He turned towards me:
“Aren’t you warm-blooded, or what?”
“Why?”
“How can you have a child who doesn’t look like you?”
Calmly, I told him to have a good look at my daughter. I took off a shoe to show him my foot.
“Look, we’ve got the same toes …”
“Toes and all that nonsense is for when the grandparents want something to cling on to. We need something concrete, a signature that’s authentic and indelible. Are you sure this is your child, eh?”
Just then the little one woke up and started crying. I picked her up to soothe her …
Paul gave me several bottles of perfume for Original Colour and tried to cheer me up in a corner:
“Don’t listen to that crackpot of a French-Ivorian! It was King Solomon who said that a child is still a child, be he red, yellow or brown. I heard that in a Francis Bebey song. There is also someone who said that woman is the exact place of our birth, and he was right. I can’t remember who said it now, but it must have been someone with a brain in his head. People can always argue about the father of a child, there’s nothing new there. Take Roger, can he really say that he is his father’s son?”
Pierrot the White came over to join us in our corner with the three Pelforts he’d bought me. He put them down on the table:
“Down these three beers for me! One for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit!”
He reminded me that in the beginning, there wasn’t just the Word, but also the verb and the subject and the direct object, and that it was Man in his wickedness who introduced the indirect object. And it was this same wickedness that motivated some of my pals at Jip’s. I couldn’t make head or tail of his argument, but I found his words comforting compared with what the others had thrown up.
I didn’t go back again to Jip’s with Henriette. If someone asked me to bring her in, I replied that my baby was not a specimen for some colonial exhibition …
II
I still haven’t told the Arab on the corner that my ex cleared off to the home country a few months back. I’ll have to come clean about it one of these days, I’m going to run out of excuses soon. If I’ve kept quiet about it until now it’s because I know he’ll have a heart attack when he finds out.
When I’m opposite him, he’s the one who always does the talking, he won’t let me get a word in edgeways. Once he’s finished with his rant he asks after my ex and my daughter, and I always tell him the same thing: they’re on holiday in the Congo. It’s like he’s delivering the same speech from the day before, he just adds a few new hand gestures here, a few new frowns there. As soon as I walk into his bazaar, I know he’ll want to bend my ear for at least twenty minutes’ worth. It won’t be long now before I need what our neighbour, the young man on the seventh floor, Staircase A, the one whose mother is poorly over towards Champagnac de Belair, calls a “cast-iron alibi”. But my tactic is to deal with the problem as it arises. I just can’t see myself saying, out of the blue:
“I’ve been lying every time you asked me for news about my daughter and my partner, it’s been ages now since they left for the home country with that good-for-nothing, the Hybrid.”
There’s no point in jumping ahead of things, I’m not ready to give the game away. It’s a matter of honour, and dignity …
From his cash till, our Arab on the corner can see everyone who comes out of our building. His shop isn’t actually on the corner but in the middle of the street, right opposite our block. Which means, properly speaking, we should call him the Arab opposite instead of the Arab on the corner. Then again, since the dawn of time, people have always talked about the Arab on the corner, and it’s not for me to snap my fingers and start a revolution. I mean, if we decided to question everything that reminds us of how unfair, or even offensive, the French language can be towards certain groups of people, well, we’d never hear the end of it. There would be civil wars in the former territories of the French Empire, and Gaul herself would be torn apart to fall into the hands of the Romans. We would have as many trials as there are dead leaves waiting to be shovelled up. We’d lose all track of who was complaining about what, not to mention the date of this or that injustice. So the Members of the Académie Française would finally have a full-time job on their hands. I’m imagining the prostitutes would be keenest to hold people to account because the French language is a real bitch when it comes to them. They might want to know, for example, why a man with the common touch is a national treasure while a woman with the common touch is a whore? Why is a man with an eye for the ladies a charmer while a lady with an eye for the men is a trollop? Why is a “courtier” someone who is close to power while a “courtisan” is a streetwalker? No, I don’t want to fight that battle. People talk about the Arab on the corner, and so do I, even if his shop is opposite our building, while down on the corner there’s a locksmith who’s your typical Frenchman, except that he hasn’t got a beret and a baguette …
If you’re not in the mood to greet our Arab on the corner, he’ll step outside and give you a curt lecture on good manners. Even when you think he’s got his back turned and you can dodge him, he manages to lay his hands on you. It’s as if he’s got a third eye in the back of his neck that’s more powerful than the Bible stories about the eye watching Cain. And since, like every Arab on the corner, ours doesn’t close shop until very late, about one in the morning, there’s no deceiving his lynx’s eye. His life is his shop, and vice versa. The kids who steal his bananas from the display stand outside have firsthand experience of this. He doesn’t say a word, he just watches and then waits for their parents to show up at his grocery store. And that’s when he gives them a remedial class in bringing up young people today. If the kids are stealing it’s because their parents have failed to educate them properly. So it’s not the children you should blame, but their mothers and fathers …
He eats behind his till, and he reads his old copy of the Koran there too. I sometimes wonder when he goes to the toilet. If he’s human like us, he must hear the call of nature at some stage in the day. But no, he’s there, unbudgeable, energetic, everywhere at once, never in the least bit tired.
