I don’t say anything, I just stare at Sebastien’s car. Uncle René knows what I’m thinking and he adds, ‘If you get your primary school certificate this year you’ll get a car like Sebastien’s. But you must come in the top five in the country!’
Has Sebastien got his school certificate? No, he’s younger than me. So why did he get a car before he got his certificate, when I have to wait to get mine?
We play outside, behind the house. Edwige is in her room listening to music with the tape recorder Uncle René’s given her. I mustn’t tell them we got a tape recorder before Edwige. That’s our secret. Papa Roger has said we must be discreet. We can listen to Roger Guy Folly talking every evening from America. Edwige’s tape recorder is only for putting cassettes into, and listening to music. That’s all. And also, Edwige doesn’t have the cassette of the singer with the moustache weeping for his alter ego from dawn till dusk. Why would I be impressed with her present?
Miguel’s watching us from a distance. He’s tired of being tied up to the sour sap tree. He lies resting, one eye shut, the other half open. I feel sorry for him because he didn’t get any Christmas presents. He’s always getting forgotten, when in fact he’s the one who protects Uncle René’s riches. I wish I could give him my shovel or my rake. The problem is, if I give them to him he’ll probably bark, because dogs can’t be farmers, they don’t know that agriculture is the future of development in this country. They can’t hold a rake and shovel with their paws. They’re not to know you always put the ox before the cart. So there’s no point my giving my shovel or my rake to Miguel.
I also feel sorry for Miguel because with every year that passes, every hour, ever second, every degree of a second that goes by, he gets older faster than us humans. It’s not fair. And he looks at me with his one half open eye, as if he’s understood what I’m thinking. Yes, he knows what I’m feeling deep inside. He knows because dogs see invisible things, like ghosts and evil spirits which we humans can’t see in the flesh. Dogs can read men’s thoughts, from A to Z. Just because they can’t speak our language properly doesn’t mean they’re just idiots with a tail and fleas all over them. Besides, it’s not as if we know how to speak their language, which is much more complicated than ours.
In any case, it’s the first time I’ve seen Miguel this calm. Which means he’s not ferocious 24/7 after all. We should change the sign outside and put a different one up, with the exact time when Miguel isn’t ferocious. But if we put that on a sign maybe the bad guys from the Grand Marché will think: Let’s go and rob Monsieur René while his dog’s not being ferocious. Now I know the sign on the gate is a lie, it’s just there to scare off bad guys.
I’m jealous of Sebastien’s car. He let me try it and I thought: It’s a great thing to have, a car that does what you tell it from a distance when you press on a button, whereas when you drive a real car, you have to hold the steering wheel, so as not to bang into other cars. I dream about this car the whole time, and I don’t want to play with my truck, my shovel and rake. I’m sick of being a farmer. I really am sick of it. I think about Lounès. What present did he get? I think about Caroline. What did she get? Yeah, I want a car I can control from a distance. One day I’ll get one…
At the end of the day, Uncle René tells his boy to walk me home. I don’t even notice the cars going by as we walk. I don’t even look at the people we pass. I just glide past them, as though they were shadows. My thoughts are far, far away. I think about My Sister Star and My Sister No-name. Do they get presents up where they are?
Please let me pass my primary school certificate this year, and let Uncle René give me a car I can control from a distance, a car that follows me everywhere I go.
I’m going to put my little dreams in the boot of that car and drive them about till I’m twenty years old, and Miguel’s more than a hundred. Maybe he’ll die, but he’ll come back again as a little white dog, and then I can give him to Caroline.
