The Wondrous and Tragic Life of Ivan and Ivana

by Maryse Conde

  Professor Eisenfeld had explained to Henri Duvignaud that these different occurrences were purely mechanical. They implied nothing sexual or pleasurable. It was perhaps merely a way of sharing their flow of vital energy. The moment of birth had not helped matters since it had caused a deep trauma by conferring distinct lives on Ivan and Ivana. They had kept the habits and nostalgia of a time when they lived in close communion. In fact they dreamed of nothing better than to return to this blissful period.

  Are you more or less convinced now? But, you will object, if that’s true, why did Ivan kill Ivana? On that point Henri Duvignaud became less categorical and more hesitant. His words became confused. He advanced into unknown territory, largely composed of suppositions. Ever since the world has existed, poets and philosophers of every nationality have repeated over and over again that love and death are one and the same and conjure up the same notion of the absolute. They are impermeable to the whims of time, public opinion, and the ups and downs of life. The Guadeloupeans in their wisdom have understood it full well since the two words lanmou (love) and lanmò (death) are separated by the flip of a single vowel. Ivan and Ivana, unable to lose themselves in each other in the flesh, believed that death could be the only way out. Ivan wanted to prove their eternal love by giving it, and Ivana by accepting it.

  Are you fully convinced? Perhaps not. Some of you will consider that all they needed to do was make love together. Let’s not go back over that: because they couldn’t. Their education forbade them.

  We have said over and over again that the attack at Villeret-le-François aroused sharp disapproval throughout the world, in India, Indonesia, Australia, and England, to name just a few countries, and was called The Second Massacre of the Innocents, alluding to an episode in the Bible. Even those who, deep down, detest the police and privately call them “pigs” or “murderers” were profoundly shocked by the fatal blow they had been dealt. The description of this infamous day made headlines in all the papers. That’s how it landed in the hands of Aïssata Traoré, who you may recall was the cousin of Ivan’s wife. On reading the Canadian daily Devoir, she dropped the cup of coffee she was drinking in amazement. Aïssata Traoré had resigned from an important job at McGill University in Montreal and gone to teach in a small college in Chicoutimi. Now that she was in a smaller town, she had plenty of time to devote to her favorite occupation: writing vicious political pamphlets. She had recently published two essays one after the other, both of which had caused a sensation: “The West and Us” and “Terrorism from the Victory at Bouvines in 1214 to the Present Day.” She had dyed her hair red to prove that black women are free like the rest of us to choose the color of their hair, but that’s another story.

  Although she led an intense sexual life, the night she spent with Ivan remained unique for evermore in her memory. Seldom had such a partner seemed so gentle, so considerate, and so strangely child-like. She quickly grabbed her phone and called her cousin in Kidal. The latter was in tears, half in a daze. Somebody had painted scarlet graffiti over her house: Wife of Assassin = Assassin. As a result she no longer went out. The day before yesterday she had gone to the state store to buy two kilos of broken rice and had been physically and verbally abused by customers furious at seeing her come and go as she pleased. Her son’s nurse no longer dared take little Fadel out for his walk since people formed a crowd behind her and tried to throw stones in his stroller.

  “It can’t go on like this. They’ll end up killing you,” Aïssata exclaimed, aghast. “You must leave Mali.”

  “Where do you want me to go?” the unfortunate Aminata moaned. “We haven’t a single friend or relative under the sun.”

  “Let me think it over,” Aïssata replied. “I’ll call you back.”

  During the next several days Aïssata moved heaven and earth and did the rounds among her relations. All in vain. Nobody wanted to be mixed up with a jihadist who had finally got what he deserved. It was then she came across the name of Henri Duvignaud, who was often mentioned in the French press. He alone would dare take on the defense of Ivan, protected by his profession. It so happened that Aïssata and Henri Duvignaud had known each other long ago when they were students in Paris and both attended classes at the prestigious Political Science School on the rue Saint-Guillaume. They had even started to flirt once over a cup of tea.

