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  ‘Your presence here today speaks in your favour. All N’Dakaru knows you both. Your reputations are well established.’

  The co-wives and Yay Bineta knew they were only playing to the gallery. They resorted to euphemism in preparation for the real hostilities which would come later. The Badyen left them and went to look for El Hadji in the bridal chamber. The room was decorated completely in white. A mattress laid on the floor in a corner, an upside-down mortar and a woodcutter’s axe-handle were for the moment the only furnishings.

  ‘It is time for you to change, El Hadji,’ the Badyen told the man.

  ‘Change? What for?’

  ‘You must put on a caftan without trousers and sit there on the mortar, with the axe-handle held between your feet, until your wife’s arrival is announced.’

  ‘Yay Bineta, you don’t really believe in all that! I have two wives already and I did not make a fool of myself with this hocus-pocus on their account. And I am not going to start today!’

  ‘You’re not a European, although I can’t help wondering. Your two wives are somehow too nice today; it troubles me. My little N’Gone is still innocent. She isn’t old enough to cope with rivalry. Go and take your trousers off and sit down! I’ll come back and tell you when your wife arrives.’

  Being ordered about by a woman was not in the least to El Hadji’s liking and he was sufficiently Westernized not to have any faith in all this superstition.

  ‘No!’ he replied curtly and walked out, leaving the Badyen standing by herself.

  Adja Awa Astou and Oumi N‘Doye had realized what the Badyen’s game was when she had led their husband away. The same thought had occurred to both of them. Oumi N’Doye’s courage abandoned her and she spoke what was on her mind:

  ‘What are we doing here in this house?’

  Because of the noise Adja Awa Astou leaned over towards her. ‘What did you say?’

  Oumi N’Doye looked around to make sure that no one was listening or watching them.

  ‘What are we doing here, you and I?’

  ‘We are waiting for our weje4 to arrive,’ replied Adja, her eyes fixed on the base of the second wife’s neck.

  ‘Are you, the awa, going to do nothing? You must be in favour of this third marriage then. You gave El Hadji your blessing, didn’t you?’

  Oumi N’Doye stuck out her chin. The light from the doorway lit up her face animated by jealousy. She pursed her lips.

  ‘You want us to leave?’ asked Adja confidentially.

  ‘Yes, let’s get away from here,’ replied Oumi N’Doye, making to rise to her feet.

  Adja Awa Astou held her by the knee, as if to rivet her to her seat. Oumi N’Doye followed her eyes. Standing in the doorway opposite Yay Bineta was watching them. Intuition told the Badyen that the co-wives were discussing her goddaughter. She moved off.

  After a moment Adja Awa Astou went on:

  ‘It is Yay Bineta who is your rival. I have never entered the fray. I am incapable of fighting or rivalry. You know that yourself. When you were a young bride you never knew I existed. I have been the awa for nearly twenty years now, and how many years have you been his wife, my second?’

  ‘Seventeen years, I think.’

  ‘Do you know how many times we have met?’

  ‘To tell the truth I don’t,’ admitted Oumi N’Doye.

  ‘Seven times! During the fifteen or so years you have been the second wife that man, the same man, has left me every three days to spend three nights with you, going from your bedroom to mine. Have you ever thought about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Oumi N’Doye.

  ‘And you have never been to see me!’

  ‘Yet you have come to see me several times. I really don’t know why I have never visited you.’

  ‘Because you regarded me as your rival.’

  The Badyen interrupted them. ‘You have eaten nothing! Come on, help yourselves. You must act as if you were at home.’ She placed a tray of drinks beside them.

  Adja Awa Astou drank. Before raising the glass to her mouth Oumi N’Doye dipped her little finger into the liquid and scattered a few drops on the floor. Scandalized, Yay Bineta hurried off.

  ‘The bride! The bride!’