One day I must ask Papa Roger why there’s only ever bad news when we listen to the news on the radio. You’d think every day was the end of the world, that when you switch on the radio in the evening, anything might happen. Even if it’s happening far from here, even if they’re not talking about people who live in our neighbourhood, it’s bad news for us too. I’ve never heard Roger Guy Folly laugh or make us laugh. Now I feel afraid every time I hear a journalist announce:
It’s twenty-one hundred hours, universal time, and you’re listening to the Voice of America. Coming right up, the evening news, with your faithful servant, Roger Guy Folly…
There’s a really bad guy in France called Jacques Mesrine who’s just been killed. He’d been sent to prison for twenty years, but someone helped him escape like in Lucky Luke, when the Daltons are able to escape from prison till Lucky Luke catches them again and then we can read the next episodes. If the Daltons really did escape, how could we ever read the next Lucky Luke episodes? What would Lucky Luke do without the Daltons? He’d just wander about the desert with his dog Rant-anplan and hunt little animals hiding under the cactuses.
Jacques Mesrine won’t be having any more adventures now, particularly since he attacked a judge’s daughter and held her hostage like the Iranian students who took the Americans hostage and shut them up in a cellar. Apparently they looked everywhere for Mesrine and no one could find him. People would say he was in such and such a place, but when they went there he’d left ages ago. Then other people said he was in this place that had been definitely identified, and then when they got to the definitely identified place they’d find Mesrine was already miles away.
So then the police killed him. They cornered him, the way you corner a palm rat in the bush. You ring all the holes, and the rats only have one hole to come out by, and you wait for them there.
Roger Guy Folly reports that Mesrine got away in his car and that’s when the police shot him. His wife was in it too, and she was injured. Now the people of France can breathe a bit easier, because Mesrine was their most dangerous enemy. According to Papa Roger, this Mesrine guy was stronger and more intelligent than our own famous gangster, who we called Angoualima, who had six fingers on each hand, four eyes, four ears and two willies. Angoualima cut people’s heads off, or stole from the Whites in the centre of town. But unlike Mesrine, he had no car he could escape in and get shot in with his wife. That’s why he didn’t get killed like Mesrine did. We don’t know how our Angoualima got killed. Who knows if he is really dead? It’s weird I get to hear the story of Mesrine just when round here people in the street are all starting to talk about Angoualima again, and some people are saying that there’s a gangster by the name of Grégoire Nakobomayo who’s following in the footsteps of our own public enemy number one. The problem is that Grégoire Nakobomayo is clumsy, he messes up his crimes and just makes the police in our town laugh.
Since Jacques Mesrine’s death, the gangsters in the Grand Marché have been copying his name and refuse to be nicknamed Angoualima like before. When you walk down the street you see the name Mesrine written on the walls of derelict houses and: I won’t give up without a fight. I don’t know what that means, why they want to have a fight, no one wants a fight with them, that’s what we’re all trying to avoid! Our gangsters want to be just like Mesrine, but they’ve got no cars, no wives to go on the run with them and get shot down by the police. So they end up getting caught alive and dragged back to the police station, and being given a good beating up before being released, because there’s not much room in our prisons which are pretty full.
What bothers me most isn’t this story about Jacques Mesrine. What really upsets me is that Roger Guy Folly also talked about a new law in France which says that you can refuse to let children be born. The child in the womb thinks it’s going to come into this world, but then they go to hospital and bang! the doctor makes it come out and chucks it in the bin. The word Roger Guy Folly uses for this is abortion. The journalist points out that in the past it used to be done in secret and lots o
f women used to die along with their children. The people who did the abortions were seen as murderers and were put in prison.
When Roger Guy Folly talked about abortion and explained the new law in France, which was championed by a woman called Simone Veil, Maman Pauline’s expression changed. She listened for a moment without saying anything, then she got up from the table and went into her bedroom. Papa Roger quickly searched for another radio station and happened upon Radio-Congo, where the journalists were talking about the ‘Day of the Tree’, which has just been set up by our President. From now on everyone has to plant a tree somewhere and the police are going to come and visit every neighbourhood, every household, to check that the President’s order has been obeyed. Anyone who doesn’t plant a tree will be fined, and if they’re members of the Congolese Workers’ Party they’ll have their card taken away. Poor old them, no more seats in the front row for the National Holiday processions.
My parents both ask together: ‘Michel, what present would you like?’
