In my dreams I walk with my head held high, my shoulders back, people respect me, they greet me, they raise their hats when I walk by, and speak other languages, not just ours. I speak very correctly, you’d think I was born in whatever country I’m in, though it took me only seconds to get here, when in fact it would take a day, or maybe two, to get here by plane. Maybe I’m speaking Chinese because earlier in the day Lounès and I were talking about the Chinese who built the Congo-Malembé hospital in the Trois-Cents quartier. Maybe I’m speaking Arabic because I heard Monsieur Mutombo talking about Algeria. Maybe I’m speaking some Indian language because Lounès told me about an Indian film where there was a prince and princess being mean to a poor peasant.
…..
Every night it’s the same: before I close my eyes I think about far away countries. Once I’m asleep, I meet people who come from there and we get talking. They never ask where I’m from because in these dreams everyone is just the same, that’s how come I can speak any language on earth, when in fact it takes years to learn them. I fall asleep smiling because I know I can touch the sun and the moon and the stars. Life seems easy. But when I wake up I feel sad because I can’t speak a single word of any of the languages I knew really well in my dream. I’ve forgotten everything, everything’s been wiped out. It all seems so far, far away.
~ ~ ~
‘I’ve come to see Gorgeous Arthur.’
I’m a bit jealous because I was hoping Caroline was going to say it was me she’d come to see. I wish I hadn’t told her about Arthur. Now she’ll think about him all the time, and she won’t look at me any more. But then I think, Arthur’s just a picture on the cover of one of my father’s books, and I calm down because a picture can’t take someone’s wife from them. And anyway, Arthur’s dead.
We go inside, and I think I mustn’t show her the radio cassette player. But I’d really like to. If she sees that I’ll get lots of points over Mabélé. He’s never shown her anything like that, and he can only talk about things that don’t really exist.
I come out of my parents’ bedroom with A Season in Hell. I’ve turned it over so Caroline can’t see Arthur’s picture.
‘Close your eyes.’
She puts her hand over her face. Her fingers aren’t closed up properly, she can see what I’m going to show her.
‘You’re cheating. Cover your eyes with both hands!’
She puts one hand on top of the other. Now she can’t see anything. I come up to her and whisper in her ear, ‘Now you can open your eyes, here’s Arthur!’
At first she says nothing, then she snatches the book out of my hands. She touches Arthur’s face with the index finger of her right hand, she sniffs at the book as though it was something to eat. She runs another finger over Arthur’s hair and eyes. Finally, she opens the page I’ve marked and begins to read:
I abominate all trades. Professionals and workers, serfs to a man! Despicable. The hand that guides the quill is a match for the hand that guides the plough — What a century for hands! — I’ll never get my hand in. And besides, there’s no end to ‘service’. The beggar’s honesty distresses me. Criminals disgust me — men without balls. Myself I’m intact; it’s all the same to me.
‘What’s “the hand that guides the quill”? What’s “the hand that guides the plough”?’ she asks.
That startles me because she’s asking exactly the same questions I asked the first time I touched the book.
She’s stopped reading now, she’s waiting for my answers. I can’t tell her I don’t know or she’ll laugh at me and think I don’t know Arthur very well.
‘Well, the “hand that guides the quill” is a hand with feathers, it’s the hand of a white sorcerer who dresses up as a bird at night and snatches children and takes them to hell for a season. That’s why it’s called A Season in Hell.’
She takes another look at Arthur, as if she’s really frightened of him now. She puts the book down on the table: ‘And aren’t you scared the feathered hand is going to take you down to hell too?’
‘No. Arthur will protect me.’
‘What about “the hand that guides the plough”?’
‘It’s the hand that guides the plough in a field, the hand of a farmer, and my uncle says, you should never put the plough before the ox.’
Can she tell I don’t actually know what it means? I speak calmly, without hesitation. And under her admiring gaze, I feel cool air entering my lungs. I know I’ve just scored a thousand points against Mabélé. That Mabélé’s of no account now. I’m so happy, I take the book from her, and go and put it back in my parents’ room.
I come back into the living room with the radio cassette player. The cassette is already inside the machine. I press ‘play’. The singer with the moustache starts weeping about his tree. When the song gets to the bit about alter ego and saligaud, I start to explain to Caroline what it means but she goes: ‘Hush! Keep quiet!’
She listens, swaying her head. The song’s finished now, I press on ‘RWD’ and it starts again.
Caroline stands up: ‘Dance with me!’
‘No, you can’t dance to this sort of song, and…’
‘I want to dance with you to this song! Come on!’
I’m standing facing her, but I leave a big gap between us.
‘Are you frightened of me? Don’t you know how to dance, or what? Come here, and hold me tight!’
I hold her really tight, and we move slowly. She’s closed her eyes and it’s as though she’s not in the house with me any more, she’s flying, far far away, further than Egypt. I close my eyes too, so I can fly in my thoughts as well, and I think of the concert I saw at the Joli Soir with Maximilien. I see the woman dancing in the very short skirt, her backside blocking the hole in the wall, her long legs, her great big breasts almost hanging out. My heart’s beating really fast now. I put my head on Caroline’s chest like a baby that’s drunk up its bottle and falls fast asleep. Now, Caroline doesn’t have big breasts yet like the woman I saw dancing. I can feel some little breasts though. I imagine that in a few years they will grow as big as a pair of ripe papayas.
While we’re dancing and our two bodies are like just one body, she puts her mouth right next to my ear: ‘Michel, you’re still my husband, and I want to live in the big castle inside your heart.’
Her words make my heart race. I’m floating like a kite in the sky. I’ve never felt this happy, not even eating meat and beans. I never want this moment to stop. I want it to last till the end of time. I feel Caroline’s hand touching my hair, her mouth close to my ear. I close my eyes again, till the moment I hear her say very quietly: ‘Michel, where is the key to Maman Pauline’s belly?’
I open my eyes, I stop dancing and I pull away from her. I lunge towards the radio cassette player on the table, and I press on the button that says ‘STOP’. I can feel anger rising in me, I’m almost shaking with it, but Caroline stays very calm, and goes on: ‘I’m your wife, and I don’t love Mabélé. Do you understand that? But if you don’t give your mother that key we’ll get divorced again, and next time I’ll go and live with Mabélé for real.’
She arranges her hair, looks at herself in the mirror and picks up her little bag.
She’s already at the door when she says: ‘I’m speaking plainly to you because you’re my husband. Married couples shouldn’t have secrets. They’re meant to tell each other everything. And I’m afraid of you now, because if you can hide the key to your own mother’s belly, the first child we have is bound to close up my belly and hide the key somewhere like you did. And then I won’t have two children with you, like I want, I’ll be an unhappy woman like Maman Pauline. Don’t you see?’