What have I come here for? thinks Geoffroy, and can find no answer. Because of the tiredness, the burning of this sun deep within his body, all reason has blurred. All that matters is to go on, to follow Okawho into this labyrinth.
Shortly before dawn Geoffroy and Okawho arrive in Ite Brinyan. They have followed the narrow stream all day, hacking their way through the barrier of trees, crossing over the chaos of rocks along what was often no more than a corridor through the forest; suddenly it opens out, like a cave transformed into an immense subterranean hall. They stand before a lake which reflects the color of the sky.
Okawho has stopped on a rock. On his face there is an expression that Geoffroy has never seen on anyone's face. On a mask, perhaps - something hard and superhuman, the eyes emptied of all expression by thin circles drawn around them, the pupils dilated.
There is no sign of life either in the water or in the forest surrounding the lake. The silence is so great that Geoffroy thinks he can hear the sound of blood in his arteries.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
Sunday, 15 January 2017
...of a landscape
They continued walking, one behind the other now. They crossed a chaos of rocks, then entered a thorny undergrowth. Fintan followed Bony and felt no fatigue. Brambles tore his clothes. His legs were bleeding.
Towards noon they reached the hills. There were a few isolated houses where dogs were barking. Bony climbed up a worn, dark grey boulder, which crumbled into shards under his feet. From the top of the rock they could see the entire expanse of the plateau, the distant villages, the fields, and, almost unreal, the bed of a river shining among the trees. But what drew their gaze was a great fault in the plateau where the red earth glowed like the edges of a wound.
Fintan looked at every detail of the landscape. There was a great silence here, only the light rustling of the wind on the shale, the thin echo of the dogs. Fintan dared not speak. He saw that Bony too was contemplating the expanse of the plateau, the red fault. It was a mysterious place, far from the world, a place where one could forget everything. "This is where he ought to come," thought Fintan, thinking of Geoffroy. At the same time he was astonished he no longer felt any rancour. This place obliterated everything, even the burning of the sun and the stinging of poisonous leaves; even thirst and hunger. Even beatings.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
Towards noon they reached the hills. There were a few isolated houses where dogs were barking. Bony climbed up a worn, dark grey boulder, which crumbled into shards under his feet. From the top of the rock they could see the entire expanse of the plateau, the distant villages, the fields, and, almost unreal, the bed of a river shining among the trees. But what drew their gaze was a great fault in the plateau where the red earth glowed like the edges of a wound.
Fintan looked at every detail of the landscape. There was a great silence here, only the light rustling of the wind on the shale, the thin echo of the dogs. Fintan dared not speak. He saw that Bony too was contemplating the expanse of the plateau, the red fault. It was a mysterious place, far from the world, a place where one could forget everything. "This is where he ought to come," thought Fintan, thinking of Geoffroy. At the same time he was astonished he no longer felt any rancour. This place obliterated everything, even the burning of the sun and the stinging of poisonous leaves; even thirst and hunger. Even beatings.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
...of expression
Oya came too. At first, shyly, she would sit on a stone at the entrance to Ibusun, looking at the garden. Whenever Maou drew near, she ran away. There was something both wild and innocent about her at the same time which frightened Elijah, and he looked upon her as a witch. He wanted to chase her away by throwing stones at her, and he called her bad names.
One day Maou was able to approach her and take her by the hand; she led her into the garden. Oya did not want to go into the house. She sat outside on the ground, against the stairs leading to the terrace, in the shade of the guava trees. She stayed there with her legs crossed, her hands resting flat against her blue dress. Maou had tried to show her some magazines, as she had done with Marima, but Oya wasn't interested. She had a strange look in her eyes, smooth and hard as obsidian, full of an unfamiliar light. Her eyelids lifted up towards her temples, drawn with a fine edging exactly like the Egyptian masks, thought Maou. Maou had never seen a face of such purity - the arc of her eyebrows, the height of her forehead, her lips with the trace of a smile. And above all these almond-shaped eyes, the eyes of a dragonfly or a cicada. When Oya's gaze came to rest upon her, Maou shuddered, as if through her gaze were filtered thoughts extraordinarily distant and clear, images of a dream.