I’m very surprised because at Christmas they already gave me several bags of marbles and a castle you have to build, which I still haven’t managed to put together. I suspect they are hiding something from me, or have some very bad news to tell me.
Papa Roger adds: ‘We’ll go into town, just you and me! We’ll eat apples! Afterwards you can choose your present.’
‘Any present you like, whatever it costs!’ finished my mother.
‘Yes, any present you like, we just want you to be happy. Then you can come and see me at work, I’ll introduce you to my boss, Madame Ginette. And you’ll meet Monsieur Montoir too, who gave us the radio cassette.’
‘And that’s not all, Michel. One day you can come with me to the bush, and then to Brazzaville. Your first train journey!’
I don’t feel like eating now. There’s too much good news, all at once. And this is not how they usually talk to me. They’re like two different people sitting opposite me this evening. They’re smiling, but I can tell their smiles are hiding something. And when I look straight at them they lower their eyes because they know their Michel can read people’s minds. When they give me a present they never ask for my opinion, they choose it themselves. Sometimes it makes me cross, but I always end up accepting because they’re not going to go and take it back to the shop. Maman Pauline’s always said her business trips were dangerous because of the bush and the gangsters in Brazzaville. That I was too little to come with her. So she goes on her own, and every time, before she leaves, she tells me off because I say I want to come to Brazzaville with her. Am I big enough to go with her now?
In the end, what have I got to lose by accepting what they want to give me?
‘I’d really like a car like Sebastien’s!’ I tell them.
They are surprised. They look at each other and start to laugh. But I’m serious, I’m not laughing here. If I start laughing it will be like in Monsieur Mutombo’s workshop, I won’t be able to stop, I’ll have to hold my sides and fall on the floor.
My father doesn’t like this idea. ‘A car like your cousin’s! Is that really all you want? Think carefully, take your time, finish eating and then tell us what you want.’
We go on eating, though I’m only pretending, and they can tell because I’ve stopped peering at the largest piece of meat on my father’s plate. Besides, he’s just put it on my plate and I’m stalling before I eat it.
I can see they’re giving each other looks. My father’s even kicked my mother under the table, and his foot touched mine as well.
‘What are you hiding from me?’
My father replies, ‘Oh, Michel, we’re not hiding anything! We’ve never hidden anything from you, you know that. We just want to make you happy, that’s all.’
My mother asks me, ‘Would you like a bit more beans and beef?’
I shake my head, even if beef with beans is my favourite dish. I like the way she makes it. She takes her time, washes the meat carefully, starts boiling the beans first thing, and lets them sit till the end of the morning. Towards midday I begin to smell it, I’m hungry, I can’t wait, and it’s her that says, ‘Just five more minutes.’
But those five minutes are like five and a half centuries. And when it’s ready I eat like tomorrow there’s going to be a nationwide famine. So today she can’t believe I don’t want a second helping.
‘Wasn’t it nice? Did I not make it right?’
‘I’m not hungry now. I’ll eat the rest tomorrow.’
‘No, tomorrow I’ll make you something else delicious.’
My father’s impatient: ‘So, what should we give you really, Michel?’
‘A car like Sebastien’s.’
‘But what’s so special about this car?’
‘It’s the best car in the world. If you press a button it starts up all on its own. And you can make it go left or right if you press different buttons.’
My mother wants me to change my mind. ‘And what about a bike? A bike would be better, for a boy your age! You can go riding about, people will see you, they’ll like that and…’
‘I don’t know how to ride a bike. I’ll just fall off.’
‘Lounès can teach you! I was at their house earlier, I had a long chat with Madame Mutombo.’
As soon as I heard that I thought: If Maman Pauline’s been to see the Mutombo’s, Lounès must know what my parents are keeping secret.
‘I want a car like Sebastien’s, not a bike.’
‘All right then, we’ll give you two cars and some new clothes,’ says Papa Roger, getting up from the table to fetch the radio cassette from the bedroom.
.....
