Broken Glass (15 page)

I'd just like to point out I'm not a bad man, nor hysterical, or anything like that, no, no one's going to call me that, even if I do plan to throw in the towel at the stroke of midnight, I'm a sensible man, otherwise how come those people who say they're not drunks can't do their times tables, huh, I mean, anyone can multiply by two, but once you start multiplying by nine, say, it does get tricky, and then there's decimals and all that jazz, but I've never given in to the temptation to count on my fingers, or with sticks, and I've certainly never even set eyes on a calculator, I don't give a damn about modern math, to me life means a bottle and the multiplication tables, just as for my father, life meant jazz and palm wine, Coltrane, Monk, Davis, Bechet and all the other negroes, with their trumpets and clarinets, God himself told us to go forth and multiply, though he didn't actually specify how much we should multiply by, but he did bid us go forth and multiply, I really like multiplication, even if I've always been keener on geography and literature, it's true I couldn't have taken literature any further, even if I'd carried on with my studies, literature leads nowhere, geography would have just about been okay, I could have traveled
the world with it, I could have studied the great rivers in all their length and breadth, the river Congo, the river Amour, the Yangtze-Kiang, or the Amazon, but I've never seen these rivers with my own eyes, the only river I've ever known is dark red in color and comes in a bottle, and this river, of the color purple, will never run dry, no more than the ones I've just named, and when I think about the liters of wine I've drunk over the past twenty years, if that's not a long quiet river, I don't know what the world's coming to, anyway, I'm not going to get bogged down in hydrographic detail here, water is a dangerous element, and it still makes me furious to think of my mother swallowing great mouthfuls of water before she finally surrendered her spirit, with no time even to say “
our Father, who art in heaven
”

 

 

 

I'll just make a note here, without wishing to boast, that one way or another I've traveled the world, I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm one of those guys who doesn't know what's going on outside his native country, that would be too narrow a view, just because I'm filled to the gills with red wine doesn't mean I've forgotten the exploits of my youth, it would be fairer to say I have traveled widely, without ever leaving my own native soil, I've traveled, one might say, through literature, each time I've opened a book the pages echoed with a noise like the dip of a paddle in midstream, and throughout my odyssey I never crossed a single border, and so never had to produce a passport, I'd just pick a destination at random, setting my prejudices firmly to one side, and be welcomed with open arms in places swarming with weird and wonderful characters, was it perhaps by chance that all my wandering started with comic strips, perhaps not, because one day, I found myself in a Gallic village, alongside Asterix and Obelix, then another time out in the Far
West, with Lucky Luke, the cowboy who shoots faster than his own shadow, I marveled at the adventures of Tintin, at his skill in giving people the slip, at his little dog, Snowy, an intelligent hound, ever ready to help his master should the need arise, now you don't find dogs like him in Trois-Cents, the dogs around here are only interested in grubbing up knucklebones to chew from the public garbage heap, they have no power of reasoning, and then there was Zembla, who thrust me back deep into the jungle, as did Tarzan, that bundle of muscle, swinging from creeper to creeper, and then there was our friend Zorro, wielding his skillful sword, while the envious Isnogud longed to be caliph instead of the caliph, I shall never forget my first trip across an African country, it was Guinea, I was the black child, I was entranced by the blacksmiths' toil, so intrigued by the creep of the mystical snake who swallowed a reed that I felt like I held it in my hands, then suddenly I'd be back in my native country, eating sweet, sweet fruit of the breadfruit tree, living in a room of a hotel called
Life and a Half
, which no longer exists, but where my father spent his evenings in a state of bliss, with his jazz and his palm wine, and I warmed myself by the fire of my origins, but almost at once I must be off again, I mustn't get trapped by the warmth of my native soil, I must wend my way through the rest of the continent listening to the major elegies and shadow songs, and trail through brutal cities in the hope of meeting one last survivor of the caravan, yes I really must go, and travel northward, and experience the highest solitude, see the diverted river, and live in the big house filled with the light of an African summer, and leave this continent, to discover other hot countries, and live one hundred years of solitude, adventures and discovery in a village called Macondo, fall under the spell of a character called Melquiades, and listen entranced to tales of love, madness, and death, pass discreetly through the tunnel which leads
to the understanding of human emotion, but first I had to open the greenhouse, and then even go to India to listen to Tagore, the sage, chanting his
Gora,
I must cast my net across the entire continent of Europe, so dear to our friend the Printer, I, the outsider, the rebel, the approximate man, I was just behind a guy called Doctor Zhivago who walked through the snow, it was the first time I'd seen what snow looked like, and there was this other guy in exile in Guernsey, I felt sorry for him, an old ancient with his face all riddled with lines, he never stopped writing, and doing drawings in India ink, he was inexhaustible, with bags of flesh beneath his eyes, he didn't even hear me coming, and over his shoulder I read about the punishments he'd planned to inflict on the monarch who was looking for him, on whose account he couldn't sleep, and whom he'd nicknamed
Napoleon le Petit
, I envied him his grey hair, he was truly somebody, I envied his flowing patriarchal beard, this man whose life spanned the century, apparently even as a child he said “
I want to be Chateaubriand or nothing
” and I admired his unswerving gaze, which I'd noticed before in an old Lagarde and Michard, which was my basic textbook back when I was a man like all the rest, and I found myself standing in his home, the Feuillantines, I had crossed the garden and hidden among the roses, and from there I was able to spy on the rebellious and womanizing grandfather, his back was stooped, his nose buried in a sheaf of scattered papers, which he was nervously correcting, sometimes he left off writing poems and began drawing hangmen, I was only a few steps from his house, I watched as he got to his feet, with difficulty, his work had exhausted him, he wanted to leave the house, walk for a while, just to stretch his legs, so I hid, not wishing to meet his gaze, and I left that place, and came back to Trois-Cents, from where I would often make a trip to the Atlantic Ocean, to cadge a few sardines from the Beninese fishermen, till
the day I thought I saw an albatross, an ungainly bird, with wings which ached from his constant circling above the roaring waves, and who with his flight drew figures in the air, outlining the lands he had visited and the ships he had followed, and suddenly, close to the fishermen's shacks, I saw a thin and wizened old man who said to me in a hoarse voice “young man, allow me to introduce myself, my name is Santiago, I'm a fisherman, my little boat is always empty, but I love to fish,” and alongside Santiago was a little boy, who was saddened to see him coming home each evening with an empty boat, but I had to go, I had to move on, that's how I've always been, always searching for something I couldn't name, I haven't the stamina I used to have, my strength of mind has withered with the years, and now I drift like a lump of filth caught in the current of a diverted river

