BAMAKO by Aribert Raphael (smart books to read txt) 📖

on a dishtowel she had grabbed from the fridge door handle. “Please excuse the mess, I’m just cleaning up.” She had been standing beside the L-shaped counter near the sink. The numerous stainless-steel cupboards above and beneath it gleamed from daily care. She had all the appliances of the modern kitchen at her disposal. I doubt these were ‘Made in Mali’.
In a flash, Talya went back to her minute kitchen in Vancouver. With its two very small countertops encumbered with microwave, toaster, coffee maker, etc., she envied Melinda the space and convenience.
“Don’t apologize. Good cooking requires lots of pots and pans and a lot of washing up afterwards.” Or so I believe.
“It does, Madame. Would you like something else … some biscuits maybe?”
“Melinda, I’ve eaten so much, I couldn’t accept anything else.”
Peering momentarily through the window above the sink, Talya could see the other houses. She was wondering about the little, lonely cottage at the back of the property. “Was that Maitre Sangor’s house at one time?” She was as curious as ever.
“Yes, it was. He closed it a long time ago. He used to live there with his mother when he was a boy. When she went away and he was old enough to go to France to school, he closed the door and never opened it since.” Melinda lowered her eyes, looking forlorn.
Talya felt it wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss with a stranger, and moved on. “What about the other houses, are they occupied?”
Melinda turned to Talya again. Her smile had returned. “Oh, yes they are,” she replied, almost mocking the question. “Yves’s other wives live there. We each have a house of our own. We’re blessed to have married Yves; he’s been a good husband. We have everything we need and his love and respect, too. It’s not like the families we know in town.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Everybody lives in one house there. Here we have a garden and space to be by ourselves and we can devote our time to Yves, making him happy.”
In the matter of devotion to a man, let alone to a husband, Talya considered herself a nullity, so she quickly changed the subject—shopping; what every woman in the world does with some varied degree of relish.
“Is there a market near here where you do your shopping?”
“Oh no, there isn’t. We go to town very often for the things we need to buy but we have all the vegetables and fruit we need right here. We grow everything here and we go and buy meat from a neighbour. He has sheep and cows and chickens, like the one you ate today.”
She wiped her hands again. “Do you want to sit down?” She indicated one of the benches which stood on either side of a long wooden table.
“No, thank you, Melinda, I don’t want to disturb you any longer. I’ll go back to Yves and Maitre Sangor, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, Madame Kartz. It was nice of you to come and see me. If you need anything, just come and tell me and I’ll do what I can…” She turned back to the sink once again. Her smile had disappeared.
The sadness Talya had detected early during their chat had resounded in Melinda’s every word. Beside Hassan, there appeared to have been no children in this paradise.
Talya returned to the porch where the two men sat drinking their tea, conversing in Bambara. Hassan saw her come out and they resumed speaking French. They were talking about sports. That seems to be a common thread among the male population of every nation, but which wasn’t Talya’s favourite topic of conversation, and only when it reverted to something other than the latest sportscast, did she tune in and pay attention.
Yves was recounting stories of his many travels in Botswana and South Africa. Now retired, he was enjoying the peace of his paradise while his life long honesty allowed him to reap the benefits of his labours. Listening to him, Talya was drawn by the sagacity of the man. Every word he spoke was as if written or recited from recalled poetry.
When he looked at Talya, she chanced the question, “Did you ever think of writing a book about your adventures?”
“Yes I did. A long time ago, someone I led through a safari asked me to send him stories. He was a publisher of some sort. I did send him a few pages occasionally, but he never responded, so I stopped.”
“Perhaps, I could hunt him down for you, if you’d like to start writing again?”
“No. I don’t think it is worth the bother. I’m not worth the bother. I have other things to do here. My gardens, my flowers, my trees and of course my teas, all that to take care of.” Nevertheless, there was a flicker of melancholy in his eyes. His age seemed to weigh heavily on his heart.
While they were talking, three women came round from the side of the house toward the veranda. Yves and his guests rose as they approached. He addressed them in Bambara. They smiled in reply. They were dressed in long djellaba gowns with fancy headdress and jewellery adorning their fingers, ear lobes and wrists. In West Africa, Muslim wives wearing Jewellery is a sign of the husband’s wealth and of appreciation for his wives beauty and devotion. They came up the steps and Yves made the introductions. They were Yves’s last three wives. All three were similar in height, presence and allure. They were behaving like sisters, chatting, laughing, and carrying on under the watchful eye of their husband. He was proud.
