The Heart of the Leopard Children (13 page)

As planned, Drissa went by to pick up Mireille, he can't remember where I was at the time. Mireille's mother invited him in and then told him that she was sorry but her daughter would not be home until late that evening, she was out visiting a distant relative of her father's who was suffering from a serious illness. He should have left right then and there. However, blocked, he stood planted in the doorway, trying in vain to find the right words, some form of politesse that would make it easy for him to take off. Only now with the clarity of all his craziness does he recognize the spark that illuminated the look on our friend's mother's face. Whether it was a smell, an idea, or plain old desire, what's clear is that it had not been premeditated. She automatically shut the door behind him and at the same time gently pulled him toward her. She then fixed her eyes, which seemed to really open up for the first time in a very long time, on him. When he went to speak, she tenderly posed her fingers, damaged from all the housework, on his lips. He identified a vague smell of olive oil and cooking that was familiar to him. Gently and with a discreet smile, she guided his hands to her cheeks and without a word led him to her flesh. All while trying to maintain her composure and elegance, she murmured her pleasure, and used her dry fingers to guide the inexperienced fingers of the adolescent at a crazy pace. Her legs trembled and she planted her teeth into his shoulder muscles. She tightened her grip, firmer around Drissa's hands. Drissa, her first folly, beautiful, hot. A few minutes later, the child collapsed, the storm, the pleasure of her body rediscovered, years of sadness forgotten, she reconnected with a level of pleasure that took her to the peak. Then she cried silently and forbid him to ever say a word to anyone.

This was followed by kisses and caresses. She smoothed his hair and complimented him with the crude language only love knows how to make delicious. This fifty-year-old woman was escaping from everything with an adolescent boy at an incredibly delightful pace. She got up and presented her naked body to him, right in his face. She undressed him and guided them to her bedroom. She, who had been taught that love was a simple wave of feelings, far from the body, who had only allowed herself chaste occasional sexual contact with her husband in absolute darkness, dignified controlled breathing, punctuated with the rare I love you, let herself go completely and gave way to infinite carnal delight. She, who never spoke, finally explored the poetry of lips in concert with the tongue, a pulsating novel that flourishes in the depth of the belly and then soars, drowned in love, in silent song, the magic of lovers.

What a sweet symphony for Drissa, a clandestine traveler of tenderness, suddenly all this attention reserved for him. He stayed a while resting on her soft belly, the skin had loosened over time. Tears flowed, not quite knowing what to say to honor the moment.

Drissa didn't want to know how it would end, nor any of the others as a matter of fact. His uncle had seen a patch of black and white hair dancing on his chest while in a trance. He thought that he was going to go on living and being loved for a long time. He takes a drag on his cigarette while squinting his eyes. How long did the relationship last? How come you never told me anything? Drissa smiles from the corner of his eyes, amused. I understand that he just wants me to listen to him. He went to see her several times in their special universe, one in which only a few words were ever exchanged. They took off together toward complete peace and tenderness. She would sigh profoundly, hold him tenderly against her chest, his head in her hands, close her eyes, and smile. A star would glide gently over their skin. They would caress each other, brazenly, loving each other with the fevered hunger of those who had been neglected. In the summertime, their trysts went on amid the racket in the neighborhood. In the fall, they escaped the gloom and cold outside in each other's
company. Drissa hopes she did cry from behind the window curtains of her room when the white shirts had come to get him. His final gaze had turned up toward her window.

That was weeks ago now. She has since moved with her husband to a small house about sixty miles or so from Paris, to a well-deserved retirement, far from all the concrete and hate. It's not so much her but more the light and the warmth that Drissa misses.

Three friends enjoying themselves in the parking lot, sometimes, closer to the train station, lulled by the sounds of the
RER
and cars going full speed at night on the adjacent highway. All smiles, dreams for tomorrow, stoned, hanging in the vacant lot, stealing little wet kisses from Mireille on the nape of my neck, play fighting with Drissa, she would nibble on my tongue and then burst out laughing. And Drissa grumbling where do you think you are? Cut it out, shit, man!