The Arab on the corner is bald with a small paunch and a grey goatee. He’s got these thick hairs that have taken root in his ears and he tugs on them from time to time when he’s talking to you. The local residents can buy goods on credit at his shop, he has a large exercise book just for them. The surnames of slow payers are marked in red. He calls everybody “comrades”, and I’m treated to “my African brother” because according to him Africa is the land of helping each other out, it’s the continent of solidarity. He maintains that the first man on earth was African, the other races came later. So all men are immigrants, except for the Africans who are at home here down below. And what’s more, according to him, we Africans are Egyptians and we followed the Nile in order to spread ourselves across the continent. He whispers in my ear that the West will never be able to teach that fact because it would call too many things into question:
“For too long the West has force-fed us lies and bloated us with pestilence, my African brother! Do you know which black poet spoke those courageous words, eh? It’s not easy telling Europeans that in reality they are nothing but immigrants themselves and that their continent actually belongs to the Africans who were the first men on earth! Take that Senegalese man, for example, a great historian, a great scholar, I’ve forgotten his name … What was he called again? It’s on the tip of my tongue … Well, it will come back to me, and anyway it’s easy enough with the Senegalese, there’s no point in overcomplicating things, they’re all called Diop, what matters is finding out their first name. The Senegalese man I’m talking about was so strong, my African brother. When he demonstrated to the Whites, with scientific evidence to the ready, that there were plenty of Blacks in ancient Egypt, and that those Blacks were the masters, well, Europe categorically refused to recognise this. People claim
ed that the Blacks weren’t capable of building the pyramids, that they’d been cursed since the dawn of time when Ham, one of Noah’s sons, saw his father naked. The Blacks would therefore be condemned to the curse of Ham with a male organ so oversized that no underpants could ever conceal it. The Senegalese historian fought against these kinds of prejudices. At the Sorbonne, the Whites refused to let him defend his dissertation! Can you, in all good conscience, call that normal behaviour, eh? In your opinion, why does Europe behave in this way towards Africans, eh? Well, let me tell you: if the Europeans conceded that there were Blacks in Egypt, intelligent Blacks, Black leaders, Blacks with regular sized male organs, they would also have to concede that the European philosophers who’d been coming to Egypt since Antiquity did so in order to steal our ideas and go off to develop their own philosophy without so much as a by your leave. And that is why, my African brother, Europe will always tell you that Egypt is not Africa! But everybody knows now that Europe has, for a long time, force-fed us lies and bloated us with pestilence …”
* * *
I remember that when our daughter was born, the Arab on the corner used to come to our building in person to bring us mineral water, milk and Pampers. I had this idea that he was off-loading damaged stock in the same way that developed countries send their out-of-date medicines to underdeveloped countries. I was wrong and I felt ashamed for doubting the Arab on the corner’s generosity. He would knock on our door, stop to talk for a minute or two and treat us to his jokes, which were generally about the Jews and the Arabs. You had to laugh even if you didn’t understand them at all. And we would force out big guffaws and sometimes even tears of laughter. It wasn’t difficult for my ex because laughing came easily to her. And if I laughed it was because I was laughing at the way she laughed.
