the roles she’d played on screen before.
La Première Dame
. Within a week of her arrival into a world that was as unfamiliar to her as if she’d landed on the moon, she realised she had to find a way to make sense of it or she’d simply sink. Aside from the heat – which seemed to her to be a living, breathing human being, another
presence
in her life – there were dozens of other things to consider. Protocol, for one. Africans, she decided, were big on protocol. Who went through a doorway first, who was the first to speak, who spoke to whom and in what tone . . . it was exhausting. Then there were the functions – dinners, lunches, state openings, state addresses, television and radio appearances, openings of schools, new offices, churches, churches,
churches
. . . she hadn’t been in a church since she was sixteen, she protested to Sylvan after their fourth visit in as many days.
‘Well, you’re making up for lost time,’ he chuckled, adjusting his tie. He turned to face her. ‘This one or that?’
‘The blue one. But you’re not even religious!’ she protested, selecting a pair of pearl earrings.
‘I am now.’
And that was that. A role, no more, no less. She would have to quickly inhabit it as though her life depended on it – which, in a way, it did. They were surrounded by people who made the beaming, professional ploy of making Sylvan’s interests their own. They were not to be trusted. She could see, even if he chose not to, the ravenous, wolfish aspect behind their smiles. Sylvan’s father had been disposed of –
pouf!
– in spite of their pledges of allegiance and undying loyalty. She knew instinctively they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. In the scramble for power and resources which followed Sylvan’s ascent to power, there were promises made which had to be kept. She came upon the conversations when she wasn’t supposed to. So much to this one, so much to that. Sylvan seemed to revel in it all. ‘It’s a game,
chérie
, that’s all. Just a game.’
A few weeks later, at a dinner one night, Anouschka listened to Maurice Couvéde Murville, the French foreign minister, give both the happy couple and the country’s newly restored commitment to democracy his blessing. She stole a surreptitious glance around her. All down the length of the elegant table with the heavily starched cream napkins and the gleaming plates that she’d personally polished all afternoon were Sylvan’s government ministers, French mining bosses, West African oligarchs from the neighbouring states and the usual clutch of sycophants and professional hangers-on. Sylvan sat at the head, accepting the congratulations and praises being heaped down upon him with a smile as long and wide as the table at which they all sat. A man in his element. Almost overnight, it seemed, he’d developed a way of speaking – long, flowery sentences, then a pause, allowing space and time for his audience to murmur appreciatively to one another, then to him, their voices growing louder, stronger, his own swelling and echoing in response – that made her feel quite faint. A chill stole over her. It was horrible; it was as if they drew something out of him, some essential, secret life force . . . like flies feeding on a corpse. Sylvan thrived on it. Later, in the car on the way back to the palace, he abruptly ordered the driver to pull over and asked him to step away from the car for a few minutes. He fucked her hurriedly but with great passion on the back seat. He adjusted his clothing, straightened his tie and called the driver back. He, unlike her, was in his element.
La Première Dame
. Yes, it had a certain ring to it. And it was now her life.
17
1975
TEN YEARS LATER
ANOUSCHKA MALAQUAIS-BETANCOURT
Palais National, Lomé, Togo
She was obliged to feel her way in the darkness down the path towards the pool. Nothing moved, not even the leaves on the palm trees to her left and right. No moon, no light, nothing other than the
La Première Dame
. Within a week of her arrival into a world that was as unfamiliar to her as if she’d landed on the moon, she realised she had to find a way to make sense of it or she’d simply sink. Aside from the heat – which seemed to her to be a living, breathing human being, another
presence
in her life – there were dozens of other things to consider. Protocol, for one. Africans, she decided, were big on protocol. Who went through a doorway first, who was the first to speak, who spoke to whom and in what tone . . . it was exhausting. Then there were the functions – dinners, lunches, state openings, state addresses, television and radio appearances, openings of schools, new offices, churches, churches,
churches
. . . she hadn’t been in a church since she was sixteen, she protested to Sylvan after their fourth visit in as many days.
‘Well, you’re making up for lost time,’ he chuckled, adjusting his tie. He turned to face her. ‘This one or that?’
‘The blue one. But you’re not even religious!’ she protested, selecting a pair of pearl earrings.
‘I am now.’
And that was that. A role, no more, no less. She would have to quickly inhabit it as though her life depended on it – which, in a way, it did. They were surrounded by people who made the beaming, professional ploy of making Sylvan’s interests their own. They were not to be trusted. She could see, even if he chose not to, the ravenous, wolfish aspect behind their smiles. Sylvan’s father had been disposed of –
pouf!
– in spite of their pledges of allegiance and undying loyalty. She knew instinctively they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. In the scramble for power and resources which followed Sylvan’s ascent to power, there were promises made which had to be kept. She came upon the conversations when she wasn’t supposed to. So much to this one, so much to that. Sylvan seemed to revel in it all. ‘It’s a game,
chérie
, that’s all. Just a game.’
A few weeks later, at a dinner one night, Anouschka listened to Maurice Couvéde Murville, the French foreign minister, give both the happy couple and the country’s newly restored commitment to democracy his blessing. She stole a surreptitious glance around her. All down the length of the elegant table with the heavily starched cream napkins and the gleaming plates that she’d personally polished all afternoon were Sylvan’s government ministers, French mining bosses, West African oligarchs from the neighbouring states and the usual clutch of sycophants and professional hangers-on. Sylvan sat at the head, accepting the congratulations and praises being heaped down upon him with a smile as long and wide as the table at which they all sat. A man in his element. Almost overnight, it seemed, he’d developed a way of speaking – long, flowery sentences, then a pause, allowing space and time for his audience to murmur appreciatively to one another, then to him, their voices growing louder, stronger, his own swelling and echoing in response – that made her feel quite faint. A chill stole over her. It was horrible; it was as if they drew something out of him, some essential, secret life force . . . like flies feeding on a corpse. Sylvan thrived on it. Later, in the car on the way back to the palace, he abruptly ordered the driver to pull over and asked him to step away from the car for a few minutes. He fucked her hurriedly but with great passion on the back seat. He adjusted his clothing, straightened his tie and called the driver back. He, unlike her, was in his element.
La Première Dame
. Yes, it had a certain ring to it. And it was now her life.
17
1975
TEN YEARS LATER
ANOUSCHKA MALAQUAIS-BETANCOURT
Palais National, Lomé, Togo
She was obliged to feel her way in the darkness down the path towards the pool. Nothing moved, not even the leaves on the palm trees to her left and right. No moon, no light, nothing other than the
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