Broken Glass

by Alain Mabanckou

  it’s around one or two in the afternoon when I notice that never-ending pain in the neck, the Printer, is back at Credit Gone West, I don’t know why I call him a pain in the neck, since up till now he’d made a fairly favorable impression, but only fools never change their minds, so anyway, the Printer had finished his long walk over on the Côte Sauvage and was happy as anything, seemed so excited you’d think they’d just elected him president of Senegal, I’ve never seen him on such good form, so what’s going on, ah, now I see, that’s what it was, now I see why he’s in such a good mood, I understand now, it’s because he’s got hold of a copy of Paris Match and he’s proud of it, he’s showing off, he’s ecstatic, and he’s trying to explain to everyone else about these two French artists who are having a hard time because they’re a famous couple, it seems, and he says it’s there in black-and-white in the magazine, he tells us how these two artists are being pestered by the kind of people who hide out in the shrubbery with their cameras and hope to catch a glimpse of the tits and asses of famous divas, and some people are listening to the Printer, some people are actually listening, as you might listen to the guru who’s having sex with the wife of the Pampers guy, and since there’s no stopping him once he’s started he’s now telling everyone yet again about his French experience, how he “did” France, and how white Céline was the author of his decline, his Dark Empire, he’s not mad, he tells them, far from it, but Céline actually slept with his Caribbean son, he tells them all about that, and people look at him pityingly, and one guy actually tells him straight out he should have married an African woman in France, not a white woman, and things would have been less complicated and they could have sorted it all out back home with a few Rwandan machetes, but the Printer replies that African women in France are a tight-assed lot, stuck-up, affected, unreliable, he can’t stand all that, they think an awful lot of themselves, those girls do, they want you to grovel at their feet, what’s more, says the Printer, they’re all materialistic, they check out your car, your house, your bank account, your shares on the stock market, you have to pay for their ridiculous hairdos that cost a fortune, you have to pay the rent for their box rooms in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, because that’s the only arrondissement in Paris these little madams will live in, even if they have to shack up in cellars somewhere, you end up paying for this, that, and the next thing, that’s why they hang out on street corners, why they live off benefits, and grow old in the pursuit of their vanity, that’s why they sleep with white men three times their age, that’s why they sometimes fall into prostitution, because it’s easier to turn your body into a piece of merchandise than your brain into an instrument of reflection, and people started laughing, and the Printer was pleased with his effect on his audience, “listen, I’m no racist,” he said, and went on to issue a whole string of extremely dubious prejudices, slagging off the black girls in Paris, calling them every name under the sun, and the Congolese girls, by the way, he said, were not even worth mentioning, they were way dependent, and like to think they’re intellectuals, there is no worse than the Cameroonians who are so materialistic and greedy that they are called the Cameruinians, he said the Nigerian girls spend the whole time fighting each other for a place on the rue Saint-Denis, he says the Gabonese are a whole different story, they’re just crab ugly, the Ivory Coast girls are incredible, slags and slappers who go round wiggling their asses all day, and the people at Credit Gone West think it’s hilarious and the Printer reminds them once again that of course he doesn’t belong here in this bar, and the others listen to him respectfully, they agree with him, and they pass around Paris Match, and the Printer reminds them that he used to be in charge of a team, with real whites in it, not the whites you see here, chewing manioc and drinking Beninese beer, but real French whites, and he stresses that they were the people who printed Paris Match, and I thought to myself, this guy’s a real weirdo, it’s about time he changed the record

  so when he’s quit playing to the gallery, the Printer comes over to me and says “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this, my friend, but you stink of shit, you can smell it a mile off, have you crapped in your pants, or what, you ought to go and take a shower, look, you’re even attracting the flies,” and I don’t reply, I’m not going to tell him someone told me to pick up my own shit which I’d dumped at the foot of a mango tree, no way, and the Printer adds “okay, it’s your shit, nothing to do with me, what I really wanted to tell you was, I have here, in my hands, the latest copy of Paris Match, I bought it this morning, as I was taking my usual stroll down to the Côte Sauvage, go on, take a look, it’s got some ass in it, and it’s free,” so out of politeness I take the magazine and flick through it, and I come across a guy called Joseph, a black painter, who’s sick with something, terribly thin, in the picture he’s wearing an army-surplus shirt and he’s sitting with his eyes shut in a room in a hospital with all his canvases and work things next to him, he looks really eaten up by his illness, and at his bedside there’s even a book about the painter Picasso, and on top of this book the sick man’s laid out his