  The rest of the sentence was drowned in the general uproar that followed. A fanfare of car horns reverberated through the air. A thick-set woman with a shoe in her hand rushed towards the door. She was knocked over and fell to the floor. Her tight-fitting dress split, a long, horizontal tear which exposed her behind. She was helped back to her feet by a couple of women and roundly abused the male guests for their lack of manners and consideration for women.

  Yay Bineta, the Badyen, pushed the crowd aside. In keeping with their usual exhibitionism the President of the ‘Businessmen’s Group’ led El Hadji forward to meet his bride.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye’s head had been covered in a cloth.

  The two co-wives went to the top of the stairs. From this vantage point they followed the enthronement. They too, at the start of their own marriages, had lived that moment, their hearts full of promise and joy. As they watched someone else’s happiness the memory of their own weddings left a nasty taste. Eaten up with a painful bitterness they shared a common sense of abandonment and loneliness. Neither spoke.

  Already El Hadji was on the dance-floor with his bride, inaugurating the festivities that were to last all night. The band played the inevitable Comparsita. After the tango came a rock-‘n’-roll number and the young people invaded the floor.

  Things had got off to a good start.

  Twelve men, each carrying a spit-roasted lamb, made their entrance. In their enthusiasm some guests beat the furniture with any object they could lay their hands on, while others simply applauded.

  Adja Awa Astou hid her chagrin with a show of forced laughter.

  ‘Oumi,’ she called softly, ‘I am going to slip away.’

  ‘Stay a little longer.... Don’t leave me alone.’

  ‘I’ve left the children by themselves at the villa.’

  Adja shook her co-wife’s hand and went down the stairs. She walked along the edge of the dance floor and reached the street, which was lined with parked cars.

  ‘Take me home.’

  Back at the villa Adja Awa Astou felt unwell. She hid it from her children as they assailed her with questions about the festivities. She had thought jealousy was banished from her heart. When long ago her husband had taken a second wife, she had hidden her unhappiness. The suffering had been less then, for that was the year when she had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. She was completely absorbed in her new religion. Now that she was an adja, she wanted to keep her heart pure, free of any hatred or meanness towards others. By an act of will she had overcome all her feelings of resentment towards the second wife. Her ambition was to be a wife according to the teachings of Islam by observing the five daily prayers and showing her husband complete obedience. Her religion and the education of her children became the mainstays of her life. The few friends she still kept and her husband’s friends all spoke of her as an exemplary wife.

  When she had given the children their supper she took her beads and prayed fervently. She thought of her parents. She longed to see her father again. He was still alive and living on the island of Gorée. After her conversion to the Muslim faith she had gradually stopped seeing her family. Then when her mother died she had broken with them completely.

  Her father, Papa John as the islanders called him, was an intransigent Christian, born into the third generation of African Catholicism. He attended Mass regularly with all his household and enjoyed a reputation for piety which had given him a certain ascendency over his colleagues. During the colonial period he had been a member of the municipal council for a number of years. When he discovered that his daughter was being courted by a Muslim from the mainland, he had decided to have it out with her. He had asked her to accompany him on his daily walk and together they had climbed the steep path up to the fort. Beneath them the an
gry, foam-covered sea battered the sides of the cliff.

  ‘Renée,’ he said.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Is this Muslim going to marry you?’

  Renée lowered her eyes. Papa John could see he would get no reply. He knew a lot about this Muslim and his trade-union activities. He had heard about his speeches at political meetings criticizing French colonialism and its allies the assimilés. He could not visualize this man as his son-in-law and suffered in anticipation at the thought that he might one day be associated with his family.

  ‘Will you become a Muslim?’

  This time his voice had hammered out the question firmly.

  Renée was flirting with the teacher, who was something of a hero with the young generation; nothing more. She had certainly given no thought to the conflict of religions.

  ‘Do you love him?’ ,

  Papa John had watched his daughter out of the corner of his eye as he waited for a reply. Deep down he had hoped it would be ‘no’.

  ‘Renée, answer me!’

  Rama’s arrival broke the thread of her memories.

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ said Rama, sitting on a chair.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Yes. Were there a lot of people at father’s wedding?’