The Arab on the corner told us we should waste no time in moving apartments, that it would be hard when the child started moving on all fours. Our little one would break everything in the studio. He said that children like scampering about and poking their noses everywhere in the home. And in a space as cramped as ours, Henriette would feel like a prisoner in a cage. He promised to help us out because some compatriots of his worked for a property agency in Charenton-Le-Pont. But you couldn’t mention the banlieue to my ex, even if it was the closest one to Paris. Just hearing the word “banlieue” was enough to make her break out in cold sores …
So from time to time we got bottles, milk and nappies for free. I didn’t feel comfortable with it, but how could I say no to the Arab on the corner without offending him? We took it all and stored it in a corner of our studio. My ex was happy, but not me. To clear her conscience, she used to say:
“Why let it bother you? It’s not like we asked him for anything! He’s mainly doing it for our daughter because in the Bible or the Koran the children are the bosses. The Kingdom of Heaven is for them. Plus he knows that by giving to the children God will pay him back many times over, and that’s not counting the twenty-two virgins he’ll have automatic right to in Paradise as a reward for his upright behaviour on earth.”
And I would object:
“We’re not the only ones with a child in this neighbourhood! Why doesn’t he give to all the familes with children?”
“Look, it’s because we live right opposite his bazaar! And anyway, I’ve seen him giving sweets and bananas to other children …”
* * *
Since then, whenever I’ve walked into his shop on my way back from Jip’s, the Arab on the corner gets excited, he holds onto my pack of Pelforts so he can talk to me for longer. He shows me his till, complains that money isn’t worth what it used to be in the days of the new franc and the old franc. He curses the big supermarkets for killing off small businesses. He talks to me about his family who stayed behind in his country, about the house he’s building over there, about the competition in our neighbourhood with the Pakistanis and the Chinese who aren’t cutting him any slack:
“Business isn’t what it used to be when I came to this country. Now there are more shopkeepers than customers! That’s globalisation for you: Chinese and Pakistanis at the end of every street, what can I say? I swear, my African brother, these Chinese and Pakistanis, they buy up everything! They’ve got money that turns up from their countries via the sewers of Paris! Did you hear they’re setting up shop in that country of yours too, all the way over there? In your opinion what on earth are they going to do in the heart of darkness now that slavery has been abolished and the colonisers have either packed up their bags or else been driven out by the natives, eh? Our new settlers are the Chinese and Pakistanis that you can see in our streets. They are crafty, they say they are different from our former masters and that we all come from developing countries, that we are all the third world, and they pretend to build us palaces of the people so that our parliamentarians can sit in session in leather armchairs with air conditioning and a fountain in the courtyard, is this what is going to put bread on the table for the ordinary people, eh, my African brother? A settler is a settler even if he builds you a great big palace of the people! Now listen, I’m going to explain to you how the Chinese and the Pakistanis arrived in France and settled here by using the antelope tactic: first, they scattered in great numbers, then they gently started to get themselves established, without making any noise, whereas you Blacks and us Arabs when we arrive somewhere the first offence we commit is trouble with the neighbours! The Chinese and the Pakistanis? Those people are crafty! You don’t see them on the eight o’clock news burning cars, they don’t go out on strike with the other immigrants, they smile at everybody. And that smile is key to their business. If all the illegals in this country smiled I don’t think we’d ever see them catching charter flights home, they’d travel back business class with Air France. I swear, my African brother!”
I’m champing at the bit as I listen to him. But he hasn’t finished yet.
