From Africa: New Francophone Stories

My Father's Lamp

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 [29], (13) Lines: 152 to ——— 0.0pt PgV ——— Normal Page PgEnds: TEX [29], (13) nimrod My Father’s Lamp In the rainy season, twilight goes through infinite metamorphoses. Depending on the day, it indifferently grinds blue with mauve, always against an indigo background, even when the mixing involves another shade of blue; for to accurately transcribe the stars’ flight into the budding night’s heart, or the unparalleled luxury of the “boreal” blaze, there is nothing like the theater of an azure curtain. In itself the sky relocates as if bowing to itself, and a flame—as big as that—puts any familiarity at a distance. Watching this performance, even when you’re not twenty anymore, sometimes, like a late-blooming lover, you would like to send yourself a postcard cut from the same fabric. Time passes, the horizon glimmers. So, even when night has fallen, you will have embraced the minute of a very vast presence. As day wanes life frees itself from the sweltering heat. Simple gestures are yours once again: exchanging a word, as ordinary as possible, yawning, smiling; once again contemplating, without feeling your eyes burn, the charms of far-off places. Because day is weakening, there is, in the gaze of the one who beholds it, a luminous balance. You will have relaxed at the entrance to your father’s house. 29 nimrod 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 [30], (14 Lines: 17 ——— 7.0pt P ——— Normal P PgEnds: T [30], (14 The strangeness of a man who knew how to prolong twilight among us, thanks to his lamp. It was big, the biggest to be found in the shops, made in Germany. For us it was simply elegantly designed enamel called “Hand Feuer.” Once signs of shadows would appear, my father would remove it from the shelf where it was kept: next to it are the thick Hausalanguage Bible and my father’s thick glasses that decode the holy book’s print. On the same shelf, you can see a nice row of laundry and hand soaps, a gentleman’s comb, a lady’s comb, a pocket mirror, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and sometimes tins of Norwegian fish, cans of condensed milk. To the left of the corner cupboard and at the foot of the only window that opens to the outside, my father’s bed, always made: a Helvetian bedspread with green, gold, and red stitching and another one, probably of French design, made of satin with silver edging, dark blue and purple crosspieces, that dresses it up. At the foot of the bed and facing the door, a jug containing the oil: it feeds a burner that is worn more by time than by rust. It is the red hour of the setting sun, and the Hand Feuer has been taken down to be cleaned. Armed with clean rags, my father explores its metal framework, caresses the lamp with its globe removed, stopping along the enamel’s texture. His fingers enjoy such repetitions because, truthfully, this is where the rebellious motes of dust stick. They rub it lovingly. Just when they abandon it to look after the globe, twilight appears. In fact, this phenomenon saturates the evening’s beauty, the one that is found centered upon the space where his fingers operate. At the far end of the mat where the Hand Feuer’s skeleton lies, the setting sun’s gold casts a fateful shadow across my father’s work. It is because the color blue tones up the enamel, unlike the variations of the setting sun’s rays. But this conflict lasts only two minutes at the most. Then comes the purification. The evening becomes lighter; a soft clamor invades our 30 My Father’s Lamp 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 [31], (15) Lines: 179 to ——— 0.0pt PgV ——— Normal Page PgEnds: TEX [31], (15) various rooms; the streets reverberate within with the weight of their contentment. This...