Dirty Feet (12 page)

ASKIA REMAINED
seated on the cellar floor. He wanted to keep vigil by his friend. The serenity and peacefulness of his face were striking. Petite-Guinée was happy. Now. Askia was sad that he was gone, but he had no right to be selfish. He rejoiced at this ultimate happiness that had come to Petite-Guinée. He wanted to hold this wake with joy in his heart, as was done for the righteous in his father's land. They say there that the wicked die forgotten and alone. That was not the case for Petite-Guinée. He died surrounded by the images and laughter of children. Askia guessed that his friend had begun by sitting on the table, chatting with the children in the photographs. He confessed to them that he had not realized he loved them but now he knew. He loved them. Then he had thanked them for populating the land of his cellar. And he had believed that in the eyes of the kids in the photos he could see their response. The kids had told him that the land of his cellar was the most beautiful they had ever inhabited. And Petite-Guinée, still sitting at one end of the big table, had been moved to tears.

He had spoken for a long time, and when he began to grow tired, Petite-Guinée lay down on his side. He had kept on conversing with the children. They told each other jokes. The children in the photos laughed at the jokes, and so did Petite-Guinée. They giggled happily. Had more fun than they had ever had. They felt good. Until his heart stopped beating.

Above Askia's head the mayhem continued. The black jackets were demolishing the bistro that Petite-Guinée had bought with his mercenary earnings. They tittered . . . The Wedding . . . 

Askia watched over his friend and laughed out loud. The expression on the dead man's face had changed. He was radiant, and Askia envied his good fortune. He lay down on his side like the dead man and continued to laugh, hard, hoping that his heart would stop beating, that death would take him like a righteous man, bedded down on this cold floor. He chuckled for a good half-hour, but his heart would not give out. Above the cellar, the uproar diminished. The skinheads were taking a break and the barman was drowning in his own blood. The street was deserted.

OVERHEAD, THE
black jackets got back to work. The steel bars pulverized the counter. Askia was in the basement, but at the same time he had his hands on the steering wheel of his cab. He was not going to wait for the black jackets. He would turn the ignition key and press down on the accelerator. One last run. He was both the driver and the fare. He was ready, and so was the passenger. The passenger did not need to specify the address of his destination. He knew it. The destination and the street number were infinity. The night was sad.

To depart in his taxi, the site of his quest. Open the glove compartment and take out the cloth that served to clean the dashboard. Unlock the door, get out, and go to the back of the vehicle. Insert the cloth into the exhaust pipe. Remove his shoes, take off his socks, and stuff them into the exhaust as well. Go back to his seat, lock the door again, roll up the windows. His hands on the steering wheel.

The noise from the bar came down into the cellar. The black jackets were walking down the cold steps. Askia imagined his windshield, stared at the heavy door that stood between him and the stairway. He saw a screen, the one from his childhood, a picture at the foot of his bed, the same one where his father's silhouette would appear. There it was, the shadow of his father, Sidi Ben Sylla Mohammed, faithful, impressive in the night, through the windshield. The shadow was not threatening. It faced him and played with a clown, who had large wings on his back.

Sidi was looking at him. Askia knew what he must do. Tilt the seat back, close his eyes, turn on the ignition.

The black jackets swung their steel bars against the door of the land of the cellar, Petite-Guinée's tomb — what is referred to as a profanation. An event like the most mundane sort of news item: the steel bars and the boots smashing the tombstone. On their lips, a battle song. The three men unzipped their pants and pissed on what was left of the stone. After which they lowered their pants and emptied their bowels on the broken sepulchre and on the remains of a body that had no right to be there. The leader of the group pulled out a spray can and drew a cross on the stone. A cross in the shape of a swastika. Once the cross was done, a salute: right arm extended and raised to a god far away. Or close by.

Askia wished that Olia would thump on the back door and ask if she could come along for the ride. The engine thrummed; he sensed the girl sitting in the back. She was there. She stuck her head out the open window and photographed the passersby: men, women, children pursued by evil people. People who caught them, raped them, cut their throats, dismembered them, and then displayed their pariah heads like trophies.

The engine coughed. In front of Askia, a brutal shaft of light pierced the windshield, the cellar door. The shaft of light burned the door, blowing it to pieces. The black jackets and steel bars started once again to strike. And the little scamps from the garbage dump in Trois-Collines finally killed Pontos, Father Lem's dog, which was not entitled to join in their games.

The translator is grateful to the Centre
national du livre (France) and to the Canada Council for the Arts for their
financial assistance.

EDEM AWUMEY
was born in Togo in 1975. His first novel,
Port-Mélo,
won the Grand prix littéraire d'Afrique noire, one of the
most distinguished literary prizes in Africa, and his second novel, the French
edition of
Dirty Feet
(
Les
pieds sales
), was a finalist for one of France's most prestigious
literary prizes, the Prix Goncourt. Awumey now lives in Canada, where he is a
teacher.

LAZER LEDERHENDLER's
translations of contemporary Québécois fiction have garnered distinctions and
nominations for literary prizes in Canada and the UK. His translation of Nicolas
Dickner's
Nikolski
won the Governor General's
Literary Award as well as the Quebec Writers' Federation Award, and his
translation of Gaétan Soucy's
The Immaculate
Conception
was a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and won the
Quebec Writers' Federation Award. He lives in Montreal.

HOUSE OF ANANSI PRESS
was
founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate
that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include
internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained
attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood,
Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's
commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing
has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's
pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally
bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken
Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy,
Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald
Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The
CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the
Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”