by Maryse Conde
On hearing what they had said, Ivan leapt up.
“They’ll have nothing better to do,” he cried, “than to hand me over to the militia and pocket the reward.”
Alix firmly shook his head.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you but they know nothing of what you did in Kidal nor that you’re wanted by the militia. People watch television without recalling what they’ve seen. They’ll take you as far as Niamey, where you’ll easily take a flight for France. Once you’ve arrived you’ll write to your sister and have her come and join you.”
Contrary to appearances, the trio was devastated. Ivan was going to leave. What would Alix and Cristina become, deprived of his youth, his beauty, and his ardor? The time left to them was spent sunk in deep despair.
The day before Rahiri and Ousmane were to come and pick him up, Alix took Ivan into a small, padlocked room at the back of the house. He slid open a panel and revealed a veritable war arsenal of machine guns, rifles, and revolvers. On seeing Ivan’s amazement, he explained.
“You know I’m against all forms of violence. But I wasn’t going to live in such an isolated spot all alone with a handicapped wife. In the event of an attack, I have to at least make a pretense of being able to defend myself.”
Thereupon he handed Ivan a Luger which Ivan carefully replaced in its black leather holster.
“Take this, too,” he continued, handing him a heavy envelope. “You’ll need it.”
The envelope contained a bundle of dollars. Ivan wondered how he could find words to thank him enough. He understood now what Adam must have felt when he was chased out of his earthly paradise. The Last Resort had been a haven of peace from which fate was now shouldering him out to continue down the chaotic and grim path of his life.
During these four weeks Ivan had been on intimate terms with two exceptional individuals and lived together a deep and complex relationship. Alix and Cristina knew nothing about him and yet they had opened their arms to him. Would he ever see them again? Perhaps never on this earth. Perhaps in that invisible other world religion promises us.
The following day Rahiri and Ousmane knocked on the door of The Last Resort at four in the morning. In spite of his grief, Alix in his generosity had made them sandwiches for the road. Cristina was sobbing and showering Ivan’s cheeks with kisses.
Alix, however, had got it thoroughly wrong. Rahiri and Ousmane knew perfectly well who Ivan was and were fully aware of the rich reward for his capture. As soon as they had traveled a certain distance from The Last Resort they grabbed Ivan, savagely tied his wrists and heels with strong hemp cords, slipped a thick woolen hood over his head so that his shouts couldn’t be heard, and headed for Kidal to hand him over to the militia.
Little did Alix know, moreover, that these two crooks planned to reveal the hiding place where Ivan had taken refuge and had made a perfect sketch of The Last Resort for the benefit of Abdouramane Sow.
And what about Ivana, you are asking? What has become of her? We haven’t heard from her for some time. Forgive me, dear reader. It’s because she is not involved in this business as much as her brother. We were afraid that the description of her schedule at the Sundjata Keita Orphanage would make boring reading: Six in the morning—wake the infants and potty practice. Breakfast—millet cereal and sorghum biscuits. Followed by long, stimulating exercises to awaken the children’s intelligence. Lunch—millet cereal, smoked fish, hard-boiled eggs, and ginger-flavored drink. Afternoon siesta and then educational games. Children’s book-reading session. Free time. 8 p.m.—bedtime.
You see, this routine is not very appealing. Yet on second thoughts we realize there are a number of things missing from our description. For example, we haven’t mentioned Ivana’s reaction to Lansana’s death. Unlike her brother, Ivana was very fond of her father. She had even come to realize that his absence during her childhood had made her feel vulnerable and insecure and had cast a shadow over those years. Whereas Ivan had left the house whenever he liked, to go and play games with ruffians like himself—games that lasted hours, after which he would come home covered with cuts and bumps and torn clothes—she had stayed home with her mother, quietly reading books borrowed from the school library. Likewise, she considered Ivan responsible for the state of her mother, who came home from work exhausted and, with heavy legs, slumped into a chair to get her breath back before busying herself to get dinner ready. All this bitterness, all this tension, had vanished when she saw Lansana at the airport and he had tenderly called her “my daughter.” From that moment on, her sole concern was to remain loyal to what he expected of her. Consequently when Lansana died she cried a lot and was deeply moved by the condolences from friends and family.
