The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana

by Maryse Conde

  Ivan had no time to answer since he was pushed further along by a young woman entering the bus victoriously with a stroller.

  Every time he had been hurt, his sole refuge had been the arms of his sister. The police training school on the boulevard Brune was housed in an elegant, modern building, all glass and concrete. Ivan crossed the lobby, whose walls were covered with photos of police officers going peacefully about their daily duties such as helping children cross the road, pushing the disabled in wheelchairs, and assisting families as they climbed into small boats during floods. There was even a photo of a group of officers playing in an orchestra.

  Upon hearing the reason for his visit the eyes of the wishy-washy white receptionist lit up and he complimented Ivana Némélé for being so charming and so well-mannered. After a while Ivana in person appeared and it’s true she looked gorgeous in the dark-green bubble jacket she wore over her uniform.

  “Life is treating you well, Snow White?” the receptionist asked her, smiling smugly.

  “Very well, thank you,” Ivana replied, taking the arm of her brother, who, amazed, lowered his voice to ask her, “You let him call you Snow White?”

  “It’s an in-joke,” she explained calmly. “It’s quite innocent. You mustn’t make the mistake of seeing racism everywhere.”

  She led him to a bar close by called Le Bastingage (The Ship’s Rail). Once inside, the meaning of such a strange name became evident. The walls were covered with photos of happy, smiling travelers standing on the decks of ocean liners as they passed on the open sea. In fact Le Bastingage belonged to a former employee of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, who had opened it on retirement. It was filled with regular customers. Some were playing darts, others were playing cards or dominoes. This family atmosphere reminded Ivan of the bars in Dos d’ne where the regulars used to slam down their domino pieces on the deal tables.

  A waiter asked Ivana if she wanted a coffee: “What will it be? A little black one as usual?”

  This time Ivan didn’t even bother to take offense and kept his thoughts to himself. He described as best he could the conversation he had just had with Henri Duvignaud. After listening she firmly shook her head.

  “Above all don’t get mixed up in this business,” she urged. “I immediately saw through that lawyer, whose only ambition is self-promotion and who risks dragging you into dangerous territory. Tortured? Whatever next? You’d think we are in the middle of the Algerian war when the police followed the orders of a panicky government who didn’t know which way to turn. On the contrary, the police are here to support and assist the destitute and protect them from danger.”

  Ivan didn’t dare protest, for ever since they had arrived in France he felt he and his sister were growing apart. She was increasingly occupied by her studies, her new colleagues, and her new lifestyle. Whereas he was left to his own devices, his hands filled with ashes.

  After a while a trio entered the bar: two young guys and a young girl dressed like Ivana, all in dark-green bubble jackets over their uniforms. They sat down at the twins’ table without asking for permission and Ivana introduced Ivan to them.

  “So you’re the famous twin brother?” Aldo, one of the guys with a large square face under a head of straight, brown hair, asked. “I, too, have a twin sister but our story is quite different. We loathed each other ever since our mother’s womb, so to speak. At the age of sixteen she met an Indian from Goa who had come to Paris to perfect his French. She married him and they left together. I can’t get it out of my head that she didn’t love him and merely wanted to put an ocean between me and her.”

  Everyone burst out laughing. The conversation then turned to small talk about the school. The students were all excited about the simulation of an attack they had just practiced.

  Ivan tried to show an interest. But what they were talking about was not for real. It was pretense, fiction, a game. Mansour’s death was well and truly for real. Nothing would bring him back.

  One of the members of the group proposed going for dinner in a local Korean restaurant. They entered a plain dining room crowded with customers who were visibly concerned about expense. Simple pleasures for simple people. Ivan, who had known ultra-sophisticated restaurants, found the food tasteless. He was obliged, however, to pretend he was enjoying his meal and join in the general conversation. Deep down, he felt that Ivana was being treated with a shocking, patronizing familiarity. Aldo openly flirted with her, and Ivan suffered no end from being excluded by this intimacy, from not understanding the jokes, and not laughing at the innuendos.

