Xala (14 page)

The President had provided this explanation in a calm voice, like a pedantic professor giving an Algebra lesson to a class of mutes.

El Hadji had listened in silence. At first he looked only at the President's hand energetically, stressing certain points. As the President spoke El Hadji's face clouded over. His look of discomfiture betrayed his misery.

‘President, you know my position! My
xala
! Fortunately I am cured now. I implore you, postpone the meeting for a week, just long enough for me to sort things out,' said El Hadji with cunning servility.

‘We'll expect you this evening. It is desirable you should be there,' said the President with an air of finality.

Outside the President's office, El Hadji reflected. What he had just heard was the result of discussions among his colleagues. He knew very well that he was being threatened by them. He himself had behaved in the same way towards one of their number whom they had wanted to expel on a previous occasion. Now it was his turn. The mood of satisfaction he had felt in the morning melted like
karité
butter in the sun. He was too shaken to notice the people around him. He returned to his ‘office' on foot. A visit to ‘his' bank was clearly necessary. A loan to fill the gap. The cost of thirty tons of rice. The deputy manager looked after the affairs of the businessmen. He phoned him. He obtained an appointment without any difficulty for the early afternoon. The promptness with which he had obtained the appointment augured well for a satisfactory outcome. He had a ‘surface' again!

Madame Diouf had written out the cheques for the wages, the water, the electricity, the petrol, and the rents. El Hadji graced them with his elaborate signature, the fruit of days and nights of practice.

At midday, to rest after the active twenty-four hours spent with his second wife and in order to be fresh for his appointment at the bank, El Hadji went to Adja Awa Astou's. The first wife was not expecting him. She showed no enthusiasm at his appearance, any more than she seemed put out by it. El Hadji could not avoid a certain feeling of sympathy for her undemonstrative reception. Adja Awa Astou had lost weight and the whites of her eyes seemed to spill over onto her thin face. The conversation did not stray beyond the superficial. The father asked twice for Rama. She no longer came home at midday but was back early in the evening. He thought his daughter had too much freedom and scolded her mother for permitting it.

After his customary siesta, he fetched his briefcase and was driven to the bank by Modu.

The deputy manager was a man of indeterminate age, with a smooth black face, eyes protected by gold-rimmed spectacles, and carefully combed hair. He wore a white shirt and a dark tie. He received El Hadji affably, installing him in an armchair next to a coffee-table on which lay a packet of cigarettes and a gold-plated lighter. He had studied at a French business school and had then done his probation in various African branches of the bank, the head-office of which was in Paris. Its aim was to assist the emergence of an African commercial middle-class. Anxious to play fair with El Hadji, the young man put him at ease by addressing him as ‘elder brother', a Wolof sign of respect.

El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye addressed him with exaggerated familiarity in a persuasive tone of voice. He asked effusively after his family, calling him ‘cousin', as if there were obvious family ties between them. The deputy manager did his best to express himself in Wolof. Through lack of practice his speech was so full of borrowed words that in the end he had to resort to French.

‘Elder brother, I know I am not one of your close friends. You didn't invite me to your third marriage. All Dakar is talking about it!'

‘Cousin, you must know how bad our African secretaries are. Your name is definitely on my address list.'

The deputy manager placed a cigarette in his holder and lit it.

The conversation dragged on. Delaying tactics ... They broached various subjects, putting off and avoiding the real issue.

‘Elder brother, I am listening,' said the banker.

He pushed his spectacles back with a finger. Was he hoping to catch him off his guard? The effect was immediate. El Hadji said nothing.

‘Good. Well,' he said, hesitating for a moment, trying to find the best way of approaching the subject.

Then he began: ‘Cousin, I need some working capital. Just five hundred thousand francs. I have plans for expansion and I want to make a survey of the market in the African quarter.

‘Why do you need capital?'

‘Why?' echoed El Hadji. ‘To work. Look at this list of retail traders in the town.'

‘I have a thick file on you. You have already had two overdrafts of half a million francs, exceeding the upper limit allowed for overdrafts. What did you do with the thirty tons of rice you had from the National Grain Board? You sold it. What happened to the money? You are living beyond your income: three villas, cars on hire-purchase. Since your third marriage your cheques haven't stopped bouncing.'

El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye could find nothing to say in his own defence. Shamefaced, he drew several times on his cigarette with an air of submission.

‘Well, big brother,' said the young man breaking the silence with a superior smile.

In conciliatory manner, he continued: ‘What are you planning to do, elder brother? You know, a bank is not a charitable organization.'

‘True, bankers are not patrons,' replied El Hadji, more out of defiance than anything else. (He knew how to use his voice when it suited him.) ‘A loud voice pays in this country,' he said to himself. And aloud: ‘Well, cousin, what do you intend to do with me?'

‘We support the development of African commerce. Ours is the only bank in the country working with businessmen like yourself. It is the only one that gives you its confidence. But you must agree, there are limits.'

‘Cousin, you are saying nothing I don't know already. It is true you are the only bank that helps us. But without going too much into details, we businessmen only gather the crumbs. The sons of the country are kept from the business that really makes money.'

