Of course, our everyday experience taught us all the advantages of working this way, of transforming one activity into thousands of creative possibilities, joys, and infinite delights. But I wondered about the real story behind the caramel.
For twenty years or so, I tried to live by another one of her sacred theories: “I have no law; I make adaptability my primary law.” And so I turned myself into water, condensing with the cold, melting and evaporating with the heat, like dripping rain in bad weather, leaping in free, tumultuous waterfalls from dizzying heights into unfathomable chasms. It was good, of course—everything had its place to which it always returned, and there is no better situation for any spirit than one with so much flexibility. Still, there are those thousand deaths you die without ever knowing the end. You die as an ice cube to be born a few moments later as vapor, and hardly have you become vapor when you die again to be reborn as dew or drizzle, only to start the process all over again.
Start over or continue?
That is precisely the problem: It lies in the perception of time and in the continuity of that perception, always ephemeral, a restlessness going every which way.
That is when I thought I discovered the story of the caramel woman, who must preserve her form at any price so that her action can move toward a real continuity, and endure beyond the time it takes vapor to turn into drizzle.
Yes, a woman who chooses to lead her life inside the home, for instance, needs a certain amount of time to build, give life to her children, and raise them to be men and women.
If she doesn’t safeguard her life or her form she will melt; yes, life will go on in other forms, but she, in her form as a woman, will not have the time to bring her endeavor to fruition.
When caramel melts it will, of course, continue to be caramel, but it may run and mix with the sand; ants, flies, and bees may eat it. It may even be forgotten right there in the sun where, with luck, it will stay intact until the night’s cool air restores its solidity. But it won’t find the whole of its former shape again. Of course, life goes on, all is well, but the woman cannot raise her children, and they are orphans.
“You who care so much about seeing your choices through to the end, about going to the finish line of what you want to realize here and now, you who are bounded in time, be very careful of your present form, which is so precious to your action, for you are a caramel woman.”
At almost eighty, I pronounce myself caramel: I need a little time; I refuse to expose myself to the burning sun; I am still needed, if only to sing the remembrance of you, my father.
SONG 4
It was twenty years ago,
And maybe more, but it seems like yesterday,
That you departed, Father, falling by the wayside, alone, disowned, exhausted,
And I, who was not present at your funeral,
Must see to it that, liberated and forgiven, you shall sleep in peace.
For if not I, who would think of offering you compassion, to
You who aroused so many troubled passions:
Jealousy, desire, hate, and admiration.
Can we bestow compassion on those we deem to be superior?
Can we feel compassion for the suffering of a Lôs?
And besides, does anyone suffer who is “ultra-powerful”? Does he have a heart, a skin like all the rest? Is it really blood that’s running through his veins?
• • •
In those days we would hear people talk of two Lôs, two ultra-powerful beings. Nothing like this had ever been seen before in a single sector. It seemed that in earlier times they might anticipate one per century, certainly no more. In addition, the coming of a Lôs was not necessarily a good thing. Everything depended on the actions of the tribe—the arrival of a Lôs could be either a blessing or a disaster.
And here it happened that of the three ultra-powerful men the country knew in a single generation, two were located in the sector of Nyong and Kellé, and both were persistently referred to as legendarily bloodthirsty: Bitchokè and Dimalè! As soon as you committed a slightly unusual act, Father, you were told that you were taking yourself for Dimalè or Bitchokè. You found this intolerable and unacceptable, for you merely wanted to be your own unique benchmark, to be compared only to yourself, Njokè. What had the others done that they should be talked about constantly? Were they, too, not born of a woman? Or did their mothers feed them something of which yours had deprived you? You decided to go and find them, to pierce their secret. Soon you would be the third ultra-powerful one, the greatest Lôs in the district. And if that was too much, so be it! It would be what the Bassa people deserved.
One evening you came back in the company of a little bit of a man with a very dark skin and a tiny, smiling face, but with fearsome eyes—small slits from which darted looks as quick and lively as the motions of a serpent’s tongue. You introduced him to Grand Pa Helly in the presence of the entire household.
“Father, this is my friend Pier Dimalè. . . .”
The name dropped like a knife in spite of the word friend—or more likely because of it—and was followed by a long and pregnant silence that seemed to last forever. Was this the ultra-powerful one of whom the whole country spoke? The one who lay down his law and personal will upon entire populations, even though he was not a wise man or chief, not strong or handsome, and had not been mandated by any moral or spiritual authority? Was this really he? Where could he possibly have acquired the power that inflicted his will upon the land?
He smiled. He stood up and warmly extended his hand to a few people, but when he reached Grand Pa Helly, he couldn’t extend his hand—oh, mystery! Grand Pa scrutinized him coldly from head to toe, and then cried out to you, Father: “This is so reckless, my son. Is it mere foolishness, or could it be a bad omen? You arrive in a region somewhere and find a man whose own parents named him ‘Catastrophe,’ you bring him with you, and claim to have turned him into a friend? Can you be friends with catastrophe? Is that not a mystery?”
“Power begins with mystery, Father,” you answered before rising and turning your back on us.
When you were about to leave, Grand Pa Helly shouted at you once more.
“Catastrophe is bad luck, and your power won’t turn it into anything else.”
I’m desperately trying to remember what happened next, but it’s impossible. It is as if time froze every movement.
Your friend and you turned to Grand Pa; you were tense and open-mouthed, but not a sound came out.
We—Grand Madja, Aunt Roz and her husband Ratez, my mother, my sisters, and I—were riveted to our stools, sitting as if our necks were nailed to our shoulder blades, looking at you, the Lôs whose nature it is to defy laws and destiny—for that is the way they are.
How many days or weeks went by? Or did time actually stand still? I hear a long scream and rush over. Aunt Roz and my mother are bustling about around Grand Madja, who has collapsed. She is weeping quietly, small monotonous moans that grate upon your heart like the sound of a saw. . . .
Where shall I now place my heart,
My heart; what shall I do with my heart?
What have you done now, my son? You’ve forgotten my heart.
The earth has already swallowed eight of my sons, has broken my heart;