  ‘With all that he spent on it! You know what the people of this town are like!’

  ‘And Oumi N’Doye?’

  ‘I left her there.’

  ‘I suppose she was unpleasant.’

  ‘No. We were together.’

  Rama was sensitive to her mother’s least suffering. The atmosphere did not encourage conversation. The light from the wall-lamp and the white scarf wound round her head made her mother’s face look thin. Tiny bright dots shone in her eyes. Rama thought she could see tears on the edge of her lashes.

  ‘I’m going to work for a bit before I go to bed,’ announced Rama, getting to her feet.

  ‘What have you got to do?’

  ‘I have a Wolof translation to finish. Pass the night in peace, mother.’

  ‘And you too.’

  The door closed, leaving Adja Awa Astou alone again. As others isolate themselves with drugs she obtained her own daily dose from her religion.

  Rock-‘n’-roll alternated with the Pachanga. The dancers – only young people – did not bother to leave the dance-floor. The band put everything they had into their ‘soul’ music. The wedding had lost some of its solemnity and the guests were enjoying themselves.

  The ‘Businessmen’s Group’ sat apart. They were engaged in lively discussion, jumping from one subject to another, from politics to birth-control, from communism to capitalism. On their table were the different shaped bottles of every conceivable brand of alcohol and the remains of wedding-cake and roasted lamb.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was being very sociable, flitting like a butterfly from group to group. The bride was dancing with a young man. Laughing, El Hadji joined his business colleagues.

  ‘Are you leaving now? Off to deflower your virgin!’ the President of the ‘Group’ greeted him with unsubtle innuendo. His breath smelt and he was unsteady on his feet. Putting his arm around El Hadji’s neck he addressed the others in a thick voice: ‘Friends, our brother El Hadji will be off in a moment to “pierce” his fair lady.’

  ‘A delicate operation!’ contributed the member of parliament, rising with difficulty from his seat. After a string of smelly burps he went on: ‘Believe me, El Hadji, we’ll gladly give you a hand.’

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ the others chimed in.

  Each added his bit.

  ‘Have you taken the “stuff”, El Hadji?’ asked Laye, joining them. He could not take his lecherous eyes off the prominent thighs of a girl doing the rock-‘n’-roll. Whispering in El Hadji’s ear, he said: ‘I promise you, it works. Your kiki will be stiff all night. I brought the stuff back from Gambia for you.’

  The conversation turned to the subject of aphrodisiacs. They all knew a great deal about them; each had his own favourite recipe. The young man escorted the bride back to her husband and N’Gone’s arrival killed the discussion. Suddenly the lights went out. Cries of ‘Oh!’ and ‘Lights!’ and ‘Give us our money back!’ went up all round. When the lights came on again the bride and groom had disappeared.

  In the nuptial chamber Yay Bineta, the ever busy Badyen; had finished her preparations. Now she had only to wait for the act in which it would all culminate. The bed was ready, with its white sheets.

  ‘How happy I am, my children,’ she said. ‘The whole family was here – brothers, cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts and relations by marriage. It has been a great day for us all. You must be tired.’

  ‘Me? No,’ replied N’Gone.

  ‘I’ll help you to get ready,’ said the Badyen to her goddaughter, all motherly. She began with the white crown, which she placed on the head of a tailor’s dummy. She talked. ‘Don’t be afraid. You will feel a little pain but be docile in your husband’s arms. Do what he says.’

  Whether from modesty or shyness, N’Gone began crying.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye had gone into the bathroom. After his shower he swallowed a couple of pills to give himself strength. Hands in his pockets and smelling of cologne, he went back into the room. N’Gone, clad in a thin nightdress, was lying on the bed: the offering.

  The Badyen had left. The man gazed at the girl’s body with greedy insistence.

  A light, nippy breeze was blowing on this side of the town. The muezzins could be heard calling the faithful to the Facjaar prayer. In the east, between the buildings and above the baobab and silk-cotton trees, the streaked horizon was growing lighter.

