Tram 83 Read online

  15.

  THE DISADVANTAGE OF COURTING A BABY-CHICK WITHOUT KNOWING HOW HARMFUL SHE IS.

  Ferdinand was quietly sipping his beer when a young woman sat down at his table without being invited. According to the Tram 83 gossip, all the women of the City-State made brutal use of gris-gris to nab their prey. Which is plausible. It was hard, virtually impossible not to give in to their spell.

  “You’re selfish!”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Why?’

  “You’re drinking all alone, even though the Tram is full, with no shortage of beautiful company.”

  “I have no need of that,” brooded the publisher.

  “So my presence bothers you?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  She raised her left hand. The busgirl with the fat lips came running.

  “A glass of red wine!”

  The diggers, the baby-chicks, and the students, as well as the poor tourists, always ordered wine whenever they chatted with the for-profit tourists. It’s classy, they would always say. The young woman whispered a few words. The publisher had a fit of giggles. And the conversation continued even livelier than before.

  “You’re handsome.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re handsome like in a porn film.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, very handsome, like in a film where they practice sexual relations,” replied the young woman, evasively.

  The publisher gave a long sigh.

  “Am I lying? I just observe what I see.”

  Smoke wreaths from cigarettes.

  Hoarse voices from alcohol.

  Stifled laughs from baby-chicks.

  A blues riff, the diluted notes of a quartet in the chiaroscuro sky of the Tram. At each chorus, the soprano whined:

  Coddle me without killing me

  Stroke me without smothering me

  Lick my body without wounding me

  Oh, dearly beloved

  Take me to Odessa

  And strike up the symphony of love for me

  “What do you live off?”

  “I’m retired,” answered the publisher, all smiles.

  “No, please, tell me how you spend your days.”

  “I’m in mining.”

  “What a fine profession!”

  “And Madame?”

  “Mademoiselle, if you please. Why seek to age me? What have you got to lose by calling me Mademoiselle?”

  “And Mademoiselle?”

  She stood up, stepped a quarter-way round the table and extended her hand to Malingeau. He stood up. They moved slowly to the dance floor.

  The notes flew about like leaves in the wind.

  The saxophone squealed beneath the soprano’s whining.

  Coddle me without killing me

  Stroke me without smothering me

  Lick my body without wounding me

  Oh, dearly beloved

  Take me to Odessa

  And strike up the symphony of love for me

  “You’re handsome.”

  “You already told me.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I’m a little old for your age.”

  “Age is a pretext.”

  She rolled and slid her hand across the publisher’s silky-smooth pants. In one movement, she delved, grabbed Malingeau’s penis, and began to play with it. He held out for a few minutes, capitulated …

  The soprano and her chorus.

  Coddle me without killing me

  Stroke me without smothering me

  Lick my body without wounding me

  Oh, dearly beloved

  Take me to Odessa

  “Shall we go?”

  “Which neighborhood do you live in?”

  “Saint Athanasius.”

  “I knew it. The white neighborhood.”

  It’s one of the oldest neighborhoods in the City-State. Originally, only whites were allowed to live there. Now, it’s the neighborhood where the dissident General and the for-profit tourists dwell. It lies between Vampiretown — built for the drivers, valets, and other Africans serving the colonial government — and the Red Zone, a large-scale shantytown or urban garbage dump, which violated every ideal of city planning, sleazy and filthy in the dark and dubious bargain of history. When a digger is lucky enough to find a diamond, his primary reflex is to change his place of residence. All the skeletons living in the Red Zone dream of dwelling in Saint Athanasius one day.

  “Foreplay is like democracy, as far as I’m concerned. If you don’t caress me, I’ll call the Americans.”

  Out front of the Tram, two baby-chicks fought over a seventy-year-old tourist. Malingeau and his prey made their way through the horde of gawkers, under the appalled gaze of several pimps jealous of the young woman’s overblown independence. They walked arm in arm to the car, pausing for some tongue-to-tongue and fiddling of flesh. Sated by this foreplay, the publisher started his limousine, left hand down the tigress’s burst blouse.

  “You are like the sun, you are the only man for me.”

  “I never hoped for such a beautiful meeting.”

  “I am the queen of the night. Without me, the Tram is a thrift shop of broken dreams.”

  “Your name?”

  “Christelle, Chris to my friends.”

  They reached their destination in a quarter of an hour.

  Malingeau’s house, a royal palace.

  She placed her delicate lips on Malingeau’s. With her fingers, she set to unbuttoning his shirt.

  “We’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom. Come.”

  “Make love to me here. The bedroom is too official for my taste.”

  They tumbled onto the sofa.

  “Give me the money first!”

  Malingeau felt about for his pants lying on the floor, and pulled out some notes without checking.

  “Here, my princess.”

  “More.”

  “You like money!”

  “I like life.”

  She practically snatched the cash from him,

  “Here baby, let me bring you aboard.”

  and raised her leg slightly.