last time, I think it was the day I said I was going to have a bit of a rest and not write for a while, and before I left the bar I saw the Saviem truck that delivers our red wine arrive, I saw the racks of red wine stacked way high, and there were some enfants terribles running around it, and I thought to myself what a real shithole this country has become, with enfants terribles swarming round barrels of wine, and then one of the guys chased them away from the precious load, saying red wine wasn't meant for enfants terribles, they'd have to wait till they were of age, and for the time being they'd have to make do with grapefruit juice, and Guigoz baby formula, or Bébé Hollandais or Bledilac and toys appropriate to their tender years, and the enfants terribles left in a terrible huff, and I began daydreaming about which of the thousands of bottles before me would be the first to wend its weary way down my gullet, while the man from the warehouse was unloading it with an air of detachment, which drove me crazy, in fact his attitude toward the bottles by means of which he earned his daily—and nightly—bread was downright disrespectful, I felt sorry for those bottles, there they were, rattling against each other, jostling for position, digging
each other hard in the ribs, without getting out of line, and the man from the warehouse piled them all up neatly beside me, and I took a bottle at random and indicated to the Stubborn Snail that I'd pay for it later that day, not tomorrow, and he said “no problem, Broken Glass, if it's you I'm not worried, if it was anyone else I'd say, credit is dead, it's long since gone away,” now that's real friendship, the friendship you get between me and the Stubborn Snail

 

 

 

