Free Xala by Ousmane Sembène Page B

accomplish his conjugal duty with her. He finally arrived as late as he could in the evening.
    Oumi N‘Doye had prepared her aye in a spirit of rivalry. A reunion meal. The menu culled from a French fashion magazine. She wanted to make him forget the last meal he had had with his first wife. The table was laid in the French way. There were various hors d’œuvres and veal cutlets. The Côtes de Provence rose kept the bottle of French mineral water company in the ice-bucket; at the other end of the table a pyramid of apples and pears. Next to the soup tureen cheeses in their wrappings. The planning of the meal was part of the second wife’s campaign to reconquer lost ground. To regain her husband’s affections. One of her women friends, prodigal with advice, had that very day whispered in her ear:
    â€˜If she is to have her man’s favour, a wife who is obliged to compete with others must aim at the male’s two most vulnerable parts: his stomach and his genitals. She must make herself desirable by being feminine, with just a touch of modesty. In bed she must not hold back. If she does she will only find disappointment.’
    Oumi N’Doye had plaited her hair over her forehead in the
Khassonke style. She had twisted a gold ring into the middle plait, which hung down to her neck. On each side of her head, starting above her ears, five branches opened out into a heart-shaped fan, each topped with a flat mother-of-pearl. A thin layer of antimony accentuated her black eyelashes and eyebrows.
    She sat opposite her husband and chatted away, doing most of the talking. Now and again she rang the bell for the maid.
    â€˜I had given you up,’ she said, laughing. ‘Yet I am your wife too, aren’t I? A little older than your N’Gone, I know. Still, side by side, we look like sisters,’ she concluded happily, her eyelashes fluttering like apair of butterflies about to take off. On the side of her face in the light, her eye had the polish of china clay.
    El Hadji forced a smile. He was scarcely eating anything. He was not hungry. He felt as if the room was closing in on him.
    â€˜You’re playing hard to get with me now, aren’t you? You could have phoned me. Oh, it’s not for me. I know my place. It’s for the children. What if one of them fell ill? Touch wood! But you never know. Me? I know when it’s my aye . I make no demands. A thought costs nothing. A thought gives pleasure.’
    El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was wrapped in his obsession. ‘Why not her?’
    Oumi N‘Doye talked on. She had been lucky to get the meat. Veal cutlets from France. Native butchers don’t know how to cut meat. Don’t you agree? The greengrocer’s avocado pears weren’t ripe. Only good for the toubabs (whites). Aren’t there a lot of toubabs around now?’
    El Hadji got up from the table. He sat down in the armchair and stretched out his legs. Tilting his head backwards he undid his tie. The harsh light of the lamp in the corner exaggerated the signs of age on his face. His short hair glistened white, like linen.
    â€˜Of course, when you eat at two tables you have your preferences,’ she flung out acidly, still at the table.
    After a brief silence she resumed, her voice very gentle: ‘You must realize that when I speak to you it’s also for the children. You must treat us all fairly as the Koran says. Each household has a car except this one. Why?’
    El Hadji was not listening. He was completely absorbed in his xala . His thoughts turned to Adja Awa Astou, and at this moment he felt
grateful for his first wife’s reticence. As if he were about to be caught red-handed performing some shameful act he dreaded the moment when he would have to go to bed with his second. His heart was beating fast. He would have liked to miss out Oumi N’Doye’s moomé. He could then have spent the night somewhere else, far away from her. He knew