Speak of some men in my life and of you, Father, above all,
Lament rather than blame all the fathers who,
By wanting to deny their failure, through their offspring loathe themselves
And, like perjurers, end up demeaning even their own children,
May even stoop to killing them just to survive, drinking their cup of shame down to the dregs,
One hell of a dirty little life that has no soul, that has no goal. . . .
But, Father, as I tell your story, it is my passion, too, of which I’d like to sing
My passion for life, its troubles, its hard lessons, and its joys.
I’d like to unveil my devotion and my gratitude to those who, like you,
Like the stepmother throwing the orphan out into a wanton world,
In the end provided a better initiation than loving mothers might have.
I want to speak to you of genies and great men of action,
Like a legend,
Born straddling two eras and two worlds,
Quartered, with all their driving forces quelled
Fighting like lions in spite of it all.
Allow me then, men of mine, to testify for you,
Express my gratitude to you who have at least bequeathed me passion for what is beautiful
And the thirst for a great opus.
• • •
How I loved you, Father! How handsome you were in the photo you sent to Aunt Roz! In your austere khaki outfit, with long wide pants and long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the chin, you look like a prince in a fairy tale.
On the back of the picture you have traced marks that only Aunt Roz knows how to read, and she tells us what they say: “Teacher at Maloumè.” I gaze and gaze at them, and will always know how to write them, even if I do not know the alphabet.
Not a day goes by that I don’t touch the photograph to make sure I haven’t forgotten the marks written on the back. Aunt Roz is beginning to complain that I’ll ruin the picture, but it makes no difference. I always come back to it.
Then Aunt Roz has Grand Pa Helly make a frame from woven rattan, decorated with openwork like lace, a true masterpiece. Very carefully she glues your photo in the center and hangs it on the wall facing the work table in her house. As she strings beads and creates the necklaces she sells at the market at the end of every month, she often raises her eyes as if to ask for your opinion or advice. I follow her gaze with surprise—it doesn’t seem to bother her that she can no longer read the marks. But for me, they were part of the photograph, and now that they’ve been spirited away I find it a bit flat. I report my disappointment and surprise to Grand Pa Helly, my father’s father, and tell him how sorry I am that I didn’t copy and save these marks in some other place.
“But how would you have done that?” he asks in amazement. You don’t even know how to write yet.
“Maybe I would if I knew what to write with, and if I had such a tool,” I say in my most serious manner, desperate to convince him.
He bursts out laughing, although I don’t understand why. Seeing my wounded expression, he goes off and opens the largest of his wicker suitcases, the one that is always locked away and doubly protected by his stool crowned with the word Mbombock. Grand Pa takes out a package, from which he extricates some things that were then still unfamiliar to me. He gives me my first notebook and a soft lead pencil, telling me teasingly that he’s waiting for my first letter. Thinking he is challenging me to copy the marks, I promise myself that one day when my aunt isn’t home I’ll take the picture out of its frame, although I know in advance it will certainly get me a good spanking.
Luckily, Father, you sent another picture, of you in a police uniform as white as that of the “guardians of the peace,” as the men who passed through to take the census were called. On the back of the photo, according to Aunt Roz, it did actually say: “Guardian of the Peace in Victoria.” I decide to copy all of it in my notebook before my aunt glues the photo into another frame. Every day, I use her absence to begin my copying on a new page, trying to make the marks as small and neat as they are on the back of the picture. Sadly enough, the harder I try, the fatter they get. I don’t dare show them to Grand Pa Helly; I’m too scared he’ll make fun of me! Half the notebook is already filled with my scribbles. Still, I’m quite sure they really are the marks on the back of the photo, but I honestly don’t understand why I can’t get them to be smaller.
As I apply myself, I’m intrigued by the fact that some of them return again and again or appear in double sets, as if to repeat or insist on something. I’m dying to unglue the other photo to see if it is the same. Only my fear of a spanking holds me back; how long will I be able to resist?
Then a new photograph arrives.
On this one you are wearing an apron and a tall white hat above an equally white uniform. Aunt Roz says: “Maître d’Hôtel of the Regional Commander of Eséka.” This time I count fourteen differences among the thirty-eight little marks, and I tell myself that perhaps ranks are measured by the number of different marks. As you are moving up in rank, they increase the marks. I try to add up all the ones my father has already had since he was at Maloumè, not forgetting there are doubles, too, and I come to the conclusion that he’s a very great gentleman. The proof is that his costumes are growing ever more complex.
As a result of devoting myself to recopying every mark on both pictures, I manage to transcribe them from memory, even in the sand. One Sunday at church, as I follow Aunt Roz’s finger in the hymnal, I am astonished to recognize some of the marks that I already know how to write. Unfortunately, I still can’t read them. But I’m very excited to know that the same marks are used for saying everything and writing everything, even songs. I entertain myself by writing them in every direction and mixing them up in different ways: Insàloum, ienixria . . . beginnings, endings, middles. I show my notebook full of scribbles to Grand Pa Helly and Aunt Roz, beside myself with excitement. She laughs so hard she is holding her sides. “Your imagination is going to kill you yet,” she tells me. “Just be patient, two more years and perhaps they’ll let you start school.” After skimming my notebook from the first page to the last, Grand Pa Helly hugs me very tightly: “You are a character, my dear little wife,” he exclaims. His golden eyes sparkle with affection. I clutch his neck.
Since there is no new photograph coming to let me practice more marks, the lovely lace of the rattan frame directs my attention toward wickerwork. I ask Grand Pa Helly to help me frame your last two pictures, Father.
SONG 2
Your beauty,
The beauty of your body and of the spirit that dwelled inside
Was manifest in everything you said and did.
For me, Grand Pa Helly, it was what lay at the foundation of everyone’s respect for you,
And lay, above all else, at the foundation of my own.
You’d hold high your slender body with its infinite extremities,
Muscular and firm despite your more-than-ninety years;
Your torso, almost always bare, displayed tall blue palm trees
Proudly tattooed in front and back and on your arms as well,