Maou tried to speak with her through sign language. She vaguely remembered certain gestures. Whenever, as a child in Fiesole, she passed the deaf-mute children from the hospice, she would look at them, fascinated. To say "woman" she pointed to her hair, to say "man," her chin. For "child" she made a gesture with her hand as if patting the head of a very small child. For other gestures she made things up. To say "river" she made the motion of flowing water, to say "forest" she spread her fingers in front of her face. In the beginning Oya looked at her with indifference. Then she too began to speak. It was a game that lasted for hours. On the steps of the staircase, in the afternoon, before the rain, it was a good time. Oya showed Maou all sorts of gestures to express joy, fear, to ask questions. Her face grew lively, her eyes shone. She made funny faces, imitated people, the way they walked, their comical expressions. She made fun of Elijah because he was old and his wife was so young. They both laughed. Oya had a particular way of laughing, soundlessly, her mouth opening over her very white teeth, her eyes narrowed like two slits. Or, if she was sad, her eyes would cloud over and she would curl into a ball, her head bent over, her hands on the back of her neck.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
One day Maou was able to approach her and take her by the hand; she led her into the garden. Oya did not want to go into the house. She sat outside on the ground, against the stairs leading to the terrace, in the shade of the guava trees. She stayed there with her legs crossed, her hands resting flat against her blue dress. Maou had tried to show her some magazines, as she had done with Marima, but Oya wasn't interested. She had a strange look in her eyes, smooth and hard as obsidian, full of an unfamiliar light. Her eyelids lifted up towards her temples, drawn with a fine edging exactly like the Egyptian masks, thought Maou. Maou had never seen a face of such purity - the arc of her eyebrows, the height of her forehead, her lips with the trace of a smile. And above all these almond-shaped eyes, the eyes of a dragonfly or a cicada. When Oya's gaze came to rest upon her, Maou shuddered, as if through her gaze were filtered thoughts extraordinarily distant and clear, images of a dream.
Maou tried to speak with her through sign language. She vaguely remembered certain gestures. Whenever, as a child in Fiesole, she passed the deaf-mute children from the hospice, she would look at them, fascinated. To say "woman" she pointed to her hair, to say "man," her chin. For "child" she made a gesture with her hand as if patting the head of a very small child. For other gestures she made things up. To say "river" she made the motion of flowing water, to say "forest" she spread her fingers in front of her face. In the beginning Oya looked at her with indifference. Then she too began to speak. It was a game that lasted for hours. On the steps of the staircase, in the afternoon, before the rain, it was a good time. Oya showed Maou all sorts of gestures to express joy, fear, to ask questions. Her face grew lively, her eyes shone. She made funny faces, imitated people, the way they walked, their comical expressions. She made fun of Elijah because he was old and his wife was so young. They both laughed. Oya had a particular way of laughing, soundlessly, her mouth opening over her very white teeth, her eyes narrowed like two slits. Or, if she was sad, her eyes would cloud over and she would curl into a ball, her head bent over, her hands on the back of her neck.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
...of the colonised
But they are there every day, on the quay, from dawn, waiting for who knows what, a pirogue to carry them upstream or bring them a mysterious message. Then they leave, they disappear, walking through the tall grass, to the east, on the road to Awgu and Owerri. Geoffroy tries to speak to them, a few words of Ibo, phrases in Yoroba, in pidgin, but they are always silent, not haughty, merely absent, disappearing rapidly in single file along the river, lost to view in the tall grass yellowed by drought. They are the Umundri, the Ndinze, the "ancestors," the "initiated." The people of Chuku, the Sun, circled by his halo as a father is circled by his children.
