NOTEBOOK 3

PLAYING IN THE DARK

I HOPE MY SHUTTLING BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN PAST AND PRESENT isn’t making you dizzy. But before I move on, you need to know that the story that follows goes back several decades and has nothing whatsoever to do with Yacine Ndiaye or Ali Kaboye.

As far as Yacine Ndiaye is concerned, just be patient; one of these days I will reopen her Notebook, just for you.

This morning, I want to talk to you about another woman. A woman I have loved. Faat Kiné. She played an important role in my life.

Picture this: I am an employee at Air Liquide and I have just turned thirty-two. Almost every night, we meet up in her modest two-room flat in Colobane, which as you know, was a pretty sleepy backwater in those days. Even today, in fact, as soon as you get a bit farther away from its main focal points at nightfall—the roundabout, the market that’s trying so hard to compete with Sandaga, and the houses and public buildings around there—certain corners of Colobane can be extremely quiet. In Faat Kiné’s little courtyard, we almost feel like we are alone in the world, and this is helped by the fact that the old couple next door is so discreet. When the sky is clear, we lie on a mat for hours on end, gazing at the stars. Television doesn’t exist yet, and so we listen to the radio, sipping our mint tea. Faat Kiné is not very talkative and our conversations are always interspersed with long silences. These silences don’t bother us. The truth is that just to be lying there, next to one another, enjoying the balmy night air together, means happiness for us. We avoid great verbal outpourings because we want to preserve the secret dignity of that happiness. Our love, which is solid, can do without them. Instead of working out the details of our future life together in advance—the name of the first baby, how to furnish our new house, and whether or not it would be a good idea if Faat Kiné, a social worker, started looking for a job somewhere near my factory—we discuss the small little things that happen in everyday life. In fact, we spend most of our time talking about our families and friends and I have to admit that we often end up saying nasty things about people we don’t like. This is the first time I’ve told anybody, but such-and-such—you would never have guessed it, I expect—is hiding a dark family secret. Things like that, which are maybe a tad unwholesome. But that only brought us even closer together, this feeling of having the others—all the others, in fact—against us.

But don’t forget, it’s the fifties. Faat Kiné and I are young, our blood is still fresh, and we know it. The desire comes almost all by itself. Our two bodies know each other well, one has to say. Had we been able to dissolve into each other, we certainly would have done, but as it is, we emerge from our embraces exhausted and drained, staring into empty space.

Yes—those were our evenings in Colobane.

But one of those evenings was—how can I put it?—so special that it continues to haunt me even now, after so many years. I remember it down to the tiniest detail, and it still troubles me a bit as I write these lines.

I have to tell you about it.

We’re lying wrapped in each other’s arms, in silence. The sky is clear, and, as so often, we have the feeling that words would only disturb the soft vibrations of the night. We are like two children lost in an inhospitable place, a forest or an unfamiliar city, somewhere like that. Are we going to find our way in this total darkness? Perhaps it’s due to this vague fear of danger that we are caressing each other with such unusual tenderness. When I penetrate her, she receives me like never before, with the most extraordinary delicacy. Only, the pleasure is tinged with a hint of bitterness. At that strange moment we all dread when we find ourselves outside the other person’s body, naked and alone, somber thoughts overwhelm me. With my eyes closed, I see two little black ants trying in vain to get to the top of a hill. We are in our prime, we have our whole lives ahead of us and yet, at this moment, our very youth strikes me as absurd and disagreeable. Everything seems to be telling me we’re already old, worn out and jaded.

Back in the living room, she sits down on the floor with her legs crossed, while I am on the sofa. My fingers are playing with her breasts, before letting go of them and moving further down to that furry place that’s still hot and moist.

Our conversation turns to Mame Ngor. As so often before, Faat Kiné wants me to talk to her about my ancestor. I tell her what I have picked up here and there. Not a great deal, in fact.

She thinks it’s pointless for us to have come into the world one day, only to disappear again the same way and leaving behind no trace in anyone’s memory.

Faat Kiné tended to be a very serious and thoughtful person at the best of times, but that night, she seemed more preoccupied than usual.

I am concerned. “What’s the matter, Fatou?”

After a brief silence, she calmly replies, “The truth is, Nguirane, that I feel like I have never had either a father or a mother.”

