Salimata the beautiful african women.
Act II of an erotic tale taking place in Burkina Faso.
- "Mister Marco, for the last time, you are requested at the kiosk of
information, please."
My name echoed on the dense walls of the hall and struck my
eardrums, plunging me for a moment, into the abysses of a dream.
I moved towards the kiosk of information. I could not see her yet. Nevertheless, I know she was there, and my heart starts pounding. I moved awkwardly in the direction of the kiosk of information, pushing aside the multicolored beings messing around on the
slippery parquet of the hall, that had gathered there for almost 4 hours,
waiting for the departure of flight 435.
I forgot for a moment, I was in a way, exiled in this far-away country, pretending
I was giving assistance. Sali was looking straight at me. I only saw the white corpuscles of her eyes, her face was confused by the blackness of the night and gleamed momentarily,
under the reflections of the moon. The nails of her fingers sunked into my
flesh. Strange shudders crossed all over my body.
We walked through the wide and deserted streets of Ouagadougou; we where, for the first time, all by ourselves. Sali approached me for the first time this afternoon, at the swimming pool, she came close to me and she presented herself; she sat at my table as if we had known each other for a long time. I was watching her since a few hours, pretending I was reading, ceaselessly going through
an old thorn "SAS", she did not seem to ignore the interest I had for her and she
approached me without any embarrassment.
She was beautiful in her almost nudity, a slim body on long and fine legs and so tiny bosoms that could hardly be perceived, inflating slightly the longline
"propylene" bra of her two-pieces swimsuit, they where covered by multicolored
flowers that sparkle as stars over her slightly copper-colored flesh; fine
bubbles of water still pearled over her bronze body like over the tanned skin
of a wild animal. She looked like a wildcat, a panther in ecstasy who fixed me
of her immense eyes of strangely white corpuscles; she spoke to me without any
embarrassment as if we had done it every day since the day I came there and start frequenting the neighborhood of the swimming pool. I looked at her, stunned and a little surprise to see her so casual as if it was not the first time, but we still had only very little time left, and that, I knew
it.
Before she quit, she fixed the rendez-vous for the same
evening, we were going to have dinner together, in a restaurant of her choice.
I saw her far off, I was not certain any more she was Sali; another woman
perhaps, who transformed herself as to underline a significant event: a long
disentangled body draped with a "booboo" drawn of thousands tattoos; she
advanced casually swirling her mobile hips around the central axis of her
rectilinear body, she walked through the crowd with determination, like a goddess
confident of herself. She wore a strange turban, decorated with flowers that wound
around her skull and completely hide her hair. She was decorated with multiple
trinkets, twinkling jewels in her wrists, long pendants in her ears and
strange amulets, resonant knickknacks, strings of pearls hanging on her
breast up to the level of her solar plexus; her face only was visible, one
of her shoulders, her forearm and her hands as well as her ankles, they where like
unusual spots of a deep black color setting out from the brightness of
this colored and mobile assembly by the action of her articulated movement in
the space.
Pedantic, flexible, fluid and resonant, she moved like a panther, she split
the crowd with voluptuous pleasure by swaying her hips, attracting the glances
of men subdued by her beauty of wild beast, not detaching her glance
from my direction. She stopped in front of me and deposed a long kiss on my
appalled lips.
I squeezed her for a long time, soaking my body all over her flexible and nice-smelling body, forgetting the dumbfounded crowd, I did as if I sank myself
into her, she let herself raped with docility.
We stand there, several hours before the departure of the plane for Paris, for
nothing, otherwise than to proceed to long and useless formalities before
boarding the plane. The terminal was almost deserted. We were powerless, to
undergo irrational controls, the humiliation of searches as useless as
imaginary, to undergo security tests, suspicious interrogations, in this
universe that seemed taken out of the universe of Kafka, in front of custom
officers and armed soldiers; imperturbable and arrogant, they abuse of their authority with a consciousness, not at all dissimulated.
Our luggage where finally handed back to us having been scrupulously verified, we could circulate freely and introduce anything into it, before they effectively pass through the customs clearance zone. All these controls, these endless waits, these suspicious interrogations, were totally ineffective by this simple abnormality of procedure. I was leaving this country the same way I entered it and lived in it, a short stay having the feeling to live in the irrational. I thought of Sali, beautiful and unusual that I was going to see soon, I would embrace her in my arms, I would love her and she would make me forget the irrationality of this country, of its people, of the present situation.
Then, she was there already. I spent these too short hours before boarding the plane, to circulate with her from the hall to the terrace, from the restaurant to the gardens, to kiss her lengthily, to search the mysterious folds of her body as if I had to store in my memory, in this
too short moment, all that I was going to leave of her and that time had not
allowed me to deepen, this time wasted to wait without ever reaching her
otherwise than in this ultimate moment.
Sali was there, behind the railing that separates the public terrace from the
custom area where I was already, when I heard the last appeal to board
flight 435. We held hand by hand, not realizing very well, that this departure
could mean the end of a relation that had not yet taken shape. She looked
sad.
We exchanged small gifts, banal recollections, photos, giving ourselves the illusion we will never quit one another. On the runway far off, already, the
passengers invaded the tarmac. The plane staff verified the luggage again,
before allowing the passengers to climb the stair up to the cabin of the Airbus; this double check threw a doubt on the efficiency of the formalities undergone by the official of the airport authorities.
I had to leave Sali now.
At this very moment, security employees of the terminal approach me and force
me to follow them. I look at Sali for the last time not understanding yet, the
reason of this questioning.
They brought me in the office of an official of the security. I could not
understand what was happening, my plane was leaving soon, I ask them to explain the
reason of this questioning. A haughty and little obliging civil servant
retains me with a slowness and calculated linguistic bends, only aimed at
voluntarily glorifying his position of authority. He was indifferent if I was
to miss my flight for Paris. He told me, I broke the laws of the
country by exchanging non-identified objects with this African girl,
through the customs zones of the terminal.
I try unsuccessfully to make him understand the nonsense of these assertions,
and that I was only exchanging commonplace recollections with a friend. I
understood then, the impossible task it was to convince him before the
departure of the plane, knowing the kafkaian character of the country and the
abuse of authority from its civil servants!
I am there immovable and defenseless, in front of pernickety civil servants
who's only pleasure is, to take their citizens by default, and to magnify
doing so, their discretionary power.
- " Attention, it is the last call for the passengers of flight 435 for Paris,
please present yourself at once at the departure gate. "
The call for the passengers of flight 435 is increasingly insistent and I know
now that I will miss my plane. I feel no regret at all, the image of
Sali fills my spirit and I do not dishearten any more, to undergo the nonsense
of a prolonged stay in Ouaga, I will be in her sides and it is what refreshes
me. But shall I be free to do it? I do not know it anymore. My senses are
disrupted. It is always like this in this country; you are alone with yourself, you
have the feeling to be on another planet, outside of time, of laws and of customs; you
wish to be able to lean on somebody, a person from the country or from
elsewhere but who knows the non-written rules of the country, and who insures you of a real
or of an imaginary sense of security. And I think of Sali, the only one, the
only life-saver that is left to me.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes, translated from french, décembre 1999) © 1999 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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