Out of all the girls who are crazy about Yaya Gaston, my favourite is Geneviève. She doesn’t stare at me with big, mean eyes. She doesn’t ask me to go and take a walk outside so she can do rude things with my big brother. No, she asks me to stay with her, she asks me what I’ve been learning at school, what I like doing best, and what I want to do when I’m older, when I’m twenty. And I rattle on and on, I’m chattier than a whole family of sparrows, that’s all I do, just talk. I tell Geneviève that I want to be this, that I want to be that and that I want to be this and that both at the same time, if possible. I want to do everything. I want to be a movie actor so I can kiss the actresses in Indian movies; I want to be President of the Republic so I can make long speeches at the Revolution Stadium, and write a book all about how bravely I faced the enemies of the Nation; I want to be a taxi driver so I don’t have to walk on the hot tarmac at midday; I want to be the director of the Pointe-Noire port so I can get free stuff that comes from Europe; I want to be a vet, but I don’t want to be a farmer because Uncle René wants me to be a farmer. I also want to write poems for Caroline. I tell her this, and she smiles and says life is too short to do all those things. You have to choose just a few, and above all, do them well.
When I’m with Geneviève my heart beats really fast. I want to be in her arms, to smell her perfume. She’s not very tall, which is a good thing, because Lounès says a woman shouldn’t be tall, or no one will want to marry her. If her husband’s smaller than her, he’d be embarrassed to walk by her side.
Gaston calls Geneviève ‘My Black Beauty’ because her skin is very dark. She doesn’t straighten her hair with white people’s products like the other local girls, she combs it so it stands out in a big ‘Afro’, and you want to touch it. It looks like a black American woman’s. She always wears white, which means she’s someone who takes care her clothes aren’t dirty.
Sometimes I think the reason Yaya Gaston loves her must be her eyes. When she looks at you, you want to give her everything, even a house with an upstairs or a huge piece of beef, even when you’ve been really hungry for two days. I’ve never seen eyes that colour before. They’re like a calm, green river, with bright little diamonds sparkling round the edges.
…..
I love it when I’m with Geneviève and we’re walking down the street. I hold my head high and walk like a big boy, so people will respect me. When a car comes up behind us it’s me that says to Geneviève, ‘Look out, there’s a blue Peugeot 504 coming up behind us!’
She laughs, we stand aside, the car goes past and we continue on our way. We walk for a long time, in silence. I know that she’s not talking because she’s thinking about lots of things, she feels low because of the other girls who’ve slept in Yaya Gaston’s studio.
We’re still walking. Now we’re at the road that runs parallel to the Avenue Félix-Eboué. Suddenly she turns her back to me, as though she were going to go back the way we’ve come. I stop too, and I see her wiping away tears. I ask her why she’s crying, she says she’s not crying, she’s just got a bug in her eye. I offer to blow in her eye to get the bug out.
‘It’s ok thanks, it’s gone now.’
I know they’re tears, she’s crying because Yaya Gaston makes her unhappy.
Why don’t the other girls who stay over in the studio all have bugs in their eyes? It must mean they don’t love Yaya Gaston. If you love someone and you’re unhappy because they’re behaving badly, it must make a bug fly into your eye so it starts watering.
We set off again. I think about Geneviève being unhappy, about the other girls who say she’s too black, too small, that she doesn’t know how to cook, etc. And as I put myself in Geneviève’s shoes, I find I’ve got a bug in my eye too. I turn my back on her, like I’m going back the way we’ve come, but it’s too late, she’s seen.
She stands still and asks, ‘Do you want me to blow in your eye to get the bug out?’
And remembering her reply, I murmur, ‘Thanks, but it’s ok, it’s gone now.’
And we both laugh. I never want to be apart from her. I never want her to let go of my hand. I never want to go back to Yaya Gaston’s studio. I feel good with her. I squeeze her hand tight. She squeezes mine. I’m sure I feel like I love her, does she love me too? I’m in love with her. I want to tell her, right now. But how? She might laugh at me.
I tell her anyway: ‘Geneviève, my heart is falling into my stomach, I want to marry you.’
She isn’t at all surprised and asks with a little smile, ‘Why do you want to marry me?’
‘Because I don’t want you to go on being unhappy. I don’t want bugs to keep getting in your eye.’
She touches my head, I look into her eyes: her green river has more and more diamonds sparkling round the edges. I dream I could be one of those diamonds. The biggest one of all. I shine brighter than all the other diamonds and I make sure the river always stays green.
‘Michel, you’re not grown up yet, you can’t marry me…’
‘I’ll be grown up one day!’
‘Then I’ll be like an old lady to you.’
‘No, you could never be an old lady, and I…’
‘Michel, you already have a girlfriend, you told me last time. What’s her name again?’
‘Caroline.’
‘She’s the one you must marry, you’re the same age and…’
‘We got divorced.’
‘Already?’
‘It was her idea, not mine.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s going to marry Mabélé and they’re going to have a red five-seater car and two children and a little white dog…’
‘Do you want me to talk to Caroline?’
‘No, I’m too useless. I can’t play football, and anyway, I haven’t read Marcel Pagnol yet, the one who writes about the four castles Mabélé’s going to buy for Caroline.’
We arrive at the Senegali’s shop, opposite the bar called Le Relais. We go inside and Geneviève buys me two Kojak lollies.
We get back to the house, the other girls have left. They’ve left their things in a mess everywhere. Geneviève’s going to be spending the night with Yaya Gaston and she sorts out the mess in the studio.
First of all the three of us eat, then I go to say goodnight to Maman Martine, and my sisters and brothers, in the main house. Papa Roger’s reading the newspaper in the bedroom, I hear him cough. Deep down I know he’s missing the radio cassette player back in the other house. He’d like to be listening to the Voice of America, Roger Guy Folly, the one who reports on the Shah of Iran. And he’d like to be listening to the singer with the moustache weeping for his tree, his alter ego. But that’s our secret, in the other house. I’m not allowed to say, not even to Yaya Gaston, that we’ve got a radio cassette player that can record what people say.
Yaya Gaston and Geneviève sleep in the bed, and I sleep on a little mattress on the floor. There’s a black sheet hung between the walls to separate us. It cuts the studio in half, but they’ve got more space than I have. And when there’s a light behind the sheet wall, I can see their silhouettes blend into one, and move together, like I’m watching a film in black and white. I hear little noises, like a little cat crying because its mother’s left it all alone in the street. But it’s Geneviève’s voice. Why is she laughing now, though, instead of crying for help?