so while I was sitting there minding my own business the day the delivery came to Credit Gone West, the guy who wears four thick layers of Pampers on his butt came and stuck his red nose round the door of the bar, looking a bit like Zapatta the clown, I don't know where he'd popped up from, Pandora's box, I expect, but there he was in front of me, panting slightly, his hair all disheveled, and his skin coated in dust, like a candidate at a voodoo ceremony, he had only one shoe on, and spit was dribbling out of his mouth, as though he'd talked too much that day, he looked quite altered, a different man altogether, and at first I didn't want to look at him, standing there like a child who's just had a clementine snatched out of his hand, no, I really didn't want to look at him, he looked so like a man haunted by a childhood photograph, and then there were all these flies buzzing after his behind, and he rushed up to me as though he'd had a dream about me, as though I was the very person he'd come to see, and he stood stock-still in front of me, like a pillar of salt, and at last I made myself look at him, he looked strange, very strange indeed this time, you'd have thought someone had asked him to solve the problem of squaring the circle and he'd come to ask me for help, maybe that was what made me think I should back off as quickly as possible, so the Pampers guy sat down beside me, without speaking, he sat down like a zombie come back
from down among the dead men and I said nothing, “where are you up to with your notebook, I hope you've written my story down,” he said, and I nodded, but he didn't look as though he believed me, and he fixed his eyes on my notebook, so I closed it straightaway, and he started to tell me the story about his wife all over again, all about the lock being changed, and the fire brigade, and the police, particularly the police officer of the feminine persuasion who had put the handcuffs on him, and I was only half listening because I'd already finished telling his story and hearing the same old record twice over is a real drag, and he said to me “are you listening, or not, Broken Glass, I'm talking to you, man” and I replied “of course I'm listening, my friend, it's a sad story, you're a trooper, I really admire your courage, it's not everyone has your courage,” and he said “why aren't you putting down what I'm saying now, though, you're all fine words, you think that will make me feel better, but in actual fact you don't give a damn about my story, you don't give a damn about the rather droll story of a poor fool's ruin, well let me tell you, I paid for everything in that house, electricity, water, rent, you don't believe me do you, go on, tell me you do, shit, say something, Broken Glass, say anything” and I said “my friend, I am interested in your story, I'd never ever make fun of you, believe me,” and he said “so what do you think about it then, what do you say to this crazy tale of mine, what do you think, tell me honestly, take at look at me now, am I an idiot, do I really look like a fool?” and I replied “life lies all before us, you know, even if your wife has behaved badly and even if she's still fornicating with the guru from that damned sect, life lies all before us” he gave a start, as though I'd just hurt him, or insulted him, “what are you on about, Broken Glass” and I thought he was going to leap on me, so I said quietly, “I was simply reminding you that your wife is a witch, forget her, the file's closed, you're not an idiot, you don't look
like a fool, you're a sensible guy, you're generous and open, I can't even find the right words to describe you, but you're a good man,” but it was just as though I'd thrown oil on the fire, the guy suddenly raised his voice loud and said “hey, Broken Glass, I'm not going to let you insult my ex-wife like that, what do you mean she's a witch, what do you mean she's sleeping with the guru on the TV, what do you mean she's a bad woman, if you think that, then you didn't understand a word I told you last time, I want to read your book now, I thought as much, I'm disappointed in you, Broken Glass, truly disappointed,” and I didn't understand what he was saying, he was really starting to bug me, here he was, defending a woman who'd thrown him out, a woman who'd had him put in prison, a woman whose fault it was that his ass was going to ooze for all eternity, and so I said to him in a conciliatory voice, “I thought you were angry with your wife, but it turns out you still love her,” and he added “of course I love her, what do you think, why did you say the file was closed, I still love her, and soon I'll be a man like other men again, my backside will dry up, I won't have to wear diapers, and I'll go and win my wife back, we'll have a new romance, no drums, and I'll write her poems about the lily and the paradise flower, I'll take her on a trip to Kinshasa, across the river, after all, we've got six children together, that's not to be sneezed at, I trusted you, I told you about my life, and you just make fun of me, you say the file's closed, I know deep down you're laughing at me, give me that book, I want to read it, if you don't give it to me things are going to get nasty between you and me, and I want you to rub out everything you've written about me, I don't want people to know my story” and then I was stuck for what to say to him, I needed to think of something, to defuse the atmosphere a bit, and I mumbled “listen, man, I'm really happy to hear you talking like that, in any case, I'm right with you, believe me, I would never make fun of