  Slipping among the remaining shadows, an elderly woman, covered from head to foot, arrived at the door of the villa. The Badyen, who had been looking out for her for some time, let her in. They exchanged a few, brief words, then together they approached the couple’s door.

  Yay Bineta knocked. No reply. She knocked again. The two women exchanged glances. A vague anxiety appeared in their eyes. The Badyen turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. She peered hesitantly inside. She was met by the blue light of the room. Frowning, she looked around.

  N’Gone was in bed in her nightdress. At the foot of the bed sat El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye, hunched forward, his head in his hands.

  Followed by the other woman carrying a cock, Yay Bineta entered the room. The Badyen examined the sheets for traces of blood. Then she placed the cock between N’Gone’s things, ready to kill it in sacrifice.

  ‘No! No!’ N’Gone cried, closing her legs like a large pair of scissors. Sobbing, she tried to thrust the cock away from her.

  ‘What has happened?’ demanded the Badyen.

  N’Gone’s sobs faded into silence.

  ‘El Hadji, I am talking to you. What has happened?’

  ‘Yay Bineta, I did not manage it.’

  N’Gone let out a cry, the cry of an animal in distress. The two women raised their hands to their mouths in astonishment. The cock escaped, crowing.

  ‘Lâa . . . lahâa illala! Someone has cast a spell on you.’

  The Badyen muttered to herself, while the other woman tried on all fours to catch the cock. The bird ran out of reach. The Badyen raged. ‘I warned you this would happen. You and your like take yourselves for Europeans. If you had listened to me yesterday you would not be in this situation now. The shame of it! What difference could it have made to you to sit on the mortar? (She pointed to it.) Now that you are as you are, what are you going to do about it? You must find a cure. You must see a marabout.’

  The other woman cornered the bird behind the mortar and caught it by its legs. Nearby stood the tailor’s dummy wearing the wedding-dress. She went up to El Hadji.

  ‘The xala5 is nothing to worry about! What one hand has planted Another can pull up. Get up! You have no need to feel ashamed.’

  Xala! El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was aghast. He could not believe what had happened to
him. When he had talked about the xala to other men he had always treated it as a joke. This morning he was completely shattered. He felt numbed. He could barely realize what had happened. All night he had stayed awake, his body separated from his desire, his nerves disconnected from his nervous centre.

  The Badyen went over to the bride.

  ‘Stop crying now. You have nothing to blame yourself for. It’s up to your husband to take the necessary precautions. I am sure you are a virgin.

  Holding her cock tight the other woman admonished El Hadji. ‘Pull yourself together, El Hadji! Get up! You must do something! Do something! You must find a cure.’

  El Hadji went into the shower. While he was away, Yay Bineta hunted under the pillow for the licence and the keys of the wedding gift car. Having found what she was looking for, she proceeded to call the co-wives all the names she could lay her tongue to.

  When El Hadji reappeared he was dressed.

  Outside it was day. The courtyard was strewn with empty bottles, broken glasses, overturned tables and chairs. There were flies everywhere.

  Modu was waiting for his employer. When he saw him coming he threw away his cigarette. El Hadji’s scowling face suggested to him something quite different from the truth – an exhausting night.

  Installed in the Mercedes El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye did not know what he should do. He thought of going to see Adja Awa Astou. Twice he rejected that idea. What would he say to Asta? He could not order his thoughts. Which of his wives had planned it? Which of them had made him impotent? And why? Which of them? Adja Awa Astou? Unthinkable. She who never said anything out of place. It must be his second then, Oumi N‘Doye. The xala could easily be her doing. She was very jealous. Ever since he had told her of his marriage moomé spent with her had been nights of hell. Yet in his heart of hearts El Hadji rejected that idea. Oumi N’Doye was not so spiteful. His thoughts kept returning to his wives.

  Modu drew up in front of the import-export shop that was also his office. His secretary-saleslady, seeing her employer arrive, stopped her work with the Flytox and hurried forward to congratulate him.