  Around 10 p.m. he returned home on the regional express metro with Ivana. Men and women slept on the seats, tired out. Was this the life he had dreamed of? Oh yes, the world had to be destroyed and started all over again.

  If Ivana hoped, however, that Ivan would get rid of Henri Duvignaud, she was mistaken. Two days later the lawyer telephoned Ivan to invite him to go together to the refugee camp in Cambrésis. For years Cambrésis, like Calais, had been an open sore on the face of France. Right- as well as left-wing governments had tried to eradicate it to no avail. Crammed in together, Eritreans, Somalis, Comorians, and West Africans were all galvanized by the dream of reaching England, where they believed they would find work and lodging.

  “Why do you want me to come with you to such a place?” Ivan asked in surprise.

  Henri Duvignaud remained unruffled, and explained, “The government has got it into its head to evacuate the camp and transfer it to a tent city a few kilometers away. There, it claims everyone will be safe, with schools for children and a dispensary. Those who are asking for political asylum in France will be given work. They claim this new village will be more fitting for genuine human beings.”

  “That sounds great,” Ivan exclaimed. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I want you to see for yourself the divorce between words and actions,” Henri hammered out. “The police will be in charge of evacuating the migrants at Cambrésis whether they like or not. Forcefully, if need be. So you will understand that what happened to your cousin is not the fruit of my deranged imagination.”

  Ivan preferred not to tell Ivana of his plans and, after a sleepless night, he decided to accept Henri Duvignaud’s invitation. The lawyer came to pick him up at eight in the morning at the wheel of a Renault Mégane, dressed to the nines as usual and wearing a dark-gray fedora. Duvignaud took the opportunity to accept a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee from Mona, who claimed it was the best in the world. As usual, she didn’t fail to recollect her past. Draped in her yellow striped kimono she dwelled at length on the glory of her younger years and even went so far as to sing one of Francis Cabrel’s songs: “La dame de Haute-Savoie.” When she decided to end it, Henri Duvignaud showered her with compliments.

  They finally managed to take their leave.

  “I hate motorways,” Henri declared, driving out of the parking lot. “The byroads will take longer but be less monotonous.”

  Ivan didn’t mind as he hadn’t once left the Paris region since his arrival. Despite himself he was overjoyed at this unexpected excursion. Although it was winter some of the trees were still draped in green. The towns and villages they drove through seemed poor but nevertheless welcoming. Exceptionally, it wasn’t raining. An unexpected sun shone in the midst of a pale blue sky.

  Shortly before noon they reached Cambrésis. Suddenly the wind got up and blew away all the clouds. Cambrésis was nothing more than two or three parallel streets lined with dilapidated building facades. In the distance you could make out a flat, languid sea whose waves rolled up and died along kilometers of beach strewn with sagging dunes like the breasts of ageing women. By comparison Ivan remembered the sunny, lively beaches of his childhood to which he had paid so little attention. Alas, that’s how he was. He attached no importance to what he possessed. Because of his carelessness and recklessness Alix and Cristina had been k
illed. Sometimes he remembered Cristina’s body welcoming him into her arms and he too wanted to die.

  Once upon a time the refugee camp at Cambrésis consisted solely of two gymnasiums kindly lent by the municipality. Now it spread for miles and miles and nothing seemed to stop its advance. Under the winter sky rows of patched-up wooden and corrugated-iron shacks sat lopsided along the narrow alleys awash with a reddish mud that stuck to the soles of your shoes. The migrants were dressed in odds and ends visibly supplied by the goodwill of their sympathizers. Just as many police officers paraded back and forth with a threatening air. Nevertheless, Ivan did not witness any act of brutality. The police behaved rather like mentors, carrying young children in their arms and helping the old to walk.

  Henri Duvignaud and Ivan soon began to attract attention.

  “Who are you?” one of the police officers asked, rushing up to them. “This is no place for journalists.”

  “We are not journalists,” Henri protested, and explained he was the founding president of La Main Ouverte, a humanitarian charity.

