26 January 2012
FN: 9
With apologies to Hemingway…
The waiting room of the commissariat was small and square and held only two desks. One was occupied by a young secretary who played solitaire on her computer. The other was occupied by a functionnaire who placed papers with great care into an ancient filing cabinet. Neither paid any attention to the three people who sat stiffly on the bench beneath the window.
The three who waited were very disparate. The man who sat closest to the secretary was very stout and wore the thin khaki uniform of the local police. He was sweating despite the coolness of the day and the armpits of his uniform blouse showed layer upon layer of salt rings that gave mute testimony to the frequency of his laundering habits. Despite the location and his uniform, the man played continually with his cell phone.
To his left sat a nasara in a white-striped shirt and jeans. His companions paid him little attention and he sat quietly, struggling to resist the all but continual nausea caused by his anti-malaria prophylaxis.
The last of the three was a self-possessed Gourounsi woman in her early thirties. She had a clubfoot and poor dentition but somehow managed to be pretty despite these shortcomings. She was the most composed of the three and she sat perfectly upright on the edge of her seat. She did not fidget with her cell phone. Instead, she looked on with visible disapproval at the secretary’s inappropriate use of time, but did not say anything.
After some minutes and for no discernable reason, the man in the police uniform stood and put his cell phone in his pocket. Then he began to compulsively wipe the palms of his hands on his pants and sway slightly in place as though dancing to a tune unheard by the others in the room. In the absence of other stimuli, the nasara watched him do this. He noticed that the back of the man’s pale khaki shirt was powder blue from where it had rubbed the wall. The nasara also noticed that the walls were only three quarters of the way painted. A dust-stained white band ringed the top of the room like a dirty bandage. It somehow seemed fitting. The woman ignored them both.
A metal door opened in the far wall and a dapper man in a business suit emerged. He was of medium height and build and his face was framed by a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache that were both flecked with grey. He had a calm demeanor and he greeted the three in the pleasantly modulated French of one who thinks in the language.
« Ah, bonjour, messieurs. Madame. Ca va ? »
The three had risen as one upon the door’s opening, but now they responded to this greeting in strict hierarchy : policeman, nasara, woman. The policeman accepted this as the natural order of things, as apparently did the woman. The nasara found this bemusing, for the woman had better French than either of the men and was certainly better paid.
« Bonjour, monsieur le haut commissariat. Je vais bien. Et vous ? »
The nasara spoke passable marché French but he suspected it would be entirely inadequate for this particular meeting. He had received high marks on his language tests the previous month but he knew that when one does not speak a language well, one speaks it much better in the presence of an emergency translator than in the absence of such a safeguard. Therefore, he resolved to speak as little as possible and to instead rely on a calm expression and considered nods to mask his extreme uncertainty. It would prove to be a successful strategy.
After the lengthy but necessary salutations were complete the haut commissaire ushered them into his office. The policeman and the woman responded with satisfaction at the luxury of the room. It was dominated by a mahogany desk that was fronted by three overstuffed couches. There were four pictures of Blaise Campaore, one for each wall. In plain sight were two computers, a photocopier, a small refrigerator, and a fax machine. A flat-screen television chattered quietly on a buffet. The nasara thought these arrangements too gaudy for a work space, but said nothing.
At a gesture from the haut commissaire, the three sat on the couches. The manner of their seating was reflective of their personality and station. The policeman sprawled as though in his home. The woman sat with rigid formality. The nasara leaned forward and tried to ignore the foam rubber stuffing that pushed hotly against the back of his knees. No one spoke, but from the general air of expectation the nasara derived that, despite all appearances to the contrary, they were not quite ready to begin. He did not know why.
Just then the door opened and three more men entered the room. The haut commissaire rose to greet them with the air of a man encountering old friends. They passed some seconds with small talk. Their host then introduced them as a representative of the mayor’s office, a gendarme, and an official whose title the nasara failed to understand. They were friendly but did not sit near the three. From the general bustle of the room, the nasara understood that these were the men they had been waiting for, and the meeting could now begin.
It was an interview. Despite the fact that the entirety of the interview’s content concerned the nasara, he was not asked any questions. It was not clear to him why this was the case. Instead, the haut commissaire asked many questions of the woman. What is the nasara’s name. Who does he work for. What does his employer do. Where does he live. How long will he live there. The woman answered these questions in a sing-song voice that hinted of much rote memorization. The haut commissaire wrote her answers on an unlined sheet of computer paper. At no time was the policeman spoken to. Nor the other officials. The nasara wondered why they were there.
When the haut commissaire asked « ou est son bureau, et quelle est son numéro de téléphone », the woman had no answer. The nasara knew this was because he had no office, either with or without a telephone. Seeing that the woman was nonplussed, the nasara dared to interject « pardon, mais moi, je n’ai pas le bureau ».
Six people looked at him with astonishment. He was unsure if this was because he lacked so basic a thing as an office or if it was because he had the temerity to speak. In the absence of support from the woman, he again resorted to silence. It was the appropriate strategy. His hosts were clearly unsure of how to deal with so remarkable a creature as a talking nasara. After a moment the interview resumed. Soon it was finished.
At a signal from their host the woman and the nasara rose. The haut commissaire walked them out. He was very solicitous. In the outer room, the young secretary still played solitaire on her computer and the man still filed papers in the filing cabinet. The walls were still powder blue with a dirty white band near the top. As they passed through the door to emerge into the waiting African sun, the nasara knew his first official interview was complete.
