Read Online Mount Pleasant by Patrice Nganang - Free Book Online Page B

what they wrote about her when they weren’t expressing their exasperation at this “overly pretentious Negress.” News that she had a copy of Madame Bovary would, I think, have spread like wildfire through the colonial ranks and certainly led to the classic being banned for a second time, now in France’s overseas territories. Of course Ngutane would have sympathized with “poor Emma,” as had many others before her in Paris and the other European capitals. For the moment, however, Ngutane’s dreams weren’t hitched to a swallow’s wing, but rather to the sweetly scented seats of a Golden Car. No lover: it was her father who sat beside her. Once around the courtyard— vroom! —and the surrounding crowd broke out in hymns of joy. One more time— vroom! vroom! —and the crowd went wild, lost in ecstasy and a cloud of dust.
    Sara began to see the sultan differently because of the car, for after this, the heartiest laugh heard in the corridors of Mount Pleasant was Njoya’s. The sultan was happy, yes! How had Charles Atangana done it? That evening Charles was telling jokes—about his car, his life, everything. As usual, he seemed to be talking to everyone at once. This time, however, he also talked about his trip to Paris for the Colonial Exhibition. Ah, will this story ever end? Everyone in the lively room could clearly envision the fat woman he described, “an overly perfumed countess, with red lips” who was left speechless when he told her that he wasn’t polygamous. The chief imitated the countess: “Not polygamous, really?”
    Carried away by his own comments, he forgot that the man to whom he was telling this story had more wives than anyone else in the protectorate.
    â€œA Negro and not polygamous!” he continued, then changed voices once again and, bowing aristocratically, added, “And Catholic, my dear lady, Catholic!”
    He was the only one laughing, of course, for none of the men listening were Catholic or even Christian, and certainly not monogamous. But who would have thrown cold water on the chief’s pleasure when he had a story to tell? More important, who would have reproached him for his lack of tact? After all, he was the only real friend Njoya had in Yaoundé, the one who understood best the sultan’s weaknesses. He was also the only one in the protectorate’s capital who could tell jokes like that! That’s surely why his last words were met with polite laughter. But maybe it was also because Njoya had responded to his friend’s anecdote with a quip of his own: “Well, if you ever want to become pagan again, just call on me…”

 
    14
    Friendship’s Twisted Secrets
    What was it that had thrown these two men into each other’s arms? They had so little in common! Collaboration, according to some evil tongues; a similar position of authority in the protectorate, according to others. But when he was driving that infernal car of his, Charles Atangana, a committed monogamist, always had his “very dear Juliana,” his wife, by his side. Njoya, on the other hand, might have chosen a favorite from among his six hundred and eighty-one wives—except that his impatient daughter would never have given him the chance. So, was it their similar temperaments?
    Well, maybe not. The chief’s voice and his alone always dominated the conversation, for he had a way with words … or rather, he talked a lot. Even if his title of paramount chief was only a flattering translation of the German Oberhäuptling , he owed his power to the force of his voice alone.
    As for Njoya, who had a low voice and was more of a listener, it was his family’s hegemony over the Bamum (a note: the colonial archives make mention of “the criminal intrigues of his mother, Njapdunke”) that was the basis for his authority in Foumban. The chief had seen the world, and not just what lay