  Aïssata bombarded Henri Duvignaud with emails, text messages, and WhatsApps. He finally answered and, despite the distance, they both agreed they would endeavor to clear Ivan’s name and explain how a little Guadeloupean had found himself mixed up in affairs which he perhaps didn’t fully understand, without lapsing into hagiography or idealizing him. What form would their defense take? Perhaps they would co-write a book that would be edited by a major publisher. Henri Duvignaud boasted that he had connections with Gallimard, Grasset, and Le Seuil. After much discussion Henri Duvignaud left a simple word on Aïssata’s cell phone: “Come!”

  Aïssata and Aminata met up again in an Apart-Hotel on rue Léonard-de-Vinci in the aristocratic sixteenth neighborhood of Paris. Whereas Aïssata adored this city and dreamed of settling down here, Aminata, who was visiting for the first time, took an immediate dislike to it. She was not at all taken by its avenues filled with gleaming cars or its tall buildings, so tall they blocked the sky. Where was the sun, the moon, the stars? Vanished. All day long people and objects were bathed in the same yellowish, diffused light. One evening her footsteps took her to the banks of the Seine. She cried at seeing this river humiliated, obliged to flow between rigid embankments of stone and iron.

  We shouldn’t be surprised if Aïssata was able to lodge in these luxurious surroundings, for on the quiet she was rolling in money. A Canadian banker known for his extreme right-wing ideas had financed her handsomely for years. She kept this liaison secret for two reasons. Firstly, she didn’t want to add her name to the sad list of black women who marry white men or make love to them. Secondly, her extreme left-wing ideas obliged her to dissimulate her behavior. Yet it was thanks to her lover’s money that she had gone to India and written about the condition of women and the Untouchables. It was also thanks to his money that several of her books had attacked the dictatorships in certain Arab countries and in particular had denounced on many occasions her favorite topic of Europe’s damaging politics.

  Aminata and Aïssata flung themselves into each other’s arms. They both recollected their connection to the handsome, muscular Ivan. On the other hand they forgot entirely about Ivana, who they perceived as a formidable rival and sensed was in full possession of her brother’s heart. It had been some time since Aïssata had seen little Fadel, who was going on for two. He looked like his father with his almond-shaped eyes and full lips over an attractive mouth. But Fadel’s looks and smile had turned mawkish and over-sentimental, unlike the gentleness which had characterized Ivan. It was obvious Fadel would never become an avenging warrior. Aïssata would have liked for Ivan’s son not to be a loser like his father before him.

  The day after they arrived, Henri Duvignaud came to pick up the two women for dinner. He had booked a table at the Astoria, a smart seafood restaurant situated close by. Before leaving, he clasped Aminata’s hands.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said softly. “Aïssata and I will do everything we possibly can to clear his memory and explain why Ivan became a terrorist.”

  Aminata wriggled herself free.

  “My husband was not a terrorist,” she cried. “Don’t you ever speak of him in those terms.”

  Aïssata managed to calm her cousin and the dinner went off without further incident. The three guests even reached a sort of agreement. Eating his coconut ice cream, Henri Duvignaud murmured sadly, “We’re all of the opinion that the world must change. Unfortunately we don’t know how.”

  The very next morning Aïssata and Henri Duvignaud set to work. Before even having drawn up the first line of the book they were thinking of writing together, the
y had come up with the title: “The Reluctant Terrorist.” Here was a provocative title capable of producing articles in the press and generating major sales, Henri Duvignaud claimed.

  They set themselves a strict schedule. Every morning Aïssata took the bus to the office of Henri Duvignaud, who had reallocated his clients’ appointments to the afternoon or evening. A secretary hired for the occasion dispatched hundreds of letters to those who had met Ivan in Guadeloupe and Mali. Unfortunately the answers were few and far between, since both places belonged to an oral tradition. The inhabitants were more interested in inventing ridiculous stories about their neighbors than answering questionnaires. Nevertheless, the book gradually took shape.