By way of a tribute she decided to continue his work, and with the help of the Jean Belucci Foundation, named after the Swiss philanthropist who had bequeathed his massive fortune to the country, she created the audio archives known as Sounds of Mali. It involved not only identifying the living griots and listing their most successful praise songs but also researching the dead griots who in their time had made a lasting impression on their community and created works of importance. In order to do this, Ivana traveled to remote villages and endeavored to flush out any hidden talent.
We didn’t say much about Ivana either when her brother decided to move in with Aminata Traoré. Like everyone else, she had heard the rumors going around about Ivan and had suffered a lot. She knew full well he was by no means a homosexual and could have explained the reasons for his behavior towards women. She was, however, obliged to keep silent. In fact, what is more reprehensible for the common mortal? To be homosexual or incestuous? Hypocritical are those who claim not to know that every family is a knot of vipers, as François Mauriac so justly wrote. The father covets and rapes his daughter. The brother lusts after his sister. As for the mother-and-son relationship, everyone knows about that. The decision to live with Aminata seemed to Ivana to be an effective subterfuge and left her in peace and happiness for a few months.
When her brother decided to marry Aminata, although she had encouraged him to contract the marriage, Ivana thought deep down that he was going too far. The fact that Aminata was pregnant, it seemed, was not a deciding factor. At Dos d’ne one child out of two did not know their father. If a child did know his name, he was like a god worshiped from afar.
The fatal blow came when she discovered that Ivan had become a terrorist and had probably taken part in the assassination of El Cobra.
Suddenly everything turned to ashes. Where was Ivan? Where was he hiding? Had he managed to reach Niamey so he could get to France, as he said in the letter he had scribbled her? In utter despair she went to see Malaika, a well-known clairvoyant, so as to penetrate destiny’s secrets. Malaika lived in the Kisimu Banco neighborhood, a district we have already mentioned, and came from Benin, a country known for its seers and sorcerers. She had lived for a long time in the Paris suburbs and attended to the careers of famous right-wing politicians. When they were beaten in the last elections, she had found herself in dire straits and had to come and live with her sister in Mali. Malaika was a woman with an ample figure, no less than a hundred kilos, but nevertheless one who moved with an agile grace.
Like all those who claim to penetrate the secrets of the invisible world, she lit a good dozen candles, remained silent for a moment, then declared, “I can see only blood, blood all around me. In order to know where it comes from and why, you must bring me some money.”
Thereupon she announced such a large sum of money that Ivana jumped. How could she manage to collect such an amount? She only knew down-and-outs and penniless griots, rich merely in musical chords. She stumbled out of Malaika’s hut determined never to approach her again.
We have already described the Kisimu Banco neighborhood as being filthy, overcrowded, and noisy with all sorts of music from the Third World. You could hear reggae and salsa mixed in with snatches of hi
p-hop and gloomy rap recitations. Men in search of a one-night stand solicited this pretty girl who seemed unafraid of the night.
It was the following morning that the police came to arrest Ivana. Very politely they took her to the SUV where Aminata was already sitting. The two women hugged each other in tears while Aminata whispered, “Aïssata told me not to trust him because he kept company with the wrong type of people.”
On the afternoon of her arrest, while Ivana was languishing in her cell, in burst Abdouramane Sow. She knew Abdouramane. She had done nothing to attract the attention of this admirer who already had two wives, one of whom was very pretty and came from Mogadishu. One day when she had gone to the Alfa Yaya barracks to admire the militia’s military exercises, she had caught his eye. He had insisted on inviting her together with her brother Ivan to have a glass of bissap fruit juice at his place, full of luxurious furnishings: white leather sofas mismatched with purple leather sofas as well as rich tapestries hanging from the walls.
