Broken Glass (17 page)

but just at the moment when I stand up and take a decisive step, I find the Stubborn Snail standing in my path, “where are you off to, my friend,” he says, I don't reply, he holds me back by my right hand, asks me what's going on with Robinette, I still say nothing, I hand him the book, he takes it, and straightaway I want to snatch it back, I don't want to give it to him now, I don't know why I take it back, but I try to grab it from him, I can't do it, I beg him to give me my book back, he says “why d'you want your book back now, it's a bit late to write in it now, you hardly ever write in it after ten in the evening, I can tell you want to tear it up, I'm not giving it back, you can have it back tomorrow morning if you want,” “give it back now, I want to check something, I promise I'll give it back to you, I don't give a shit about it, I'm not going to tear it up, believe me,” the boss flicks quickly through the book and exclaims “but it's nearly full, there are only a few blank pages left, when did you scribble all that then?,” and I don't reply, I give a tight smile, the Stubborn Snail comes up close and says quietly “my offer still stands, you go upstairs and sleep in my place, take the keys, you can go up with Robinette if you like, I've spoken to her already, she's up for it,” and I push the keys back and manage to get hold of my book, and I have a quick flick through it too, and I say to the Stubborn Snail “go on then, you can keep it now, mission accomplished,” and he says in amazement “what d'you mean, mission accomplished, there are still some blank pages left” and he flips through the pages again, concentrating hard this time, before sighing “I didn't look properly the first time, but it's a real mess, this book, there are no full stops, only commas and more commas, sometimes speech marks when someone's talking, that's not right, I think you should tidy it up a bit, don't you, how am I supposed to read all that, if it's all run together like that, you need to leave some spaces, a few
breathing places, some pauses, don't you see, I really expected better of you, I'm a bit disappointed, sorry, but your mission isn't accomplished yet, you'll have to start again,” and I repeat “mission accomplished,” I turn my back on him, and he almost yells “where you off to, Broken Glass?” and I say “I'll be back soon,” and I see him leafing through the notebook again, then I hear him reading out loud the first rambling phrases I wrote “
let's say the boss of the bar Credit Gone West gave me this notebook to fill, he's convinced I—Broken Glass—can turn out a book, because one day, for a laugh, I told him about this famous writer who drank like a fish, and had to be picked up off the street when he got drunk, which shows you should never joke with the boss, he takes everything literally
”

I'm struggling to push my way out through the crowd, Mompéro and Dengaki both call out to me, and hold me back, “Broken Glass, come back, come back and take your book,” and I pick up my book and my pencil, and I leave the joint, but I write down the dialogue I had earlier with the Stubborn Snail, as though it was happening right now, in the present, and it makes me smile to think that this evening no one knows I'm going to travel with a salmon, and walk along the River Tchinouka, and go and find my mother, and we'll drink, drink once more the waters which carried off the only woman I ever knew who could say “my son, Broken Glass, I love you, and I'll still love you the day you're no more than a piece of rotten garbage,” she was my mother, she was the most beautiful woman on earth, and if I had the talent I'd have written a book entitled
The Book of My Mother
, I know someone's already done it, but you can't have too much of a good thing, it would be the unfinished novel, the book of happiness, the book of a man alone, of the first man, the book of wonder, all rolled into one, and on every page I'd write my feelings, my love, my regrets, I'd invent a house on the edge of tears for my mother, some wings too, so she could be queen of the
angels in heaven, so she could protect me for ever and ever, and I'd tell her to forgive me for this lousy life, this life and a half that brought me forever into conflict with the red liquid of the Sovinco, and I'd tell her to forgive me for the happiness I never failed to find in inspecting the bottom of my bottles of red, and I know she would forgive me, she'd say “
my son, it's your choice, there's nothing I can do
,” and then she'd tell me about my childhood, my long-lost childhood, and how she raised me all by herself, how she fled the village of Louboulou after the death of my father, she'd tell me how I went to the state school in Kouilou, how I made my own way to school, how I walked for two hours, and I would see, as in a mirror, the days of my childhood, running along the beach at the Côte Sauvage, back then I didn't want to grow up, because after twelve years old life is just shit, childhood's our most precious possession, the rest is all just a compilation of blunders and bullshit, let's say that during my youth I looked at each thing with curiosity, I had no fear of the legends that told how in the sea out there lived creatures that were half woman, half fish, which around here we call
mamiwatta
, and, again during these years, the sea stretched out endlessly, while the cormorants came and perched on the beach, their wings grown heavy from wandering, but how many times did I wonder, intrigued, what was unfolding in those fathomless depths, and I believed then that the sea was the sarcophagus of our ancestors, that the salt taste of the water came from their perspiration, and it was this belief that made of me a true child of the Côte, I couldn't stay away from the port for a single day, my mother never said anything, and there was no paternal voice, so I was free to take off, bring back some tuna fish in the evening, which she would dissect, and I'd watch her tear it up into small pieces, which she'd throw, one after the other, into a huge aluminium pot, we'd eat in silence, and in her voice which was both soft and sad, she would say to
me “don't go down to the Côte Sauvage, people die down there, there are evil spirits, yesterday they found two children on the beach, their stomachs were bloated, their eyes turned up, I don't want to see you like that one day, if I do I'll follow you, I can't live without you, you're the one thing I've got left to live for,” alas, the next day, I'd rise early, cut my lessons, stow away on the Maritime Company truck, a vehicle with worn-out brakes, which took the port employees back to work, they wouldn't throw me off the truck, they were used to kids like me who sometimes helped them with their hard labor, they'd move up a little to make room, so the kids from the Côte could get on, and when I arrived at the port I'd take a good deep breath, I was back in my own world, I saw the gangs of rachitic dogs slavering at the mouth, wanderers too, I'd see their tails curl like springs when they fought over the leftovers of fish with the cormorants and albatrosses, but most of all there were flies, appearing from nowhere, buzzing like bees around a hive, I fixed my eyes on the horizon and wondered how to start the day, whether I'd bring a fish home that evening, though quite often I'd return empty-handed because of the competition from the other children on the Côte, who had muscles bigger than mine, and were used to working on the sea, and some days there were more of us than usual and the fishermen chased us away from their boats, and called us all the names under the seafaring sun, so you had to fight to get hold of just a little fish, you had to be the fastest, and whenever we saw a little boat on the horizon we'd shout for joy, and push each other out of the way and run at last into the water, we had to show the sea workers we had at least touched their nets, that we had helped them bring their boat up on the shore, and we stuck to them like limpets until they rewarded us with fish, but the thing we all dreamed of was bringing a tuna fish home, yes, that was how my childhood was, and I'd see once more the times when I'd read
by the light of a storm lantern, the times when my mother would tell me that reading ruined your eyes, and was no use to anyone, reading made you go blind, and I'd carry on reading anyway, and I was permanently hunched over, with sweat on my brow, I discovered the secret of words, I saw right deep inside them, right down to the marrow, I wanted to ruin my eyesight, because to me shortsighted people were intelligent guys, who'd read everything and who were bored by the great uneducated masses, I wanted to read books written in small type, because I was told that these were the books that made you shortsighted, the proof being that the European priests who roamed the Trois-Cents District were all mostly shortsighted and wore large spectacles, and it was probably because they'd read the Jerusalem Bible a thousand and one times, and that's how I grew up, with my eyes glued to the pages of books, till the day when I too would wear a large pair of spectacles like the European priests, till the day when I would tell the entire world, and show them too, that I was an intelligent man, an accomplished man, a man who had read a great deal, and I waited for this day, which never came, and I've never lost sight of it, God knows why, and my sight is probably the one thing about me that's stayed young, it's unjust, it's life, there's nothing I can do, but in a short time I will at last be alone, face-to-face with my mother, in less than two hours now, and we'll talk for a long while, and on the stroke of midnight I will plunge into the depths of these narrow waters, I'll just need to get past the bridge, then I'll be off on my adventure, I'll be happy, because I'll be reunited with my mother, and the next day, there'll be no Broken Glass at Credit Gone West
,
and for the first time, a broken glass will have been repaired by the good God, and then, at last, from the world beyond, with a smile on my lips, I'll be able to murmur, “mission accomplished”

