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  And can you imagine divine love? No matter how I turn it over in my head, I can’t come up with a better expression for what I felt. . It has to be said in Russian because no other language has words that penetrate this feeling in the same way. Listen: BooŽEStvennaya LyuBOF. That was how I felt, exactly how I felt. A bright yellow light that requires no eyes to perceive: BooŽEStvennaya. A tingling warmth that requires no body to feel: lyuBOF. Taste it. Taste those words!

  All my earthly fears ceased in the moment when that celestial warmth filled me. The warmth came first. Yes, the warmth came first. I closed my eyes as if someone had whispered quietly in my ear: “Now you don’t have to fight any more, Polina. No one is threatening you.” As if someone had kissed my eyes closed: “Polina, they can’t hurt you any more. Submit. Submit!” Then came the light. And I relaxed. I stopped fearing and died. Why, I don’t know, but that’s what happened. I wish I could return to that moment, but it’s gone now.

  What about you, Nina? What do you remember?

  Nina said:

  They stopped moving. Every now and then, Little Antoine and Little Antoinette stopped moving. As if by mutual agreement: “Haha, let’s be really still and scare Maman . . .” Then they moved again. “Yoo-hoo, here we are! We tricked you!” It was OK. I got to know them. Their movements and when they didn’t move. There was a certain logic to it. They slept when I moved and woke up when I lay down. They had a sort of rhythm like that. They were—how do you say?—les noctambules . . . like owls . . . yes, “night owls”. They were night owls. Just like their father. Jean-Philippe often put his ear to my belly and listened. When he felt them kick, he would yell, “Ça commence alors!” Then he twisted one hand in the air as if he were swinging a rope, le lasso, yes, the lasso: “La-la-la-la discoooooooo!” Those moments were the best. We laughed a lot. Jean put a toilet roll tube against my belly, put his ear to it, and listened, taking one hand away and said “Shhhhh,” and there they were, two hearts and their quick beating. He heard them.

  Those were happy moments.

  One night Jean-Philippe wasn’t home. Actually there were many nights like that, but this one was bad. I went to bed and waited for them to start to rock out. But they didn’t. I waited and waited, but they were perfectly still. I couldn’t sleep. I called Jean many times, but he didn’t answer. I grew angry. I got out of bed and tried to wake them up. I ate milk chocolate—sugar always drove them wild. I sang to them. I rubbed my stomach. I drank lemonade. I lay down again and pretended to sleep. That usually helps. When I want to feel that they’re alive, I lie down and take deep breaths. Using your diaphragm, like they teach in yoga. That almost always wakes them up and starts their boxing and kicking practice.

  I’ve always been a little worried, even when there were kicks, if they only come from one direction. They’re very close, in a sort of “69” position: Little Antoine head down, Little Antoinette head up. I wonder if they’re both still alive or if one of them is kicking for the other one. Or has one of them kicked the other to death? Smashed the other’s head in with a foot? The doctor said that’s impossible. The water protects them. And besides, this is the easiest kind of twin pregnancy. Fraternal. They each have their own pouch with their very own placentas. Technically they’re completely separate. They can’t even get tangled in each other’s cords. And because they have their own placentas, no bad connections can form between them, no vasculaire things, shared blood vessels that one can suck too much blood through and swell while the other one loses blood and shrinks. Little Antoinette is a little smaller, but that’s because she’s a girl, not because Little Antoine is sucking the life out of her.

  But then came that horrible night. Jean-Philippe was gone. They stopped moving. For real. Both of them. One night. I sent Jean a text message, at least five, asking him to come home, saying I was afraid. Usually I’m very rational. I call the family doctor and ask my questions if I have anything to ask. It doesn’t embarrass me at all. Stéphanie answers patiently, explaining as many times as necessary until I understand. But that night I didn’t bother waking her. I called the hospital directly. “Are you having contractions?” they asked. “Is there any bleeding? What week are you? How long have you been feeling the pain?” But I didn’t have any pain. The babies were quiet. That was all. “Monitor the situation,” they said. “And if you’re still worried in the morning, call again.”