  Two quick rounds, then Christelle demanded a third, a fourth, a fifth round. Three hours of gymnastics, after which the publisher collapsed. She got dressed, Zairian style, took a little camera from her clutch, and snapped the dozing body: a dozen photos.

  When Malingeau drew himself from his long sleep, the music was still droning in his head. Christelle was already gone. She had taken care to scribble a line on a scrap of paper.

  “I drank your body until my thirst was worn.”

  16.

  MALINGEAU, LUCIEN, AND REQUIEM, OR THE LOVE IMPOSSIBLE.

  There are cities which don’t need literature: they are literature. They file past, chest thrust out, head on their shoulders. They are proud and full of confidence despite the garbage bags they cart around. The City-State, an example among so many others — she pulsated with literature.

  “I love you, baby.”

  “I don’t like foreplay. It kills the pleasure.”

  “Do you have the time?”

  The City-State was written by her gigolos, her baby-chicks, her diggers, her four-star whorehouses, her dissident rebels ready to imprison you, her prospectors, her semi-tourists. Lucien rushed into the night, his imitation-leather bag slung across his body. Tourist Street, Independence Street, International Armistice Street, Gravedigger Street, Mineral Street, Copper Street, First Revolution Street, Third Revolution Street, True and Sincere Revolution Street … Out front of the establishment, a pitched brawl between the diggers, the striking students, and the mercenaries over the sexual abuse of a student single-mama Tram habitué by a bunch of diggers. He got out his notebook, jotted down the extent to which railroads, minerals, and ill-contained desires lead to the putrefaction of bodies created in the image of the riches …

  Same decor inside the Tram, giv
e or take a few breasts. Nearly all the players on stage. A brass-band-drum-kit. The publisher, ever punctual to his meetings, was conversing with a single-mama-chick. Lucien sat down, ordered a drink. The publisher got rid of the young woman.

  “I’ve not devoted much energy to your manuscript. I’ve read the first half, which I find impressive inasmuch as your twenty characters wander endlessly about this building for reasons that are not always mentionable. I appreciate the language they use to confront each other, the crudeness of the words, the humor.”

  “Tip …”

  “You are a brilliant wordsmith. A writer, that’s obvious. Your characters fill the space extremely well. I can see them on a stage, perhaps even here at the Tram, over there on the podium.

  He pointed at the area occupied by the Russian brass band.

  “If I understand correctly, you’re going to publish me?”

  “What are you trying to do? Get me horny?”

  “Getting drunk on wine feels like a con. Two little glasses and you lose your head. Beer, now that’s a heavenly way to get wasted.”

  “Take me to Bratislava and make me your dream queen!”

  Their neighbors’ tittle-tattle interfered with their conversation.

  “Not so fast, Lucien! I want you to rework the text from scratch. Twenty characters, that’s too much for your stage-tale.”

  Lucien looked at him, expressionless.

  “I need a text with ten characters, tops. Reduce the twenty to ten and I’ll publish this little gem.”

  “Do you have the time?”

  “Do you think it’s possible what you’re asking of me?”

  “Hands off my tits! What are you trying to do? Blackmail me?”

  “Sleeping with two baby-chicks is suicide. They guzzle your calories in the course of a night.”

  “You are the master of your text, you simply have to transfer the load from the ten characters you cut to the others.”

  Outside, a gunshot.

  “Do you have the time?”

  “I am keeping my twenty characters, sir.”

  Outside, the students screaming vendetta.

  “Do you have the time?”

  “In that case, find yourself another publisher!”

  “Man is born a one-armed bandit.”

  “Do you have the time?

  Outside, diggers, imprecations, anthems of the Second Republic, chronicle of a leadership conflict. He seized his text from Malingeau’s hands almost by force.

  “I will reduce the characters, watch out you don’t …”

  “Listen, Lucien, in the meantime, do me a short story, fifteen hundred words on the ambitions of the dissident General.”

  “Would sir like some company?”

  “Why the dissident General and not the train tracks or even the mines?”

  “Tip …”

  “Take me far away from the Tram, to Sarajevo.”

  “We drink the water of the poor, we do: beer! Leave the fizzy wine and the whiskey to the for-profit tourists.”

  “See, my booty’s not fake, how could it be? I’m Brazilian.”

  “Tip!”

  “Do you have the time?”

  They stayed talking. Lucien left at 10 P.M., disappointed by the new deadline.

  Late that night, Requiem turned up with a baby-chick. They took their place opposite Malingeau.

  “Hi Requiem.”

  The Negus remained impassive.

  “You look in good shape,” remarked the publisher.

  He ignored him for at least twenty minutes, preferring to play with the breasts of the young lady. Malingeau stood up to leave. Requiem spoke sharply to him:

  “I’ve changed my mind. You don’t owe five thousand dollars but ten thousand to acquire the authorization to publish Lucien’s writings.”

  “C’mon, you’re tapped in the head! In five months’ time I will publish Lucien’s stage-tale and I will hold a grand book launch.”