Things definitely cooled down, the initial fascination Mireille and I had for each other after making love when she was having her period. We both contemplated her upper thighs, bathed in red, the blue artery within proximity, the black of her pubis, further below where violet opened up, the pink den and the brown of my private parts resting on her milky white skin. A bouquet of marvelous colors, it was a lovers rainbow!

In a café around Châtelet, Mireille wouldn't stop crying, a real floodgate. I noticed for the first time that she had started to age. Of course she still loves me, that will never change, but she needs another life and for that she has to forget about me and take off far away. Mireille reminded me of my aunts, and some of my mothers' friends. They had this gift for metamorphosing into a huge lamentation, shaking from sobbing, loud hiccups, eyes red, buried in their tissues folded up at least a dozen times. They would lose all sense of modesty, disregard the least ounce of dignity, and were pretty much ready to be consoled by anyone who would open their arms to them, so that they could relay, without interruption and for the umpteenth time the film of the thousand miseries of their little insignificant
existences. Mireille, the Amazonian, was wearing the same mask of neglect in the superb way she carried herself, her face swollen from crying.

Going back to Israel, where there is still a war to win, people to save. Did she ever know about Drissa and her mother? Still a mystery. I have myself to think about. I don't even bother to ask the question. She's clearly afraid of falling into the black hole of oblivion that she has always felt so close to her. She sobs a little bit more. I only hear her say that she loves me, finally she is telling me after so many years, it's good to finally hear it. Yet, these three words feel like a huge slap in the face! The death knell of lovers. My legs are starting to tremble, my heart is racing like crazy, a rancid and painful tide floods my whole body. I wish I could cry or even howl out my suffering. I can hear deep down inside an animal screaming in agony.

She loves me and so leaves me to my fate. In truth, I'm suffocating. I'm staying strong. The world is yours for the taking. Even if I'd have preferred to throw myself at her feet, cover them with kisses and implore her, beg her, tuck my dignity away in a pocket, and for the rest of my life if I have to, if only she would accept to stay with me. The pride of the predator keeps me stuck to my seat, submitting to the goodbye. Dry eyes. Heart wounded. Dreams and memories shattered. Looking straight ahead. For a split second, I felt like I could have killed her. If I can't have her, then why should anybody else?

I love you. These three words make me feel like I'm worth something. I still haven't brought up Drissa. I'm hanging on firmly to this declaration that marks the end. My life feels more than ever like a disaster. This is definitely not the time to bring up past moments, those times when we were pleasuring the most intimate parts of our bodies, as seals of our eternal union. . . . How time can make noble gestures seem ridiculous, pathetic, repulsive. Drissa is doing better. Our visit came to an end when he suddenly fell asleep right in the middle of our conversation, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I had to put the cigarette out myself, then like a brother, I took him in my arms and tucked him into bed.

You're a big part of me, Mireille, but believe me, I understand your decision. I would give anything to have it be mine as well. A voice, a growl from the wild beast whispers I must let her go, her own people are calling her. A beautiful animal roared, his anger calmed. It's time to let go of her hand resting on the table. There is really nothing more to say.

Three little angels, two black boys, one white girl, petty thieves, giggling, running around together for the last time on the vacant lot that runs alongside the main road. They hover a short while by the buildings and the train tracks and then disappear forever. Mireille has made a run for it, upset, her soul torn apart, her heart in pieces. Go on now, and good luck, I'll take care of the bill. It's my turn anyway. No really, don't worry about it. Excited, Mireille is marching to the crazy gallop of her life, always insatiable, heading right to the limit of what's possible, at record speed. She carefully swallowed up anyone who got in her way. They were interesting but merely short layovers to feed her own path. Mireille, a kind of machine, regulated like clockwork to swallow up and digest men, women, and situations without stopping, so great is her hunger and insatiable thirst for wanting more and for things that are different, and these have only increased over time. I was undoubtedly a big piece to swallow, but she finally managed it, and now leaves me here without her, abandoned, cast aside like any old object, of no further interest. Long before me, Drissa had been one of her first victims. Today, she's filled with contempt for him.

