Alain Mabanckou - Tomorrow I'll Be Twenty

Maman says: ‘Michel, salt!’

Papa says: ‘Michel, pepper!’

Maman says: ‘Michel, top up your father’s wine!’

Papa says: ‘Michel, look, your mother’s glass is empty. Pour her some beer!’

I feel like a referee, all I need is a whistle and some cards.

I eat fast because I’m hoping Papa Roger will give me his big piece of meat, which I’ve had my eye on for a few minutes. I’m already dreaming of the moment he puts it on my plate, how I’ll swallow it. First I’ll eat the beans, then I’ll start on the meat. I’ll scrape off all the flesh, than I’ll dig inside the bone with my fork to get the marrow out. When I’ve finished I must belch to please my mother, because she knows it’s my favourite meal. If I don’t belch she’ll think I didn’t like it, she’ll give me a cold look and say I’m the opium of the people in this house, which isn’t true. That’s why I’ve invented my own technique for belching after a meal I don’t like: first of all I drink lots of lemonade, then I hold my breath for a while, and press the base of my stomach. And the belch that comes out is so loud that they both look at me astonished. Maman Pauline can tell it’s not natural, that I’ve forced it, and she scolds me, saying: ‘Michel, are you trying to get funny with me or what? You don’t usually like spinach with salted fish! Anyway, that’s not the way you belch after beef and beans!’

So Papa Roger often gives me his big bit of meat. That’s why this evening I’m giving him my hangdog look across the table, but he’s not looking at me very much. If he goes on not looking at me I’m done for because he won’t realise I really want the big piece of meat glistening on his plate. I’ve never seen a piece of meat glisten like that one. Maybe because today I can tell I’m not going to get it the way I usually do. Maybe, also, because the thing you’re worried you won’t get is always better than the thing you’ve already got on your plate or in your mouth. Maybe because in my head I’m telling myself I’m already eating my father’s meat.

Suddenly I feel my heart drop into my boots: my father’s started clearing his beans to one side before starting on the piece of meat in question. Oh no, don’t let him do that, he mustn’t eat it himself, it’s mine, it’s mine! My head follows his hand as it moves, I close my eyes as the piece of meat finally disappears into his big wide mouth. For several minutes he can’t speak, that meat is so tender, so good, that if you talk too much you can’t appreciate it as you should.

The moment he placed it in his mouth, I closed my eyes, imagining it was me, Michel, that had picked up the piece of meat, that was chewing it, me that had the aroma of tomato sauce and Maggi-cube in my nostrils, that the slab of meat had gone straight down into my little stomach, which is only too happy to continue the work begun in my mouth.

I open my eyes and see that my dream has not come true. The meat did not go into my stomach, but into Papa Roger’s. I’m sad to have lost out, though I don’t let my father see. But I can see from the way he’s looking at me that he knew I wanted that piece and is pretending he didn’t. I hear him belch, picking the remains of the meat from between his teeth.

To cheer myself up I think: ‘It doesn’t matter, maybe Papa Roger didn’t give me the big piece this evening to stop me getting greedy like my cousins, Kevin and Sebastien.’

I’ve cleared the table. Maman Pauline will wash the plates before we go to bed. Maybe she won’t even wash them till tomorrow morning, before she goes to the Grand Marché, sometimes she leaves them when she’s tired.

Now Papa Roger announces he’s got something very important to show us, something it seems we’ve never seen in our lives before. I’m still a bit cross with him because I didn’t get the piece of meat. He’s not going to wipe out my disappointment just by showing me something important.

He raises his wine glass above his head, as if he’d beaten Brazil in the World Cup.

‘Let’s celebrate! You’ll see, it’s wonderful!’

So my mother and I wait. We don’t know what he wants us to celebrate with him. We’ve checked there’s nothing on the table, nothing hidden underneath it, or anywhere else in the room.

‘Come on, raise your glasses!’

I think of all the wonderful things there are in the world and I wonder what Papa Roger can be about to show us that will stop me thinking about the bit of meat in his belly right now. Perhaps he’s going to say he’s had a pay rise. Or that he’s found a better job than the one at the Victory Palace Hotel. Or that now he’s got a big office, bigger than Uncle René’s, with a beautiful secretary and bodyguards as big as black American soldiers, and the bodyguards will stop just anyone coming into his office without an appointment. Or that he’s bought a fantastic car. It’d be great if he’d bought a car, but I’m worried he’s going to tell me the car in question is red with five seats. He’s not allowed to buy a car like that. I’m going to buy one, so my wife, Caroline, will be happy, with our two children and our little white dog.

Papa Roger’s so happy, he’s going to finish the bottle of wine all on his own. If he goes on like that he’ll end up drunk and start talking to the invisible people that the alcohol producers put in the bottles. If he’s drunk he won’t be able to show us anything amazing. That’s why Maman Pauline quickly removes the bottle, but he just has time to fill his glass, and he raises it to his lips with a little smile at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost as though he enjoys the fact that we’re waiting, that we can’t drink as we’re supposed to unless he tells us what it is that’s so amazing.

He talks about all sorts of things, about what’s been happening at work, but not about the amazing thing. It seems his boss, Madame Ginette, has come back from Paris. They’ve repainted the walls in the hotel, and redone the garden behind because she called to tell them she was coming back from France with two men whose job it is to check all the things that aren’t right in hotels and then blame people for being lazy, or have them sent home.

My father has the hiccups, but he still manages to say: ‘These two people… hic… these two people came over from France… hic… they were just trying to find fault. That’s their job. One of them… hic… went looking everywhere, even behind the pan of the WC. Meanwhile the other one was looking at every single bill with a magnifying glass… hic… and in the end he saw there wasn’t a single CFA franc missing from the till… hic…’

Maman Pauline’s had enough: ‘You promised you were going to show us something very important and amazing! What is it?’

At last, my father empties his glass, pushes back his chair, gets up and goes into the bedroom. He’s not walking quite straight like a normal person. We hear him saying his boss’s name. We look at each other and wonder what he’s gone looking for.

Maman Pauline whispers: ‘I think your father’s had one or two glasses too many.’

Papa Roger comes back into the living room with a black briefcase, which he puts down on the table.

‘It’s in there, inside this case, hic… hic!’

My mother’s still sulking. ‘What are you waiting for then?’

Papa Roger presses a button, the briefcase opens. Maman Pauline and I almost bang our heads, because without realising it, we both decided at exactly the same moment to look what was in side the case. There’s only a little black box. Papa Roger sees we’re wondering what it can be for, and he tells us it’s a radio cassette player, a new brand that’s just come out over in Europe and that not many people in our country have, not even some of the capitalists. And you can also listen to the radio on it.