Alain Mabanckou - Black Bazaar

Everybody thought I had a slacker’s desk job because I worked at a printing works in Issy-les-Moulineaux. What they didn’t realise was that I spent my time loading boxes of magazines and books into vans …

Despite all this, Original Colour wanted to come and see the conditions we were living in. My heart skipped a beat. For me it was just a dormitory, there was no question of her visiting me there. She’d have a fainting fit because she’d see that even though I was always clean and well-dressed with the most expensive clothes in France, I slept in a pigsty. There weren’t any tables or chairs, there were just mattresses on the floor which we piled up on top of each other every morning so we could move around a bit.

For weeks on end I did everything to stop her from setting foot there. So I was the one who used to go over to hers, to visit this studio where I now live all by myself, ever since she cleared off with our daughter because of the Hybrid who plays African drums in a group nobody’s ever heard of in France, including in Corsica and Monaco …

* * *

When I walked into the main entrance of Original Colour’s building, I was puzzled to hear breathing coming from behind the apartment door next to hers.

“There’s someone spying on us from behind that door!” I said in alarm.

“Oh, forget about it, it’s just the neighbour again. You met him the other day. I think he’s got issues, he’s always like that. He doesn’t like Blacks.”

“But he’s as black as we are!”

“There are plenty of Blacks like him who don’t know they’re black. That’s their choice …”

Every time there was the slightest noise it set me on edge, and Original Colour started to get fed up:

“I told you, it’s my neighbour, so give it a rest … Listen, why don’t you come and live with me, then we can really get up the bastard’s nose. There’ll be two negroes from the Congo in the building, and that’s not counting the ones who live nearby!”

I thought she was joking. The next day I didn’t go to work, I brought my suitcases of clothes and Westons over to her studio. The man we would later nickname Mr Hippocratic kept a close eye on me secretly moving in, and he started breathing more and more heavily behind his door because he could sniff out the niggertrash laying siege to the building.

From that day on, I only had to poke my face outside to land on him. I would always say hello but he eyed me contemptuously, refusing to answer. When he did open his mouth, it was to tell me to make less noise at night because he could hear us when we were in bed.

“And anyway, what are you doing here, eh? It’s a studio, it’s not meant for two people!”

Every time I entered the building, my heart would be pounding, I had to go on tiptoes. But I might as well not have bothered because Mr Hippocratic seemed to be expecting me. He would cough to signal that he nothing escaped him. After that I decided not to give a monkey’s, and not to credit him with more power than he had. So I walked proud and tall, deliberately making the hall ring out with the sound of my Westons. I whistled a tune from back home and opened the door as loudly as possible.

And he would bellow at the top of his voice:

“Go back to that Congolese bush where you come from!”

Seven months onfrom meeting each other, Original Colour invited me out for a meal at L’Equateur, a Cameroonian restaurant in the 11th arrondissement where one of her friends was a waitress. It was the first time she’d offered to pay. Her friend welcomed us and pointed to the table opposite the bar. That way she could keep an eye on us. I chose the first dish that caught my eye, ndolé with beef. I’d never eaten it before, but it sounded like saka-saka, a cassava leaf dish from back home. Original Colour just ordered chicken wings and salad. The restaurant had photos displayed of the celebrities who had dined there. I spotted Manu Dibango’s smile and Yannick Noah’s dreadlocks.

We ate in a silence I began to find heavy and I was trying to figure out what was going on in Original Colour’s mind, given she didn’t really go to African restaurants much. Something was up, I could tell. Seeing as she couldn’t look me in the eye, I guessed straight away:

“You’re pregnant …”

I glanced in the direction of her friend at the bar. She smiled at me.

“Did she know about this?”

Original Colour didn’t answer.

“If I’ve got this right, we’ll need to move apartments?” I ventured.

“You must be joking, rents are expensive in Paris! We’ll just have to squeeze all three of us in.”

“We could always move out to the banlieue.”

“DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT THE BANLIEUE!!! It’s a pile of shit out there!”

To this day, I still haven’t figured out why the word banlieue got such a reaction out of her. The people on the next table turned around when she started shouting. I chalked it up to the stress of being pregnant. One man even piped up:

“I’m from the banlieue, now d’you think I could eat my meal in peace?”

I wasn’t well paid at the printing works, so I needed to supplement my income. At the weekends I would go and buy clothes in Italy, which I quickly sold on to my compatriots in Château Rouge. I brought back suits and ties. Given that everybody knew about my taste for Sappe, there was no shortage of customers. They would follow me to the foot of our building, or else wait for me in front of the Arab on the corner’s. As a special favour, my former roommates from Château Rouge got to drink beer with me inside our studio. Mr Hippocratic saw red and took to impersonating the police in front of the main entrance. He demanded to see the identity cards of my customers.

I would react violently:

“You’re not the police!”

“As for you, bringing all the illegal immigrants in France and the neighbouring countries into this building! You’re going to hear me out!”

* * *

I’d like to make it clear that I’m the one who bought the baby clothes, because I wanted Original Colour to know I was the responsible type, that’s how it works back home, the man pays for everything, full stop. If I hadn’t paid for the baby clothes, my status would be rock bottom today. I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror. I also noticed that baby clothes weren’t within everyone’s means. Those tiny bootees cost an arm and a leg, and the pram was the price of rent back in the home country. You can reproach me for whatever you like, but I’m proud that I protected my honour as a father.

When our little girl was born, I was the happiest father on earth. And I wanted the whole world to know about it. I paid for an announcement in the columns of Libération as well as Le Parisien , even though babies come into the world anonymously in our circles, as if the parents were ashamed of their progeny. People saw me out and about in the neighbourhood with my pram and a pack of Pampers. I’d be coming back from the Arab on the corner’s, I let him talk to my daughter because he said at that age children could understand all the languages in the world. So he spoke to her in Arabic without translating for me …

* * *

I didn’t wait three months before turning up with my kid at Jip’s to show her off to my pals, so they could see with their own eyes that I’d become a dad. They were the ones who had insisted on it, they gave me a hard time about hiding my daughter like those members of my tribe who only show their child several months later so as to avoid evil people putting a curse on them. I told them all they needed to do was read the newspapers in this country, that there was an announcement in Libération and Le Parisien .