Dirty Feet - Edem Awumey [28]
Eventually she walked away, and the ancestor, watching her out of the corner of his eye, saw her disappear into the corridors formed by the large crates and barrels arrayed in blocks in preparation for loading. He left the deck and followed her. Caught sight of the edge of the lady’s white dress just as she turned a corner. Hurried over and found her on the floor of desire, a big crate full of boards, her genitals offered up like a crêpe.
“My name is Camille,” she told him before squeezing him between her thighs. Soon, crying out, he poured the water and butter of his pain into Camille’s crêpe. And inside Camille’s crêpe he sowed the blighted seed that, centuries later, would continue to people the suburbs with dirty-footed bastards forever railing against the skies.
It happened on the docks of Nantes, and afterwards the parasol and the ancestor returned to their respective spheres.
32
IT WAS LATE when Askia and Petite-Guinée returned from their fruitless excursion into the ruins of the loft. Midnight had come and gone, and a breeze nibbled at their faces, prompting them to hurry over to Montmartre, where Petite-Guinée wanted to show something to his friend — his intimate country tucked away in the depths, where he believed he had resolved the question of his constant urge to run away. Somehow Askia found the tranquil, silent winter night beautiful. They went back to the bar with the understated facade where the wooden door stood out against the grey beige of the roughcast. The old man said they would go down to the cellar. Askia was under the impression that, as usual, Petite-Guinée wanted him, his only public, to see a drawing in his workshop.
They slipped behind the bar and went through the hatch that led to a stone staircase whose steps had become polished over the years. Askia shivered when he touched the slightly damp walls. He could not get used to it, even though this was not the first time he had come this way. They reached the first landing, where to the right there was another opening: the cellar door, behind which Petite-Guinée painted his pictures. But the master of the house passed this door by. They continued to descend and arrived at the very bottom, in front of a third door. Petite-Guinée inserted a massive iron key. It opened the moment the timer on the stairs shut off the lights, plunging them into pitch-darkness. The old man swore at the timing device, which must have been malfunctioning. But he nevertheless managed to feel his way to the corner of the wall directly inside the entrance, and a dusty fluorescent light filled the space.
It was a minuscule room, measuring no more than eight square metres. The ceiling was very low, the walls were porous, and the floor was covered with red slabs. In the middle stood a large wooden table that at one time must have been a family dining table. On it were little cards, that is, photographs. Petite-Guinée, who had not spoken for many minutes, said, “I want you to look, Askia.”
“. . .”
“And to appreciate this little room where I’ve installed my country.”
“. . .”
Askia focused on the table. On it were photos of girls and boys who were barely adolescents. Portraits of children. On the back of each picture was a given name: Kadia, Feyla, Chinga, Cabral. Askia didn’t get it. The events in the photos meant nothing to him. Petite-Guinée, who was close behind him, spoke up. Those children’s faces, he said, their smiles — he had stolen them. In 1969. That year he was in Biafra. On which side? On both. He had worked for the rebels and the government. In arms. It was exciting to have signed contracts with both sides. Because he saw that none of it made any sense, that in time the anger would cool down, and during that time the arms dealers and mercenaries would stuff their pockets. He hadn’t invented the Biafra War, nor the ones before and after. He needed to tell