  It was only natural that Henri Duvignaud drove Aminata and Aïssata to Hugo and Mona’s place. The latter had never got over the drama that had occurred close to their modest three-room apartment located in a quiet suburb of Paris. Mona, especially, had never got over the death of Ivana. Ariel Zeni often came to visit as well. His story had made headlines around the world and he had been jokingly nicknamed “the bashful lover.” He had elaborated an unlikely theory explaining roughly why Ivan was present among the terrorists. Everyone knew Ivan was jobless and penniless. As a result he had hired his services blindly to this death squad without knowing what was expected of him. His explanation had the sole merit of reviving and regretting the memory of the deceased, Ivan as well as Ivana. Consequently Ivan, too, was gradually draped in the colors of sainthood.

  Remarkably, Mona had got closer to her neighbor, Stella Nomal, whom previously she had ignored. Now they were on first-name terms and voiced endless strings of “my darling,” “sweetie pie,” and “honey dear.” Stella Nomal did the shopping for Mona at the market and supermarket. She took her washing to the laundry and bought her essential-oil balms from the pharmacy to soothe her osteoarthritis. The truth was that both women were hiding something secret which was raging in their breasts.

  A major event had occurred, in fact, several weeks earlier. Ivan’s death and the role he had played in the attack had been made public. The papers had a field day portraying him. They published a photo of him taken at a certain angle so as to make him look like an assassin. They never stopped repeating that, contrary to common belief, Ivan Némélé had been radicalized ages ago; in Mali, in fact, where he had helped murder an important head of the national militia. He had managed to escape because he had benefited from complicity at the highest level. Who? Nobody knew exactly but there was an ongoing inquiry. In short, Ivan Némélé was a very dangerous individual.

  One evening Stella Nomal burst into the living room where Mona was knitting a baby’s vest for her fourth grandchild who had just been born. She collapsed into an armchair and burst into tears.

  “I cannot bear the way they’re treating him. I can’t live without him,” she had moaned.

  “Him? Who’s him?” Mona asked.

  Without further ado, as if she were throwing off a great weight, Stella described the extraordinary night she had spent with Ivan the day before the attack.

  “He had never paid attention to me before he threw himself onto me. There was nothing brutal about it and it couldn’t be considered a rape. On the contrary. I let myself go without a word of protest. I was sizzling under his touch,” she tried to explain, struggling to find her words. “It was as if I were consumed by fire. I felt he had lit a slow fire of glowing embers inside me. Sometimes he stopped and brought me back to earth. We caught our breath again before climbing back up into seventh heaven. I don’t know how long it lasted.”

  Mona, in a state of excitement, couldn’t hide her curiosity and asked piles of indiscreet questions until Stella Nomal stopped her, sobbing even louder.

  “I can’t tell you anything more. I have known many men but I can’t compare those moments with any other. I’m telling you a secret. Please don’t repeat it to anyone else.”

  Mona often had to take a grip on herself not to reveal anything to Hugo. Sometimes the truth was about to escape her lips and she had to restrain herself as best she could.

  Shortly afterwards, on December 20th to be exact, another unexpected event occurred: yes, the same date of December 20th when a group of hallucinating Haitians had followed the miraculous star which had guided them to Ivana in the graveyard at Dos d’ne. Like the Three Wise Kings from Galilee following the evening star, like Christopher Columbus and his three caravels stubbornly following the sun, as Sheila says in her song. There, any resemblance stops. Christmas in Villeret-le-François, in fact, is nothing like Christmas in Guadeloupe. No neighbors assembling in front of their homes on a balmy night for a concert of Christmas carols. No anxious pigs sensing the end is nigh and that they’ll soon end up as blood sausage or in a casserole. At Villeret-le-François there were few reminders of the anniversary of this sublime mystery which had impacted the whole of mankind. The town hall, for example, had strung up a few multicolored bulbs on the branches of the trees that lined the main avenues. On Saturdays, a fat man disguised as Father Christmas had his portrait taken with the children in a local supermarket. Christmas in Villeret-le-François was rather a sad time, especially for the homeless and those without a family, who were increasingly numerous and didn’t know which way to turn.

