Read Online Tram 83 by Fiston Mwanza Mujila - Free Book Online

old slaving port, for I’m your slave, chain me up for life, take me by the arms,let’s go, I want to see the port of Marseille …”
    The tension ratcheted up every ten minutes. Bottles were deflowered by the dozen to drown the bitterness and disgust at living in a rotten world. The single-mamas positioned themselves to get a good view of the clients. The students tackled the latest news by the light of Marx and Engels.
    â€œDo you have the time?”
    The waitresses and the busgirls demanded their tips with the penknives they dug out of their brassieres. The slim-jims and the baby-chicks lent their services. Comings and goings throughout the Tram.
    An overexcited Pentecostal preacher announced the construction of a railroad that would link the City-State with Northern Ireland and serve to transport the stones and many other types of merchandise. All conversations ended with train tracks and the discovery of a mineral deposit. The tourists suggested a peaceful march. Everyone invented a kinship with the deceased. The fact that it was they who had attempted to burn down the Tram on three occasions was quite forgotten.
    â€œForeplay depends on the tourist, in my view. Is he good-looking? Does he have money? Does he buy rounds of beer for his friends? Does he eat dog cutlets?”
    The audience expected nothing but music. But the guy entrusted with soothing the doubts of this overly capricious clientele was himself finding it hard to stomach a reading at Tram 83. To entertain the raging crowd, he summoned a band to perform a few deep-frozen classics from the Cuban revolution. The audience learned that he himself had traveled from Cuba to fight alongsidethe Ethiopian army during the Ogaden War. The final song rattled on about the Cuban-Ethiopian offensive of early February 1977, followed by a second, unexpected offensive in which the musicians and he had taken part. The audience learned that after these hostilities, they had stayed a while in Somalia, a country they had attacked two years earlier. And then the rush triggered by the mines had driven them to cram aboard the first train departing for the City-State.
    Lucien arrived a quarter of an hour before the show, and entered via the back door, fear knotting his stomach. “They are not here to savor your poetry.” — He received a faceful of advice courtesy of the Tram’s owner — “Emotions are running very high at the moment, you know, what with the cave-ins. They’ll be looking to drag you onto the rails. Prepare yourself for the worst. Our only concern is that they fuck and get drunk like they’re used to. You’re on your own.” Jammed into in a brightly colored jacket, the publisher chortled his cheeriest laugh. It was his first reading since he’d arrived here from a speck of land in the pacific oceans, they whispered in the mixed restrooms. His right hand resting on Lucien’s shoulder, he rambled on about his passion for the trains serving the City-State.
    The minutes crumbled away. The bards of the Revolution (who were resigning themselves to not leaving the stage) started playing their same repertoire all over again. The audience, who knew every song by heart, showed their enthusiasm. Requiem, sandwiched between two baby-chicks, cheered the resistance. The publisher, the police officers dispatched for the occasion, and Lucien himself, who promised to read just a quarter of the text, debated endlessly.Following the cave-in, suggestions that the city be put to the sack fed every conversation. The comings and goings to the facilities increased significantly. The single-mama-chicks cast their nets and hooks into the crowd. The waitresses, the busgirls, and a few single-mamas too sure of themselves glowered at each other.
    â€œForeplay is not essential.”
    â€œI don’t like banks. That’s just my opinion.”
    â€œDo you have the time?”
    Meanwhile, he feverishly scribbled a few