At Night All Blood Is Black Read online

  God’s truth, after the deaths of the seven traitorous friends commanded by the captain, there was no more revolt. No more rebellion. God’s truth, I know, I understand that if the captain had wanted to have me killed by the enemies from the other side, the minute I returned from the Rear, he would have succeeded. I know, I understand that if he wanted me dead he would have gotten what he wanted.

  But I could not let the captain know what I knew. God’s truth, I couldn’t reveal the location of the severed hands. So I responded to the captain who asked me in the voice of the elder Croix de Guerre Chocolat Ibrahima Seck where the severed hands of the enemy from the other side had gone that I didn’t know, that I had lost them, that maybe one of the traitorous friends had stolen them to cast suspicion on the rest of us. “Fine, fine,” replied the captain, “let the hands stay where they are. Let them stay invisible. It’s all right, all right … But still, you must be tired. Your way of waging war is a little too savage. I never ordered you to cut off enemy hands! It isn’t regulation. But I looked the other way because of your Croix de Guerre. You understand, fundamentally, what it means for a Chocolat to put himself in the line of fire. Go rest for a month at the Rear and return refreshed and ready for combat. But you have to promise me that when you get back you’ll stop mutilating the enemy, understood? You will content yourself with killing them, not mutilating them. The civilities of war forbid it. Understood? You leave tomorrow.”

  I would have understood nothing of what the captain said to me if Ibrahima Seck, the elder Croix de Guerre Chocolat, hadn’t translated it for me, beginning all of his sentences with “Captain Armand says that…” But I counted close to twenty breaths during the captain’s speech and only twelve in the speech of my elder Ibrahima Seck. There was, then, something in the captain’s speech that the Croix de Guerre Chocolat did not translate.

  Captain Armand is a small man with matching black eyes drowning in continuous rage. His matching black eyes are full of hate for anything that isn’t war. For the captain, life is war. The captain loves war the way men love a capricious woman. The captain indulges war shamelessly. He showers war with presents, he spoils her with countless soldiers’ lives. The captain is a devourer of souls. I know, I understand that Captain Armand was a dëmm who needed his wife, war, to survive, just the way she needed a husband like him to support her.

  I know, I understand that Captain Armand would do whatever possible to continue to make love to war. I understand that he saw me as a dangerous rival who could spoil his whole love affair with war. God’s truth, the captain wanted to be rid of me. I knew, I understood that when I returned I might be given a non-combat job somewhere else. God’s truth, I knew that I had to retrieve my hands from where I’d hidden them. But I also knew, I also understood that that was what the captain was hoping for. He would have me surveilled, maybe even by the elder Croix de Guerre Chocolat Ibrahima Seck. God’s truth, he wanted my seven hands, to use them as evidence and have me shot, to use them as cover, so he could continue to make love to war. He would have someone rifle through my bags before I left. As Jean-Baptiste said, he would like to catch me red-handed. But I’m no idiot. God’s truth, I knew, I understood what I had to do.

  XIV

  I’M DOING WELL, I’m at ease in the Rear. In this place, I do almost nothing for myself anymore. I sleep, I eat, beautiful young women dressed in white take care of me, and that’s it. No noise from explosions, from machine-gun fire, from small murderous shells launched by the enemy from the other side.

  I didn’t come alone to this place in the Rear. I came with my seven enemy hands. And I took them from right under the captain’s nose. Under his nose, as Jean-Baptiste used to say. God’s truth, they were barely hidden, there in the bottom of my soldier’s trunk. Despite their being swaddled in the strips of white cloth with which I’d carefully wrapped them, I recognized each one. My trench-mates, black and white soldiers who had received orders from the captain to rifle through my things before I left, didn’t dare open my trunk. God’s truth, they were afraid. I helped them be afraid. In place of my padlock, attached by a string to the trunk’s handle, I had hung a talisman. God’s truth, a handsome talisman made of red leather that my father, the old man, gave me when I left for the war. On this handsome talisman made of red leather I had drawn something that caused any spies, black or white, Chocolat or Toubab, to drop my things and run. I really worked hard on the drawing, God’s truth, I made an effort. I drew on the red leather talisman with a small very pointy rat bone dipped in ash mixed with lamp oil, I drew a small black hand cut off at the wrist. Such a small hand, really tiny, with its five little fingers spread out, swollen at the base, like the fingers of that translucent pink lizard we call an Ounk. The Ounk has skin so delicate and pink that, even at dusk, you can see the insides of its body, its guts. The Ounk is dangerous, it pees poison.

