Because Rachel did nothing to put this predatory scum in his place, Original Colour came to the conclusion that she was a crowd in their two-room apartment.
After a heated argument with her friend who defended her man tooth and nail, Original Colour packed up her belongings during the week, and rented a room in a cheap hotel on Rue de Suez, which was mainly occupied by Nigerian female stallholders from the Marché Dejean. She was quickly introduced into the network of women who imported de-negrifying products from back home. And they wasted little time in adopting the young Congolese woman, because she helped them write the letters and fill out the forms in French that are a necessary part of everyday life. Original Colour became, if you like, their public writer …
* * *
Living alongside these Nigerian women was no easy ride. Petty squabbles about twice nothing set the girls against one another. Boyfriend trouble or something to do with witchcraft. As soon as one of the Nigerian ladies brought a man onto the premises, the others were all competing to sleep with him.
And then there were the nocturnal catfights. The police would turn up, sirens blaring fit to burst the eardrums of the crowd gathered in front of the building. The Nigerian ladies would threaten each other with pestles, forks and sometimes even with cans of caustic soda. Some ended up with faces streaked with deep scars. Was there still room for Original Colour, caught in the middle of all these frenzied females? The young French-Congolese woman needed to win her independence back. Around this time, on the stairs of their hotel, she met a man who said that he owned a ladies’ underwear shop in Les Halles. The man was a regular client of the Nigerian ladies. I never found out exactly what kind of relationship he had with Original Colour. She was very evasive on the subject. But what I do know is that from one day to the next the man hired her to work at Soul Fashion.
She started looking for somewhere to live and found a studio in the 18th arrondissement, which meant burning her bridges with her Nigerian friends who accused her of stealing their man who “paid handsomely” and didn’t haggle …
As soon as Original Colour appeared in front of Soul Fashion, I used to break off my conversation with my pals, leave my glass of Pelfort and rush over to her. I made sure I wore my most elegant suits, for the sole purpose of charming her, and she liked it because she knew about the Sapper scene and Château Rouge. She used to say I was the real deal, a Congolese man from head to toe. And as she said it, she would point to my tie and my Westons. Not only that but why hide it, she liked to hear me talking about my plans. And she wondered what on earth I was doing in that bar instead of continuing with my studies, since I’d made it into the final year at school. And my reply would be that I didn’t want to waste my time with a bunch of kids in a lecture theatre. I’m a trend-setter, I live my life to the full …
* * *
When three days went by without my showing up at Jip’s, Original Colour would go into the bar and ask Paul from the big Congo who, in her eyes, was the person in our group most likely to take her seriously, whether he had any news about me. The truth was, I was waiting for her to call, which she used to do late at night. And we would talk for ages. It seems I made her laugh a lot, and she melted at my accent. It was that very deep accent from back home, the same as her father’s — but she never made the connection, even though later on I would hear it in his voice on the phone. I rolled my R’s on purpose just to please her. I could switch effortlessly from a deep voice to a high-pitched voice because it’s not rocket science for a negro to play at being a negro. Just go with the flow: what’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.
Out of all the French restaurants we ate at together, her favourite was Le Pied de Cochon because she loved pork. I thought it was a shame the restaurant didn’t sell cassava because to serve pork without cassava is committing a heinous crime in my ethnic group. We used to eat there at least three times a week. The waiters knew us and would often give us a table on the first floor, by the window.
After the meal, our route was all mapped out: we’d chat along the banks of the Seine, and I’d tell her to open her eyes wide and admire the place where a poet had become very famous because he reminded these blind Parisians that under the Pont Mirabeau flowed the Seine. Otherwise they’d never have known, with their crazy rat-race lives.
On the way back, we’d have a last drink at the Sarah Bernhardt. We’d stroll a bit before catching the métro at Étienne Marcel. I’d get out at Château d’Eau, while she carried on to Marcadet Poissonniers where she changed for Marx Dormoy.
* * *
One day, when she wanted to find out at all costs where I lived, given that I’d remained silent on the subject and was always the one who went round to hers, I admitted that I hadn’t invited her back to mine because I’d been sharing a tiny studio in Château d’Eau with my fellow countrymen ever since I’d arrived in France. There were five of us in there living like rats, but not from the same family. Each of us had cornered off an area to store our things. We’d take it in turns to cook, or else head to the Congolese restaurants in the banlieues to eat food from our country and down the Pelforts until we’d forgotten the way home. I told her about how one time we’d walked all the way from Sarcelles back to Paris because we’d missed the last RER and the mini-cab firms we called sent us packing, saying their drivers often got bludgeoned by riff-raff in the area or else had teargas grenades thrown in their faces and their takings stolen. By the time we got to Château d’Eau we looked like corpses from the war of 1914–18, we couldn’t feel our feet any more and we slept for a day and a half.
“I’ve been living in a ground floor studio for the past fifteen years. I found it and the others came to join me because it was starting to get expensive living there on my own,” I explained to her.
She declared that living for fifteen years in a small room like that was intolerable. She wanted to know if any of my roommates were girls. I could see where she was heading. Another case of the green-eyed monster. I burst out laughing because I suddenly remembered our bumpy ride on that front. We’d had to put up a girl fresh from the home country who was in a fix, the people who’d encouraged her to come over were hot-air merchants who never showed up when she landed at Roissy airport. Her name was Louzolo and she wasn’t bad-looking, except for the fact that she had one buttock bigger than the other, which made it look like she was only walking on one side. We knew her from back home and we decided it would be inhuman to leave a compatriot to die in the middle of winter even if she did have one buttock bigger than the other. I don’t know what would have happened to her if we hadn’t taken her in. She’d been sensible enough to bring with her the telephone numbers of a few compatriots in Paris, and I was on the list. The other people on the list had moved on or else they didn’t pick up. So I was her last hope.
She called me at six o’clock in the morning, and I went to fetch her from the airport. We didn’t hear a squeak from those hot-air merchants for ten days, still less from the other guys whose telephone numbers she’d scribbled down in an address book that was crumpled from her thumbing the pages so many times. The guys who were meant to put her up had boasted about a large apartment overlooking the Champ de Mars and how when they were brushing their teeth or shaving they had a view of the Eiffel Tower. Since Louzolo was disappointed to see that I lived in a small studio despite leaving our home country more than a decade ago, I apologised in the first instance for living in a neighbourhood that didn’t have the Champ de Mars, and then I told her my motto: my glass may be small, but I can drink out of it. And so she stayed with us, but she did miss that view of the Eiffel Tower …