Читать книгу Tram 83 - Fiston Mwanza Mujila - Страница 11

4.

MEN AND WINDS HAVE THIS IN COMMON: NEITHER HAVE THEIR FEET ON THE GROUND. NOMADS, THEY COME AND GO LIKE THE PAIN OF SHATTERED LOVE, NERVOUS TENSION, INDEPENDENCIES, WARS OF LIBERATION, THE URGENT NEED TO DEFECATE IN THE STAIRWELL OF A BUILDING BETWEEN TWO BLACKOUTS.

Lucien got out of bed at three in the afternoon. Requiem and the girls had already taken leave of him. He was groggy, rocked by nausea and migraines. Lucien experienced this kind of malaise after drinking one too many. But why on earth had he let himself succumb to inebriation before rounding things off with some below-the-belt delight? He ascribed his tiredness to the latter, and his nausea and migraines to the alcohol. He tried to walk. His calves wobbled. Impossible to move.

“Requiem!”

He yelled out for him. Nothing. His companion must be busy sorting out some cash deal. Otherwise, why leave so early, with no concern for his own dramas? He went back to sleep, eyes half closed.

Lucien was susceptible to bad dreams. He’d had two, one after the other, without the slightest break. He set to analyzing them. There was nothing apocalyptic about the first dream. A metallic voice squawking from Jacqueline’s face instructed him to grab his texts and climb aboard the first train leaving for the Back-Country, the land flowing with milk and honey. And he, in a sleeveless outfit, on a theater stage, balked, scoffed at the voice and the face, and held forth in a language lacking r’s, z’s, t’s, a’s, and s’s. He defended himself, claiming that his life was his own, that he could fling it about wherever it suited him. But the voice and the features took on a different appearance. He noticed he was not on a theater stage but in a little boat leaving a misty port; between his legs, a cat was licking his left foot.

He shook his head, gave a hoarse shout, grabbed his satchel, took out his notebook, scrawled a few lines. He began to examine the characters from his dream step by step. The barking voice — God perhaps, or ancestors hungry for solitude. He was devoted to the souls of his ancestors, but his spiritual life had changed since the death of his daughter. Why only Jacqueline’s face and not that of Requiem or even Émilienne? Perhaps because you’ve only just seen her nakedness, he told himself. Even so, what’s that got to do with it? And how about the train evoking desertion and exile? And the little boat? And the cat with the same colors as Juventus?

Second dream. Like the prologue of the first, he’s on a stage, but for music this time, accompanying Toumani Diabaté: The Mandé Variations. At the end of a song, everyone, musicians included, begs him to quit the City-State. In his dream he gets up to leave. Where to? He becomes aware of his nakedness, damp with sweat, dirty. His shoes, clothes, satchel, notebook, and handkerchief, gone! He sets out to walk with nothing on. And that’s when a huge, bustling crowd starts chasing him, gesticulating aggressively, uttering threats and parables. He leans down, plumps up the pillow, continues deciphering the riddle. He sighs and embarks on another sleep, another dream most likely.

Requiem was still not back. The man with train-track feet returned only to pick up more dough or stash some away. The neighboring tenants hated him with one eye and admired him with the other. Whenever he returned from his escapades, everyone in the building crumpled beneath his skyjacker charm. Requiem for a New World alias Local Boy alias Man and His Destiny alias Al Pacino alias The Myth of Sisyphus alias The Founder alias The Authorized Signatory alias King Nzinga Nkuwu alias His Serene Highness alias Ancien Régime alias The Lord of the Rings alias Marshal alias Supreme Leader alias Patriarch alias Man of Discernment alias Zambezi River alias Hitler alias Don Quixote alias Proto-Bantu alias Lino Ventura (full name Angiolino Giuseppe Pasquale Ventura) alias Neanderthal Man alias Venezuela alias Négritude alias Zanzibar alias Siberia alias Bertolt Brecht alias Demi-God alias National Identity alias Colonist alias Polish alias What More Could You Ask For alias No Entry alias Obama alias Away Goals Count Double alias Dostoyevsky alias The Most Mysterious Marquis alias Sultan alias Cousin of the Dissident General alias Pasha alias Mani Kongo alias Susuhunan alias Raja alias Minangkabao (generally shortened to Minang, or improperly called Orang Padang) alias The Negus alias Black Market alias Haile Selassie alias Prince-Provost of Berchtesgaden alias Maharajadhiraja (meaning King of Kings) alias Shah alias Tika Sahib Bahadur alias Caliph alias Emir alias Fatwa alias Freiherr (German for Free Lord) alias Makoko de Mbe (king of the Téke) alias Saigon alias The Man Who Changes Water Into Vodka alias The Legitimate and Direct Heir of Sundiata Keita alias Fancy Footwork alias New Mexico alias Jet Lag alias Schengen Area alias TV5MONDE alias Taxis G7 alias Once A Drunk Always A Drunk alias Parchment alias Long History of The Emperor Mao Zedong alias Birds Hide When They Die alias The Tokyo Stock Exchange. His noble titles reflected the seasons and the raids on the labyrinthine Polygon of Hope Mine.

