Kannjawou Read online

  YES, MAM JEANNE, WE ARE ALL WRONG ABOUT SOMETHING. It’s persisting in that wrongness that makes even the strongest emotion collapse into pretense. This is true for the little brunette who comes to the dance floor of Kannjawou every Wednesday for the wrong joy and pain. Just as it applies to the people we call the Bewildered, every Saturday morning. On Saturday mornings, the ultimate day of the dead, hearses line up one after the other on Burial Street. Latecomers and hotheads therefore don’t know which convoy is which, and wind up accompanying a corpse they hadn’t known to the tomb. I don’t count Monsieur Pierre, a retired public-service worker who comes every Saturday to accompany the dead. Malicious gossipers say that he’s obsessed with numbers and statistical problems. Accompanying the departed to their tombs is a mental exercise and a nice healthy walk for him. If that’s the case, Monsieur Pierre doesn’t want to make a mistake on his accounting. But there are people who stupidly pick the wrong procession. By the time they realize they’ve made a mistake, they’re suffocating in a crowd of strangers. The most determined of them will take the risk of offending someone and make their way to the sidewalk, sputtering excuses. If their procession is far behind, they’ll find a shadowy corner in which to wait so they can slide in when it passes by. If it had already gone by, they’ll hurry forward, almost running in their funeral clothes, in order to catch up to their group before the last shovelful of dirt is placed on the coffin. The ones who lack courage or are simply more polite don’t dare to disturb the mood. Offering their arm to an inconsolable old woman begging for support or listening to the confidences of the chatty people who want to brag about their relationship to the dead, they follow the wrong procession up to the cemetery entrance and then slip away discreetly before the speeches begin.

  THE LITTLE BRUNETTE WHO COMES TO THE KANNJAWOU COURTYARD EVERY WEDNESDAY FOR THE WRONG JOY AND PAIN STRONGLY RESEMBLES THE SATURDAY BEWILDEREDS. “Sandrine, she has a name,” Sophonie tells us, irritated. “Every human has a name.” But for Popol and me, she’s still the little brunette. Just like there’s the tall blonde, the little what’s-his-name, the hyena, and the Three Musketeers. We nickname all the customers at the bar according to their traits or habits. Just as they clearly don’t know Sophonie’s name. No one comes to this bar to extend gestures of friendship or even recognition to the waiters. No one pays attention to the two guys sitting on the wall on Wednesday evenings. “Junior security guards, maybe. It’s a serious thing, security.” After parking their 4x4s, the clients make a mad dash for the door. They walk quickly, greedy, seeking something. The beasts have been unleashed. They start to dance outside to songs they haven’t heard yet. They don’t stop dancing as they head towards the dance floor. They hug. They admire each other in a sort of clique. All together they make up a compact monster, one with many heads, many legs, many mouths, all turning in on each other, frenzied vultures. I’ll eat you, you’ll eat me…bodies anxious to consume other bodies, alcohol, something they can feel, ingest, massage, chew, until they overdose; the dregs of which—vomit, condoms—will litter the bathrooms after closing time, like proof that everyone had their fill, or even had more than their fill. Then the dislocated parts of the monster leave one after the other, along with whatever vomit or condoms they’ve got left. To go finish out the night elsewhere and piece themselves together again. Even the dregs. People can be so egotistical that in addition to luxury and lust, they need the filth and depression that often accompany them all to themselves. The tall blonde, who works for a big company and therefore has an armored vehicle with a chauffeur who spends his night waiting for her to be done showing off her long legs. The Three Musketeers, three young women who work in the same office, share an apartment, take the same dance class, take their vacations at the same time and are always looking in the same direction. The hyena, a specialist in I’m-not-sure-what, who always brags about his exploits to seduce young girls. The little what’s-his-name… and all the others. Those for whom we haven’t yet found notable characteristics. The bar regulars decided a long time ago that in addition to their consultant and specialist salaries, they share something in common: the right to form a group. The little brunette. The tall blonde, who was beat up one night by a native. The little what’s-his-name… Hikes, the beach. And the bar on Wednesday evenings.

