Alain Mabanckou - Broken Glass

I stand up to stretch my legs and get something to eat, and I think what a strange day this is, starting at five in the morning with picking up the shit, not a good sign, and now everyone seems on edge, I think this is my last day in this place, even if I don’t really believe it, I still think it’s my last day here, you have to know when to draw the line, that’s what I tell myself, as I leave the bar, taking my lost illusions with me, and cross the Avenue of Independence, there’s Mama Mfoa selling meat kebabs opposite Credit Gone West, she’s bald and sometimes will sing for us, that’s why we affectionately call her the bald soprano, she sells grilled sole, TV chicken, and bicycle chicken, I don’t like the TV chicken because it’s made in the microwave, so I usually have the bicycle chicken, which is cooked on a barbecue, and some people say unkindly that our bald soprano puts fetishes in the food, that’s why she always has customers even when times are hard, and they also say her delicious kebabs are just made of pieces of local dog or cat meat, but that wouldn’t make me want to throw up anyway, I don’t believe nonsense like that, and if her meat really is local dog or cat meat one can only say that the local dogs or cats are very tasty, and we’ve all eaten local dog or cat meat before now, it’s true that her little stall is always busy, I think that’s because the bald soprano is kind, it’s because she’s a real mother hen, she always has a kind word for each of us, and she doesn’t really mind whether you pay her, you have to almost beg her to get her to take the money, she always says “don’t worry, papa, you just pay me when you can” but we shouldn’t accept her generosity because she has to pay her rent and feed her family, so when you pay her she piles your plate higher than any other food seller in the district, some people even choose their chunks of meat from the pot, and she gives us manioc for free, that’s her way of attracting customers from Trois-Cents, and that’s why we like her, all the rest is literature, bad Black-African literature, the kind you find on the banks of the Seine, it’s just babble, people talk but they still eat their local dog or cat kebabs, which is incredible, and they even say that the oil she uses for frying is a mixture of her spittle and piss, and that’s why her kebabs taste like those fish balls you get in Japanese cooking, but it’s just a windup, I don’t believe it, Mama Mfoa is an honest citizen, like the Stubborn Snail is, a person who will have nothing to reproach herself for on the Day of Judgment, she’s already got a seat with her name and number on in paradise

so our dear bald soprano sees me arrive at her little stall and she smiles and says “so what would you like to eat today, papa Broken Glass, you don’t look well” she calls all the Credit Gone West customers papa , it’s her way of showing her affection, and I tell her to give me a bicycle chicken with lots of chili, and I tell her to give me some manioc, I take it all, I pay, she says “I really think you should stop drinking, papa, that Sovinco red wine is no good,” and I say, “I’m stopping today, this is my last day, my last glasses of wine, I swear,” and she smiles and continues “I mean it, Broken Glass, it’s not good to drink, look how much weight you’ve lost, you used to be a fine-looking man, you’re wasting away, you should give up the bottle,” and I promise her again that I’ll give up my bottle worship and my red wine tonight at midnight, “I don’t believe you, what will you drink if you give up” she asks, straight out, and I tell her I’ll drink still water, lots of still water, and she shakes her head, she doesn’t believe me, and says “I’ll believe that when I see it, and another thing, papa, I suggest you take a shower, I don’t know if you sat in some shit, but it smells really bad,” and I think, it must be that smell of shit still hanging around, I watch her turn over the TV chicken in the microwave, and plunge the carp into the boiling oil, and wipe her face with the back of her hand, her sweat is even running down into the pot, but who cares, that’s what gives her food its flavor, I say to myself, this woman is truly an exceptional person, she sits there surrounded by her cooking utensils, committed to her work, and I wonder if she really does that to earn her nightly crust, perhaps she does it for the love of her fellow man, and while I’m thinking about that, she says again “it’s not good to drink, papa, you ought to stop, I know people who’ve ended up in the Etatolo Cemetery thanks to the bottle, I can tell you, a drunk’s corpse is not a pretty sight, the skin’s strange, red as wine, it’s awful, I don’t want your corpse to look like that the day you die, you know what I mean” and she tells me about a guy called Demoukoussé, one of God’s own drinkers, his skin turned red, it had great big mushrooms growing on it, according to Mama Mfoa, Demoukoussé had never drunk a drop of water, he died one day in a bush in the Fouks District, holding his glass bottle, they buried him with a crate of wine, as requested in his will, which was duly respected, but I didn’t know the guy, he never came to Credit Gone West, so that’s why there’s no point dwelling on him, it would just be useless compilation, and Mama Mfoa notices that I fail to respond to her story about Demoukoussé, and she says “papa, I’m sorry, I hope you’re not annoyed, I only said that because I care about you, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t, believe me, papa, I don’t want you to die like Demoukoussé, you deserve better,” and at last she serves me, and I take my bicycle chicken, I sniff it, it’s well cooked, the onion makes me sneeze, she looks at me and murmurs gently, “bon appétit, little papa,” and I cross back over the Avenue of Independence and go and eat in my usual corner in fact when the boss of Credit Gone West asks “how are things with you, Broken Glass?” I really don’t know what to say, he already knows everything about me, he knows why I spend all my time here, he knows it’s because of Angelica, he saw Angelica come and chase me out of here a few years ago, before he even finished putting the roof on, and what else can I tell him, I’ve nothing new to add, but it’s true that I’m writing in this notebook, I don’t know who else will read it, and whoever the curious reader may be, he’ll know nothing about all that unless he’s part of our inner circle and he’ll be wondering what could have happened to me, he’ll be saying “it’s all very well to talk about other people, it’s all very well sitting eating your bicycle chicken in a corner, that’s all fine, but what happened to you, Broken Glass, tell me about yourself, tell me everything, don’t tiptoe around, tell us your tale,” so I really must talk about myself too, the curious reader needs to know something about how I came to fall so low without a parachute, he needs to know why I now spend my time here, so it’s not just a blank in his mind, I keep telling him over and over I’m a fossil in this place, so here we go, to start with, I need to make clear that Angelica is the first name of my ex-wife, but whenever I mention her I call her Diabolica, and throughout this notebook I’m going to call her Diabolica, yes, that’s what I’ll call her, there’s nothing angelic about her, quite the opposite, angels, even drunken ones, don’t act like that, Diabolica spent over fifteen years by my side, and through all those years she nurtured the hope that she would one day convince me that the arch of her back was more exciting than that of a bottle of red wine, while I spent fifteen years trying to convince her of the opposite, because I can drink from a bottle anytime, anyhow, anywhere, it depends on me, and what I want and what time I arrive at Credit Gone West, but with Diabolica I never felt I was in the presence of a woman