Then he said to our sister, ‘Now, my girl, you don’t have to carry on with your young men under your family’s nose. This is a big town, go and coo at each other in some other part of town, even in the field down by the airport!’
And so the affair was sorted out, and Yaya Gaston and Dassin never fought again in our quartier.
Geneviève’s stayed for breakfast with us. Maman Martine asked her to, just as she was about to go home to her parents’.
‘Stay and eat with us, my dear girl.’
At first she says no, once, twice then three times, then after that she agreed to stay. She wanted to sweep the yard, wash the plates and put the rubbish out in the street, but Maman Martine snatched the broom out of her hand.
‘No, Georgette will do that, it will teach her not to let men come whistling after her round this house. She can wash the plates and put the rubbish out too.’
Since Maximilien’s sitting next to me, he gives me little nudges with his elbow. I know he wants to eat my bread. Maman Martine said everyone could have half a roll. But a half isn’t enough for him.
While Maman Martine’s looking the other way, Maximi-lien whispers to me, ‘Michel, if you give me your bread I’ll help you, and you’ll be happy for the whole of your life.’
‘No, no, no! You can’t have my bread!’
‘Well, that’s your hard luck, then. I won’t take you with me to Papa Wemba’s concert tonight.’
‘What? But you’re younger than I am, how come you’re going to Papa Wemba’s concert?’
‘I’m telling you, I’m going to that concert.’
I can tell he’s just making it up to annoy me. I give him a shove and raise my voice: ‘Liar! If you can go to the concert then I can too, I’m bigger than you!’
‘Shush! Don’t talk so loud, Maman will hear what we’re planning.’
‘How are you going to do it?’
‘I know someone.’
‘And where does this someone live?’
‘Give me your bread first.’
‘No, I’m hungry too!’
‘Ok, we’ll split it. We’ll cut your bread in two, but you give me the big bit because it’s thanks to me you’re going to see Papa Wemba this evening.’
I draw away from him and start to nibble at my bread. He watches me like a dog trying to work out the size of the bone his master’s grinding. I get almost halfway through my piece of bread, and I think: What if Maximilien’s right?
Just as I decide to give him the rest of my bread Maman Martine makes me jump. ‘Michel, what are you doing?’
‘He’s not hungry,’ says Maximilien.
‘You be quiet, greedy, I’m not asking you. Michel can answer for himself!’
Maximilien winks at me, and I help him out: ‘Yeah, Maman, I’ve had enough and I want to give Maximilien my bit. He didn’t ask me.’
My little brother swallows the bread in a few seconds, then whispers, ‘Thank you! Really! You and me, we’ll go and see Papa Wemba this evening!’
It’s half past five in the evening. Maximilien comes to find me, looking very pleased.
‘Let’s go, or we’ll be the last in the queue.’
‘What queue?’
‘No questions. Just follow me.’
We leave the house in secret and make our way to the Joli Soir. I think: How is he going to get us into this bar for grown ups? The way he walks, he’s like an adult.
We arrive at the Joli Soir, but we walk straight past.
‘Where are we going? Where are you taking me? The bar’s back there!’
‘Just follow me. You’ll see.’
We turn down the street that runs behind the bar. Now we’re on a bit of land where there are at least ten or so people between my age and Maximilien’s. They are already lined up in front of a wall. It’s taken me a moment to realise that the Joli Soir is just the other side of the wall, which smelled of piss, because that’s where lots of the customers go to piss the beer they’ve drunk inside the bar.
A boy who looks older than me, but is about Lounès’s age, comes up to Maximilien and asks him, ‘Where’s the money?’
Maximilien takes some coins out of his pocket and says, ‘Here, there’s twenty-five CFA francs for my big brother and twenty-five francs for me, which makes a total of fifty francs.’
The boy counts the money and nods his head: ‘Go and stand in line with the others, you’re eleventh and twelfth.’
We go and line up, and see other boys arriving, like rats coming out of a hole. They each pay twenty-five francs and line up behind us.
Already, I’m getting worried: ‘How are we meant to get into the bar?’
‘Don’t be in such a hurry. You’ll see.’
The queue is now really long, like at the cinema Rex when there’s an Indian film. A bit further down on the same scrap of land, behind us, I notice a big yard and a house that’s lit with a Petromax lamp. On the terrace an old man and an old woman are eating in silence, almost like ghosts.
‘Maximilien, who are those old people?’
‘They’re Donatien’s papa and maman.’
‘Donatien?’
‘That’s the name of the boy who took the money back there.’
‘And his parents are ok with that?’
‘No, Donatien will give them the money. That’s how it works when there are concerts at the Joli Soir.’
‘Hang on a minute, where did you find the money you gave Donatien?’
He replies calmly: ‘When I get sent to buy things from Amin’s or Bassène’s, sometimes I say I’ve lost the change. It’s not true though, I keep it in a box I’ve buried at the back of the house. And when there’s a concert I take the money, I pay, and that way I get to see all the concerts. I’ve already seen Franco Luambo Makiadi and his group the All-Mighty Ok Jazz, I’ve seen Tabu Ley and his band Afrisa, I’ve seen Lily Madeira, the singer with a hump, and I’ve even seen the Cuban and Angolan orchestras!’
‘But why do you waste your money on these concerts instead of spending it on sweets?’
‘Because one day, when I’m grown up, I want to be a musician like Papa Wemba. I want to make it big like him. I want to play solo guitar because the guitar’s what you hear most. If I only eat sweets and never go to concerts I’ll never become a musician.’
Behind the wall we can hear guitars, drums and voices shouting: ‘Mike 1, testing’, ‘Mike 2, testing’, ‘Mike 3, testing’.
The queue starts to get restless, people begin to squabble, Donatien calms everyone down: ‘The concert hasn’t started yet, you’d better all keep still or I’ll give you your money back and you can get out of line and go home!’
The concert’s just started. Donatien runs towards the wall of the Joli Soir and pushes aside the boy at the front of the line. He lifts a piece of plasterboard away from the wall and I see there’s a little hole between two bricks.
‘That’s how we’re going to see Papa Wemba, through that hole,’ Maximilien says to me.
‘What? It’s tiny!’
‘Yes, but you can still see what’s happening in the bar! Just look through one eye and you’ll see really well. Believe me. If you get tired with one eye, you change to the other.’
He presses his lips to my ear and whispers, ‘See those ten boys ahead of us in the queue? They won’t see anything of Papa Wemba!’