‘Perhaps, elder brother. Is that a reason for wasting the money you borrow? A bank has its rules. We can only lend to people who can offer security.'

‘By which you mean I have none left?'

‘Elder brother, that was not what I meant.'

‘I am being frank with you. I know you are not altruists. But cousin, you must do something to help me.'

‘Elder brother, I can promise nothing. I have to consult my superiors, you must understand. How much do you say you need?'

‘Half a million.'

The deputy manager took the file from him, saying: ‘Phone me late tomorrow morning, elder brother.'

‘Cousin, I shall be hoping. Until tomorrow.'

‘Until tomorrow.'

El Hadji decided he still had some punches left to pull. He was not defeated yet. This visit to the bank was like a prolongation of his life. He wasn't worried about the bounced cheques. ‘They never prosecute anyone for letting cheques bounce,' he said to himself. But just to make sure he phoned a friend who was a magistrate. He had not been drawn to the attention of the court. He checked at the court for commercial cases as well. Nothing. He phoned a bailiff. Nothing there either concerning him.

El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was relieved.

The lights in the square and the two lamps flanking the monumental staircase were reflected in the cars parked outside the Chamber. The drivers were talking in groups. Seeing the cars, El Hadji knew he was expected. The Mercedes had barely drawn up before he was out and climbing the steps to the entrance. His arrival in the conference chamber halted the conversation. He shook hands with the men standing round the large green table. They all knew one another. They were the same men who had attended his wedding. The chandelier threw its light onto the dozen or so heads.

‘I think we are all here now. At any rate we have a quorum,' said the President, opening the meeting.

A few moments were spent deciding who should act as secretary for
the meeting, signing the attendance sheet, announcing the names of the proxy voters. Finally the real discussion began. Everyone spoke about El Hadji. Underhand dealings. Embezzlement. Moral harm. They demanded an example, to restore their discredited honour. Only recently one of their number had taken on the onerous office of President of the Chamber of Commerce and the die-hard neocolonialists were intent on regaining control of it.

Kebe, a man with skin the colour of a ripe banana, a long face and a thin voice, spoke:

‘For our honour's sake, El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye must be expelled from our Group. There are too many obstacles in our way. The banks insult us to our faces, they blame us for living according to feudal customs, they accuse us of negligence, of incompetence. Why? And now El Hadji, through his indiscretion, discredits us and our Group. There is in my view a good case for expelling him.'

Kebe sat down. The scraping of a match could be heard in the silence that followed.

‘I agree,' said Diagne, whose jaws bulged at the sides of his face. His guttural, growling voice filled the room. He pushed out his chest and went on: ‘We know El Hadji has sold the thirty tons of rice. What has he done with the money? He has taken a third wife! Because of him, and him alone, none of us has been able to obtain credit for weeks. Overdrafts? Capital? Nothing! We know how important honesty is in our profession. His lack of conscience about his cheques is a matter for the banks and his creditors. There is only one course of action: we must dissociate ourselves from him.'

‘You are talking too fast, Diagne,' complained the secretary of the meeting.

Diagne was a little out of breath, the folds of his fat neck were rippling.

El Hadji felt as if he were in court facing a row of judges. His colleagues were treating him as if he were a total stranger.

‘What was I saying?' asked Diagne, who was opposite El Hadji.

‘We must dissociate ourselves from him.'

‘Thank you, Mr Secretary. Dissociate ourselves from him, that's what we must do! We must write to the bank and tell them that El Hadji is no longer a member of our Group. As for the National Grain
Board, we will insist that they take the matter to court. Our Group has a duty to clear itself of this stain.'

Someone else spoke. He followed the same blustering line of reasoning. Like all of them he was concerned about the welfare of ‘the people'. El Hadji felt as if he were an abcess which had to be lanced. He had the right to speak.

‘We are listening.'

He was confused. For a few seconds he found it difficult to say anything, uncertain what approach to adopt. He began almost in a murmur, his ideas all in a muddle.

‘Who is accusing me? What am I accused of?'

Unexpected! No one replied. This moment of surprise restored his confidence. Sure of himself, he looked around questioningly.

‘What are we? Mere agents, less than petty traders! We merely re-distribute. Re-distribute the remains the big men deign to leave us. Are we businessmen? I say no! Just clodhoppers!'

‘I protest, Mr President,' intervened Laye. ‘He is insulting us. You eat from the same dungheap as we do. Go and preach to others.'

There was a general uproar; everyone wanted to speak. El Hadji controlled himself. A pleasant warmth spread through his body. It was an inner joy that woke in him memories of his militant days. No doubt his old aggressiveness had been blunted by his cars, his villas, his bank account and the mineral water, but he knew he had touched his colleagues on a sore spot.

‘Order! Gentlemen, order!' shouted the President, banging the table with his gavel. ‘Order! Come along now! There is no need to take offence, gentlemen.'

‘El Hadji thinks he is still living in colonial times. Those days when he harangued the crowds with his trickery are over, well and truly over. We are independent now. We are the ones who govern. You collaborate with the regime that's in power. So stop all this empty, stupid talk about foreign control.'