I can’t get to sleep. I can’t breathe properly because of the mosquito net. It stops My Sister Star and My Sister No-name from seeing my face. I’ll have to take it off this evening.
I get out of bed, push aside the mosquito net and get back in. An army of mosquitoes immediately attacks. But though they bite me all over, I feel nothing.
Just as I close my eyes, I hear my parents on the other side of the wall, as though in a dream. My father asks my mother, ‘Pauline, do you think Michel guessed what’s going on?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He couldn’t guess, he’s still too young to understand these things.’
Mother Teresa is the mother of all poor people. She helps children who have no family and have to hang out in the street down in India, especially in a town they call Calcutta, but she also wants to help poor people all over the world, so people can be happy here on earth. She works very hard. Since she has white globules, she’ll go to paradise where God’s waiting for her, so he can congratulate her in front of all the angels, and they’ll all clap. She also helps people who are sick or are going to die. Roger Guy Folly says that today she’s been given the Nobel Peace Prize. The Nobel Peace Prize is a present they give people who don’t like it when other people do bad things. They give it to people who’ve done something important for humanity.
The American journalist reads out the names of the other people who have been given the prize before Mother Teresa, and I notice that the president of Egypt, Anouar el-Sadat, is on the list. I’m very pleased about that. Anouar el-Sadat got the prize along with another man called Menahem Begin, who’s from Israel, the country that was angry with the Ugandan dictator/president, Idi Amin Dada. Roger Guy Folly also says that was a great event, because Anouar el-Sadat is Arab, Menahem Begin is Jewish and these two important people are trying really hard to get the Arabs and the Jews to stop hating each other and fighting.
.....
According to Roger Guy Folly, when Mother Teresa accepted the Nobel Prize in the name of all the poor people on earth, she said that abortion was the thing that would finish off our world. Now I know why Maman Pauline always talks about this woman as though she was a member of our family. Mother Teresa this, Mother Teresa that. Maman Pauline thinks this woman is right and France is wrong, because France voted to shut the door in the face of children. My father ex
plains to her that this business about abortions is very complicated, that there are times when it is better not to allow a child to come into this world if it’s going to suffer unnecessarily.
‘For instance, Pauline, a woman can’t keep the offspring of a rapist in her womb! Abortion also means freedom for women! In any case, if abortion is made illegal, people will always do it in secret. So, what’s better: doctors who carry it out properly, or charlatans who make a complete mess of it and risk killing the mother as well?’
Maman Pauline thinks that abortion is a crime, that what they need to do is give the children they would otherwise throw in the bin to mothers like her.
So now they’re rowing. My mother’s not prepared to listen: ‘Let’s stop this discussion now! You always have to be right!’
One thing I know is, as long as she hasn’t had another baby besides me, she’s not going to agree with Papa Roger on this subject. Her view is, they should kill the rapist, keep the child and not tell him that his father was a bad man with lots and lots of red globules.
.....
Roger Guy Folly is still talking about the life of Mother Teresa, who even sends nuns into Muslim countries where they read the Koran, not the Bible. Papa Roger changes radio stations and we listen to the President of the Republic on Radio Congo, making a speech congratulating himself on the success of the Day of the Tree, and announcing another plan he’s got, called ‘One school, one field’. Every school’s got to have a field. If any school doesn’t have a field, it will be closed. Too bad for the pupils and teachers, that’s their hard luck. Our President congratulates Mother Teresa on winning the Nobel Prize. Our journalist says at the end of the President’s speech:
‘We hope that the jury of the Nobel Peace Prize will one day consider the exceptional revolutionary activities of our Revolutionary leader. It appears his name was cited this year as a possible laureate. These were credible rumours, and our leader has officially confirmed that he received a phone call from Sweden. But the Imperialists and their local lackeys made quite sure that the Congo and proletariats all over the world were deprived of this prestigious award, which would have furthered the cause of lasting peace on this earth. Be that as it may, our leader can count on our undying love, more precious than any Nobel Prize!’
Tomorrow I'll Be Twenty Page 20
