He turned round, saw the waitress walking past and grabbed hold of her:
“What are you doing wiggling your backside around my big brother like that? Do you want to make his head spin or something? Do you think it’s a fashion show here? Can’t you see my bottles are empty and my big brother is looking after me properly? So what are you waiting for when you could replace them double quick, eh?”
I signalled to him to calm down.
“No, big brother, I don’t understand these African bars any more. With the Whites, when a bottle is empty, it is empty! Another one is brought, double-quick! But with us, the waitresses go round in circles and flirt with the customers. Listen up, girl, bring me two ice-cold Pelforts and leave my big brother in peace!”
The waitress went off to sulk at the back of the bar. Carcass moved his chair closer to mine:
“Big brother, thank you for these beers, you are not just anybody! Do you realise that the Congolese here in France form musical groups based on ethnic lines, as if we were still in the home country? Is that what they call promoting the traditional music of our nation? What image are we projecting of ourselves in Europe, eh? They tell everybody they’re playing music from the Congo, but what about me, aren’t I Congolese too? It’s because I’m not from their ethnic group that they’ve excluded me. He’s a dog, that Mitori! He’s a hypocrite, that Mitori! I don’t like him one little bit, that Mitori! When he is sweating he stinks. He is short as the dwarves you see with Snow White in those picture books for European kids. And another thing, when he plays the tom-toms his instrument is taller than he is. Have you ever seen that before, eh, a man shorter than his own drum? If I run into him, I will break his nose! At some of our concerts he would take me to one side, and say that the producers didn’t have any money and we had to reduce the numbers. Big brother, you’ve known this country for a long time like me, have you ever seen a white producer who doesn’t have money, eh? Or else, how come your Michel Sardous and your Charles Aznavours are never bankcrupt, eh? All the white producers have always got money, and I won’t let anyone bullshit on the subject. It’s the black producers who don’t have anything, and that’s all there is to it. They rob the artists, they run off with the cashbox back to the home country, and that’s why we don’t have musicians who are as rich as your Michel Sardous and your Charles Aznavours. Big brother, name me a single one of our musicians who is rich. Nothing! Zero! They live poor, they die poor, the worst is their music gets forgotten too if there isn’t a White taking care of it. I’m not being extremist when I say that, and these Pelforts aren’t turning my brain in the direction of Mecca. Having a white producer is an opportunity to get rich. But that Mitori, he just wanted to get rich by himself, and he wanted to let the people from his ethnic group profit out of it. So he hired another conga player instead of me, a guy from the village where he was born, when I was the one who trained that musician here in Paris! Do you see the problem? What am I in this story, eh? What experience does he have, this Mitori, to run a group in France, eh? Me, I can play the tom-toms better than him! He is just a small-time thug, a no one, an anarchist as they say in France. He came to Nancy thanks to his cousin who then kicked him out because he was a slacker, because he wanted to do the business with the woman of his good Samaritan cousin, but the woman said NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”
Madame Sangho, the bar owner, came over to tell him to lower his voice, that there were other customers who were disturbed by the noise we were making.
“Who are these customers? What do they have over my big brother? Leave me in peace, woman! I need to talk! I’ve had enough! Am I looking for trouble in this bar? My big brother is buying my beers, he has got money, he is well dressed, have you seen his suit? Do you know where he bought it? Are we in France or are we not? The customer is king!”
Then, leaning over as if he didn’t want the other compatriots to share what he was about to confide in me, he whispered in a deep voice:
“Big brother, I am going to tell you something you must keep to yourself … It is very serious what that Mitori has done. He’s a bastard! It’s because you don’t know him, big brother! If you come across him here or anywhere, whatever you do don’t offer him a beer because I can see you’re too kind and you’ll always be taken for a bloody fool. You’re too nice, and too much of a bloody fool. Mitori is a crook, he’s a snake, I swear! I won’t tell you what a scandal there was over in Nancy where he lived before! That was where he took the virginity of the daughter of a lawyer from back home who dabbles in politics and who wants to become president by the way with a little help from the Americans. Do you think the Americans will help a guy like that who didn’t fight in the Vietnam War and who didn’t bomb the Iraqis? The Americans only respect you if you have fought by their side in war. But we Congolese, have we been in battle alongside the Americans? NO, NO, NO! This lawyer had Mitori locked up for two years, the story was reported in the newspapers because the daughter of that lawyer was only seventeen but Mitori had been an adult for a long time, and the French don’t mess around when it comes to that kind of thing. Back home, seventeen isn’t a problem, you can already have two children by then, or even three or four, but that doesn’t happen here, you’re locked up if you lay a finger on a girl that young. When Mitori came out of prison, he went into hiding in Amiens and never set foot in Nancy again. I know everything, that’s why he’s scared of me, that’s why he’s kicked me out of the group. And the girl in question, whose virginity he took, I mean the lawyer’s daughter, she’s not even beautiful! Not beautiful at all! Ugly as a louse! If you saw her, you would think to yourself how can a girl be as ugly as that? It’s true she’s got a great ass, and I wouldn’t say no, if she was offering. I’d close my eyes and do the business without leaving any marks, but I mean really is it because of that kind of girl that me, Carcass, would go to prison for two years, eh? Let’s not get carried away here. And another thing, this girl I am talking about she is so black you can only see her eyes and her teeth!”
I was sweating profusely, and I was thinking hard, I wasn’t listening to him. I wanted to go home, I knew I wouldn’t do anything or say anything to Original Colour.
I paid the bill and left some money for Carcass because he wanted to stay a while longer. He tore a strip of paper out of his notebook and scrawled down a telephone number. I told him I didn’t have a number, that I would call him. I didn’t want him to get Original Colour when he called me.
“Thank you, big brother, you are really somebody!..”
* * *
A week later, I called Carcass. He seemed very worked up about something:
“Big brother! I’ve been waiting on your call for days! Why didn’t you ring me, eh? Guess what, yesterday I spotted Mitori, he was with that very black and very ugly girl I was telling you about, I mean the daughter of the lawyer in Nancy. They were in Château Rouge, at Pauline Nzongo’s restaurant. And there was me thinking their story was over!”