  God’s truth, the hand that I drew was effective. Once the talisman was attached to the handle of my trunk, all the men who had been ordered by the captain to open it and look for my seven hands, which I had no need to hide elsewhere, must have lied to him. They must have sworn to him that they searched for the seven hands in vain. But what’s certain is that, white or black, they hadn’t dared to touch my trunk that was locked with a talisman. How would the same soldiers who couldn’t dare look at me after my fourth hand be able to open my trunk, locked with a bloodred talisman, a talisman tattooed with the image of a little black severed hand, its fingers swollen at the base like an Ounk’s? In that moment I was happy to pass for a dëmm, a devourer of souls. When the elder Croix de Guerre Chocolat Ibrahima Seck came to inspect my things, he must have nearly fainted at the sight of my mystical padlock. He must have reproached himself for laying eyes on it at all. Anyone who saw my mystical padlock, God’s truth, must have reproached himself for being too curious. When I think about all those curious cowards, I can’t help but laugh very, very loudly in my head.

  I don’t laugh in front of people the way I laugh in my head. My old father always said to me, “Only children and fools laugh without reason.” I am no longer a child. God’s truth, war made me grow up all at once, especially after the death of my more-than-brother Mademba Diop. But despite his death, I still laugh. Despite the death of Jean-Baptiste, I still laugh in my head. For others I just smile, I only allow myself a smile. God’s truth, smiles inspire smiles, just like yawns. I smile at people, they smile back. They can’t hear, when I smile at them, the thundering laughter resounding in my head. Which is lucky, because they’d take me for a lunatic otherwise. It’s the same with the severed hands. They didn’t divulge what I had forced their bearers to suffer, they didn’t show anyone those steaming entrails in the cold of la terre à personne, as the captain said. The severed hands didn’t show how I eviscerated eight blue-eyed enemies. God’s truth, no one asked me any questions about how I got my hands. Not even Jean-Baptiste, dead by decapitation from a small malicious shell launched by a master artilleryman with matching blue eyes. The seven hands that I have left are like my smile, they show and hide simultaneously the destomaching of enemies that makes me explode with secret laughter.

  Laughter brings laughter and smiles bring smiles. Because I smile at everyone in the recuperation center at the Rear, everyone smiles at me. God’s truth, even my fellow soldiers, Chocolat and Toubab, who scream in the middle of the night when they hear the attack whistle and the endless noise of war in their heads, even they, as soon as they see me smile, smile back. They can’t help themselves, God’s truth, it’s beyond their control.

  Doctor François, who is a tall thin man with a sad expression, also smiled at me when I first appeared before him. Whereas the captain told me that I was a force of nature, Doctor François told me with his eyes that I have a nice face. God’s truth, Doctor François likes me. While he withholds his smile in front of the others, he shares it with me freely. All this because smiles inspire smiles.

  But, God’s truth, of all the smiles that I’ve purchased wi
th my own perpetual smile, my favorite is that of Mademoiselle François, one of the numerous women dressed in nurses’ whites. God’s truth, Mademoiselle François likes me a lot. God’s truth, Mademoiselle François agrees with her father without knowing it. She’s also said to me with her eyes that I have a nice face. But then she looked at the middle of my body in a way that made me understand she was thinking about something more than just my face. I knew, I understood, I guessed that she wanted to make love to me. I knew, I understood, I guessed that she wanted to see me naked. I saw it in the way she looked at me, just like Fary Thiam, who had let me take her in a small forest of ebony trees not far from the river, a few hours before I left for the war.