“He’s one of our best recruits!” Sow had said at the time, casting a flattering eye at Ivan.
Ivana, who was only too aware how much her brother loathed military postures, was surprised by this remark. But Abdouramane Sow had already jumped to another subject and was describing the years he had spent in Haiti.
“It’s a wonderful island,” he declared, “whose creativity is a constant delight. In the markets of Port-au-Prince they sell naive paintings. Have you heard of naive art?”
Neither Ivan nor Ivana could find an answer to this question. In Guadeloupe they had rubbed shoulders with a good many Haitians who were not painters but miserable wretches, exploited and humiliated by their leaders and forced into servile jobs in order to survive. Vica, Lansana’s companion, had also described to them a picture of her people’s suffering.
Abdouramane continued.
“In Haiti, art is a magic potion which, despite the ups and downs of life, provides strength and courage to those who drink it.”
Despite her not saying a word during this visit, Ivana had become an object of passion for Abdouramane. He had even gone so far as to ask for her hand from Lamine Diarra, who since Lansana’s death served as elder in the compound.
The evening he entered Ivana’s cell Abdouramane looked extremely serious.
“You are free,” he told Ivana, pointing to the door of her cell.
Free? She looked at him in amazement. Staring at her with blazing eyes, he went on, “I love you too much to hurt you. Go home.”
“Does that mean my brother is innocent?” Ivana asked.
Abdouramane shook his head in all seriousness.
“No, he is guilty and we have proof.”
Ivana then returned to the Diarra compound where nobody was expecting her and where some were already overjoyed at her imprisonment. From that moment on she lived in limbo, dressing mechanically, eating likewise, and looking after her infant charges without seeing them. In order to share her solitude, every evening she would dine melancholically with Aminata, who now attributed every virtue to Ivan. Going by what Aminata said, Ivan was affectionate, considerate, and always ready to make love. Ivana, who knew perfectly well this was all a pack of lies, didn’t even trouble to contradict her. Assailed by a host of other thoughts, she ended up asking her, “Did you notice any change in his behavior? Did it seem he was becoming more radical?”
Aminata gestured her ignorance.
“Radical? What does that mean? He conducted himself like a good Muslim, that’s all. He never missed a prayer. He would read the Koran. If you could only see the comments he made on the copy he left behind. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t drink, and he gave to charity. Is that being radical?”
Ivana was none the wiser. She would walk back home through the dark, deserted streets and arrive late at the Diarra compound, which never sleeps. Until the early hours of the morning it throbbed with life and noise. Some would play the kora to accompany their traditional songs. Others played checkers or card games such as belote. High-pitched exclamations would fly through the air.
“Belote! Rebelote! Hearts are trumps!”
Others sadly discussed the topic which was on everyone’s minds: the flight of migrants to Europe given the state of Africa.
“And while they welcome some with open arms,” they moaned, “they want nothing to do with us. They claim our countries are not at war. But what’s the difference between being killed by bombs that drop from the sky and starving to death? It’s racism over and over again.”
All these conversations stopped when Ivana appeared because some of them cherished her and felt sorry for her. Unfortunately she was insensitive to these marks of respect and affection. All she wanted to do was shut herself up in her room, to wait for the burst of thunder that would once again devastate her life. And that’s what eventually happened.
One evening she returned home earlier than usual, went to bed without dinner, and tried to get to sleep. For her, sleep provided neither rest nor relaxation. It was merely a hedge against the terrible suffering she endured day in, day out. It must have been around midnight when Magali, her servant, came into the room, lit the bedside lamp, and, leaning over her, whispered in an urgent voice, “Sister, sister, wake up. Monsieur Abdouramane Sow is here asking for you.”
Stupefied, Ivana sat up, opened her misty eyes, and stammered, “Abdouramane Sow? Did you say Abdouramane Sow?”
The servant nodded.
“What shall I tell him, sister?” she asked.
“Go and see what he wants,” Ivana said, bewildered.