After she was born, her mother took her into the bush in order to kill her. But someone surprised her while she was digging a hole near a shrub and she fled, leaving the newborn behind.

For a long time, Faat Kiné believed she was the daughter of the people who had taken her in, but they eventually thought they should tell her the truth about her own history.

I then start asking her if her mother got arrested, but I don’t finish my sentence. The whole thing is so stupid it makes me totally confused. Faat Kiné senses my unease and pulls me gently toward her until I join her on the carpet.

I was asleep, and I had a dream that I am going to describe to you now. I don’t want you to miss even the minutest detail.

I am alone outside Faat Kiné’s house, waiting for a taxi. It’s completely dark. From the edge of the embankment, I see hundreds, perhaps even thousands of identical little cars driving past. They are not all one compact mass, but they rush past at a mind-numbing speed, one after the other, with all their lights shining. I’m beginning to think that there is perhaps just one car going back and forth so fast that at every moment it fills my entire field of vision. And for hours on end, all I hear is the same metallic noise: “Beep! Beep! Beep!”

Is it possible to ask oneself, in the middle of a dream, whether one is really dreaming? At any rate, that is exactly what’s happening to me. The road is like a tunnel, stretching toward infinity. It’s strange that the tunnel is so dark despite all the cars with their dazzling headlights. I feel like I am standing under a brightly lit vault. Maybe I thought I had somehow been locked up in my own grave.

“Beep! Beep! Beep!”

Soon it is no longer a question of finding a taxi to get back to Niarela. I just want to get away from here as quickly as possible. The way I am gesticulating at these car drivers is becoming increasingly frantic and distraught, but not one of them looks like he is inclined to stop. To be honest, I’m just assuming that these little machines are actually driven by human beings like you and me, because try as I might, I haven’t been able to make out a single one of them behind the wheel. How can a normal person possibly drive this fast in a tunnel that is both so dark and so immensely bright, and why do all those cars have the same black color and the same curved shape?

Don’t forget what I told you at the beginning of my story: I had just turned thirty-two. That means I had this dream in 1954. This detail, or rather this date, has its own importance and you will soon understand why.

The next day, I woke up feeling mildly anxious. Oddly enough, that’s what always happens if I have had a vivid dream the night before—the following morning, I usually can’t shake it off for a long time. They strike me as a foretaste of death, these nocturnal plunges into a world that is surreal and perfectly plausible at the same time. I would almost say I prefer nightmares. They are so chaotic and crazy that they actually end up being more reassuring.

More than forty years have passed.

How many nights and how many sunrises have been swallowed up by the void, taking with them our ludicrous hopes and aspirations? What have I got left of my nights in Colobane with Faat Kiné? Believe it or not, but neither of us knows today whether the other one is alive or dead. We have walked totally separate paths. It’s not easy to explain exactly how a being that was once more important to us than any other got lost along the way. I have seen lovers spend more time and energy on their separation than on their actual relationship. In our case that process was gradual and painless, I suppose, right up to the moment when further encounters, whether in Colobane or elsewhere, would have been pointless and embarrassing. But the truth is that this morning, as I sit here, bent over this Notebook, I can see Faat Kiné all around me. Almost half a century later, the sound of her languorous, slightly melancholic voice still resonates inside my head and her body hasn’t stopped stirring inside mine.

And now, another dream I had last night, has turned me into a vigorous young man again. I am sure you will find this equally hard to believe: forty years later, I relived that entire night in Colobane in a dream.

Everything came back to me, Badou, exactly how it happened. We made love in silence, with the same expansive, precise and measured gestures as always. Our mouths pronounced the exact same words. I talked to her about Mame Ngor, the illustrious ancestor, and she told me all over again how her mother tried to kill her shortly after she was born. I recognized Faat Kiné’s voice without any shadow of doubt, I assure you.

The oddest and most bewildering thing however was—and telling you this unsettles me a bit—that while I was dreaming this, I also dreamed I was back in a dark tunnel flooded with light and thousands of small black cars of the same curved shape were coming toward me. They couldn’t stop and were chasing each other at such a mind-blowing speed that they appeared to be standing still. “Beep! Beep! Beep!”

It’s all there, Badou.

