The Silence of the Spirits. Wilfried N'Sondé
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Chevalier Louis de Jaucourt, “Hospitality,” in The Encyclopedia of Diderot & d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project, translated by Sophie Bourgault (Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing, University of Michigan Library, 2013), http://hdl.handle.net/2027/spo.did2222.0002.761 (accessed April 14, 2016). Originally published as “Hospitalité,” in Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, volume 8 (Paris, 1765), 314.
7. Karen Lindo, “N’Sondé Post-2005 Youth Mural: Exploring Afro-Europe in Wilfried N’Sondé’s Literary Landscape,” in Afroeuropean Cartographies, edited by Dominic Thomas (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), 119.
8. Ibid., 116.
9. Louviot, “Parcours d’un roman postcolonial francophone en France et en Allemagne.”
10. N’Sondé, “Francastérix,” 204.
11. Salman Rushdie, East, West (London: Jonathan Cape, 1994), 141.
12. Unpublished interview with Denis Hirson, 1995.
THE SILENCE OF THE SPIRITS
MARCELLINE TOOK ME by the hand and lay down next to me. Once again we were fused. She took her time to tell me her story. I listened attentively and cried while kissing her hands because the traumas of war and the endless disillusionments had definitively shattered her dreams for happiness. All these disappointments had undermined her trust in humanity. My sister had decided to live in a holding pattern, as a recluse, and limit her interactions to the bare minimum.
During these periods of solitude, she implored Mother Earth, the temperamental Majesty that had created all that we see and that we cannot see in this world, to find me again, the only glimmer of joy and purity that remained anchored in her memory. The goddess’s benevolence had made it possible for her to visit my spirit. Once she had unburdened herself, she was finally able to feel relieved, and with a smile on her face, Marcelline let me go, leaving behind a vague feeling of sensual pleasure on my shoulder. Bitterness too. Because she had survived at the expense of her body and soul.
I WOKE UP, weighed down by my sister’s story, confused, with a faint image of her, smiling, radiant, more beautiful and happier than ever. Her silhouette gradually disappeared into a mist.
When the mist before my eyes had dissipated, I recognized Christelle’s body beside me. Together, we were bathed in the warmth and bright red daylight gradually increasing, filtered by the curtains. Half naked, she lay on my torso, both of us stretched out beneath a beautiful disorder of white sheets, clothing, hastily removed the night before, now scattered about, our legs intertwined in a delicate touch.
Her full head of red and silver hair flowed off the pillow we were sharing and spread out lightly across my chest and belly. I was surprised to see her fingers wrapped around my arms. Even while she was sleeping, she had entwined herself with me. Christelle must have been holding me like this for most of the night.
Her head had melted perfectly into the curved angle of my shoulder and neck. Her thick, wavy mane of hair hid my face a little. She let herself go, relaxed and slept, serene. Watching her filled me with that ineffable feeling of peace and warmth that I had discovered while lying beside her.
I could not get enough of her milky white skin, with freckles that had blended in with other spots that had come in over time. I watched the slow and steady movement of her breathing through her nose. I was amazed at how our night of love together had left her feeling so carefree.
Christelle was snoozing. I clumsily ventured a hand into the depths near her hips, a timid journey toward the tender part of her belly, into the small of her back, to the territory beneath a thin, soft, transparent duvet that awakened from my caresses. Christelle quivered and sighed deeply. Careful not to offend me, she gently removed my fingers, once they made their way toward the moist mystery just above her thighs.
“I’m good like this—come closer, come next to me!”
She had murmured the words in a whisper. Lovingly, Christelle pressed a wet kiss on my mouth and another one in the palm of my hand, which she delicately placed between the mattress and her warm breast. My lover turned toward me and gave a hint of a smile. She pulled me into her movement so that her back gradually married perfectly the shape of my belly.
From the sofa bed where we had our first embrace rose a languorous dance of warm, moist scents, perfumes of stirred senses, colorful fragrances, an irresistible magic that rekindled our desires.
Relaxed, feeling free in my embrace, she fell asleep again. I touched her silky shoulder with my lips and the tip of my tongue. I will be her brother and her guardian. I will redeem the errors of my ways thanks to our shared happiness! Christelle kept her eyes closed, and the rounded, prominent curves of her body pressed against my skin. Amid all the tenderness after all that intensity, I felt unburdened, and I sighed too, promising to always watch over her so that she will never have to suffer!
After our frantic, painful lives, Christelle and I were learning to relax. We were taking a break to take care of each other’s wounds. Two loners, still cautious, kissing and touching each other, offering a hand to each other. Hope, a kind of intoxicating giddiness, had given our tragedies a run for their money and was beginning to feel like love.
CHRISTELLE HAD TAKEN me in by chance during a suburban train ride. She admitted to having rescued me out of compassion as you might do for a wounded animal suffering on the roadside. She had forgotten her own worries, escaped from her own labyrinth of anxieties and boredom to take care of me, an illegal immigrant, far more destitute than she.
After her shift had ended on the day we met, she had rushed and taken a quick shower, dressed quickly so that she would not miss the bus. She arrived out of breath, but it had been too late. Disappointed, she decided to head to the train station on foot, enjoy a little walk and take advantage of the afternoon. After all, what was the rush? No one was waiting for her at home. She strolled along the Boulevard de l’Hôpital, congested with pedestrians and cars. As she was crossing the Pont d’Austerlitz, she saw me for the first time. She was immediately moved by my deep sad expression. Christelle thought I might have been lost in a dream. With my fist beneath my chin, I was peering at all the frozen garbage being carried along by the Seine on that February day. Christelle saw me as a man alone in the middle of nowhere, cowering into his skin, wishing his head would disappear into his shoulders. Today, when she remembers how poorly I was dressed, she smiles. She had felt an incredible sadness for me.
Christelle