They nicknamed him Gold Mine, for example, when he closed a deal with the South Ossetians, Fancy Footwork for his cool, particularly when on chilly terms with the law, New World, or The Most Impresario Yankee, when he floundered about in his English redolent of bottles opened with teeth not far from a broad who’d give you the clap, Ideologue when he recounted with panache his tales of trains that derail with their cargo of narcotics and the whole town helps themselves and the bottom falls out of the market in that particular merchandise and the nightclubs open subsidiary branches thanks to this affair and the students find what they need to get wired during their endless strikes and the diggers refortify their bodies to unearth the biggest-carat diamond and the girls with saggy breasts buy themselves growth hormones or adopt the audacity to look you straight in the eye and jazzmen find the strength to squander jazz and tourists take advantage of the ups and downs to fill their unsatiated bellies and the fatwa hurlers find justification and the itinerant Pentecostal preachers feed their trances and the militiamen grab their guns for the dozenth war of liberation and …

Requiem was still not back.

10:30 P.M. Time to go pray. Pray = worship = sacrifice your organs and your last pennies in honor of the gods of inebriation, of infidelity, of impotence, of debauchery, of fertilization in vitro, of fertilization in the mixed restrooms of Tram 83. He stood himself up, with difficulty. Damn, another nightmare. He dragged his feet as far as the kitchen. A glass of water. The fridge, empty and dirty. He’d not been told that Requiem lived according to the rhythm of the trains carrying the students and the miners condemned to eat dirt. RULE NUMBER 64: let them play the hardmen, for they paper over society’s dregs. RULE NUMBER 67: the mightier crush the mighty, the mighty defecate in the mouths of the weak, the weak sequestrate the weaker, the weaker do each other in, then split for elsewhere. Hunger crushed him. He hadn’t sunk his teeth into a single thing since leaving the Back-Country. He’d jumped on the first train, with some stale bread, potatoes, a few bananas. The dissident rebels had confiscated it all. (“War effort! We’re hungry, and you’re the grain store!”) As he crossed the living room, he noticed a half-blank page on the table. Requiem had left a few words: “Go munch something, got a mission impossible to complete, speak this evening, explore the town, live!” He stretched out on the couch. An odd smell. The other one, he’d slept here. He turned on the TV to a report about the clash between the students and the diggers in the station whose unfinished metal structure recalled the turbulent years of Leopold II. Entered the bedroom. His rumpled clothes. Pulled out his notebook.

He’d hardly added anything to the text since his journey. Twenty characters, and discharge the text in a few months. Not easy. He’d been keeping up a correspondence with a friend who lived in Paris. The friend was making contacts and had supposedly already secured the approval of a few French theaters, where his text would be staged before making a one-off tour of Brazil, Chile, and Cuba. He should have completed the text four months ago, but circumstances had prevented him from refocusing his characters.

The first version of the manuscript had been burned. In fact, he’d set light to it himself. You think he had a choice, with a Kalashnikov at the back of his neck? They’d paid him a visit during the night and told him, coldly, from under their red berets: “Chuck it over there. Burn it.” He’d resisted fiercely, but with a Kalashnikov at the back of his neck …

A few days after the incident, he received a phone call from his Paris buddy, who resided at Porte de Clignancourt — the neighborhood was a Mecca for impoverished immigrants and other outlaws — to inquire after the progress of the text: “Where are you at with it? It’s vitally important.” He stammered an excuse. In life, it’s a curious virtue to pay for your own mistakes. He’d done it, but paying doesn’t mean finding inspiration and rewriting your own literature, word for word, to the nearest comma. He’d fallen back on his guts for the rewrite, juggling the loss of his daughter with his wife’s illness, but the Clignancourt friend phoned again, fuming, cursing, reminding: “What you playing at, Lucien? I’m in a bind with these French dudes while you sleep in late, nice and easy!” He should have admitted he’d set fire to his stage-tale because a gun had been held to the back of his neck by a guy sporting a red beret, that his daughter had died, and so on and so forth.

