NOTEBOOK 2

THE BOOK OF THE WINDS

IT WAS ON A THURSDAY, JUST BEFORE NIGHTFALL, WHEN I WENT WITH A group of friends to collect Assane Tall’s mortal remains. When we reached Ngalla Diop Street, the last junction before the airport, we found ourselves stuck in the middle of a huge crowd. There were thousands of people there, mostly youngsters—some on motorbikes, others crammed into overcrowded mini-buses, shaking their fists, but the majority were on foot, running around aimlessly in all directions. All were in a state of great excitement, shouting and clapping their hands or drumming on car bonnets: “Moo-dou Cissé! Moo-dou Cissé! Long live Modou! Long live Modou!” Loudspeakers were turned up to the max, blasting music, and we repeatedly saw pedestrians stopping briefly, tapping the ground with their feet and performing a quick little dance, twirling around four or five times before they vanished again into the seething cauldron of the streets of Dakar.

The name they were shouting—Modou Cissé—is very common in our country. Hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens are called that. I guessed immediately that all this cheering had to be addressed to our famous singer, since he alone is capable of attracting such an exuberant crowd. His admirers worship him like a god, claiming he has the most beautiful voice in the world, something that is a bit of an exaggeration, if you ask me. To tell you the truth, this whole circus exasperates me. While those kids are screaming their lungs out, shouting the name of their idol in unison, cynics are ruthlessly enriching themselves at their expense.

Modou Cissé had just returned from abroad after receiving an important international award. That at least is what I was told afterward. It was obvious that this was causing great excitement across the whole country, and the singer’s triumphant return to Senegal completely dominated the radio and television news. At a press conference, while performing some grotesque dance steps worthy of the clown that he is, President Daour Diagne had announced he would be at the airport himself. The poor imbecile even went so far as to describe himself as Modou Cissé’s “Number One Fan.”

It was a most unfortunate coincidence that all this happened just after we had heard about Assane Tall’s death in Marseille and while we were trying to scrape together the money that was needed to repatriate the body. As you can imagine, we were definitely not in a mood for reveling just then. And yet, Badou, it was as though tens of thousands of the inhabitants of Dakar had congregated in high spirits to celebrate your father’s death. It was a complete surprise to us all, and alas, it meant that the homecoming of Assane Tall did not take place in a suitably solemn atmosphere. Our cortege had great trouble trying to forge a path through the huge crowd, even before we were suddenly blocked at an intersection by a group of sinister-looking, angry young men. What was causing their anger, we didn’t know. They had heard that the crafty Modou Cissé, who remained invisible to all, was hiding in the hearse. We swore that wasn’t true and suggested they should go and look for their great singer somewhere else, but they weren’t convinced, and a few of them gave our van a couple of violent knocks. Luckily, one of their comrades was more reasonable and managed to calm them down. All of a sudden they seemed to regret their behavior and allowed us to pass, with gestures so theatrical they almost made us laugh. A few of them even started saying prayers for Assane Tall.

Someone came to tell me a woman by the name of Yacine Ndiaye was on the phone from abroad.

I remember our conversation.

“I would like to speak to Nguirane Faye Tall, the father of Assane,” she said after the initial salutations.

“Assane Tall?”

“Yes. His other name was Assane Faye. He was a football player here in Marseille.”

“That’s my son. And you, who are you?”

“My name is Yacine Ndiaye, but I don’t think you know me.”

“Tell me about your family here in Senegal?”

“I am calling from Marseille.”

“I know. But what family do you belong to here in Senegal?”

This first exchange with Yacine Ndiaye should have been enough to make me realize we would never get along and that she would bring nothing but bad luck to our home in Niarela. Why didn’t she just say to me, “I am a member of the Ndiaye family from such and such a place in Senegal” to give me even the vaguest idea about the person I was talking to? It seems utterly trivial, Badou, but I assure you, these small little details do ease the conversation. Later on I understood that Yacine Ndiaye was under a lot of pressure at the time and that she literally had no time to lose. But that does not change the fact that for me this phone call was very unpleasant and distressing.

Even over the phone, you can often sense what’s going on in a person’s head. She clearly found my long-winded salutations superfluous, but trying her best to remain polite she said, “I’m sorry, but this is a long-distance call, and I have to be brief.”

That’s when I became aware of my heartbeat hammering inside my skull. I asked, “Is something the matter with Assane?”

Since there was no reply, I tried again, “Is Assane sick?”

Yacine Ndiaye’s voice was calm but grave when she said, “Assane was sick for a long time, and now he has succumbed to his illness.”

“And when did this happen?”

“Assane died last night.”

Assane died last night.

It took me a while to grasp the meaning of that sentence.

Why did this woman, about whom I knew absolutely nothing, make me feel so ill at ease? Looking back, and in light of the terrible events that have shaken Niarela since then, I could quite easily claim today that I had a hunch something wasn’t quite right from that very moment. But that would be a lie. I was just deeply distraught. I cannot deny that she talked about Assane’s death with a certain sorrowful restraint, and I have no reason to believe she wasn’t genuinely upset. But considering the harshness with which she announced the news, I still feel she lacked tact, and quite possibly manners as well. It was her silences that were more disturbing to me than anything else. Every time she stopped talking, the tension in the air became more palpable, and I couldn’t help thinking there must be something specific she expected from me without wanting, or being able, to ask for it. But finally she couldn’t hold back any longer, and she burst out, “So how are we going to do it then?”

“What are you trying to say?”

