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

Odessa and Blue Salvador Nasseau, otherwise known as Mitzy.
    Lady Barbarella is the playful, mischievous, romper-room type. Sir Nasseau the grumpy one. It’s obvious that the apartment belongs to them.
    â€œA drink?”
    â€œDaiquiri, please.”
    Miz Cat moves into the kitchen and I hear her rinsing the glasses in the sink. She adds the ice cubes. I try to interpret every movement.
    The room is divided into two unequal halves by a black oilcloth. The smallest half, probably the bedroom, has a yellow sofa and a tiny set of shelves which contain erotica only: J.J. Pauvert’s celebrated collection, Miller’s complete works (Nexus, Sexus, Plexus), The Story of O, the publications of Régine Deforges, Lucien de Samosate’s Oeuvre amoureuse, Aretini, Rachilde and Octave Mirabeau. The other side of the screen, more spacious, is less impressive. Prints, a wicker chair, a few cushions and photographs of cats all over the walls. Famous cats. Literary cats. Art critical cats. Communist cats. Aristocats. Vegetarian cats. Lustrée and Fourrure, Malraux’s cats when he lived in Buisson-les-Verrières. Bébert, Céline’s cat. Léautaud’s pussy. Remy de Gourmont’s cat. Huxley’s cat and Claude Roy’s cat. Cocteau’s feline. Colette’s creamy female. Carson McCullers’s stray cat and a few photos of Lady Barbarella in Cuba, Mexico (gazing at the ruins of an Aztec temple), Trinidad, London, China (walking on the Wall) and Singapore.
    MIZ CAT is still working on my daiquiri in the kitchen. It is always hard to begin a normal conversation with a person you’ve just met, more or less a chance encounter. Besides, when we’re talking black man and white woman, who are already separated by light-years of metaphysical distance, the slightest physical distance increases the difficulty considerably. In these circumstances of separation—she in the kitchen, I in the living room—the conversation drifted (Allah knows why) onto the topic of famine and cats.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said that . . .”
    â€œI can’t hear you.”
    â€œI was saying . . .”
    â€œTalk louder.”
    â€œIn my country, people eat cats!”
    This time, of course, she heard. At that precise moment I realized I had just committed the gaffe of the century.
    â€œI don’t, of course,” I added as quickly as I could.
    Too late. What’s done is done. She brought me my drink with a constipated look on her face, and bravely we tried to change the subject.
    â€œI bet you like to read a lot.”
    â€œI do. I spend a fortune on books.”
    She glances at her library. Maybe she’s forgotten the incident. What man could love books on one hand, and on the other hand eat cats? I could have told her I appreciated the savor of human flesh, not as gamey as I like, of course, but a pinch of salt helps it go down. I could have told her that and she wouldn’t have blinked. A guy who eats human flesh isn’t necessarily any worse than anyone else.
    But cats are another matter. Deep down, she’s right. Everyone loves a lover. Now she’s smiling sweetly at me. The alert has been called off. Suddenly I feel an irresistible urge to piss. The third door to the right. I empty my bladder. Whew! I consider my reflection in the mirror. The Montreal Cat-Strangler. I don’t look the part, but you can’t judge a book . . . What got into me to reveal such an intimate thing? The Devil made me do it. Beelzebub. The Spirit of the Bush that trips up the Negro every time he tries to scale the Judeo-Christian ladder. Perhaps it was a sign from Allah. To avoid compromising myself with this infidel. (“Speak of what has been revealed to you in the Book, obey the necessity of prayer, for prayer preserves you from the impurity of sin and all blameful actions. To keep Allah in your heart is your duty. Allah knows your actions.”) Why did I say, “In