  La Main Ouverte’s headquarters was situated on a small square, oddly named Aux Bourgeois de Calais. In a rudimentarily furnished room, a group of French people sat among a handful of migrants on chairs placed in a semicircle around a long table. On seeing Henri Duvignaud, one of the French guys, with white hair and a Father Christmas beard, quickly stood up and said in a reproachful tone of voice, “We were expecting you much earlier. Most of our migrants had to obey orders and have already left the camp.”

  Henri Duvignaud sat down behind the table and began to speak.

  Constantly haunted by the feeling of being excluded, Ivan found a chair at the back of the room. He had no idea what was going on around him. Suddenly a young man sitting next to him introduced himself with a smile: “My name is Ulysses Témerlan. And you?”

  “Ivan Némélé, and I come from Guadeloupe.”

  “Guadeloupe? Are there migrants from Guadeloupe?” Ulysses asked. “I’m from Somalia. I come from a village called Mangara. My father was the school principal, which explains why my name’s Ulysses and my brother’s Dedalus.”

  The names Ulysses and Dedalus meant nothing to Ivan, who had never heard of James Joyce. He was struck by his neighbor’s handsomeness. Ulysses was over six feet tall, and the regular features of his face were crowned by a head of curly hair. Despite his wretched attire, a kind of beige-colored parka and a pair of trousers too short for him, he looked radiant. Since Henri Duvignaud never stopped talking of incomprehensible matters and kept opening numerous files, Ivan and Ulysses preferred to go outside. Ulysses ordered a beer in a bar next door.

  “You drink alcohol?” Ivan said reproachfully. “You’re not a Muslim then?”

  Ulysses shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sure I’m a Muslim but, you know, I don’t go for all this holier-than-thou business. I’d very much like to visit Guadeloupe. You’ll never believe me but when I was small I had an elementary school teacher who came from Vieux-Habitants. She had us learn by rote: ‘I was born on an island in love with the wind where the air shimmers with sugar and cinnamon.’ Or something like that. Do you know that poem?”

  No, Ivan had never heard of Daniel Thaly. Ulysses, however, was not listening since he was an out-and-out chatterbox and lost in his recollections.

  “Mangara, the village where I was born, is a genuine marvel. It dates back to the sixteenth century. I still dream of it at night. Imagine houses hollowed out from the cliff and donkeys carrying their loads up the steep lanes. On Saturdays there was a cattle market, and as children we used to go and tease the huge cows with reddish eyes.

  “Unfortunately, when I was ten my father died. They say he was poisoned by jealous neighbors. I’ll never know the truth. All I know is after that my mother, who had no means of her own, had to leave for Mogadishu and take refuge at her sister’s. That’s when the nightmare began. My brother, cousins, and I attempted to make money by every means imaginable. We stole anything we could. Once, we robbed a group of foreigners who were sailing round the world in their luxury yacht and had stopped off following an engine breakdown; they had taken pity on us and regularly bought our fruit and vegetables. Tired of living a life of misery, my cousins emigrated to Europe. After two years of tribulations they miraculously reached England and invited us to join them since they had found work. Work! From that moment on, my brother and I took it into our heads to leave.

  “Dedalus and I set off for Libya, where we were told there were hundreds of boats leaving for Europe. Alas, Libya was in a state of chaos. Coming out of a bar during a brawl, my brother was killed and I had to take to sea all on my own. I’ve been going round in circles here for three years.

  “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve tried to reach England, but I’ve always been turned back. It won’t happen again as I’ve given up trying.”

  “You’ve made up your mind to stay in France, then?” Ivan said in astonishment. “Are you going to ask for political asylum?”

  Ulysses made a face.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Why did Ivan get the impression that Ulysses was hiding something from him? It became even more pronounced when they returned to the meeting room and Ulysses asked Henri Duvignaud to take him back to Paris.

  “Paris?” Henri Duvignaud asked in amazement.

  “Yes,” Ulysses answered offhandedly. “Some friends have invited me to spend a few days with them on the boulevard Voltaire, but you can let me off anywhere you like and I’ll manage on my own.”

