How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired by Dany Laferrière

sticky. Opaque sensuality.
    â€œWant to dance?”
    It’s like moving into Amazon humidity. Bodies running with sweat. You need a machete to cut through this jungle of arms, legs, sexes and mingling smells. Spicy sensuality. She presses against me. No talking. The samba flows into our bodies. Sweat pouring down. Everything flowing. Effortlessly. We’ve got all eternity.
    We go back to the table.
    â€œYour business about sexuality,” she declares, “is a load of crap.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œYou’re just reworking the Myth of the Black Stud. I don’t believe in it.”
    â€œWhat do you believe in?”
    â€œBlack and white are the same to me.”
    â€œWe’re talking sexuality, not arithmetic.”
    â€œSure. But . . .”
    â€œSince you’ve challenged me, I’m going to tell you exactly what I think. Black and white are equal when it comes to death and sexuality. Eros and Thanatos. And I think that when you mix black man and white woman you get blood red. With his own woman the black man might not be worth the paper he’s printed on, but with a white woman, the chances of something happening are good. Why? Because sexuality is based on fantasy and the black man/white woman fantasy is one of the most explosive ones around.”
    â€œEmotions are black—isn’t that myth a little worn out?”
    â€œIt might be. But you can’t have whites winning coming and going. They say they’re better than blacks in everything, then turn around and want to be our equals in one area: sexuality.”
    â€œWhat about whites who don’t think they’re superior to blacks?”
    â€œThose whites, obviously, don’t have sexual hang-ups.”
    A MERINGUE.
    â€œLet’s give it a try.”
    Koko, the Senegalese musician I met at the Clochards Célèstes, has a hot tip for me.
    â€œThis girl at my table is suffering an attack of the mystical heebie-jeebies over you.”
    â€œWhy would that be, brother?”
    â€œShe insists you’re the reincarnation of the Great God Ra.”
    â€œAs if I needed that.”
    â€œIf you want you can stop by my table.”
    I let a couple minutes go by, then go over to where Koko is sitting.
    â€œHi, Koko.”
    â€œHi, brother. Sit down.”
    The girl is as cool and composed as a pressure cooker.
    â€œHow are you doing?”
    â€œNot bad.”
    The DJ is playing reggae.
    â€œYou want to dance?”
    â€œOkay.”
    Brazilian music comes on.
    â€œShould we stay?”
    â€œFine with me.”
    It’s that easy when it’s working. Smooth as silk.
    â€œLet’s get a drink at the bar,” she says. “It’s quieter there. We can talk.”
    We sit down at the bar on the high stools and order drinks. I ask her what she’s up to these days.
    â€œI’m reading.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHemingway.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    We finish our drinks. She asks me back to her place for coffee.
    â€œI’ll come.”
    â€œAre you leaving with that girl?” Bouba asks me as I get my jacket from the back of the chair.
    â€œLooks that way.”
    â€œThe girl next to me says you dropped her because she didn’t agree with everything you said.”
    â€œTell her, Bouba, that all I did was beat her to the punch.”
    â€œLooked to me she was hot for you. She told me it was the first time anyone’s ever put her down.”
    â€œTell her that times are tough for everybody.”
    I wish them all a good night. The girl with Bouba, Miz Zodiac, smiles back. Miz Mystic too. A put-on smile. The other girl was waiting for me at the door.

The Black Cat with Nine Tails
    SHE LIVES in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, all the way across town. A nice place. Across from a park. Another girl across from a park. But this park has nothing in common with the Carré St. Louis. She cohabits with two cats: Lady Barbarella of