  I can’t describe that night. Occasionally I fell asleep and felt something moving inside of me, but as soon as I woke up, everything was still again. I also had a dream, or it wasn’t a dream but a vision, because the whole time I knew I was lying in bed waiting for the morning and kept looking at the clock. So I was lying in bed and suddenly our doctor, Stéphanie, walks through the door. She walks up to me with a box of matches in her hand. Supposedly I’d given birth to the children or they’d been taken out of me somehow. And now they were sleeping in the matchbox! Stéphanie didn’t say a word, she just handed me the box. I took it and pushed in one side. I saw Little Antoine’s face, his skin transparent and his eyes black spots, like pinheads. Salamandre blanche. Sort of a human fish that had come out too soon. Then I pushed in the other side, and out came Little Antoinette’s head, her face red and shriveled; but around her head was wonderful hair, like grain. The hair covered both babies and kept them warm. Stéphanie had put in cotton wool for their bed.

  So there I was pushing the ends of the box back and forth: Little Antoine, and then in the other direction, Little Antoinette. Little Antoine. Little Antoinette. Monsieur Transparent and Mademoiselle Red.

  I was sure I had gone tout à fait folle, but then the phone rang. I woke up. The matchbox disappeared. Jean-Philippe explained that he’d missed the last train. That he was staying in a hotel and would come first thing in the morning, and that everything was sure to be fine, ma chère.

  I could have strangled that man. He was with some woman. I know that.

  Well, so how did I die?

  I survived until morning because I remember preparing to leave for the hospital. Alone. I remember crying and putting on these clothes, and I remember how difficult bending to tie my shoes was. I felt as if I was smashing them once and for all in there. Water isn’t any protection. My burnt toast stank. The whole house stank, and I couldn’t eat a single bite. I felt like vomiting. Finally I got the laces tied, and then—a blank. Did I take a taxi? Did I get to the hospital? I don’t remember the reception, the hallway, the waiting room. I don’t remember a doctor or an ultrasound. Did someone say, “I don’t hear anything. There’s no heartbeats”? I have no memory. I managed to tie my shoes, and that’s it. Then comes the blank. And what if I did go tout à fait folle? I wanted these children so much! If they had really ceased to exist, then I might have done anything. I might have gone to the harbor and thrown myself into the sea. I might have traveled to Cassis, where we were married five years ago, climbed the limestone cliffs, and jumped. How should I know?

  They’re quiet now too.

  Here, you can feel: nothing.

  They’re as dead as rocks, and I’m here.

  Bof, on laisse ça alors.

  Let’s move on.

  Maimuna said (with Nina translating from French to English):