  People often celebrate their birthdays there. They make for strange parties: the attendees don’t really know each other, having nothing in common except for living well in a kingdom of poverty, occasional random sexual encounters, and voyeuristic escapades into the exotic corners of an occupied country. They’re just like the summer camp friendships described in children’s books. They don’t know each other well, stumbling over names and forgetting the others as soon as they leave to seek their fortune elsewhere. We sometimes hear them ask: Didn’t we meet before, in Dhaka, or in Kigali? But of course, I was with that company. But of course, I remember now… And then the reunions begin. And off to get a beer. Among themselves, they’re jobs, not people. What binds them together is the customs of their group. No less so than Wodné and his gang, who hang out with each other on principle. Because a guy from Burial Street should stand united with another guy from Burial Street. Just as an expat becomes the friend of other expats. Until our fates separate us. When you change jobs and move to another country. Or when some little guy from Burial Street receives the scholarship that others had coveted. We’re all friends as long as we’re in the same boat. It doesn’t really matter who you are deep down. A bastard. A nice guy. Or just a good person. You’re part of the team. We’re friends. And the others can piss off. And let’s get a beer. Sandrine, no thanks. “The little brunette.” Mam Jeanne would say that it’s good to greet someone in the street as long as they greet you back. “The little brunette.” The little brunette who doesn’t know her server’s name and doesn’t see the two young people sitting on the wall. The little brunette whose mind is occupied in hoping that the man, the dick, the whoever, the creature even, whom she believes she loves, will abandon his night’s conquest and come join her outside. The little brunette has her own ritual. A routine, in two phases: frantic and desperate. One Wednesday, something had happened between her and a native. They danced together and wound up in a bedroom. Ever since, this has become her big story. She went too far in her taste for the exotic. She took the game seriously. Maybe because you can still sometimes feel lonely even when you’re inside the group. And even while you’re doing exactly as others do, you’re searching for a hidden meaning, a human depth, in gestures that don’t have them. She needs a difference. It’s like Wodné, who can’t bear the idea that a woman from Burial Street would fall in love with a man who’s not from Burial Street, and who looks for political pretexts to justify his jealousy. The little brunette doesn’t want to just be a slave to the rules of the group. No, what she wants is to be a slave who doesn’t think of herself as a slave. Nothing is more pitiable than someone searching for the illusion of her liberty from within her servitude. Nothing is sadder than a sheep who wants someone to see her as something other than a sheep, even as she’s bleating just like the others. The little brunette wants to think that her heated exchange that one Wednesday evening was a love story, so that she can assure herself that she’s different from the other females in her group. She says to herself, and repeats to everybody else, that she loves and is loved. Her man is there. He’s waiting for her. She’s coming! It’s just like that. They adore each other. Prepare to see for yourself. And she comes every Wednesday, full of excitement and positive energy. Looks for him. Sees him. Falls into a rapture. Calls him. Signals to him. Calls him again. Waits patiently. Waits impatiently. Begins to lose some of her positive energy. Goes out to smoke. Reenters the bar. Goes alone out onto the dance floor. Starts moving tentatively. Wants to be provocative. Attractive. Doesn’t provoke. Doesn’t attract. Her eyes implore, “Look at me.” Loses more of her positive energy. Her eyes fall. “Shit, look at me.” Becomes sad. Drags. Becomes ugly. “Look at me, I beg you.” Pu
lls herself together. Takes a breath, steels herself to do battle again. Goes outside to smoke another cigarette. Grabs a beer on the way and drinks it straight from the bottle. Is it the second, the third, the fourth? How would she know? You don’t count when you’re in love. Smokes outside. Throws the cigarette angrily onto the sidewalk. Says to herself, “Okay. I’ll go back in.” Goes back in. Readjusts her clothing as she walks. Makes sure her t-shirt shows off her breasts to their full advantage. And that her jeans do the same for her hips. Returns to the dance floor. Wriggles. Draws closer to her goal, all while wriggling. She’s right next to her goal. She could touch him. Brushes against him. She plucks up her courage. Touches him again. Rubs herself against his back. Finally grows ashamed. Hates herself. She’s dying. Goes to die while seated at the wheel of her car. She still hasn’t actually started the engine, refusing to admit to herself that she has been defeated, she has lost. They say she’s brilliant. One of the most brilliant members of the Occupation civilian staff. She has degrees in international communication and