Dany Laferrière - How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired

A respectful silence. The man drinks from his beer and shakes his head. He smiles sadly.

“I met a girl here once, in this very bar. We drink together. We go to another place. I live near here. You know, the classic progression. I bring her to my place. Two days I’ll never forget. She eats spicy— very good. She fucks hard — even better. Everything’s fine. Smooth as silk. I let her leave. I have to, right? She’s supposed to go canoeing with her family. I like people who have a sense of family. She swears she loves no one but me. I didn’t ask her to say that. She leaves. Not even a call. Nothing. I’m still waiting. Not a word. Three months later I meet her on St. Denis. ‘Hello, there.’ ‘Oh, hello,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you call?’ She couldn’t. Didn’t have time. Three months and no time to call. When I think of what that girl said to me when we were fucking. ‘And what have you been doing all this time?’ ‘I learned to play the congas. With a marvelous teacher. Maybe you know him. He’s a wise man. He’s taught me all kinds of secrets. His throne is a couch, and he lies down on it. He’s the greatest sage in Montreal.’”

After his confession, the man stares at me with his little razor-blade eyes. I know that sage who lives on a couch, but I never suspected his reputation had gone beyond the borders of the Carré St. Louis.

THE BOUQUET of peonies sleeps by the old Rem-ington. A lousy Sunday. Ashen, gray and damp. I feel empty. Horizontal on the couch, Bouba is drinking hot tea. Ella Fitzgerald’s soft voice singing “Lullaby of Birdland.”

“You don’t look too good, man.”

“I’m all right,” I say in a small voice.

“You don’t convince me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You want a cup?”

“Okay.”

The hot tea is good.

“It’s because of the book?”

“I guess so. ”

“That’s why.”

“I’m stuck. I’m not getting anywhere.”

“You should go out for a walk.”

“That’s the tenth time you’ve given me that piece of advice.”

“You know what, man?”

“What?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you. Your problem is you think too much.”

“I know.”

In a voice that makes you feel like you’ve got a rope around your neck, Billie Holiday sings “Strange Fruit.” The song gives me a desperate case of the blues.

Miz Literature comes in and stands behind my chair.

“Are you going to keep on working?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think you’ll get somewhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“If there’s some way I could help you. ”

“Unfortunately, it’s the kind of thing you have to do yourself.”

MIZ LITERATURE comes back to observe a half-hour later.

“Cool, brother!”

“Since when do Outremont girls talk like that?”

“Since they hang out with blacks.”

“Be specific — since they go to bed with blacks.”

“You’re young, gifted and black, is that it?”

“And you’re just rich, is that it?”

“Not just rich, since I’m going to bed with a young, gifted black.”

“You trying to ruin your Outremont reputation?”

“What have you got against the rich?”

“What do I have against the rich? I’m green with envy, I’m yellow with jealousy. I want to be rich and famous.”

“You realize I’m taking you seriously.”

“Good. That’s the only serious thing I’ve said in months.”

“You want to become the best black writer?”

“That’s right. Better than Dick Wright.”

“Better than Chester Himes?”

“Better than Chester.”

“Better than James Baldwin?”

“Baldwin’s all worn out!”

“Better than Baldwin or not?”

“Better than Baldwin. ‘With Black Cruiser’s Paradise, a young black Montreal writer puts James Baldwin out to pasture.’”

THE RAIN stopped a while ago. It’s stifling in here.

“Why don’t we go out?”

“Where to?”

“Outside.”

“It’s no better out there.”

“It’s different.”

“You want a change of scene?”

“That’s about it.”

It stinks in here, but Miz Literature can put up with the smell better than I can.

“It’s hot, huh?”

“Very hot.”

“How hot is it?”

“Ninety or thereabouts.”

“Look at that bike.”

“Which one? Down there?”

“Watch carefully.”

“Why?”

“It’s going to evaporate before it reaches St.

Catherine.”

“Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

“Just watch.”

“Oh no!”

“I told you so.”

“Oh, my God! My God! My God!”

“Are you going to say that all day?”

“Oh, my God!”

WE GO into Hachette. Artificial cool. The bookstore’s full.

“Look at the crowd!”

“It’s because of the air conditioning. Most of them don’t have the slightest intention of buying a book.

They’re here for the cool air.”

“What are they reading?”

“Cookbooks, macrame, diet, horoscope, great outdoors, sports. Stanké and his gang.”

“What are we going to read?”

“We’re here to steal. When you rip off a book, you must choose only the best. When I want to read a bad book, I buy it. Getting caught with a lousy writer under your shirt is the greatest humiliation.”

“What are we going to steal?”

“Suit yourself.”

I’ve got the cashier all figured out. She looks but she doesn’t see. Better pay attention to the guy standing with his hands behind his back, near the paperbacks. He’s the floorwalker.

Miz Literature is whispering away. That’s her way of panicking.

“Keep your eyes open for ladies in their sixties— you know, flower-print dresses, silver hair, clean hands, Madame Respectable. They’re liable to squeal on you just to get in good with the store manager.

That gives them legitimacy, since they come here every day.”

Miz Literature is all hot and bothered. The biggest adventure in her life. Theft. Corrupting an Outremont girl is practically a BA in itself.

“How many do you have in your bag?”

“Five or six, I don’t know.”

“That’s a day’s work. Let’s go. Give me your bag.

Go ahead, I’ll follow. Don’t look at the cashier. I’ll take care of everything.”

MIZ LITERATURE is in exultation.

“You know, I made a wish back there.”

“What’s that?”

“One day we’ll come here and steal your book.”

I close my eyes. And picture, with a dash of perverse pleasure, an old lady slipping a book unnoticed into her purse: Black Cruiser’s Paradise.

I TURN onto St. Catherine Street.

“Hello, Black Beauty.”

A transvestite.

“Where’s the Clochards Célèstes?”

“That way, Beautiful.”

Bouba left me a message next to the Remington. Miz Literature had come by at noon. She’d be waiting for me tonight at the Clochards Célèstes.

The staircase is as narrow as a rope ladder. Two spacious rooms. A bar. A trio of guys in battered fedoras, elbows on the bar, watching a baseball game on TV. No sound. The TV is on a shelf next to an enormous Budweiser bottle. This Bud’s for you.

“A Bud.”

Advertising works.

At the far end of the room, thirty tables around a stage. Senegalese playing music. Four drums, two congas. Insistent, frenetic rhythm. Zoom to the back, right: Miz Literature sipping something green. Electricity in the air. The black bodies of the Senegalese glow in the darkness shot through with magnesium flashes. A whiff of hashish, light but persistent. I cross the room through the Senegalese show. The moist pulse of burnt bodies waiting for a rain of nago rhythm. Call of the bush on St. Catherine Street. Black music for white dancers. Soul. Soul on fire. High tension. Miz Literature is talking with a punk girl. Miz Punk shoots me a killing glance. She wants to play rough.