It is the itsi sign. That is what Geoffroy saw on the faces when he first arrived in Onitsha. The sign carved into the skin of the men's faces, like writing upon stone. It is the sign which entered him, touched his heart, marked him, too, on his too white face, on his skin where from birth there has never been the mark of the burn. But now he feels this burn, this secret. Men and women of the Umundri people, in the streets of Onitsha; absurd shadows wandering in the alleyways of red dust, among the acacia groves, with their herds of goats and their dogs. Only some of them wear on their faces the sign of their ancestor Ndri, the sign of the sun.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
It is the itsi sign. That is what Geoffroy saw on the faces when he first arrived in Onitsha. The sign carved into the skin of the men's faces, like writing upon stone. It is the sign which entered him, touched his heart, marked him, too, on his too white face, on his skin where from birth there has never been the mark of the burn. But now he feels this burn, this secret. Men and women of the Umundri people, in the streets of Onitsha; absurd shadows wandering in the alleyways of red dust, among the acacia groves, with their herds of goats and their dogs. Only some of them wear on their faces the sign of their ancestor Ndri, the sign of the sun.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
...of a faux pas
She felt her throat tighten, as if she might cry. She looked at the English officers around the table, so white; she sought Geoffroy's gaze. But no one was paying any attention to her, and the women continued to eat and to laugh. Gerald Simpson's gaze paused a moment upon her. There was a strange glint in his eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses. He wiped his little blond moustache with a napkin. Maou felt such hatred that she had to avert her gaze.
At the end of the garden, near the grille which acted as a fence, the black men were burning beneath the sun, sweat glistening on their backs, on their shoulders. And, always, the sound of their breathing, a hunh! of pain each time they struck the earth.
Suddenly, Maou got up, and in a voice trembling with anger, with her strange French and Italian accent in English, she said: "But you must give them something to eat and drink, look, these poor fellows, they are hungry and thirsty!" She used the word "fellow," the pidgin term.
There was a stunned silence. For a very long minute all the guests' faces turned towards her, staring at her, and she saw that even Geoffroy was stunned as he watched her, his face red, his mouth drooping at the corners, his closed fists pressing on the table.
Gerald Simpson was the first to regain his senses, saying, simply, "Ah yes, quite right, I suppose..."
He called the boy, he gave orders. In an instant the guards had led the convicts out of sight, behind the house. The D.O. then said, looking at Maou ironically, "Well, that's better now, isn't it, they were making a wretched noise, we shall have a bit of a rest ourselves now too."
The guests laughed halfheartedly. The men continued to speak, drink their coffee, and smoke their cigars, sitting in their wicker chairs at the end of the veranda. The women remained around the table, chattering with Mrs. Rally.
Then Geoffroy seized Maou by the arm and took her home in the V8, driving very quickly along the deserted track. He did not say a single word about the convicts. But after that he never again asked Maou to accompany him to the D.O.'s or to the Resident's. And whenever Gerald Simpson met Maou by chance, in the street or on the wharf, he greeted her very coldly, his steel blue gaze expressing nothing - as it should be - beyond a barely perceptible disdain.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
At the end of the garden, near the grille which acted as a fence, the black men were burning beneath the sun, sweat glistening on their backs, on their shoulders. And, always, the sound of their breathing, a hunh! of pain each time they struck the earth.
Suddenly, Maou got up, and in a voice trembling with anger, with her strange French and Italian accent in English, she said: "But you must give them something to eat and drink, look, these poor fellows, they are hungry and thirsty!" She used the word "fellow," the pidgin term.
There was a stunned silence. For a very long minute all the guests' faces turned towards her, staring at her, and she saw that even Geoffroy was stunned as he watched her, his face red, his mouth drooping at the corners, his closed fists pressing on the table.
Gerald Simpson was the first to regain his senses, saying, simply, "Ah yes, quite right, I suppose..."
He called the boy, he gave orders. In an instant the guards had led the convicts out of sight, behind the house. The D.O. then said, looking at Maou ironically, "Well, that's better now, isn't it, they were making a wretched noise, we shall have a bit of a rest ourselves now too."
The guests laughed halfheartedly. The men continued to speak, drink their coffee, and smoke their cigars, sitting in their wicker chairs at the end of the veranda. The women remained around the table, chattering with Mrs. Rally.
