, who was in charge of cooking the meal, threw out the jar her husband had given her because she didn’t like the color of the pâté. The affair therefore was a complete failure.
Ivan now had an excellent reason for never leaving Kidal or his father’s compound, where he was unhappy and fed up with this batch of brothers and sisters. The recruits of the Army of the Shadows, who deceptively wore the uniform of the militia, would meet every evening in the vast courtyard behind Ismaël’s lodging and were lectured to by a number of teachers. Ismaël was unquestionably the most brilliant of them all. His tone of speech was both smooth and peremptory.
“We are blamed for not liking music and outlawing it. That’s not true. We prize above all the silence which allows us to hear the voice of God. And any noise or sound that interferes must be silenced.”
Listening to Ismaël, Ivan recalled the words of Monsieur Jérémie and blamed himself for not paying more attention at the time. He had probably still been too young and too immature. The recruits sat down under a blue tarpaulin and took notes in identical notebooks. Standing on a small platform Ismaël and the other leading lights addressed them through a microphone and illustrated their talks by drawing on a blackboard that was, oddly, painted green. The topic of the first lesson was the Crusades. Ismaël demonstrated that they were the fundamental aggression committed by the West against Islam. The individual whom the West venerated as a martyr, King Louis IX of France, also known as Saint-Louis, was in fact the first agent of imperialism: an imperialism that has, since, constantly threatened the peace of the world.