developmental aid. But as Mam Jeanne would say: there’s knowledge, and then there’s knowledge. Between her and the man who’s dancing with someone else, there’s no communication, not anymore. How can you communicate with someone whose back is turned? The little brunette didn’t grow up on Burial Street and doesn’t know that there are some creatures who don’t give away their time and affection twice. Neither for lovers nor for dead people. On Burial Street, we see many of these types of people pass by. Those who devote several minutes of their day to funereal rites. Several minutes. No more. They skip mass, are the last to arrive to the cemetery, keep checking their watches in the hopes that the speakers will cut short their goodbyes, leave before the last shovelful of earth is placed upon the grave, loosen their ties before reaching the gate, hurry back home to change their clothes. Death very quickly becomes a distant memory. For the man, the dick, the creature she thought was her Prince Charming, the little brunette is already a part of the past. He’s already sung her funeral chant, and from now on he’s singing songs of life. On the dance floor. Another Wednesday. Another body. His song of life is a white girl, every Wednesday. Everyone knows it except her. She keeps trying. Smiles at the man. Like a dog smiling at its leash, hoping that his negligent master might remember that it’s time for him to be walked. A weary smile that seems to have traversed vast ruins in order to arrive on her lips. And then it goes away. Too forced to last. The idealized man, turning his back almost entirely on her, his indifference a contrast to her routine of lies. Showing her that he saw her, all right. And, getting up, to prove it to her, a new escort, pulling her in close to him, pressing against her, stomach to stomach. Respecting the Wednesday rule: the couple that simulates sex with the most perseverance and energy will be the one to actually perform it at home after the bar closes. Before going to the party, some of the NGO and international employees took the time to park their staff 4x4s in front of their staff apartments and to get a ride to the bar in civilian cars, tricking the curfew so that they can dance into the early hours of the night. The nights may well be long, but they’ll end by ending. The fucking part will be shorter than the dancing part, the apotheosis shorter than the prelude. At dawn, they’ll have to return home. But never mind that: it’s neither love nor intimacy that they’re looking for in the bar, the luxurious rooms, or the bungalows; it’s just consumption. Only the little brunette is naïve enough to throw her heart into the ring, to be motivated by the wrong thing and to suffer from pain that will mark her for life. Only the little brunette mistakes sporting contests for affairs of the heart. She doesn’t know. And yet she does know. But she doesn’t like knowing what she knows. Like Joëlle. Who disregards what she knows. That Wodné will steal even the air she breathes. Is stealing the air she breathes. He tells her everything she must do, down to the songs she must sing. When she does sing. When she used to sing. She doesn’t sing any more. It’s the emotional version of obscurantism, the idealization of someone else’s cruelty. That someone else, the dick, is Marc. Marc isn’t his real name, but it works well for the bar. At the bar, he hunts. His business is white women. The little brunette is approaching thirty. She’s well traveled, speaks several languages fluently, earns more in a month than Popol and Wodné combined earn in a year on their teachers’ salaries. Nevertheless, she gets some very simple things wrong. She wants to believe that someone’s waiting for her when he’s not. A five-foot-three ball of despair who can’t hold still. She offers herself up. Stamps her feet. Slumps. Mourns. Perhaps it’s because she never found her real place. By looking for it in the wrong spots. Like dead people who got the wrong tomb. Or the gentlemen who followed the wrong procession. And, refusing to admit that she picked the wrong thing to wish for, she lets an idea of herself dictate her actions and pull her on Wednesday evenings to this trendy bar, where alcohol is unreasonably expensive for the pleasure of the rich kids and strangers that make up the key clientele. And for several black studs, whose faces are masks of cold smiles, it’s their visitor’s pass into temporary bedrooms. Marc is their champion, the one who breaks all the records. In the months that Popol and I have been going to the bar to wait for Sophonie, I’ve never seen him wear anything other than his guayabera. I’ve run into him wearing different clothes elsewhere. The guayabera is for Kannjawou. I’ve never heard him speak in anything other than very short sentences: Yes. No. Let’s dance. These methods don’t grow old. It’s true that the little brunette is capable of talking enough for two people. She’s an expert in communication who messed up her love story. And her mirror. Maybe the little brunette—a prisoner to her blind mirror—is hoping to figure out how to live at this fake pagan festival, which is both a sexual trade and a funeral rite at the same time.

  ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS AFTER THE BAR CLOSES, SOPHONIE WASHES HER FACE IN THE LADIES’ ROOM AND JOINS US IN THE COURTYARD. Monsieur Régis offers us one last beer, which we refuse. So he offers one to the other servers. Abner gulps his down greedily. He and the owner both pretend not to know that it’s not his first of the night. Fritznel asks permission to bring his with him so that he can share it with his friends at home. Monsieur Vallières often stays after closing. The owner joins him at his table, and their shared solitude lights their faces up with a sad kind of joy. We leave them chatting with each other and begin our descent to Burial Street. First we walk along Oak Flower, where the oak trees have been dead for a long time. Some tall houses are still standing there, vestiges of early twentieth-century architecture, to which the owners have added some interior walls. On Oak Flower, there aren’t any oaks, nothing but old mansions converted into a thousand rooms for rent; some of the balconies have a few flowerpots on them, keeping a little of their former splendor. Then we fork off to the right, turning onto Capois Street, passing the high school for girls where Sophonie and Joëlle had studied. Across from the high school are the private clinics where the pregnant students go to get abortions, running the double risk of a clandestine operation that will all too quickly become a badly kept secret. Leaving the high school, the clinics, an embassy, and an old palace that’s been transformed into a cheap motel behind us, we arrive at the Champ-de-Mars and stop on the Grand-Place long enough to drink a beer on worn-down plastic chairs that are no longer as white as they once were. We become customers ourselves of the vendors who have set up shop here in the middle of the night, selling beer, strong liquor, and chicken roasted on-site. We drink our beers under the questioning gaze of the junkies and prostitutes who are wondering if we’re a trio of lovers or children from the same family. It’s true that Sophonie and Popol never allow themselves to express affection towards each other in my presence. It wouldn’t bother me, though. My love for Sophonie and Joëlle is only the childhood kind of love, more of a projection than a real desire to touch them. I love that they are, with a quiet passion that has never become a need. They’re the heroines of my childhood memories, like neighborhood fairies. It’s stupid for Wodné to be jealous of me. Joëlle and I are
the youngest. In his eyes, this creates a dangerous bond between us. But Wodné has become jealous of anything in his life that he doesn’t first approve. Having finished our beers, we continue our descent. There’s a turn to the left, which leaves the national palace and the old barracks on our right. Then comes College Street, deserted at this hour. Reading at random the names that I know by heart—“Medicine and Odontology,” “Law and Economics”—I can’t help but think that the contrast between the dignified names and the decrepitude of the buildings hides their mysteries and complexities well. We avoid the all-night gas station, where the public bus drivers are all jostling to get in. Turning again to the left, avoiding the stalls that line the sidewalks of the streets leading to the edges of the town, we return the greetings of the travelers who are already heading towards South Station or towards the vehicles that will leave at dawn, trying to get a head start on the others. Every time, we feel the same discomfort at the sight of the homeless people sleeping in cardboard boxes around the stadium. Bread, toys, one out of two parents, money for school fees in any given year: we lacked so many things as children. But others are worse off. Those who don’t have an aunt living in the capital, as Wodné does. Those who didn’t have the chance to go to high school, as we did. Those who didn’t have the privilege of attending the public university, which was deserted by the rich kids who would prefer to go suffer racism or cold, to get any old diploma—whether real or fake—in any part of the world, rather than sit on the same benches as us. We know poverty. But there is worse poverty than ours. On the street where we live. Behind it. Those who sleep in improvised shelters. Those who reached forty years of age without ever having received a salary. Those who will never present a thesis; those who will never go abroad on scholarship and then return with accents and borrowed airs, saying that anyone who’s never left is an idiot. There’s nothing stopping Wodné from living one day in a house like that of the little professor. At least, unless he chooses to be a student forever, an old “militant” who makes a career out of arguing and reigns supreme over the youngest children. The only one out of the now-defunct gang of five who might end up like that is Sophonie. The other four of us are becoming, as the days go by, without really wanting to realize it, the richest of the poor, or the poor who are the best provided for. There are some people for whom it’s forbidden to move up. They don’t have the words, the connections. Or if they do move, it’s onto a boat whose real destination they don’t know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they’ll reach somewhere different at the end of the journey. And when they finally set foot on this other place, they’re turned away. The one who will surely die like this is Halefort. He took to the sea three times, following the advice of his cousin, Windward Passage. One time, he nearly drowned. Saved by the Coast Guard, he believed in the goodness of foreign lands. But two days afterwards they put him on a plane heading straight back to Burial Street. A journey just to change his clothes. A clean shirt and pair of pants to replace those that he had worn on the crossing, which had been destroyed by the fish and the salt. Halefort lives on the other side of the street. The skyline he sees is the cemetery’s grand gate, which he hops over every night. My own house isn’t big, but I have a bed. On Wednesday nights, after walking home with Popol and Sophonie, I lie in bed and take the time to read a chapter of this or that novel, or I look over the notes of the rich and lazy student who’s paying me to give them form and meaning. From there I can hear the steady noise of the shovel and hammer that the grave robbers use to break into the tombs.