  A few days later, despite his lack of enthusiasm, Ivan had to accept Mona’s offer to work for the Marcellin Berthelot College. Instead of being posted to the canteen as previously discussed, he was made to join the most arduous of services, the cleaning department. He had to scrub the classroom floors, empty the trash bins, refill the chalk boxes, and coat the blackboards with a kind of varnish. The worst job was sweeping the ice-cold recreation yards that the frost had made slippery and dangerous. Since all this work had to be completed before the students arrived and before the gates opened at 8 a.m. it meant that Ivan had to get up at the crack of dawn, down a cup of Blue Mountain coffee, or perhaps not, and, shivering from the cold, walk across the windswept parking lots of the André Malraux housing estate and through the awakening streets to the college.

  His life was beyond understanding. Once again he wondered why he had refused to become an apprentice to a chocolate maker only to end up in this wretched situation. When he lived in Guadeloupe his heart beat with happy anticipation. What had happened? Why did bad luck never loosen its grip? He had no friends: nobody he could count on and nobody in whom he could confide his distress. Ivana seemed to grow further and further away. The most she did was to give him a double-quick peck on his forehead in the morning and another one in the evening before locking herself up in her room. He could no longer put up with the constant reprimands from Hugo, and especially from Mona who, since she had found him a job, thought she could order him about.

  On Fridays Ivan made his way piously to the Radogan Mosque, named after its imam. He didn’t go just to pray since he was engaged in constant conversation with this God who had created him and now seemed to have forgotten him. Why did He tolerate the evil and wickedness of the living? He could never get this question out of his head. He liked to go to the mosque because he loved mixing with this humble crowd of men who prostrated themselves in the direction of Mecca. During these moments he felt his solitude melt away. He got the impression of joining a fellowship of brothers who were as destitute and vulnerable as he was and who were hoping that one day happiness would finally arrive.

  One Friday a new imam made an appearance. Unlike Imam Radogan, a colorless individual who could hardly speak French, the new imam cut a fine figure. He looked a lot like Ulysses: brown skin, straight black hair, sparkling eyes, and a strong, powerful voice. Ivan was soo
n bombarded with information about him because you can’t imagine the gossip that is rumored around in places of worship. In the mosque’s refreshment room no subject was left unturned by the faithful while they sipped their mint tea. The new imam was called Amiri Kapoor. He came from Pakistan and had lived for a long time in Kano, the holy city in northern Nigeria.

  Ivan had been deeply moved by his sermon.

  “Take control of your life,” the imam had declared in a vibrant voice. “Refuse to be treated with contempt, to be snubbed as if you were children, good-for-nothings. By every means possible, and I repeat by every means, we must destroy the world around us, and on the ruins build a more hospitable haven for mankind.”

  This wasn’t the first time Ivan had heard this type of discourse. But that day it had a particular resonance for him. He felt invested with renewed energy, prepared to brave everything. How he would have liked to talk to this imam. Unfortunately, when he pushed open the door to the waiting room a dozen devotees were already seated in line and he left disappointed.

  It was that same evening he received a call from Ulysses inviting him to dinner. Ulysses had kept his word: he had left the camp at Cambrésis and found a job in Paris. Ivan was jealous. Finding a job in Paris, and well-paid into the bargain, was nothing short of miraculous. He would never have such luck. Although he had no inclination to continue his friendship with this lapsed Muslim who drank alcohol, he accepted the invitation, knowing full well how miserable his evenings were at the André Malraux housing estate. Ivana would lock herself up in her room with her typewritten notes and her class books. Hugo sooner or later would go and meet one of his Guyanese friends. All that was left was the company of Mona, who put on simpering airs and hummed little songs. Or else he would watch silly films on the television.

  Contrary to expectations Ivan began to take a liking to Paris. He knew he would never conquer this city and there would never be a place for him. Yet its energy at all hours, day and night, was as stimulating as a drug. Every one of its boulevards whispered a catchy tune in his ear that made him want to dance. Everything was so different from gloomy Villeret-le-François. Passersby seemed more open-minded and happier. It was as if he was in love with a woman whose beauty and virtues made her inaccessible.