paintbrushes, and I discover that no one knows the painter’s real name, or who he is, that he’s a Parisian street painter, a painter from the district they call the Marais, but most of all I’m shocked to read that he’s just died of cancer, and the article goes on to explain how he was hospitalized two months ago, and put on the respiratory ward at St. Antoine Hospital, living from one bout of chemotherapy to the next, homeless, living on the streets, drinking bottle after bottle of whiskey, smoking endless packs of cigarettes, and I feel a kind of tenderness for this character, he even looks a bit like me, and the journalist in Paris Match, whose name was Pepita Dupont, went and interviewed this black van Gogh just eight days before he died, and it turns out that the negro in question was a real walking library, he’s read his Arthur Rimbaud and his Benjamin Constant and his Baudelaire and above all his Chateaubriand, in particular the Mémoires d’outre-tombe, he talks like a book himself, he finds just the right expression, the journalist is amazed, he also talks about famous painters whose names I’ve never heard before, because I don’t know anything about painting, and he mentions painters called William Blake, Francis Bacon, Robert Rauschenberg, James Ensor, and lots more and the journalist says that this painter could easily have vanished without trace, someone just happened to discover him by chance and befriended him, and this savior is a lawyer who found Joseph lying on the pavement with his canvases, the lawyer was just moving into a new building, where the black van Gogh had lain down for the night, the lawyer almost tripped over him as he lay sleeping on his masterworks, and they got into conversation, and the lawyer fell in love with this man’s original art, and he examined the paintings closely, and bought several of them, and became a great friend of the black van Gogh and every day they talked together, and the lawyer couldn’t get over the fact that this original art had gone unnoticed all this time, but he knew that true art, the real kind, always meets with indifference, genius is often unacknowledged in its own time, victim of a confederacy of dunces, and the lawyer realized that what he had discovered here was an artiste maudit, so he decided he would help him, and bring him to the notice of the art scene, make him famous throughout Paris, in the closed and fusty world of art, and he introduced him to a decent guy who runs the Dubuffet Foundation, and this guy was bowled over too, and said that the black van Gogh was a genius, beyond all doubt, so the lawyer and the guy from the Dubuffet Foundation decided to wave a magic wand over Joseph’s life, but unfortunately Joseph departed this life rather soon after that, and he went instead to practice his art alongside his illustrious masters, the Picassos, the Rauschenbergs, and all the rest, everyone knows that truly great artists attain glory after their deaths, however hard the living hustle for recognition and acclaim, that’s only success, not glory, and success is to glory as a shooting star is to a sun, and when the sun sets in one place, it rises somewhere else, to bring light to lands anew, to send forth new rays of glory, and even the
true van Gogh, it seems, sold only one painting in his lifetime, and since Joseph’s death, according to Paris Match, his stock rises every day, collectors call from all over the world, trying to get their hands on his paintings, the ones he did on old bits of cardboard, with inscriptions from The Count of Monte Cristo, apparently the black van Gogh knew whole passages of Alexandre Dumas’s novel by heart, and of Chateaubriand, Joseph says he’s awesome, and adds “he writes not with a pen but with a whip, he shouts at you, I couldn’t put Atala down, I wept when I found out afterwards that Chateaubriand’s father was a slave trader, he never mentions it in his Memoirs,” and when I read that in Paris Match, the thing that struck me most was his courage in the face of the illness which would eventually kill him, he’s basically saying “this illness is devouring my life, and I can only deal with it by painting, I’m using my paintbrush to sweep away this fucking cancer” and while I’m trying to finish reading this moving article on Joseph the black van Gogh, the Printer starts to shake me and threaten me and even tries to snatch the magazine away “for fuck’s sake Broken Glass, get a grip, why are you wasting your time on the dead, he’s nothing, that guy, I don’t even want to see his photo, he’s a loser, a piece of garbage, come on, turn the page,” so I skip a few pages and he shouts “slow down, slow down, you just missed the page with the pussy on it, it’s on page thirteen” and I turn back to page thirteen, and there is actually a bare piece of ass on it, but quite honestly it’s a bit blurred round the edges, and I’m feeling really fed up, and I say “how do I know that picture’s not faked, I can’t make much out, it could be anybody’s ass” and the Printer gives an angry shout, he can’t bear it if anyone contradicts him on this subject, and he yells at me “what you saying there, Broken Glass, what you saying, you mad or what, a guy like you, over sixty, a wise man like you, how can you say something so stupid, eh, you saying this photo’s not for real, that what you mean, eh, you think a magazine like Paris Match is going to print photos that aren’t even true, can’t you see it’s in color, can’t you see these are professional photographers risking their lives, these are serious journalists writing this stuff, can’t you see that pussy is real pussy, the stuff