  * * *

  FARY THIAM HAD taken me by the hand, looked me in the eyes, and then, discreetly, farther down. Then Fary had separated herself from the circle of friends we were with. And, a little after she left, I said goodbye to everyone else and I followed Fary, at a distance, as she headed toward the river. In Gandiol, people don’t like to walk at night near the shores of the river because of the goddess Mame Coumba Bang. Fary Thiam and I didn’t see anyone, thanks to this fear of the river goddess. Fary and I were too, too eager to make love to be afraid.

  God’s truth, Fary didn’t look back a single time. She was headed toward a little forest of ebony trees not far from the river below. She disappeared into it and I followed her. When I found her, I saw that Fary had her back up against a tree. She was standing facing me, she was waiting for me. It was a full moon, but the ebony trees were so close together they shaded out the moon. I saw Fary with her back up against a tree, but God’s truth, I couldn’t even see her face. Fary pulled me against her and I could tell that she was naked. Fary Thiam smelled like incense and the green waters of the river. Fary undressed me and I let her do it. Fary pulled me down to the ground and I lay on top of her. Before Fary, I had never known a woman, before me Fary had not known a man. Without knowing how to do it, I entered the interior of the middle of Fary’s body. God’s truth, the interior of Fary’s body was incredibly soft, warm, and wet. I stayed there a long time without moving, palpating in Fary’s interior. Then all of a sudden she started to roll her hips against me, first gently and then more quickly. If I hadn’t been inside Fary’s insides, I would certainly have laughed because we must have been funny to see, because I too started to shake my pelvis in all directions, and each of my thrusts was returned by a thrust from Fary Thiam’s pelvis. Fary thrust against me, moaning, and I returned her thrusts, moaning too. God’s truth, if it hadn’t been so good, if I’d taken the time to look at us wriggling against each other like that, I would have laughed a lot. But I couldn’t laugh, I could only moan with joy when I was inside Fary Thiam’s insides. After wriggling the middles of our bodies in all directions like that, what always happens happened that time too. I came inside Fary’s insides and I cried out as I came. It was loud and much more beautiful than it was with my hand. Fary Thiam also cried out at the end. Happily nobody heard us.

  When Fary and I got up, we could barely stand. I couldn’t see her eyes in the dusk of the thicket of ebony trees. And yet the moon was full, it was enormous, it was almost yellow like a small sun reflected in the green river water. It extinguished the stars around it but the ebony trees protected us from its glow. Fary Thiam got dressed and helped me get dressed as she would a child. Fary kissed me on the cheek and then she went off in the direction of Gandiol without looking back. God’s truth, I stayed there looking at the moon, ablaze on the river. I stayed there a long time watching the river on fire, not thinking about anything. God’s truth, that was the last time I saw Fary Thiam before leaving for the war.

  XV

  MADEMOISELLE FRANÇOIS, one of Doctor François’s numerous daughters dressed all in white, looked at me the way Fary Thiam had looked at me the night when she wanted us to make love beside the river on fire. I smiled at Mademoiselle François, who was a very beautiful young woman, like Fary. Mademoiselle François had matching blue eyes. Mademoiselle François returned my smile right away and her gaze lingered on the middle of my body. Mademoiselle François wasn’t like her father, the doctor: God’s truth, she is full of life. Mademoiselle François said to me with her matching blue eyes that she found me very handsome from top to bottom.

  But if Mademba Diop, my more-than-brother, were still alive he would have said, “No, you’re lying, she didn’t say you’re handsome. Mademoiselle François didn’t say that she wanted you! You’re lying, it’s not true, you don’t know how to speak French.” But I didn’t need to speak French to understand the language of Mademoiselle François’s eyes. God’s truth, I know I’m handsome, everyone’s eyes tell me so. Blue eyes and black ones, women’s eyes and men’s. Fary Thiam’s eyes told me so, as did those of all the women of Gandiol, whatever their age. The eyes of my friends, girls and boys, always said it when I was near-naked on the sand during a wrestling match. Even the eyes of Mademba Diop, my more-than-brother, that weakling, that scrawny thing, couldn’t help but tell me during a wrestling match that I was the most handsome.

