The Heart of the Leopard Children (4 page)

Police vehicle number 357 stopped right next to us. Standing, I held Drissa curled up, broken down in deep, loud sobbing; concerned, curious bystanders, keep their distance from us. The door opened. Of course, I was expecting the worst, operation beat down, load him up,
manu militari
, and Drissa orbiting far away on another planet, hanging on to me, a castaway getting onto a makeshift rescue raft. Criminal investigation unit, we've been called because of trouble on the main highway. I could see in his eyes that this civil servant hesitated to trust me. His hand stayed close to his club. I explain to him that it's Drissa, not a junkie; he's under medical supervision for a neurological disorder. I wanted to take him out a little and before you knew it everything went haywire. The next few seconds were as heavy as lead. Drissa doesn't have it in him to be violent; he gave up on normality ages ago. He says nothing, that way things won't escalate or go the wrong way. The agent speaks to him kindly, hand on his shoulder, asks for our address, no he's not really my brother; I politely decline his offer to drive us home. I can already see Drissa hysterical in the back of the police station wagon. Understanding and reassuring, the peacekeeper Pascal Froment, advises us to head on home quickly and not hang around here, his paternal hand at the nape of my neck, get going, now take good care of your friend! Buddy, we have seen a lot of guys like you, go on now, pull yourself together, you'll make it.

Now I'm the one in a cell. Forty-eight hours in police custody. They took away my belt, my laces and my shoes. Every time I get up I have to hold up my pants to keep them from falling down. They have left me to the stench of my own vomit. I can barely make myself out from all of this shit sticking to my clothes. Bunch of helpless sadists, torturers, racists. To avoid getting shut up or slapped around, every fifteen minutes or so, I'm spewing out my rage, my fear, my sadness to this bizarre looking lock. I have nothing in here, not a chair, not a table, just massive confusion in my head. I'm trying to remember what could have happened but am just feeling this unnerving emptiness.
Hanging on to images of the past is the only thing I have to escape this place.

When we were kids, Drissa and I used to go to the local bakery. The lady at the bakery was always smiling, they're so adorable with their little ringlets, a little touch on the cheek, and their little nappy heads, giving us candy, thanks Baker Lady. I was so amazed at the size of her breasts beneath her white coat. Baker Lady, I will always love you. It was only much later, somewhere between the ages of thirteen and fourteen that we became foreigners, delinquents, illegal workers, and started overhearing words like “integration,” “immigration,” barely tolerated in political agendas.

We became the face for all the misery in the world for which no one wants to pay. That same Baker Lady now follows us around with a suspicious look. She must know the captain. They probably went to the same school, the one where they teach you to make sure the doors are always locked.

She scrutinizes us, and on first glance decides we're trouble, a danger. Why do you keep coming in here? What do you want? If the lady at the bakery hadn't changed over the years, Drissa wouldn't have eventually lost it. He would have kept on smiling. But these days he's got this intense gaze fixating on some random object. Any opportunity he has, no matter where he is, he lies down and takes refuge by falling asleep.

When he does finally say something, he sounds crazy. It's like he sees too many questions coming at him, not to mention the ones that get inside your head and can't ever leave, waiting eternally for a simple, clear, sincere answer, one that reassures the person asking, oh, okay, I get it. Nope. These questions are so thick-skinned, going in circles, unrelenting, and each time posed louder and louder. When you see Drissa rolling his eyes, glazed over from all the medication, you know he's tracking them around and around. Drissa and I, we used to be friends. We could always count on each other,
I'm your screen, you're my shield, I'll dry your tears. We had totally given up on the crazy idea of trying to understand, we were simply forging ahead together, not worrying about whether we were right or wrong, just making sure we both had what we needed to survive.

At school, he was a happy kid. At that time, you could tell he didn't understand any of the questions. They would head his way and continue their course quietly without an answer from him. Surprised, the teacher would get angry. He would purse his lips a bit and then wait patiently for the next question. He never should have tried to understand them, never.

I think that's what got to him. Because one day they finally made their way in, somewhere under his skin, lodged right into his heart, stuck there, and short-circuited everything! Where do you come from? Do you know your culture? What do you do for a living? Do you have any money? Why is your uncle so weird? What's all this stupid stuff about spirits? Train ticket? Residence permit?
ID
? Who are you?

The teacher, who really liked him, asked him to talk about his home country. He went up to the board, turned around, and faced the class. Not knowing what to say, he smiled, mumbled two, three fragments of history about ancestors, threw in a lion here, a banana tree there, and a village made from terra cotta that he'd seen on television the night before. He decided to leave the spirits out of it. It's way too easy for them to see us as primitive and stupid. When he was done, everyone was silent, wanting to hear more. Drissa, you should have had a teacher like mine. She would take my notebook and ask me to keep a few steps back from her, don't be angry my child but that odor, you understand, I'm just not used to it. She would shake her head, left to right, her palm elegantly placed in front of her mouth and nose. Personally, I liked her, like a child hungry for affection. She was so refined, not to mention the lovely pink lipstick she wore with her smile. So, the good and patient boy that I was, I would remain a good distance from her. That's good, my boy.

It's funny. Yesterday the distance between her and me was just a few steps, today, there are bars between the captain and the quarters of my own misfortune, between their uniforms and my distress. Now there's a phrasing Mireille would have liked . . .