Thank God this was the first time I had lost a close family member in a foreign country, and in my state of anguish, I wasn’t really thinking about the practical details. That is why I didn’t immediately understand that Yacine Ndiaye was alluding to the transfer of Assane Tall’s mortal remains from Marseille to Dakar. She eventually overcame her embarrassment and explained the situation. “Assane’s body is at the morgue; here, the hospitals charge by the day and it mounts up very quickly. I have enough to buy tickets for myself and the children, but you, his relatives in Niarela, need to take care of the rest.”

It was only then that it occurred to me to enquire about the exact nature of the relationship between her and Assane Tall.

“I am Assane Tall’s widow and I am coming to Niarela with our two children, Mbissine and Mbissane.”

“Mbissine and Mbissane?” I mumbled. “You are Assane’s widow . . . Your two children . . . ?”

At that point in the conversation she seemed to get very irritated and she said, “I really think it’s best if I talk to someone who understands French. When you have managed to find enough money over there in Niarela to cover the costs of the repatriation of Assane’s body, you can have them call me back.”

Who was this Yacine Ndiaye? What was she doing in France? I had absolutely no idea. Just one thing was overwhelmingly obvious, and that was the fact that to her, Assane’s death was our problem and not hers. Did the marriage to your father prove a disappointment? She certainly didn’t appear to feel any love or even respect for him anymore. I’m sure you remember I let you speak to her on the phone. She repeated her morgue story to you, this time in French, and you reported back to me that she kept saying: “The bill is going to get bigger every day.” It was like an obsession for her. That was, for you as well as for me, our very first contact with Yacine Ndiaye. True to your nature, you kept your reserve during your conversation with her, and it was difficult for me to work out what you thought of her.

At any rate, you didn’t seem too deeply affected by the loss of a father you only ever knew by name.

For me, on the other hand, the death of Assane Tall was a story that nearly drove me out of my mind.

Abandoning one’s family for more than twenty years, that simply cannot be right. We had no idea what kind of life Assane had been leading in Marseille. Was he happy there, by and large, or was he more often miserable? We simply had no idea. Decades later, there was only one thing left for us to do, and that was to shoulder the burden of his death. The worst part was his behavior toward your mother, Bigué Samb, but that is an understatement. In my opinion, what he did to her was a shameful betrayal.

Later on, when Niarela fell on hard times, we realized she had never forgiven him. For years, Bigué Samb kept her yearning for revenge to herself. We were all taken by surprise when she started to strike. She had a heavy hand, and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do to stop her.

I welcomed Yacine Ndiaye to my house with open arms. She was my son’s widow, and in some way it was as if my son had returned to be at my side again after abandoning me for nearly a quarter of a century. I was desperate to find out what had happened to him during all those years he had spent living so far away from us. What on earth could have made him decide we no longer existed—not just me but also the rest of the people in Niarela, the place where he was born and grew up? The story behind all this could not be a simple one, nor could it be a story that was easy to tell. I had hoped Yacine Ndiaye could gradually be persuaded to open up a bit, or that there might be a few fleeting moments when she would get carried away with her memories and give me a more detailed description of Assane’s life in Marseille. I know you will object, asking what use it can possibly be to hark back to the past.

I have asked myself that question several times without being able to answer it. Perhaps it was because I simply didn’t want to die with that empty feeling in my heart, caused by my son’s excessively long absence. I have to admit that I only became aware of this wound at the moment when Assane was being prepared for burial, but it was—and it still remains to this day—very deep. Yacine Ndiaye was the only person who could have healed it.

But that was an illusion I had to give up very quickly.

It is now nearly two years since she took up residence in the left wing of our house, and to this day, she refuses to talk to anybody about anything, and especially about Assane Tall. It’s quite simple: for Yacine Ndiaye, I, Nguirane Faye, am just a useless object, no different from the rest of the furniture in this house. Like a forgotten bench in the corner, or the canary under the mango tree. Anything except a human being.

On top of that, she has managed to turn everyone in the whole neighborhood against her. She and her two children not only consider themselves as strangers in Niarela, but to them, this is not their country. I don’t believe they are trying to behave like Toubabs on purpose. It comes quite naturally to them.

In order to punish her for her condescending attitude, Niarela has started telling all sorts of horror stories about Yacine Ndiaye. I have heard people say it was her fault if Assane Tall at some point started going off the rails.

“At the beginning, Assane was determined to lead an orderly life. He had married a woman called Nathalie.”

“Yes, Nathalie Cousturier.”

“That’s it. A decent little nurse.”

“And then this person by the name of Yacine Ndiaye came on the scene and destroyed their marriage.”

“One day, she beat poor Nathalie Cousturier black and blue. That’s when Nathalie decided she’d rather be safe than sorry and left Assane to her.”

“A slut with an attitude problem!”

“Just picture this: apparently she used to parade up and down the Rue des Dominicaines in her pink boots, her wig, and with her naked thighs exposed to the freezing cold on winter evenings. Revolting, if you ask me!”

“No need to go all the way to Marseille to find out what goes on there! She doesn’t know Niarela, that one!”

“My cousin Ndeye Sarr has told me everything. This woman, if only you knew! Cocaine, whiskey and pastis. Nothing escapes us. What on earth is she thinking?”

“And as if all that hadn’t been enough, she infected Assane with the evil sickness.”

These are some of the things people say; the trouble is, that’s not all . . . we’ve heard other things that are even more vile. Impossible to tell which of these rumors are true and which are false.

The remarkable thing is that to this day, no one has ever heard your mother Bigué Samb uttering a single bad word about Yacine Ndiaye.