But she didn’t have time to slip on her dressing gown or get up before Abdouramane had already forced his way into her room and shoved Magali out. For the first time, Ivana saw him without his military uniform, dressed in a white gandoura which hugged his athletic build. A silky beard covered his cheeks. His hair curled slightly, the probable legacy of a Tuareg ancestor. He was undeniably a very handsome man, she realized.
“I have your brother on my hands,” he said.
“My brother!” Ivana exclaimed, dumbfounded.
“Two crooks have just called to say they captured him while he was trying to escape to Niamey. They’ll hand him over in exchange for the ransom that was promised. Then I’ll give him to the militia who will inflict the punishment he deserves. Is that what you want?”
Ivana burst into tears and shook her head.
“No, of course not; you know full well that’s not what I want.”
“So? What do you want?” Abdouramane asked, shooting her a jet-black look.
Once again we have very little reliable information as to what happened next. Ivan and Ivana’s departure from Mali is the subject of so much hearsay and fabrication that it’s impossible to get a clear picture. What we do know for certain is that on the morning following this visit Abdouramane Sow did not turn up at the Alfa Yaya barracks, which was hardly surprising. It was a Friday and we know that on mosque days he spent several hours praying, reading his Koran, and making rounds in the poorest neighborhoods to distribute alms. In the early afternoon, three or four jeeps loaded with armed militia drove off on one of the southern routes. Passersby anxiously gazed after them. Where was this convoy going? To fight the jihadists? Did we have to expect yet again more dead?
The day after, in the predawn hours, it was the turn of Barthélemy, Abdouramane’s personal chauffeur, to take the southern route as well, at the wheel of a Range Rover. Since the car windows were tinted you couldn’t see who was inside. Nevertheless, we are certain it was Ivan and Ivana.
Barthélemy was not only Abdouramane’s personal chauffeur. This Haitian had been in Abdouramane’s service ever since he had worked for the MINUSTAH in Port-au-Prince, and had carted along his mistresses and delivered the young girls he had coveted. He had followed him when Abdouramane had returned to Mali.
Barthélemy and his mysterious ca
rgo, although not mysterious to us, drove for three or four hours, before stopping to sleep in one of those rudimentary caravanserais which provide travelers with a basic meal. The customers stared at Ivan, wondering where they had seen that face. Nobody could say they recognized him for sure. Consequently, the mustache, beard, and sideburns he had grown were of little use, if only to give him the look of a pimp, much like Sese Seko in A Season in the Congo by Aimé Césaire.
Strangely enough, Ivan was deeply disappointed. He would have loved to strut about and boast to everyone that he was the one who had dared attack El Cobra and flout the entire country. The fact he was forced to hide deprived him of the bravery and audacity of his act.
Our three travelers crossed the border at the Kifuma checkpoint where the police and customs officers stamped their laissez-passer nonchalantly. From there, they reached Niamey in a few hours. Unlike Timbuktu, the Pearl of the Desert, Niamey had never been a major stopover for the caravans. It had never seen long lines of camels, their flanks loaded with treasures destined for the sultanates of North Africa. In fact, its recent prosperity was barely a century old.
The Range Rover headed for the airport as Abdouramane had urged Barthélemy to put Ivan and Ivana on the first plane to Paris. Alas, they were met with an unpleasant surprise. Air France, true to form, was on strike. You know when a strike begins but you never know when it will end. Our three travelers, therefore, had to take refuge in the so-called Waterloo Hotel, a one-star, shabby-looking edifice that matched their modest means.
We haven’t described Ivan and Ivana’s behavior since their reunion because there is nothing extraordinary to tell. After so many weeks of separation and anxiety, after so much repressed desire, their happiness at being reunited overwhelmed them. Their only reaction was to hug each other and reel off a rosary of sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Barthélemy, who knew nothing of their liaison, took them to be a couple of lovers in the early stages of their passion. Ironically, he recalled a well-known song from the Caribbean: “Beware of Falling in Love on This Earth for When Love Vanishes Only Tears Are Left.”