you” but he didn't see it the same way, he hit straight back with “oh no, Broken Glass, you don't really mean that, you don't mean it at all, I can tell, don't do that to me, don't fake it, that's going to really annoy me, things are going to get nasty between you and me, believe me, give me that book” and I stood up, I put the book on my stool and I sat down on it, that way he couldn't grab it off me, I was surprised, I was shocked, I couldn't believe it was the same guy talking to me like this, and I said “what's going on, my friend, is there some problem between us?” and then, since he was really starting to bug me, I got out my big guns and came on heavy, saying “you want me to spell it out, you prick, okay, I wish those guys at the prison in Makala had gone even harder at your backside, I wish they'd stuck it right up into your mouth” I just came out with it like that because I was really on edge and he immediately answered “what about you then, d'you think I don't know your story, then, well I do, I know everything and I hope you've got the guts to write that one down in your notebook too, because it's all very easy to talk about other people and not about yourself, but I know who you are, you're a hypocrite, a real hypocrite, you're pathetic, you're a loser, you sit around here playing the sage, but really you're nothing, just nothing,” that's what he said, and there he was really taking it just that bit too far, I wanted to calm things down a bit, so I said “my friend, what's got into you today, I only want what's best for you, let's discuss it like grown-ups,” and he gave me the finger and came back with “you go fuck yourself, you old scoundrel, you bush toad” so there was nothing else for it, I had no choice, and I said to him, “man, I can have you thrown out of here, d'you know that the Stubborn Snail's a personal friend of mine,” “yeah, he's a personal friend of mine too, and a personal friend of everybody's” was his reply, then he added with a scornful look, “I know about you, Broken Glass, I know your story from
start to finish, you can't fool me, weren't you the one who showed your backside to the children during lessons, and while we're at it, what about your mother, eh, yeah, let's talk about her, she was just one of the local drunks, an old wreck who drowned in the River Tchinouka, let's face it, you're the pedophile around here, not me, that's why you were thrown out of Trois-Martyrs School, because you soiled the cloakroom of childhood, you nipped the buds, shot the kids” this guy was really trying to rile me, he wanted me to lose it, how could he possibly call me a pedophile, how did he dare sully my mother's memory, had he ever actually seen her then, my mother's my mother, as far as I'm concerned she's not dead, she's still here inside me, she speaks to me, she guides me, she protects me, I couldn't let him get away with an outrageous slur like that, who did he think he was, and I felt my heart, my heart began to swell and I was trembling, I felt a snake in my fist, I mumbled bitter words “O rage, O despair, Have I then lived so long only for this disgrace” but it was no good, I was quite beside myself with anger, and I said “get the hell out of this bar then, you walking bag of bones, you wreck of the peninsula” and he answered “I'm not budging, you're not the boss, you old fool, you better back out now, your time's up, make way for the next generation!” and at that I was on my feet in three seconds flat, like some couple dancing a tango of hate, I spun round on my heels, I grabbed him by his tattered shirt collar, suddenly I felt strong again, the force was with me, I felt myself about to roar and bark and growl like thunder, I shook him like a crappy bottle of Orangina and sent my viper fist flying into his face, he didn't see the viper fist coming, and people started shouting, some of them said I should go ahead and really beat him up, with his ass that would be damp for the rest of his days, and the guy shat in his pants because when I've got my snake in my fist like that, I'm really dangerous, it's a gris-gris my mother
made for me when I was very small, because I was an only son, she didn't want people beating me up at school, and anyone who's ever had my viper fist in their face know how much it hurts, it's like a scythe, and I knocked that Pampers guy flat, we went down on the floor, and rolled in the dust right as far as the edge of the Avenue of Independence, not far from the bald soprano, and I think the whole district must have come out into the street, and the spectators were shouting “Ali,
bomayé,
Ali,
bomayé,
Ali,
bomayé
” because I was Muhammed Ali and he was George Foreman, and I was floating like a butterfly, I was stinging like a bee, and he was a flat-footed vegetable, and I could see his punches coming and was dodging them neatly, and when we came to blows I had the upper hand straightaway, because the other guy was just a black-market vegetable, I was kicking him, head butting him, sometimes it hurt me, but he took it, and my punches came raining down on him, there was no stopping me, and he thought he must be surrounded, that there must be five or six guys fighting him, and his nose was bleeding, he was calling to his mother for help, he wanted to run for it, but I held him back, I was pushing him, I was turning him around, I had him biting the dust, and the Stubborn Snail came out of the bar with a cloth over his left shoulder and came running toward us, pushing people aside, “let me through, it's nothing, get outta here you guys” and the crowd booed him, because they appeared to be enjoying the spectacle of our misfortune, the Stubborn Snail separated us and got us to sit down at a table and said “now what's this crazy business you two, I don't want this kind of thing in my bar, why are you fighting like madmen, you want to make more trouble for me, you want me to lose my license or what, for fuck's sake, you're both adults, you're acting like kids, we've never had trouble at Credit Gone West, the authorities are going to start saying it's a free-for-all around here, they're going to
close down the bar, I don't want none of this nonsense round here, d'you understand” and I said “I swear to you, he was the one that started it, I never wanted a fight” and he said “that's not true, I swear, it was him that started it, old Broken Glass over there, I didn't want a boxing match, I just wanted to stop him writing about my life” and I said “you should be ashamed telling lies like that” and he said “you're the liar round here, you write all kinds of stuff about people, what d'you think you are then, some kind of writer or something” and we almost started fighting again, but the boss shouted, “stop, both of you, that's enough of that, I don't even want to know about it, you just take these two bottles and make friends again, shake hands, and be quick about it” and we did shake on it, and everyone clapped, even the people standing outside waiting for battle to recommence, and we had a drink with the Pampers guy, and we forgot about the whole incident, and I picked up my notebook off the floor and went for a walk round the block