I must go now, there's nothing left for me to do round here, I must get rid of this book, but then where can I throw it, I don't know, I turn back toward Credit Gone West, though I don't know why, they think I'm crazy because I'm writing even as I push my way through the crowd, and I go past the guy who calls himself Holden, he's still giving me his rebellious adolescent nonsense, asking me “hey, Broken Glass, can you tell me what happens to the poor ducks in cold countries when it's wintertime, do they get put in the zoo or migrate to other countries or do the poor things just get stuck in the snow, I really want to know,” he knows it off by heart, he doesn't even change the order of his words each time he asks the question, and I say to him “Holden, don't you think you'd have been better off asking the ducks in the cold countries, while you were still down there, that must be one of the things in that book you're holding, surely,” and he looks at me, very disappointed, and murmurs “that's not nice, you don't like ducks, I can tell, I actually really want to know, you just can't imagine how terrible it is for those poor creatures,” and he starts sobbing, and I ask him once more what time it is, even if he has got an alarm clock strung
round his neck, it's a question of respect, and he refuses to tell me, “I'm not telling you the time if you won't tell me what happens to the poor little ducks in cold countries in wintertime” and then he comes up really close, looks at me for a moment, tells me it's very nearly midnight, so I hand him the book and say to him quietly “my friend, give that to the Stubborn Snail, but you mustn't open it, even if you're in it too, but I decided not to write about your life, I haven't got time, and anyway, I expect you were going to tell me you were a student somewhere abroad, that your friends beat you up in the dorm, that you've been wandering all over Manhattan, you've been in New York, you saw the ducks in winter in Central Park and all that jazz, now don't give me that wide-eyed look, I've never set foot there myself, no one's ever told me your story, Holden, but in a way you almost insulted me, it doesn't matter, you just enjoy your wine, live your life, we'll meet again in the other world, Holden, we'll have a drink together, and you can tell me your entire life story, I'll answer your question, I'll tell you what they do with the poor little ducks in cold countries during wintertime, ciao, old chap, I must be off now, my place is in paradise, and if some cheating angels go telling lies up there to stop me entering by the great wide gate, well, believe me, I'll get in anyway, through the window”

Copyright © 2010 by Alain Mabanckou

All rights reserved under International and Pan-
American Copyright Conventions.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Copyright © Éditions du Seuil, 2010

 

First published in the United Kingdom by Serpent's Tail, an imprint of Profile Books Ltd, 3A Exmouth House, Pine Street, London EC1R 0JH, U.K.