  I walk, I walk, I walk (I walk), and it’s hot. I’m in the desert (I’m in the desert), and there is a terrible uproar. Someone pushes me with the barrel of a rifle, says, “Faster, faster,” and I trip on this dress. (I’m in the desert, I’m pushed with a gun, and I fall to the ground.) My lip starts bleeding. There are two Europeans with me, Marcel and Mikael. “Are you alright?” asks Mikael. He’s walking behind me and tries to stoop to help, but they won’t let him help. “Forward, forward,” they yell and push Mikael in the back. Mikael trips over me. His hand touches my back. Mikael and Marcel are good people. They’re interested in buildings. They aren’t make-troubles, but now they’re in very bad trouble. And I am too. (There are two European men with me, and we’re in trouble—so there are three of you?) Origi
nally there were five of us. Samballa was with us, the quiet driver who brought us from Bamako, and Marcel and Mikael had a guide with them, Bonaventure from Cotonou in Benin. (There were five of us, we three and a guide and driver.) Marcel, Mikael, and Bonaventure began their journey from Cotonou thirteen days ago. They’ve traveled through Benin, through Burkina Faso, and ended up in Mali. They left early in the morning on a bus from Ouagadougou to Bamako and rode for twelve hours. It was dark when they arrived, and they took a room in a cheap hotel run by the nuns at the Mission Catholique. I’m also sleeping there. (I spend the night in the same cheap hotel as the European men and their guide.) Marcel, Mikael, and Bonaventure are very tired and hungry, and so am I. I’ve traveled the whole day and half the day before, a total of thirty-five cursed hours from Dakar to Bamako on Gana Transport (I’ve traveled thiry-five hours from Dakar to Bamako). The bus bench shakes, and I can’t sleep. And if I do nod off, I have to wake up soon because of the customs officials. I’m afraid at every checkpoint, and I’m afraid of every government bastard. They make us stand in place for two hours and collect extra fees. They want all the luggage removed from the bus and put on the ground, and so all the luggage is removed from the bus and put on the ground. (The customs officials are assholes. They slow down the bus.) They don’t touch me. I have a gris-gris around my neck, which they respect. I know that nothing bad will happen to me, but I can’t help being afraid, and sweat drenches my waist. I feel the weight there. I feel the fabric of my dress glued to my skin, and I’m afraid they will show through. (Maimuna, you’re afraid that what will show through?) I have . . . little packages there. Finally they allow us to leave, but soon the bus gets stuck in the sand. All of the passengers have to get off again. The men start to push, and when the bus finally moves, we can’t get on because the ground is too soft. The bus would get stuck again if we got on and made it heavy. So we walked behind the bus. We walk slowly since there are children and old women, and even older men with us. When I finally reach Bamako, I’m definitely more exhausted and hungrier than any men from Europe! They’re enjoying themselves on the Mission Catholique terrace. They laugh and drink Castel, and when I walk past them, suddenly one of them says, ‘You’re beautiful,’ and asks, ‘what’s your name?’ But he says it very nicely. I stop. Then this Marcel wants to take a picture of me. He asks me to stand next to the wooden cross nailed to the wall and look wherever I like. He gives me three thousand céfa and invites me to eat dinner with them at the De la Paix restaurant next door. He’s delighted when he hears I’ve come from Dakar. He visited there some years ago for work. I almost fall asleep in my spaghetti. (I finally reach Bamako, and I’m very tired. Marcel and Mikael invite me to eat with them. I order spaghetti.) When they hear where I’m going, they’re even more delighted, and when I tell them that my ride will be coming directly to the hotel in the morning, they ask if there might be room for them too. They promise to pay. They may just want to stop in a few places. But they promise to pay a little extra. I call Moussa immediately and ask. (Where were you arranging for all of you to go, Maimuna? And who is Moussa?) Monsieur Moussa is my father’s cousin. He arranged my journey from Dakar to Timbuktu and back. At first he sounds angry when I tell him about Marcel and Mikael, but he relents and says he’ll call me back in a few minutes. He calls an hour later when I’m already in bed sleeping. The packages rub my skin and make me sweat, but I’m not allowed to take them off. (What packages? Why are they against your skin?) Wait, I’m coming to that part! Monsieur Moussa promises that Samballa can also drive Marcel and Mikael to Timbuktu. He’s just arranged it with Samballa, and Bonaventure can also fit since no one else besides them will be in the car. Marcel and Mikael are still awake when I go to tell them the news. They’re sitting on the terrace drinking Castel again and offer some to me. I linger for a few minutes to chat with them. They’re excited about the three old mosques built of mud and wood in Timbuktu. They talk about attempts to protect the mosques but how hard it is: the desert is always coming closer and threatens to swallow them up, the northeasterly Harmattan blows sand on them, and they’re in danger of crumbling. (We’re all traveling to Timbuktu—Maimuna, why were you going there?) I have packages I’m supposed to deliver to a certain man. (I have packages I’m supposed to deliver—what was in the packages, Maimuna?) I don’t know. That isn’t my business. Monsieur Moussa convinced me to go on this journey. At a party I told his wife, Ndeye, about my dream, and apparently Ndeye told her husband, because one day Moussa came to talk to me: “You’re beautiful, Maimuna. You could have opportunities there.” He promised me enough money for a plane ticket if I did one big favor for him. (Mr. Moussa, my father’s cousin, asked me to do him a favor and promised me money for an airplane ticket in return.) “I can’t get away from my work right now,” he said, “but this is a very important matter, and I’ll lose a great deal of money if this isn’t settled soon.” “And what about Moustafa or Issa,” his grown sons, I asked, “or Mamadou,” my brother. But Monsieur Moussa needed his sons at the construction site. And he didn’t trust Mamadou, unlike me. “Maimuna, you’ve never disappointed us,” he said. So I agreed. Monsieur Moussa gave me five buckskin belts with flat, oblong packages sewn into them, which I was supposed to put on under my dress. “You can’t take your dress off until you meet Mister Mecanico and give the belts to him,” Moussa said, “and if something happens, you keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk to anyone. Understand?” “How do I wash?” I asked. “You’ll come up with a way,” he said. I couldn’t tell anyone I was leaving. “Not even mother?” I asked. “Not even her,” Moussa said. (You received packages from your father’s cousin that you were supposed to deliver to a man, and you couldn’t talk to anyone about it, but you still went! Maimuna, are you crazy?) No! Our family has many secrets! My father has four wives, and the youngest one, Fatoumata, disappeared. She probably ran away. “Fatoumata was no good,” they said, but that wasn’t quite true. So I can have secrets too, can’t I? And besides, my father doesn’t support my dream. He wants me to get married, but I don’t want to. At least not to the man my father chose for me. He’s rich but he’s ancient. His breath smells bad. And he doesn’t even know how to read. Monsieur Moussa promised me a plane ticket to Paris if I helped him. Moussa is a good man. Why would he cheat me? We have a shared secret: I don’t talk about Timbuktu, and he doesn’t talk about Paris. I promised to pay the price of the plane ticket back as soon as I could support myself, and why wouldn’t I be able to support myself? Everyone says that I’m much more beautiful than Penda Ly. I’m thinner, I’m more graceful, and I’m taller than her. My face is noble, one family friend said. But Penda Ly looks more like a dolphin than an international star. She may be Miss Senegal, but Penda Ly lacks style. And the competition organizers don’t have any money. I’d rather go straight to the source: Europe. Monsieur Moussa said he can arrange a contact for me there. He has connections. He knows the press secretary for Dakar Fashion Week. Believe me, these things will happen! Femme Africaine magazine just had a long article about this. Alek Wek, who’s from Sudan, got into music videos for Tina Turner and Janet Jackson, and made it to the top. Liya Kebede from Ethiopia was discovered outside a high school. She made it to Paris and the cover of Vogue, and they put her story in the magazine. Waris Dirie fled Somalia as a teenager and had a great career as a model. And as a defender of women’s rights. And then there’s Iman. Glorious Somali Iman. I admire her so much too! An American photographer found her in Kenya, at the University of Nairobi, and after that she achieved everything a black woman can get in the world. And she has done so much good for Africa. Especially for African children. She’s fought against AIDS. She made a big noise about those diamonds . . . she . . . (Wait, hold on, Maimuna! I’m trying to translate this: Mr. Moussa promised me a trip to Paris if I take the package to Timbuktu. In Paris I intend to find work as a model and earn money—is that what you mean, Maimuna?) Yes. (I wanted to leave Senegal because I didn’t want to marry the man my father chose.) Say th
at he doesn’t even know how to read! (He doesn’t even know how to read.) And that his breath smells bad! (Maimuna, is this really relevant?) Yes! He’s disgusting, gap-toothed, and impotent. I hate him! (He’s disgusting and impotent—so what happened in Timbuktu, Maimuna?)