The things that took place, the things I really experienced all those years ago, side by side with things that never happened. The waters of those two rivers mingling, that’s death. When the night has become bright as day, there can no longer be any doubt that the end is nigh. Madness is on the prowl, too. Madness. Death. They sneak up on us on velvet paws, those two nasty bitches. And yet, when you dream you’re dreaming, doesn’t that mean living your whole life backward, from beginning to end? It can make you dizzy. You prick up your ears to ensure that at least you’re not deaf when your final hour approaches. For it is then that the Master of the Worlds, in His infinite grace and benevolence, offers you a second life on earth. On your deathbed, you hear His voice: “Get up and live your life again, Nguirane Faye. From now on, you will grow one year younger with every year that passes. You are eighty years old now. In seventy-nine years, you will have become a twelve-month-old infant again. I, the Almighty, grant you this favor. Unlike the first one, your second life shall be a time of happiness. See, Nguirane, how merrily it’s moving toward its elder brother, all smiles and arms wide open. You’ll know everything that’s going to happen beforehand, even the exact day and hour of your death. And so one morning, your family members will wake up and say, ‘The moment of the birth—and thus the death—of our dear Nguirane is approaching. It’s time to prepare his funeral.’”

Badou, when you start paging through some of these Notebooks after your return, I’m sure you will say to yourself: “What an old chatterbox he was, my grandfather Nguirane Faye!”

But you will quickly realize that I don’t actually deserve to be judged so harshly. I’m not one of those old geezers who do nothing but talk drivel all day long. I am giving you advice, and what you do with it is up to you. I consider it my duty to protect you against the Evil One, without wanting to force anything upon you.

Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about the Evil One. Cheytan.

You know perfectly well how enterprising and energetic he is, that fellow. You can accuse him of virtually anything except of not knowing what he wants. And to achieve his aims, he never tires of dreaming up new disguises, masks, and tricks. He deserves the most loathsome names but is entirely lacking in scruples and doubts. In addition, he looks perfectly nondescript. Although his knobby, misshapen body looks like it was patched together in a hurry, it has energy in abundance. His ideas are simple, and his thinking is torpid. And yet, when he wants to sow discord, destroy friendship and love, or even cause great nations to drown in their own blood, he comes up with endless tricks and he never gives up! When you think about it, it’s really not very surprising that so many world leaders secretly admire him. As soon as someone wants to wreak havoc, no matter where on this planet, the Evil One is there to lend him a helping hand.

Each and every day, he is up with the first rays of the sun and out hunting. With his evil eye and a heart overflowing with malice, he discreetly mingles with the crowd and eavesdrops on all their conversations undetected. If he hears anything good being said about a person—Yes, of course! Such-and-such! How decent, knowledgeable and generous he is!—he immediately vows to destroy him. Somewhere in town Such-and-Such, so ingenious and talented a person that he’s been nicknamed The Truth-Teller, or better still, the Miracle-Maker, is busy leading lost souls back onto the right path. Apparently he is speaking tonight, somewhere between Grand-Yoff and Niarela. Nothing upsets the Evil One more than to think of him winning over the crowd with his mellifluous words. He takes note of the exact address, and with large strides, he rushes to the venue.

Whatever you do, Badou, make sure you don’t lose track of him. The predator has located his prey. He won’t let go of it again. In anticipation of tonight, a tent has been pitched in the middle of a public square. The Miracle-Maker excels with his perfectly honed metaphors, parables and proverbs. His voice is mellow yet forceful, his gestures are dignified and full of restraint. A true magician, this Miracle-Maker. He permits himself a few digressions here and there, all of them relevant and to the point. He has mastered the art of false modesty and comes across as extremely humble; each one of his gestures, on the other hand, tells you that he thinks he is Truth personified.

Everyone listens respectfully to his magisterial exegesis about Good and Evil. He makes the audience laugh by ridiculing the one called Lie, the favorite weapon of the Evil One and the bane of modern societies.