Mireille, oh Mireille, our meeting place, Place Saint-Michel, you in your flowery dress, and beneath, your perfume in which I would drown myself. Your warm lips with the taste of the rain, sweet venom, and a velvety kiss teasing my own lips. The wine of lovers. With a shared will to be good to each other, Paris became our conquered kingdom and opened itself up to us. Mireille, oh Mireille, I have fallen, Mireille, a falcon with broken wings, a wild cat in captivity. I'm in prison, Mireille. Defiled, I have fallen so low. My darling, my secret, Mireille, oh Mireille, what is love, Mireille? Is it my tongue on your moist flower, when you murmur, no not there. Your eyes close a little bit, your lips trembling, you take my head between your tense fingers and passionately imprison my face in your hands. Your whole body melts ever so slowly, burning under my weight. Mireille navigating back and forth, my desire capsized in your storm. You whisper to me, don't stop. I carry us into a marvelous shipwreck. Your cries and moans make a symphony. It's a lover's hymn. Without ever saying I love you, for that would be too banal for you. Mireille, those afternoons in my room on the ninth floor, on the roofs of Paris, the yellow light of the sun on your bare body, ornate with pearls of perspiration. These are the real jewels of lovers!

Me, I began to truly worship your skin, so pale, almost transparent in my eyes, especially your breasts, above the blue lines. I followed ever so gently their line with the point of my tongue. It was her favorite pastime, a cocktail of laughter in a perfume of pleasure. She always shook her head, with a tender smile, when I told her for the thousandth time, about how disgusted I used to be as a kid at the sight of veins on the skin of certain White people.

My Saturday queen, you wanted to see my eyes precisely in the moment when everything lit up and I poured myself inside you. You
watched me, and you groaned deeply. In your eyes, it was November, green, brown, gray, shaking beneath your fingers, strengthening the buds at the peak of your breasts. My lips quivered, the all-white crescent moons under my eyelids, these were your trophies. You would blush as you said so. Avoiding eye contact, you buried yourself in my armpit, overindulging, close to the intoxicating perfume, the drug of lovers!

Mireille, Mireille, Mireille, my treasure, it was toward the ardent inferno, under the thick black shadow below your belly that we headed, holding onto each other, one on top of the other, right to the tip of our bodies. Together we explored our taboos. Let's rest for a while and make love again. I messed up, Mireille, and now my darling, I'm lost.

I can hear them in the corridor. All suited up in uniforms, arriving in great stride with more questions, violation to law and order, crime, assault. This is undoubtedly a nightmare. Where's the telephone so I can call my mother right away? I can already feel her sadness burning in my chest.

A little bit more about you, Mireille, about you and our story. That's the only thing that can save me now, as it has always done in the past. I can see you lying on the mattress, sun bathing your beautiful white behind, and your round, wide, curvaceous figure. I find peace in the treasure of your fluids. They shine and enchant me, have become the infinite space of my well-being. You came into my life and lay down almost from the start. I became your falcon that comes, goes, and returns again to his nest, this intimate wound where I finally found peace in the depths of your belly. They are back, Mireille. Give me some more of you, from the days of our first lovemaking when we were so young, timid, and awkward. We would steal kisses. There was no place where we could love each other. It rained so much that year. The cinema was too expensive, the park, too damp. In the basement, you said no, and you cried for a long time. I beg you to forgive me, Mireille. It's because of the neighborhood.
The guys aren't so clever, but we're really not mean-spirited either. I should have listened to you instead of pretending to be someone else. I should have been more patient.

What we had was so beautiful. Now that everything has vanished and fallen apart I can see it clearly. My timid love knew how to put aside all decency, her warm breath on my chest. Your skin is so beautiful, you must feel so good! She offered me her lips, her little round breasts, their brown flowers alert to caress my body. This fusional desire gently covered my skin, my hair. Fascinated, wild with desire, I watched her completely abandon herself. One day I will take her skin captive; I pray to drive her right to the edge. Her all-knowing tongue, hold me tight between your lips. . . . Black love, tense, burning, this smirk on your face announces the rising tide that drowns the pain. Ecstasy, an amazing feeling, when pleasure takes over and sweeps away all the taboos, and all that remains is the good stuff. She also insisted that I take her on her parent's cold, sad dining table, and she let herself go with that animal cry, amid the lingering presence of her stern father and mother. Mireille celebrated the ritual that shattered all taboos. When we were together, she let herself go, consumed by the desires of our bodies, our childhood dream became an unforgettable refrain. Don't hold back, I can take it, so much more, Mireille begged. I want to feel your teeth piercing my neck. To mark the end of some especially beautiful moments of our lovemaking, she would kneel before me and kiss my feet, humming
Carmen
!

Oh yes, dear captain, I too have lived. You can hit me as hard as you like but this you can never lock away. Put the key back in your pocket.

I have loved, I have laughed, I have cried. Listen to me as well, ancestor, I haven't always failed because love that is given just like that which is taken, the charm of it, the vertiginous effect of it, this sensation of a light cataclysm that transports you to the best and worst parts of yourself is the greatest expression of magic. Drifting along with Mireille during our love story, I saw them everywhere,
mischievous spirits, as old as the times, mystical companions of orgasms, they danced, they giggled all about us. They were curious, gave us strength and an even greater desire to explore our love.