A girl accosted him by the elevators.

“What do you think?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m Christelle.”

“Yes …”

“Chris to my friends.”

He was disoriented. The hunger. The fatigue. The heat. The Paris friend, at Porte de Clignancourt, who didn’t stop calling. The characters from his text, for which he’d lost all appreciation. His daydreams. The ruckus of Tram 83. Requiem, in whom he’d placed his trust and who swore only by the New World.

“I love to give head …”

Overtaken by events, he still retained a glimmer of hope and even of beauty. Highbrow. Uncool. Bearded. Unpolished shoes. Straggly hair. Stubbly. Surveys show that eighty percent of girls fall for such individuals. It’s exotic, African, contemporary, New Mexico … Girls increasingly prefer men with some dodgy baggage, a bulging criminal record, a dubious past, a deal with some Beijing tourists, for example.

“I can make you happy, just say the word.”

There was something prophetic about Requiem. Lucien had already been informed, at the Northern Station, as if in a parable: “The City-State works like this: the girls are emancipated, democratic, and independent. Poverty does away with shame and your courtesies. Here, it’s often the girl, be she baby-chick or the opposite, who takes the initiative. She slips you into her strategy. She looks you straight in the eye. She asks your name. She tells you that you’ve got a great body, that your voice gives her goose pimples. She telephones you, again and again. She clings to you like a leech. But not always from love and other affections. She sticks fast to you because you buy the drinks (given the price of beer at the Tram!), the food (outside of the Tram, itinerant restaurants serving dog-stew, cassava, and smoked rice with onion), and then, after bed, you give her a bit of cash for the work accomplished, transport, and so forth. It’s the girl who tells you the proper procedure when you screw. She manages the whole shebang, from Genesis to the Letter to the Corinthians: ‘Put your leg like this, place your right hand on my belly, ride me like I were your horse, stroke my curves, back, forward, back, forward slowly, stop, now start stroking my hair …’”

“My name, Lucien …”

“You live with the First Man?”

“The First Man, who’s that?”

“Requiem.”

“Since yesterday.”

“Is he your brother? I glimpse a resemblance. He bangs on about his brother who lives and works in Peru.”

The girl had come closer to him, nearly hanging on to his raggedy clothes.

“Peru …”

He smiled.

She pressed her head to his left shoulder.

“Peru …”

“You fit the description.”

Darkness. Christelle gave a little scream. Power cut, commonly called “blackout.” He remained calm, yet concerned.

“My heart told me not to take the elevator. Blackouts compete with the angelus bell and the man in the minaret.”

“…”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Me?”

“You don’t look like an imbecile. History teacher …”

“Ex …”

“Aren’t you ashamed?”

“Why?”

“It’s a waste of energy. We live in the present moment. And what do you do to eat? The students are always on strike and it lasts for years!”

“Do you work?”

The inhabitants of the City-State mumbled when asked about their profession. High voice. Evasive answers. Narrowed eyes. Vague and uncertain look like the trains that depart and return with the diggers and students. “They shit in the train,” added Requiem, almost in tears, as if he were a tourist, or cousin to a tourist.

“Well, am I sussing out a deal?”

“Detective,” he said, ironically.

“Just a good lead.”

Noise throughout the building. The power was back. Christelle, Chris to her friends, took advantage of the situation, and changed the conversation.

“I’m inviting you to our Coupé-Décalé party this Saturday. Are you free?”

“No.”

Downstairs, they went their separate ways, delighted to have made each other’s acquaintance.

“You got any dough on you?”

“I’m poor.”

“Married?”

“Not so much.”

He had somewhat mastered the chapter on “Discussion with a young woman you meet in the elevator.” Requiem had given him the code: “Try by any means to remain neutral, cold, and forlorn.”

“Do you love me?”

He crossed the street.