  So as not to succumb to this morose atmosphere, Aminata and Aïssata had not objected to Mona decorating a Christmas tree in honor of little Fadel. It’s true Fadel was Muslim. But doesn’t the Koran reserve a special place for Jesus? Consequently, is it blasphemy to grant Him an extraordinary birth symbolized by the Christmas tree? Oblivious to all this quibbling, the child, filled with wonder, stretched out his excited hands towards the Christmas-tree lights. It was then that Stella pushed open the door and came in without knocking as usual, since she had a duplicate of Mona’s keys. From her expression it was obvious she had something important to say. Her face was stamped with an exceptional urgency, her eyes raised upwards, and the blue scarf she wore when it was raining, and of course it was raining, floated around her head. It was as if a mischievous artist had painted in his fashion The Tidings Brought to a Black Woman.

  “Sit down,” Mona said, busying herself around her. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Stella Nomal didn’t reply. Taking Mona’s hands she opened her raincoat and gently ran her hands over her stomach, whose soft round contours nobody had yet noticed.

  “I’m carrying his children,” she declared piously.

  “Whose children?” Aminata asked in a sharp tone of voice, for she disliked Stella Nomal, finding her indiscreet and intrusive. She couldn’t bring herself, either, to confess that quite simply she was jealous of the pretty Guyanese girl.

  Stella Nomal cast Aminata a look that went straight through her, and continued in the same solemn tone of voice.

  “I’m talking about Ivan, of course. I’ve just come back from the doctor. He said I’m expecting twins. His twins!”

  Mona managed to prevent Aminata from hurling herself on Stella and kept her seated, whereas she herself burst into tears. Meanwhile Aïssata feverishly looked for her cell phone so as to inform Henri Duvignaud of this unexpected turn of events. The lawyer was not available. He had gone to Calais that morning, where they were demolishing “the jungle.” His association had a hundred or so minors on its hands, all of whom were determined at all costs to make it to England, and he was at a loss as to what to do with them. Despite her customary self-control, Aïssata, too, was on the point of bursting into tears. A violent disappointment had pierced her heart. The memory of that extraordinary night had been terribly screwed up. This Ivan, who she thought so different, who occupied a special place in her memory, was finally just a man, a womanizer, like all the others: capable of making love to three women and remorselessly procreating little bastards.

  Therefore, out of the three women surrounding Stella Nomal, two were absorbed by selfish considerations. Only Mona was touched by the miracul
ous nature of this pregnancy. Ivan, shunned by everyone, expedited into a common grave in the cemetery, had come back to life and taken his revenge. It deserved a celebration: fireworks streaking their illuminations across the sky, a 21-gun salute, and firecrackers exploding around people’s feet. Failing that, champagne glasses filled with the sparkling liquid. Mona had nothing of the sort to offer, except for a bottle of La Mauny rum. Aminata and Aïssata, however, were already on the point of leaving.

  In the regional express metro taking them back to Paris, absorbed in grief, they were oblivious to the looks of the other travelers surprised by Aminata’s gasping and mumbling. Once she had arrived at rue Léonard-de-Vinci, Aïssata revived a habit she had developed in Chicoutimi: she would go and sit alone at the back of a bar and pretend she was lost in her thoughts. Fans of exoticism would then flock around this black woman seated all alone. Sometimes she would follow them, and it was an effective way of healing her troubles. In Paris, apparently the lovers of exoticism are less bold than in Chicoutimi since nobody approached her and, forsaken, she sadly left the bar and went back in the rain to her Apart-Hotel.

  The following morning she met up with Henri Duvignaud in his office and told him of the surprising denouement which had occurred in Villeret-le-François. The lawyer got all excited and exclaimed, “Twins, you say?”