  “If you persist, I’ll persist too!”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  The publisher was leaving when the Negus shouted after him:

  “If you publish regardless, I’ll publish your pictures!”

  Malingeau retraced his steps.

  “What pictures?”

  “You know Christelle?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The girl who screwed you last Sunday.”

  “Leave my private life out of all this!”

  “She works for me.”

  “…”

  “She fucked and photographed you. You dare to publish Lucien’s writings, I’ll publish the pictures, all those photos on which you appear without a stitch, stark naked,” Requiem added, bursting into laughter.

  Malingeau thought with his penis. A more aware man would not have chanced dallying with another baby-chick after what had happened to him. Two days before Christelle and the Negus played this trick on him, he’d had a quite terrifying encounter. The crowded Tram left much to be desired. Each time the atmosphere cranked up a notch, the word was that the residents of the nearby cemeteries had arrived, to get soaked, smoke a joint, rub their bodies against ours, snack on a dog cutlet, and dance a few steps. He met a baby-chick in the mixed facilities. He invited her to drink some red wine.

  “Perhaps she belongs to a wealthy family,” he told himself.

  “Come along, let’s go to my place, I’ll give you a good massage,” the girl said. They took his beige limousine.

  They arrived at the girl’s place, a two-storey house, with sentries, bodyguards, lampposts, and German shepherds. They made love until five in the morning. They fell asleep entwined. When he awoke, the girl was gone and he found himself bare naked on a crummy bed in a derelict hovel close to the Cabu Bridge. He dressed quickly, jumped into his limousine, third gear. He arrived at the Tram. Some people outside, girls, girls, girls. He entered the Tram, blurted out his tale.

  “The girl’s name?” they asked him.

  “Georgette Luise de Sonfina, she wore a long periwinkle blue dress and gave off a scent of jasmine.”

  The answer they gave froze him to the spot. The baby-chick in question was the daughter of a tourist who’d lived in the 19th century. She had died some eighty years ago, of a cerebral hemorrhage. She had even been buried in the clothes the publisher described, and the same jasmine perfume.

  Malingeau attempted to argue but the Negus stuck to his guns.

  “You publish that guy, I’ll publish your nudity.”

  Not knowing how to proceed, he sat his fat ass down, and lit a cigarette. Requiem continued playing accordion with the young lady’s massive-melon-breasts as if nothing had happened.

  17.

  THE COLLECTOR OF NUDES.

  Requiem possessed nude photographs of some two hundred and fifty tourists. They were completely at his feet. They bought him drinks, paid money into his account each month, revered him almost. Irked by this perpetual blackmail, one tourist pressed charges for threatening behavior and defamation. Overnight, Requiem published the pictures of the tourist in his birthday suit in the gossip rags of the City-State. Cherry on the cake, he persuaded the girl to accuse the tourist of rape. The poor tourist pleaded mutual consent, a complete waste of time. Age is a malleable thing in a country whose citizens have been without ID cards since at least the time of Noah, the prophet Ezekiel, and sister Abigail. The young woman was already an adult at the time of the incident. But there was money at stake. Who doesn’t like money? The court, which was corrupt to the core, had found a cash cow. The tourist was ruined, threatened with prison, and made to pay a fine. His popularity ever waning, the dissident General sent the tourist back to his own country, hoping to win the favor of his people. The for-profit tourists protested for several weeks. They were powerless and incapable of rendering the Negus harmless. They could not eliminate him physically. That might have provoked uncontrollable riots and looting, and they would be requested to pack up and leave or else flee lik
e in the days following independence. The worst profanation a for-profit tourist could allow himself was to touch a single hair on Requiem’s head.

  The Negus’s grand dream was to obtain pictures of the dissident General.

  18.

  MEETING AND TRADING OF ARMS TO SHOW THE MERCENARIES, DESPERADOS, AND THEIR DISSIDENT GENERAL THAT THE WORLD IS A WALTZ.

  Lucien arrived at 63 Prime Ministry Street around two in the morning.

  “Do you have the time? Because I’m smitten. I offer you my breasts. Change me. Make me the most beautiful woman!”

  “Drinking beer isn’t drinking. It’s like drinking water.”

  “Make love to me hard.”

  “Doggy-style, spoon, or missionary? I can even do cowgirl, crab, or octopus, that’s proof I’m acquainted with the facts of life.”

  Requiem was waiting for him, accompanied by eight men, all with evocative names: Dragon, Mortal Combat, Free Kick, Dysentery, Invincible Measles, and so on. RULE NUMBER 27: you don’t head out to settle your business as if you were going to the beach. “Be imposing,” he stated impatiently. Lucien guessed they were diggers, going by the picks and shovels. After greeting each other, they walked, without a word, down the street to the warehouses that had been burned out and left derelict following the looting of 1992, then restored, then set on fire during the second half of a war of liberation, then taken over by the dissident rebels, who stayed there with their families and the hundreds of domestic animals they kept.