They said they were intending to go to town visiting some relatives and do some shopping. They would be back after sunset.
At this point, Melinda came out. She, too, was dressed ready to go out. At her sight, Yves went to her, took her hand, gave her a set of car keys and asked that she’d be careful driving, “especially over the bridge,” he said. They watched them going toward the garage where a man was leaning against the front fender of a large silver Citroën, presumably the vehicle they were taking to town.
There is definitely a fortune to be made in diamonds.
Hassan got up and ran down the steps toward the Jeep, which was blocking the driveway.
Yves and Talya stayed alone on the veranda for a few moments. As soon as he saw that Hassan was out of earshot, Yves went straight for the heart. “Do you love him?”
“I…” What am I supposed to say? Talya was shocked by the forwardness of his question. In a way, she shouldn’t have been surprised at all by his impertinence, since in Islam, a host is allowed to ask anything he likes from a visitor staying under his roof, especially when it comes to the future of his offspring. Yves was simply concerned about his son’s choice of possible wife, which wasn’t her. Of that, Talya was sure.
“Do you?” he insisted.
“I don’t know, Monsieur Sandros. I think I do. It may be too soon for me to tell.”
“You’re not a young woman, you must know by now how you would feel if you were in love with Hassan.”
“Yes, I should, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. I’m afraid to fall in love with him…”
“Afraid?” Yves raised and eyebrow. “I’ve raised Hassan and I know there is nothing to be afraid of. The man is good, because the child was good…”
“Yes, I can see he is good, but am I good enough for him? What was in my youth maybe has no place in his future…”
“And do you think Hassan can live alone for a life time with the burden of his past?”
“I don’t know, because I don’t know him…” That’s all they had time to say. Hassan was coming back.
When the women were gone and they had settled in the lounge chairs once again, Yves asked Talya to tell him what Carmine intended to offer as a settlement to the other proprietors.
“The same as in your case, Monsieur Sandros, until we know what sort of arrangements they had with Monsieur Savoi, we cannot advance any proposal.”
“Yes, I understand that, but I am aware of at least five owners having received the same kind of promises as I did, and they, too, paid what seemed the regular fee for this scam—two thousand dollars.”
“In that case, all I can say, without consulting with the members of the Board, is that we will want to hear what each of these people have in mind,” Talya concluded, looking at the two men in turn. “Yet, given the fact that we do not intend to enter their property any time soon, maybe a reimbursement of the two thousand dollars would be the only proposition we could make, other perhaps than offering assistance in kind.”
“Yes,” Yves said, nodding approvingly. “I will make it my duty then to inquire as to what each of them wants. I know already that one of them needs regular medication to be flown in from Dakar and it has to be paid in hard currency, which he doesn’t have. Maybe you could offer to buy the medication for him until the two thousand dollars are repaid.”
“That could work.” That was something Carmine could afford, since Canadian companies offer charitable medical assistance throughout the world, for tax deduction purposes. “But here again, we will need to have all decisions sanctioned by the Board, as I am sure you understand. Ken Davros is our financial officer and he should be able to work out some sort of agreement with that proprietor, or with any other owners who have that kind of proposal in mind.”
“You go to Dakar, Madame Kartz, and I will be in touch with you as soon as I have some tangible result from my investigations.” Then suddenly, he turned to his son. “Are you planning to go with Talya to Dakar?”
“Not at the moment, I’m not.”
“And, may I ask why not?” Yves looked surprised by Hassan’s negative answer.
“Well, I have my practice here and I can’t just go gallivanting to Dakar whenever one of my friends decides to travel.”
“That’s not a reason, not even an excuse,” Yves said dismissively, shrugging his shoulders. “Talya is your friend. I know she’ll need you. This job of finding people and pursuing criminals is not a job for a woman. She may be white, well educated and even powerful, but she will still need your assistance, advice and most of all, she’ll need your love.” Will I now?
Hassan bent forward to put his elbows on his knees—his favourite position when broaching a contentious subject. He looked down at the floorboards.
Yves continued, “Yes. There is no use tiptoeing around, Hassan. You look like you need to love her. So, let it be, and go to Dakar with her.”
Now that everyone had decided Hassan should accompany Talya and although she knew this exchange concerned her, but wasn’t meant to include her, she was a little putout that no one asked her if she wanted Hassan along for the ride. She had to say something.
“Yves,” Talya said, using his first name deliberately to underline the friendship, which he had extended to her by calling her Talya. “I thank