your average Frenchman in his Basque beret dreams of, shit man, you must be blind” and I mumble, as though fearful of his reaction, “yeah, but you shouldn’t believe everything you read in some trashy magazine, those guys can sell you anything as long as there are people who’ll buy it” and then he gets really mad and says “listen to me, Broken Glass, first thing, this is not a trashy magazine, this is a serious publication, reinforced concrete, man, I can swear to that, because we actually printed it in France, and I can tell you everything that’s in it is true, and that’s why everyone buys it, politicians, superstars, big businessmen, famous actors, they all fall over each other to get themselves and their families into it, in front of their houses, with their dogs and their cats and their horses, and I’ll tell you this too, when the politicians over there get into trouble with the law, or for sleaze, or faked accounts, or allocation of government contracts, illicit use of influence, all that kind of stuff, they always try to get themselves photographed in Paris Match, to show what decent guys they are and anyone trying to make trouble for them must just be jealous, or a political opponent, trying to stop them standing in the next elections, you see what I mean, take a look at page twenty-seven, there’s a politician there, he’s totally corrupt, he’s got all sorts of dirty baggage, he’s involved in some of the worst scandals in the whole of France, but there he is, in Paris Match, and it looks good, let me tell you,” and I’m trying to concentrate on page thirteen, with the blurred pussy, “I’m sorry, but I still think it’s not a genuine photo, you can tell just by looking at it” and he snatches the magazine out of my hands, he’s really cross now, he feels personally affronted, and he walks away muttering nastily “sad old fuck of yesteryear, I thought you were okay till now, but I think old age must be rotting your brain, and you stink of shit, go and have a wash” and he spits on the ground and then says “we just don’t share the same values, you and I, you’re from different eras, you’re yesterday’s man, I don’t even know what you’re doing here, I never want to speak to you again, it’s over, I’m not coming near you, shit, it’s like you’re forgetting I’ve done France, no one here but me’s seen snow, no one here’s seen the Champs-Elysées or the Arc de Triomphe” and with this he walks off, flustered and furious, and I say darkly to myself “I just don’t give a shit, this old man of yesteryear says you go fuck yourself” and he goes and sits with a group of blind-drunks who are talking about the match between the formidable Southern Sharks and the tenacious Northern Reptiles, it seems the Northern Reptiles won a clear 2-0 victory, but it also seems that in the first leg the Southern Sharks won with the same score, so there should be another match in two weeks’ time, according to these idiots sitting round chewing the cud like a band of impotents with nothing to do, and the Printer interrupts their sporting banter saying “hey, you guys, what’s going on here, what is this place, you all going mad, or what, let’s just be serious for a moment, fuck it, there’s lots of things more important than these barbaric games of soccer” and he passes around his magazine, which some people like but not the ones who are crazy about soccer

  I stand up to stretch my legs and get something to eat, and I think what a strange day this is, starting at five in the morning with picking up the shit, not a good sign, and now everyone seems on edge, I think this is my last day in this place, even if I don’t really believe it, I still think it’s my last day here, you have to know when to draw the line, that’s what I tell myself, as I leave the bar, taking my lost illusions with me, and cross the Avenue of Independence, there’s Mama Mfoa selling meat kebabs opposite Credit Gone West, she’s bald and sometimes will sing for us, that’s why we affectionately call her the bald soprano, she sells grilled sole, TV chicken, and bicycle chicken, I don’t like the TV chicken because it’s made in the microwave, so I usually have the bicycle chicken, which is cooked on a barbecue, and some people say unkindly that our bald soprano puts fetishes in the food, that’s why she always has customers even when times are hard, and they also say her delicious kebabs are just made of pieces of local dog or cat meat, but that wouldn’t make me want to throw up anyway, I don’t believe nonsense like that, and if her meat really is local dog or cat meat one can only say that the local dogs or cats are very tasty, and we’ve all eaten local dog or cat meat before now, it’s true that her little stall is always busy, I think that’s because the bald soprano is kind, it’s because she’s a real mother hen, she always has a kind word for each of us, and she doesn’t really mind whether you pay her, you have to almost beg her to get her to take the money, she always says “don’t worry, papa, you just pay me when you can” but we shouldn’t accept her generosity because she has to pay her rent and feed her family, so when you pay her she piles your plate higher than any other food seller in the district, some people even choose their chunks of meat from the pot, and she gives us manioc for free, that’s her way of attracting customers from Trois-Cents, and that’s why we like her, all the rest is literature, bad Black-African literature, the kind you find on the banks of the Seine, it’s just babble, people talk but they still eat their local dog or cat kebabs, which is incredible, and they even say that the oil she uses for frying is a mixture of her spittle and piss, and that’s why her kebabs taste like those fish balls you get in Japanese cooking, but it’s just a windup, I don’t believe it, Mama Mfoa is an honest citizen, like the Stubborn Snail is, a person who will have nothing to reproach herself for on the Day of Judgment, she’s already got a seat with her name and number on in paradise