He’s off again, with even more energy than before:
“We woke up one morning as we were opening our shops to find that the Chinese and the Pakistanis were there already and they’d bought everything without taking out a single loan because these people have their own banks. But when I ask for a loan here, it’s a whole to-do. The banker as good as wants to see my bicycle licence and ask whether I eat with my fingers or a fork! And the result is: my sort of business hardly exists in the neighbourhood any more. We are the last Mohicans. No more Arab on the corner, it’s over! Even my small business here, well, I’ve had enough, it will end up in the hands of the Chinese and the Pakistanis. But we are the kind of people who sacrifice ourselves for others. There’s no denying the fact that we’re a public service. When I sell my merchandise, I don’t see the colour of my customers’ skin. I sell to the poor, and I sell to the rich, I sell to the handicapped, I sell to the Blacks, I sell to the Arabs, I sell to all the races that exist down here below because whatever race we may be, we all have red blood …”
He falls silent. I can almost see the tears in his eyes. He turns away from me as if to hide them.
And then he straightens himself up, he stares at me and off he goes again:
“My African brother, this is a serious situation, we all need to help each other out here. This country wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for us, do you get my gist, eh? We have always been there each time France was at war even though we could have stayed at home. But have the Pakistanis and the Chinese helped France? Have they shed their blood for this country? The day when we Arabs on the corner aren’t here any more, this country will lose everything, and I mean everything. France will lose her Arabs on the corner! Are you getting my gist? And you Blacks too, my African brothers, be vigilant, because after us, it will be your turn! They say there are too many people working on the black market, have you heard that? So if you all leave this country, it’s true there won’t be any more Blacks, but there won’t be any work either. Enough is enough, I say. They shout at us on the telly, on the radio and in the newspapers, but are we the ones di
gging the hole in the social? We still have one thing, my African brother, and that is the African Union, this is the only way we will build the African Unity of the Enlightened Guide, Muammar Gaddafi!”
He says all that while holding onto my pack of Pelforts. I cough to let him know I’ve got to go home now, and he starts up again:
“Wait, hold on a minute, my African brother, I have something very important to tell you because this world is falling apart before our very eyes, and we’re doing nothing about it. And I’m not even talking about the hole in the social that’s as big as you like, I’m just talking about what I can see before me, in this street, in front of your building. I’m sixty-three and a half years old, I grew up with the strictest respect for my parents, but also for strangers, and I’m proud of that. Respect forms the basis of society, are you still getting my gist, my African brother? Do you know what France’s great problem is? Well, I’m going to tell you what the real problem is for France. Don’t listen to what they say on the telly, it’s just meant to confuse us. France’s problem lies elsewhere, it is deep, it is in the morals. Even the unemployment is not it, even the hole in the social is not it, France’s problem it is RESPECT! It is a legacy, a very important legacy, RESPECT. But the youth of today, what do they do, eh? Well let me tell you, they break everything! They think that they are smarter than their parents! So they talk when their parents are talking. They bring their girlfriends or boyfriends home with them to go jiggy-jiggy in their bedrooms when in my day we hid in the sewers for that. And they do that thing in full view of their family. They don’t even go to school any more, they don’t read even the Koran any more, are you getting my gist? I ask you! And as for the girls? It is complete mayhem, and their parents are guilty for letting them wear mini-skirts, jeans with holes on the butts, red thongs and dragon tattoos, as well as T-shirts with their breasts for all to see! How are the rascals not supposed to rape them, eh? It’s not the rapists’ fault, it’s the girls displaying their merchandise who are to blame. When you go walking with a bone in the street, the dogs in the neighbourhood will chase after it, I swear to you! But when you put that bone in the bottom of your basket, the neighbourhood dogs don’t know about the bone, and that is the end of the matter. Now, I realise that dogs can also smell there’s a bone hidden somewhere, because, don’t believe it, my African brother, French dogs aren’t as stupid as you’d think, they’ve also got a very strong nose like the African dogs. But me, I’ve never seen a dog of any nationality whatsoever opening the bag of a normal woman to take out a bone hidden in there. And when I see these weird girls passing by in front of my shop – and some of them even come here to provoke me – I think to myself the world is going to the dogs, big time, I swear, my African brother. And whose fault is all this? Can you answer me that, eh? IT’S THE FAULT OF THE WEST! Do you call it civilisation, what we’re seeing in this country? Do you call it development, what we’re seeing in this country? I’d rather my country remained under-developed until the end of time, provided it doesn’t follow this path, you do get my gist, don’t you …?”
Black Bazaar Page 8
