‘Now Epicurus had the right idea, he defined pleasure as the absence of pain. I share his view myself, though it must be said that the perversity of human beings is such that sometimes pleasure, for some people, can only be achieved through pain. Which goes to show that at all times you must seek the antithesis of any given thesis, and from there proceed to a synthesis which reflects your independence of mind…’
Hypnotised by the breadth of his knowledge, we created a discussion group in the lycée. During these sessions, in which we also talked of poetry, we would imitate him by reading whole pages of some ‘capitalist’ philosophy which was taught nowhere except in our class. We were disappointed to discover that the study of historical materialism did not provide the same delight or enthusiasm as classical philosophy. But Monsieur Nimbounou could not entirely neglect the programme imposed by the Ministry of Education. So he would skim over the thought of Marx and Engels and quickly come back to what he considered true philosophy, that of the school of Antiquity.
We have been chatting for ten minutes or so, not far from the meeting room. Monsieur Nimbounou is talking about my books, some of which he has read:
‘My favourite of all is Memoirs of a Porcupine. Perhaps because, without realising it, you posed some philosophical questions in it. Can animals be philosophers? Isn’t philosophy exclusively a feature of human thought? That’s pretty well what I taught you back then…’
The supervisor agrees with a nod of the head, while, to change the subject, I tell Nimble that I thought he had retired.
He smiles:
‘Our country doesn’t yet have enough philosophers for me to be able to retire. And I’m afraid that until my dying day there will be some who go on believing it’s possible to live without philosophising…’
Just as I’m leaving him, I take an envelope from my pocket and hand it to him. He smiles again and pockets it. In the meeting room a voice can be heard saying:
‘What about us? Don’t we get anything?’
Nimble turns round, surprising some of his colleagues, who are watching through the slats in the blinds.
‘He wasn’t your pupil, that’s the difference,’ he says, in their direction.
He folds me in his arms and murmurs:
‘I have to go back into the meeting. I’m so glad you came… Don’t forget: some philosophers only interpreted the world; what we have to do now is transform it. That’s possibly the only thing I learned from Engels, for everything else you’re better off with the philosophy of Antiquity…’
He returns to the meeting room while we go back the way we came and the supervisor asks me quietly:
‘What was in the envelope?’
‘Just some money, to buy a beer.’
‘He doesn’t drink…’
‘Well, he can buy himself a lemonade, at least…’
At the exit to the lycée the supervisor looks sad:
‘You will come back and visit us again one day, won’t you?’
‘Of course!’
‘But when? Twenty-eight years from now? We’ll all be dead, and maybe the school won’t even be called Victor-Augagneur any more! I’ll have gone to join our dear departed Dipanda, up above…’
I reply, without conviction:
‘I’ll try not to leave it another twenty-eight years…’
Jaws
Few Pontenegrins ever dare come as far as this part of the port. Placide Mouembe, my childhood friend, has driven me here, at my request. But he prefers to remain at a distance.
‘Don’t go any farther!’ he yells, increasingly anxious as I gradually advance towards the water.
In his car, all the way here, he kept telling me I must be careful. And he gave me strict orders:
‘We can go the whole length of the port and back, if you want, but please let’s not go to that cursed place where there are all those rocks. Strange things happen down there. I don’t want anything to happen to us…’
I decided he must be thinking of the times we used to roam down the beach in the hope of finding a wrap left behind by a mermaid, the famous Mami Watta. According to legend, whoever found it would become very rich. The Pontenegrins back then thought that the very wealthy people in our town must have happened upon the wrap of the woman with the fishtail and long golden hair. People from the rougher parts of town would be up at dawn to dash to the bit of the wharf where she was said to live. The most gullible among them would describe the features of this aquatic being with great attention to detail, as though they had actually seen her. She was blonde, or maybe she was black, or maybe a woman with porcelain skin. She was huge, surging out of a great gaping abyss far out to sea, and would come and lie down to rest a few centimetres from the wharf when the ships had gone out. Her piercing eyes lit up the whole of the Côte Sauvage as she stretched out on the sand to comb her hair. What time did you have to get up, if you wanted to see her? Some said around midnight, or even two in the morning. Others said around four. And even so, no one dared come here at these times.
But no, Placide wasn’t referring to Mama Watti, but to a different mystery:
‘The ocean keeps many things in its belly… the sea is dangerous still, brother, and has no pity. Do you know why the water is salty?’
‘I’ve already heard that one…’
‘Yes, the sea tastes salty from the tears of our ancestors, who wept as they made their cursed passage during the slave trade.’
Once we were through the entrance to the port and had parked the car, he began to look worried:
‘It’s a bad day to be down by the sea. There’s hardly anyone here, the boats look like ghosts watching us, ready to shove us in the water. I’m not going near those rocks…’
I was so insistent, though, that finally he gave in:
‘All right, then, let’s go, but we mustn’t get too close!’
All around me are the rocks where the waves come to die. As I approach, the sea suddenly falls calm. I can’t see what Placide is frightened of, it’s such a peaceful place, where any tourist would dream of spending an entire afternoon.
I turn around: Placide is waving at me to come back, but I don’t move, I look out across the stretch of sea and imagine what might be lurking in its depths.
A cormorant lands not far away; I turn my head to look at him just as a gigantic wave comes out of nowhere and smashes on to the rocks, wetting my trousers. From a distance, another, even bigger one races in at breakneck speed. I retreat and run back to join my friend, whose face is rigid with terror:
‘What did I tell you? Did you see that? Wasn’t that weird, those two waves? This part of the sea is the kingdom of darkness, it has teeth here and anyone who intrudes on her peace and quiet will be crushed! This is where the bodies of the drowned are washed up. Wherever you happen to die in these waters, it’s here that your body will be found! All the sorcerers in this town come and do their stuff here, that’s why I didn’t want us to get too close to this Zone of Death. The water looks peaceful enough, but if someone comes to stand on the rocks it turns rough, and swallows him with the third wave, which can be as high as a building with five or six storeys, believe me!..’