  A CERTAIN JOURNEY BEGINS

  Maimuna, Mikael, Marcel, and Bonaventure departed Bamako for Timbuktu the next day. As arranged, Samballa drove up to the Mission Catholique Hotel in his red Mitsubishi Galant sedan at eight in the morning. Bonaventure took the passenger seat, and Marcel, Mikael, and Maimuna squeezed in the back, with Maimuna in the middle, even though Marcel was significantly smaller than her and had shorter legs. It was clear to everyone that Maimuna had to be in the center. Maimuna was a woman, so Maimuna was in the middle. She was Jeanne Moreau and they were Jules and Jim. Which was which Marcel didn’t know, and he didn’t intend to find out. Simply put, Maimuna was a fetching girl, and it was only right that they both have a small piece of her, if only the touch of a thigh, an arm, or her thick Afro. After this brief, gentle contact, their journey would continue on a flight from Timbuktu to Casablanca by way of Bamako.

  Maimuna sat between the men and smiled. She was more exhausted than happy, but the nice cameras made her smile. The men snapped extremely beautiful pictures, especially Mikael, who knew how to use light and could catch her just as a smile appeared and make her look her most beautiful. Mikael had wanted to take a drowsy photograph of her in the evening against the turquoise wall of the De la Paix restaurant. The shot was incredible. She had never seen her face so languorous, so abandoned to the camera. What if they took more pictures of her? What if Mikael did? She could put together her modeling portfolio . . .