Free Under African Skies by Charles Larson Page B

Madame. The whole family is agreed. I tell Mama for myself. Also tell Papa Boutoupa,” she said.
    Her face, which had been radiant with happiness, fixed on the empty walls, and began to fade. Her heartbeat slowed. She would be ill if Madame changed her mind. Diouana’s ebony-black face grew gloomy; she lowered her eyes, ready to plead her case.

    â€œYou’re not going to tell me at the last moment, on this very day, that you’re leaving us in the lurch?”
    â€œNo, Madame, me go.”
    They were not speaking the same language. Diouana wanted to see France, this country whose beauty, richness, and joy of living everyone praised. She wanted to see it and make a triumphal return. This was where people got rich. Already, without having left African soil, she could see herself on the dock, returning from France, wealthy to the millions, with gifts of clothes for everyone. She dreamed of the freedom to go where she wished without having to work like a beast of burden. If Madame should change her mind, refuse to take her, it would truly make her ill.
    As for Madame, she was remembering the last few holidays she had spent in France. Three of them. And then she had had only two children. In Africa, Madame had acquired bad habits when it came to servants. In France when she hired a maid not only was the salary higher but the maid demanded a day off to boot. Madame had had to let her go and hired another. The next one was no different from the first, if not worse. She answered Madame tit for tat. “Anyone who is capable of having children should take a turn with them herself. I can’t live in. I have my own children to take care of and a husband, too,” she declared.
    Used to being waited on hand and foot, Madame had yielded to her wifely duties, and clumsily fulfilled the role of mother. As for a real vacation, she had hardly had any. She soon persuaded her husband to return to Africa.
    On her return, grown thin and thoroughly exasperated, she had conceived a plan for her next vacation. She put want ads in all the newspapers. A hundred young girls answered. Her choice fell on Diouana, newly arrived from her native bush. Producing two more children during the three years that Diouana worked for her, between her last holiday and the one to come, Madame sang the praises of France. For three thousand francs a month, any young African girl would have followed her to the end of the earth. And to top it off, from time to time, especially lately, Madame would give Diouana little gifts of this and that, old clothes, shoes that could be mended.
    This was the insurmountable moat that separated the maid and her employer.
    â€œDid you give Monsieur your identity card?”
    â€œ Viye, Madame.”

    â€œYou may go back to your work. Tell the cook to give the three of you a good meal.”
    â€œMerci, Madame,” she answered, and went off to the kitchen.
    Madame continued her inventory.
    Monsieur returned on the stroke of noon, his arrival announced by the barking of the dog. Getting out of his Peugeot 403, he found his wife, indefatigable, pencil in hand.
    â€œHaven’t the baggage men come yet?” she said nervously.
    â€œThey’ll be here at a quarter to two. Our bags will be on top. That way they’ll be out first when we land in Marseilles. And what about Diouana? Diouana!”
    The eldest of the children ran to fetch her. She was under the trees with the littlest one.
    â€œ Viye , Madame.”
    â€œIt’s Monsieur who was calling you.”
    â€œThat’s fine. Here are your ticket and your identity card.”
    Diouana held out a hand to take them.
    â€œYou keep the identity card, I’ll take care of the ticket. The Duponts are returning on the same ship, they’ll look after you. Are you glad to be going to France?”
    â€œ Viye , Monsieur.”
    â€œGood. Where are your bags?”
    â€œAt Rue Escarfait, Monsieur.”
    â€œAfter I’ve had