And yet, on this particular night, the orator suddenly seems slightly less at ease than usual. He twists and turns and he grimaces; he searches for a word, and, having found it, he immediately makes a mistake again. Many want to blame his nervousness on exhaustion. Only a few of the listeners can sense there is something more serious going on, without being able to say exactly what. Nobody has seen him, but Lie has just slipped into the Truth-Teller’s clothes—admittedly, they’re slightly too large—and now he is tickling and scratching him, calling him a liar, a pleasure-seeking intellectual and a devious scoundrel. He only stops when he has confused the Miracle-Maker totally. While all this is going on, the Miracle-Maker has not lost his composure. He tightens his jaws, certain that this is just a challenging moment he has to live through. But he has underestimated the Evil One, who is tenacity itself. After doing his utmost to physically torment his victim, he suddenly emerges from his hiding place and positions himself in the middle of the circle. He looks around nervously, panting and quite out of breath, like a man who has been running for a long time. Everybody is bewildered and wondering, “Where has he come from, this ruffian? How dirty and unkempt he looks! Is he perhaps a criminal who has escaped from Rebeuss prison?”

But he has already started tormenting the Truth-Teller. “Are you really the Truth?” he asks him in an insolent tone of voice.

The other one stays calm and replies, “Yes. Some people call me that.”

“Answer my question! I don’t care about the nonsense others are talking. I want to know if you yourself think you are the Truth.”

The Miracle-Maker keeps his composure since he is a man with a great deal of experience and insight. He says to the intruder, “Whoever you are, please go away. This is a place where we cherish peace with all our hearts—we disapprove of pointless quarrelling.”

That is exactly what the Evil One has been waiting for in order to turn up the heat. “Miracle-Maker, my foot! Which particular truth is this you’re talking about? You can hoodwink those idiots who lap up every word you say, but I know all about you and impostors of your ilk. Given half a chance, I’ll beat them to a pulp!”

The looks he is getting from the baffled crowd tell the Miracle-Maker his honor is at stake. He cannot allow this Nobody to insult him without fighting back. Yes, he needs to do something, but what? He is at a loss because—and you would do well to remember this—Truth is neither used to public embarrassment, nor to hardship or any kind of setback, in fact. That’s what you might call his weak point. Everybody is impressed with Truth, because he is always right and admired by all and sundry. Even if they can’t understand his pretentious gibberish, people praise the depth of his thinking, his wise judgments and mind-blowing dialectical skill. Truth also wreaks havoc in the hearts of beautiful women with his attractive, delicately embroidered and neatly pressed garments. Make no mistake, with his perfectly trimmed mustache underlining the regularity of his features and with those gold-rimmed spectacles that frame his sparkling, sensual eyes—the eyes of someone who loves the pleasures of life—Truth is very seductive. And Truth always succeeds; there aren’t many who dare oppose him, and hardly anyone would attempt to humiliate Truth in public. That is why he can’t defend himself against Lie, that vile bandit too boorish to hold his own in the sort of verbal skirmish where Truth excels. Within a few minutes, the Miracle-Maker has straightened himself up, finally determined to face the enemy. But he is in for a nasty shock: the Evil One, despised by all but hardened by his deprivations and a much tougher and more savage way of life, is much stronger than he is. In his fury, the Evil One strikes him with brutal force, tears his clothes to shreds, yanks out his teeth and tosses them to the crowd. And now our Truth-Teller, with blood dripping from his mouth and eyes bruised and swollen, is reduced to begging the audience to come to his rescue, and suddenly, he sounds quite different. When the carnage is finally over, the unfortunate Miracle-Maker really isn’t very nice to look at. Lie and Truth are busy hurling harsh accusations at each other. “You are not the Truth!” shouts the one. “You are the Lie,” stammers the other.

After that, nothing is as it was before. The Evil One takes advantage of the chaos and goes on the prowl again. No one feels like listening to the Miracle-Maker’s mumbo jumbo anymore.

People denigrate him by saying things like: “All this pontificating about Good and Evil . . .”

“Nothing but smoke and mirrors, my friend! Smoke and mirrors!”

“It’s all very well to pretend you are learned and wise, but what is much more important is to win respect!”

“A man who does not know how to fight for his ideas shouldn’t be allowed to speak!”

“That was the last time I left home to go and listen to those impostors.”

That’s what our compatriots are like, Badou. They never know whether to love or hate those who have, in one way or another, managed to rise above them. Although they are clearly in awe of the Miracle-Maker, they secretly dislike the excessive power of the Truth he embodies. But what they dislike most about Truth is his total, almost obscene lack of imagination.