Then Geoffroy seized Maou by the arm and took her home in the V8, driving very quickly along the deserted track. He did not say a single word about the convicts. But after that he never again asked Maou to accompany him to the D.O.'s or to the Resident's. And whenever Gerald Simpson met Maou by chance, in the street or on the wharf, he greeted her very coldly, his steel blue gaze expressing nothing - as it should be - beyond a barely perceptible disdain.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
...of black travellers
Then, on the cargo deck darkened by the brilliance of the lanterns, Fintan discovered the blacks who had settled in for the trip. While the whites were partying in first class, they had come on board, silently; men, women, and children, carrying their bundles on their heads, walking one by one up the plank that served as a gangway. Watched over by the quartermaster they had taken up their places on deck, between the rusted containers, against the frames of the bulwark, and they had waited noiselessly for the hour of departure. Perhaps a child had cried, or perhaps the old man with the thin face, his body covered in rags, had intoned his monotonous chant, his prayer. But the music from the lounge had hidden their voices, and they might have heard Mr. Simpson mocking them, imitating their language, and the English people shouting, "Maïwot! Maïwot!" and the story of "Pickaninny stop along him fellow!"
Fintan felt so angry, so ashamed for a moment he wanted to go back to the first-class lounge. It was as if, in the night, all of the black people were looking at him, a sharp look, full of reproach. But the idea of going back into the huge room full of noise and the odor of stale tobacco was unbearable.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
Fintan felt so angry, so ashamed for a moment he wanted to go back to the first-class lounge. It was as if, in the night, all of the black people were looking at him, a sharp look, full of reproach. But the idea of going back into the huge room full of noise and the odor of stale tobacco was unbearable.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
...of a daydream
San Remo, she wrote, the square in the shade of the tall trees in full bloom, the fountain, the clouds above the sea, the scarabs in the warm air.
I feel the breeze on my eyes.
In my hands I hold the prey of silence.
I wait for the quiver of pleasure from your gaze on my body.
I dreamt last night that I saw you at the foot of the lane of charms, in Fiesole. You were like a blind man searching for his home. Outside I could hear voices murmuring insults, or prayers.
I remember, you spoke to me of the death of children, of war. The years they have not lived gouge gaping holes in the walls of our houses.
She wrote: Geoffroy, you are in me, I am in you. The time which has kept us apart no longer exists. Time had effaced me. In traces on the sea, in whitecap signs, I read your memory. I cannot lose what I see, I cannot forget what I am. It is for you that I make this voyage.
She dreamt as the cigarette burned away, as the sheet of paper filled with words. Her letters became entangled, and there were large, white gaps between them. Aurelia used to say she had a slantingm affected handwriting, the tall letters struck with a long curving train, the t's crossed diagonally.
I remember the last time we spoke, in San Remo; you spoke to me of the silence of the desert, as if you were going to go back against the flow of time, as far as Meroë, to find the truth; and now I myself, here in the silence and the wilderness of the sea, feel I am going back in time to find the truth of my life, there, in Onitsha.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
I feel the breeze on my eyes.
In my hands I hold the prey of silence.
I wait for the quiver of pleasure from your gaze on my body.
I dreamt last night that I saw you at the foot of the lane of charms, in Fiesole. You were like a blind man searching for his home. Outside I could hear voices murmuring insults, or prayers.
I remember, you spoke to me of the death of children, of war. The years they have not lived gouge gaping holes in the walls of our houses.
She wrote: Geoffroy, you are in me, I am in you. The time which has kept us apart no longer exists. Time had effaced me. In traces on the sea, in whitecap signs, I read your memory. I cannot lose what I see, I cannot forget what I am. It is for you that I make this voyage.
She dreamt as the cigarette burned away, as the sheet of paper filled with words. Her letters became entangled, and there were large, white gaps between them. Aurelia used to say she had a slantingm affected handwriting, the tall letters struck with a long curving train, the t's crossed diagonally.
I remember the last time we spoke, in San Remo; you spoke to me of the silence of the desert, as if you were going to go back against the flow of time, as far as Meroë, to find the truth; and now I myself, here in the silence and the wilderness of the sea, feel I am going back in time to find the truth of my life, there, in Onitsha.
[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
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