Leaving Tangier

33. Flaubert

THROUGH SOME STRANGE turn of events, the paths of Azel and Flaubert crossed one cold morning on a park bench. Azel was smoking; Flaubert was not.

‘Hey, you! You’ve got a killer way of smoking!’

‘What’s that mean, “killer”?’

‘You’re sucking in the smoke full strength to keep all the tars in your lungs. Ev-er-y bit. You’re trying to get rid of yourself. Well, that’s none of my business, but like they say back home in Cameroon — more precisely, in the land of the Bangangte, in the Nde — it looks like you’re afraid you’ll have a dry wake.’

Azel looked at him, smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You’re a weird guy! Who sent you to lecture me? My mother, my sister, or my benefactor?’

‘Nobody, I’m just passing through, came looking for André Marie, a cousin the family’s searching hard for, over some problems with a tontine. André Marie’s a tall black fellow, I think he’s over six feet, left one day determined to find work in Europe, got into Morocco over the border with Mauritania, spent a few months in Tangier — where he had a tough time of it — then finally went over the water. At least, that’s what he claims in the message he sent one day through a cousin who came back home.’

‘I see, another of those Africans so hard up they’re eating all of Tangier’s cats! People say they’re why the rats and mice have reappeared in the harbour neighbourhoods. And you, where’re you from?’

‘I work for a Franco-German NGO. I was in Toulouse when the family phoned me, asking me to go look for him, said I’d find him in Barcelona, in the African quarter. So I took the train and here I am hunting for André Marie. You wouldn’t happen to know him? Big six-footer, hard to miss!’

‘No, I don’t know any Africans. Well, yes, I know Azziya, a whore from Nigeria.’

‘Azziya — that’s no African name!’

‘Right! It’s the Moroccans who nicknamed her that. Where I come from, the blacks, they’re often called Azzis, a rather nasty name, sometimes even Abid, which means “slave.” But back to you: what’s this business about a “dry wake” and a “tontine”?’

‘At home, in the Bamileke country, we live with the duty to respect our word and never disgrace our family honour. The worst shame for a Bamileke, it’s that people won’t come to the wake, you know, the funeral. If you don’t keep your word, you are no longer part of the family and the tribe. A dry wake, that’s when folks show up at the funeral but don’t drink, or eat, or stay very long.’

‘But the dead man, he couldn’t care less if people come to his funeral or not.’

‘Not so — because with us, the dead are never dead: they change their status and become ancestors we consult when there’s a problem.’

‘And this “tontine,” what’s that?’

‘It’s a system of credit. Some people get together in a small group and each person promises to pay a certain sum every month into a common fund. Then, everyone in turn has access to the complete amount on credit. The money is loaned without papers, or signatures, or anything, just a promise. If one member of the group doesn’t repay the loan, the honour of the entire family is at stake, so the person’s brothers and sisters will be obliged to repay the debt to cleanse the family name. I’ve come looking for André Marie because he took a loan to go work in France and then disappeared without reimbursing the tontine. His father isn’t dead but he’s sick, and he fears that because of his dishonoured son, his wake will be dry. They called me to remedy the situation before the rainy season comes. I have two or three weeks to take care of the problem. Or else there will be a tragedy: he won’t be able to say he’s from Nde anymore.’

‘Nde, that’s the name of your village?’

‘It’s more than a village, it’s like a county, and it means “Nobility, Dignity, Elegance.”’

Azel thought he was joking.

‘With all those traditional values where you come from,’ he asked, ‘why do you need to leave? I always felt terrible seeing Africans drifting along the streets of Tangier like lost shadows. They’re gentle, not bad or aggressive people; they beg, clean cemeteries, do demeaning work for lousy pay. Some of them stand along the roads, especially around the city of Ceuta, and call out to drivers, gesturing to show they’re hungry. It’s really sad to see. What forces them out onto the roads?’

‘We leave, but it’s always to come back. We live our lives in terms of our families, for which we each feel responsible. Let me tell you about Apollinaire — not the French poet, but my cousin, who now works in the transportation of goods. A few years ago, his father died suddenly without having repaid a loan his family owed to a tontine. His wake was more than dry: no one came to honour the dead man, it was a deserted wake, arid and miserable. So Apollinaire decided to emigrate to France to make the money his father had not had time to earn. Apollinaire managed to sneak into France and worked selling used cars. In barely five years he’d saved up a goodly sum. He came home to Douala and arranged everything for his father’s funeral in their village. Obviously, he had repaid the debt.’

‘But hadn’t his father been dead for five years already?’

‘Yes, of course, but the family had to be cleansed of shame, even five years late. That’s the story of Apollinaire. Today he’s rich, influential, healthy, has several wives, and he manages his business at home. His mother is convinced that he owes this fortune to his respect for a promise given.’

‘So, I gather that you like things back in your country?’

‘We’ve got economic problems, most of all, and troubles with government and corruption, among others, because we haven’t yet hopped off the lap of Madame-la-France, who treats us like retarded children. And the worst thing in all this, you know, it’s that we go along with it!’

‘So it’s because of Madame-la-France that you left your country?’

‘No, I’m one of the lucky ones, able to come and go as my work dictates. And above all, I need my mountains the way you need your cigarettes.’

‘You cling to your homeland on account of some mountains?’

‘It’s much more than that, it’s the land of my ancestors, and they are essential to us: without them, I am not alive.’

Azel looked up at the sky and dreamed of Africa. He wondered why Moroccans did not feel African and knew nothing about their own continent.

‘You know,’ said Flaubert, ‘strangers and foreigners are welcome among us. If you feel like it, you could sell rugs up north in my country, in Maroua, or Garoua; the Aladji would buy them from you. They love Moroccan carpets, especially prayer rugs. So think about it, if you feel like forgetting your troubles: leave Europe without going back to Morocco — Cameroon will welcome you! These aren’t idle words, don’t forget: we are the land of promises given but above all, kept. Here, let me give you my family’s phone number in the Nde. You can call whenever you like.’

‘You certainly do trust me! Knowing nothing about me, you’re already inviting me to visit!’

‘It’s better to start from the premise that man is good, you know; if he turns out to be bad, he’s the one he hurts. A question of wisdom.’

‘Do you think I could consult a marabout?’*

‘Of course, but everything depends on what it is you expect from him.’

‘To be cured.’

‘But of what?’

‘Of everything. Of myself, my life, my failures, my fears, my weaknesses, my inadequacies. I want to be at peace, that’s it, at peace with myself.’

Before he left, Flaubert held out his card.

‘By the way, what’s your name?’

‘Azz El Arab.’

‘That’s a writer’s name?’

‘No such luck!’