  Mademba Diop had the right to tell me anything he wanted, to make fun of me, because the rules of joking relationships made it permissible. Mademba Diop could be ironic, could tease me about how I was, because he was my more-than-brother. But God’s truth, Mademba could never say anything about my physique. I’m so handsome that, when I smile, everyone—except those men who have been sacrificed to no-man’s-land—smiles back. When I show my teeth, which are very, very white and well aligned, even Mademba Diop, the biggest scoffer the earth has known, couldn’t help but show his own foul teeth. But, God’s truth, Mademba would never admit that he envied me my beautiful and very, very white teeth, my chest and my very, very broad shoulders, my waist and my flat stomach, my very muscular thighs. Mademba was happy to let his eyes tell me that he envied me and loved me at the same time. When I had won four wrestling matches in a row, glistening in the moonlight, a hostage to my admirers, Mademba’s eyes always said: “I envy you, but I love you too.” His eyes said: “I would love to be you, but I am proud of you.” Like all things in this base world, the look Mademba gave me was double.

  Now that I am far from the battle in which I lost my more-than-brother Mademba, far from the little malicious decapitating shells and the big red seeds of war falling from the metallic sky, far from Captain Armand and his whistle of death, far from my elder Croix de Guerre Chocolat Ibrahima Seck, I tell myself that I should never have made fun of my friend. Mademba had foul teeth, but he was brave. Mademba had the rib cage of a runt, but he was brave. Mademba had absurdly narrow hips, but he was a real warrior. I know, I understand that I should not have pushed him with my words to demonstrate a kind of courage I knew he already possessed. I know, I understand that it was because Mademba envied me and loved me at the same time that he went out first, as soon as Captain Armand blew the attack whistle on the day of his death. It was to show me that you don’t need beautiful teeth, you don’t need beautiful shoulders and a broad torso and very, very strong arms and thighs to be truly brave. So in the end I think it wasn’t just my words that killed Mademba. It wasn’t just my words about the Diops’ totem, as hurtful as those grains of metal that fell on us from the sky of war, that killed him. I know, I understand that all of my beauty and all of my strength also killed Mademba, my more-than-brother, who loved me and envied me at the same time. It was the beauty and strength of my body that killed him, it was the way all the women looked at me, at the middle of my body, that killed him. It was the way their eyes caressed my shoulders, my chest, my arms, and my legs, the way they lingered on my well-aligned teeth and my proud, hooked nose that killed him.

  Even before the war started, even before we left, Mademba Diop and I together, for the war, people tried to divide us. God’s truth, the bad people of Gandiol had decided to separate us already by telling Mademba that I was a dëmm, that I was consuming his power and vitality little by little in his sleep. These people of
Gandiol said to Mademba—I heard this from the mouth of Fary Thiam, whom we both loved—they said, “You see how Alfa Ndiaye is blooming with beauty and how you are skinny and ugly. It’s because he’s absorbing all of your power and vitality to your loss and his gain, for he is a dëmm, a devourer of souls who has no pity for you. Drop him, abandon him, or you’ll be heading straight for your own dissolution. The insides of your body will dry up into dust!” But Mademba, despite these terrible words, never abandoned me, never left me alone with my resplendent beauty. God’s truth, Mademba never believed I was a dëmm. To the contrary, when I saw Mademba come home with a busted lip, I believed that he’d been fighting to defend me against the bad people of Gandiol. It was Fary Thiam who told me this, just before we left, Mademba and I, for the war in France. It’s thanks to Fary whom we both loved that I understood that despite his chest being narrow as a pigeon’s, his arms and thighs being scarily thin, Mademba, my more-than-brother, didn’t fear the punches of young men who were stronger than he was. God’s truth, it’s easier to be brave when you have a broad chest and arms, and thighs as thick and strong as mine. But the truly brave like Mademba are the ones who aren’t afraid of punches even though they’re weak. God’s truth, now I can admit it to myself, Mademba was braver than me. But I know, I have understood too late that I should have said this to him before he died.