One last time, dreaming about her. I see her swaying her large, ample backside she seems to have a hard time carrying. She walks unsure of her footing. Mireille is leaving me. In pain but already in a hurry, she realizes she came tonight to carry out a dirty job, hurtful but necessary, she's finally broken free and is already beginning to exist elsewhere. She's on her way to the Promised Land. She quickly disappears, swallowed up by the metro. This is the perfect word. She's swallowed up, after which there is nothing, total silence, no applause. The first and last spectator is having a hard time leaving
the theater. The play really pinned him to his seat. Sitting alone now, in the dark, remembering the most intense scenes. I don't want to think about the outside world and all the problems that await me.

A veil of darkness, each time a little bit thicker, is settling on the streets of Paris, sneaking its way under the Pont au Change. It has already covered over the Pont des Arts. Over there, the Place Saint-Michel, and at the foot of the fountain other hearts are happy to meet up in a languishing tender embrace, warm round breasts pressing against the chest, heart pulsating on the inside. Not a single trace of Mireille or me or of our kisses. It's as though it never happened. A Bakongo, a Jew, a Black guy, a White girl, just another mixed race couple on the streets of Paris. Who cares? Curtain, please.

Later on, I called up Ludovic, who'd also moved to Paris for his studies. He lives in a beautiful furnished studio not far from the Place d'Italie. Don't worry, bro, there are plenty more fish in the sea. . . . He's trying to be funny. I'm afraid it'll never be the same like it was with Mireille. I can already see myself just going from one girl to the next, from one relationship to another. I always felt that I'd not been mistaken about Mireille, you know that ease you have spending hours with your beloved, that exceptional person. I saw the changes over the last few months more like an episode in an eternal love story. Our love story. Demoralized, I can just see myself heading to the whorehouse with the other guys in the neighborhood, doing precisely what most revolted Mireille.

I meet up with Ludovic at Montparnasse; he's in good spirits and suggests that we head to Rue de Rennes and wander from café to café. It's one of the first days of spring, the most beautiful time of year in Paris. People are coming and going, taking their time, women so happy to finally put on their floral dresses, the plunging necklines hinting ever so slightly at the breasts, with just the right amount showing, some cheerful colored hats, with huge smiles on their faces. Night has just fallen and the café terraces are packed! Ludovic is chatting away, laughing, doing his best to get my mind off things. The streets are full, people bumping into each other but everyone's in
good spirits, sorry, go ahead, no problem, a light friendly tap on the shoulder. My head is somewhere else though, somewhere between two and three bodies of water. I'm doing my best to keep my eyes open and to take in some of the good May vibes. But I'm really struggling. The feeling of solitude weighs heavily. Ludovic is like a radio you listen to in the distance, absent-mindedly at the steering wheel on a long journey, he tells me that he's been hanging out all year long, has spent too many nights in nightclubs, smoked up too many joints in the university cafeteria, messed around with loads of girls, shit, man, you've got to make the most of student life!

We're somewhere on a bridge. Some guys come up to us. We share a drink with them. Hilarious and all excited, they tell us that they've just knocked about a bunch of cock-sucking bourgeois students. I'm really not in the mood for this kind of shit. The guy telling us all this is black, with the kind of face that would frighten the
CRS
police. He's sitting down, elbows on his knees, a joint in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. He's constantly spitting and he's got some brass knuckles. I know all too well the other side of his gaze. He oozes gratuitous violence, an almost sexual urge to hurt somebody and to get off from it. I can feel Ludovic's panicking. I try to play along. My family and I are so proud I got my high school diploma. I'm almost somebody now with my student
ID
card, and all that to find myself hiding out at night by the Seine. I'm really getting tired of not resembling what I imagine myself to be. What are you doing? Who are you anyway? You a Rasta or what?