  so our dear bald soprano sees me arrive at her little stall and she smiles and says “so what would you like to eat today, papa Broken Glass, you don’t look well” she calls all the Credit Gone West customers papa, it’s her way of showing her affection, and I tell her to give me a bicycle chicken with lots of chili, and I tel
l her to give me some manioc, I take it all, I pay, she says “I really think you should stop drinking, papa, that Sovinco red wine is no good,” and I say, “I’m stopping today, this is my last day, my last glasses of wine, I swear,” and she smiles and continues “I mean it, Broken Glass, it’s not good to drink, look how much weight you’ve lost, you used to be a fine-looking man, you’re wasting away, you should give up the bottle,” and I promise her again that I’ll give up my bottle worship and my red wine tonight at midnight, “I don’t believe you, what will you drink if you give up” she asks, straight out, and I tell her I’ll drink still water, lots of still water, and she shakes her head, she doesn’t believe me, and says “I’ll believe that when I see it, and another thing, papa, I suggest you take a shower, I don’t know if you sat in some shit, but it smells really bad,” and I think, it must be that smell of shit still hanging around, I watch her turn over the TV chicken in the microwave, and plunge the carp into the boiling oil, and wipe her face with the back of her hand, her sweat is even running down into the pot, but who cares, that’s what gives her food its flavor, I say to myself, this woman is truly an exceptional person, she sits there surrounded by her cooking utensils, committed to her work, and I wonder if she really does that to earn her nightly crust, perhaps she does it for the love of her fellow man, and while I’m thinking about that, she says again “it’s not good to drink, papa, you ought to stop, I know people who’ve ended up in the Etatolo Cemetery thanks to the bottle, I can tell you, a drunk’s corpse is not a pretty sight, the skin’s strange, red as wine, it’s awful, I don’t want your corpse to look like that the day you die, you know what I mean” and she tells me about a guy called Demoukoussé, one of God’s own drinkers, his skin turned red, it had great big mushrooms growing on it, according to Mama Mfoa, Demoukoussé had never drunk a drop of water, he died one day in a bush in the Fouks District, holding his glass bottle, they buried him with a crate of wine, as requested in his will, which was duly respected, but I didn’t know the guy, he never came to Credit Gone West, so that’s why there’s no point dwelling on him, it would just be useless compilation, and Mama Mfoa notices that I fail to respond to her story about Demoukoussé, and she says “papa, I’m sorry, I hope you’re not annoyed, I only said that because I care about you, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t, believe me, papa, I don’t want you to die like Demoukoussé, you deserve better,” and at last she serves me, and I take my bicycle chicken, I sniff it, it’s well cooked, the onion makes me sneeze, she looks at me and murmurs gently, “bon appétit, little papa,” and I cross back over the Avenue of Independence and go and eat in my usual corner in fact when the boss of Credit Gone West asks “how are things with you, Broken Glass?” I really don’t know what to say, he already knows everything about me, he knows why I spend all my time here, he knows it’s because of Angelica, he saw Angelica come and chase me out of here a few years ago, before he even finished putting the roof on, and what else can I tell him, I’ve nothing new to add, but it’s true that I’m writing in this notebook, I don’t know who else will read it, and whoever the curious reader may be, he’ll know nothing about all that unless he’s part of our inner circle and he’ll be wondering what could have happened to me, he’ll be saying “it’s all very well to talk about other people, it’s all very well sitting eating your bicycle chicken in a corner, that’s all fine, but what happened to you, Broken Glass, tell me about yourself, tell me everything, don’t tiptoe around, tell us your tale,” so I really must talk about myself too, the curious reader needs to know something about how I came to fall so low without a parachute, he needs to know why I now spend my time here, so it’s not just a blank in his mind, I keep telling him over and over I’m a fossil in this place, so here we go, to start with, I need to make clear that Angelica is the first name of my ex-wife, but whenever I mention her I call her Diabolica, and throughout this notebook I’m going to call her Diabolica, yes, that’s what I’ll call her, there’s nothing angelic about her, quite the opposite, angels, even drunken ones, don’t act like that, Diabolica spent over fifteen years by my side, and through all those years she nurtured the hope that she would one day convince me that the arch of her back was more exciting than that of a bottle of red wine, while I spent fifteen years trying to convince her of the opposite, because I can drink from a bottle anytime, anyhow, anywhere, it depends on me, and what I want and what time I arrive at Credit Gone West, but with Diabolica I never felt I was in the presence of a woman