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Overview
In Paul Stoller's work of fiction framed by African storytelling, David is the 52-year-old co-owner of Gallery Bundu, an African art shop in New York City. As a young man in the late 1960s, he joined the Peace Corps to avoid the draft. Assigned to teach English in Niger, he was eager to seek out adventure, and he found it—from drugged-out American expatriates and mamba-filled forests to seductive African women. In the course of his stay in Niger, David meets and falls in love with Zeinabou, a strikingly beautiful woman who professes her love to him, though David believes that he is not the only man she dates. Two weeks before his anticipated return to the United States, Zeinabou informs David that she is pregnant with what she believes is his child. Not knowing how to react, David flees Niger and returns to America ridden with guilt. The hastiness of David's decision will shadow his every move for the rest of his life and will lead him to eventually return to Niger and try to make amends.
Beautifully written and deeply felt, Gallery Bundu is a cautionary tale about the impulses of youth and the unyielding grip of regret. Stoller's vivid language and style allow readers, through David's recollections, to touch, taste, and smell the sensations of West Africa—the tasty aroma of a traditional African fish stew, the spectacle of witches, and the humorous and often frightening experiences of traveling in the bush. A lyrical novel of decisions and destiny, Gallery Bundu is rich in character and detail, bringing anthropology to a new literary height.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780226775234 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Chicago Press |
| Publication date: | 06/20/2005 |
| Edition description: | 1 |
| Pages: | 176 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
GALLERY BUNDU
A Story about an African Past
By Paul Stoller THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
Copyright © 2005
The University of Chicago
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-226-77523-4
Chapter One NIGER 1971
ONE
I'm one of those unfortunate souls who live too much in the past. Don't get me wrong; I like my life in the present. I co-own a gallery of African art in New York City and I live and work with Elli Farouch, who is beautiful and vivacious-the love of my life. As they say in West Africa, our life together is sweet. Sometimes, though, Elli finds it difficult to tolerate my peculiarities. That's understandable. It's not easy, after all, to live in the present with someone who spends too much time in the past. My dilemma is that I can't seem to stop thinking about a whole series of past events that have twisted and turned me in unimaginable directions. These memories, to steal from Wordsworth, are too much with me.
Nearly thirty years ago, when I lived in far away West Africa, I was a young, brash, secondary schoolteacher. Way back then, I actually thought I could control my destiny. Those feelings of total self-control began to change on a blisteringly hot day in June 1971.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I was sitting behind a battered aluminum desk in a sweltering classroom, trying to grade a particularly bad set of exams. The heat had given me a dull headache and sweat had soaked my shirt, which stuck to my back in wet patches. A squadron of three flies buzzed around my head. That was a scene far from paradise. Three fateful claps broke the sweaty stillness of the afternoon. A roomful of eyes focused on a young boy standing at the threshold of my classroom. He wore a dirty pair of khaki shorts and a torn T-shirt.
"Yes?" I asked. "What is it?"
"A telegram for Monsieur Lyons," the boy responded in a shaky voice.
My stomach tightened. Like most people, I associated telegrams with bad news. For almost a year I had been teaching English in Tillaberi, a small town in Niger, one of the hottest countries of the world. In two weeks I would complete the second half of my two-year Peace Corps tour and return to America. I hoped the telegram wasn't going to spoil my homecoming. "Where's it from?"
"It's from Niamey."
I took a deep breath of relief. No bad news from the United States, I told myself. It was probably a missive from the Peace Corps office, which was located in the capital city.
The boy handed me the telegram, which was from Zeinabou, my girlfriend.
DAVID LYONS. COME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. WE HAVE TO TALK, ZEINABOU
My anxiety immediately returned. Why had Zeinabou sent a note of such urgency? I had been seeing her, off and on, for more than a year. Tall and lithe with a luminous heart-shaped face, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. What could she need that warranted a telegram? When could I leave? It was Thursday afternoon. Because Friday was a light teaching day, I could get away in midmorning and with luck be in Niamey by noon. That would give me the weekend with Zeinabou. I sent her a telegram, telling her I'd see her in Niamey on Friday afternoon.
The next morning the bus made an unusually speedy trip to Niamey. I disembarked at the bus station, took a taxi to the water tower that marked Nouveau Marché, a neighborhood of functionaries and merchants just south of Niamey's central district, and walked down a dusty, rutted side street to Zeinabou's home. She lived in a three-room mudbrick house squeezed into a rectangular compound with five similar dwellings, all hidden from the street by an eight-foot mud-brick wall.
Zeinabou came to the door in an indigo blue top with a matching wraparound. She kissed me on each cheek and let me in. Like the proper hostess, she had prepared tea. "Sit down," she said softly.
Her composure intensified my anxiety. Afraid of what she might say, I ran my fingers through my hair.
"I'm pregnant," she said breaking an unusually uncomfortable silence between us, "and you're the father."
Oh shit, I said to myself. My eyes began to twitch and I scratched my shoulder. How could this happen? I had had two great years in Niger, but now I wanted to move on. I truly cared for Zeinabou, but I had plans for graduate school, for a life in America. I didn't want a more permanent relationship with her. Besides, we had never talked of marriage. I had been very careful with Nigerien women, including Zeinabou. Realizing that I had apparently come to what people in Niger called a point of misfortune, I took a deep breath. I was a twenty-four-year-old about to make a decision that could shape the rest of my life. "Are you sure?" I asked her, unable to think of anything else to say.
Zeinabou stiffened. "Of course I'm sure. I've been pregnant before," she said tersely.
"Have you been tested?"
"No," she said firmly. She sipped her tea. "The baby is yours. Do you doubt that?"
I stretched my arms and cracked my knuckles. Zeinabou had occasionally slept with other men. "I'm not sure, Zeinabou." My heart raced. I paused a moment and sighed. "I'm sorry."
Zeinabou leaned forward. "I'm going to have this baby. I want to know what you are going to do about it."
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've got to think."
"I thought you were different, but maybe you're just like the others," she said harshly. "You want your pleasure, but refuse to be a man when you need to be. You make us pregnant, return home, and leave behind your own flesh and blood." Zeinabou leaned toward me and put her hands on her knees. "Are you willing to take care of me and your child?"
Needing time to think and ponder my responsibilities, I didn't know how to answer. "I don't know what to do."
"I think I already know what you're going to do," Zeinabou scoffed. "If you decide to behave like a man, you know where to find me." She looked away. "Please leave now."
There was nothing that I could add. Ashamed of myself, I stood up and left. Two weeks later I sent Zeinabou all of my extra money with a goodbye note and returned to America with a troubled heart.
NEW YORK 1998
TWO
That fateful day seems like yesterday. Elli tells me I think about it too much. When I dream about it, I wake up with heart palpitations. What would have happened if I had said yes to Zeinabou? Alas, I did not say yes. I'm in New York City working at Gallery Bundu rather than in Niamey. Elli has been helping me to confront the past. Progress has been slow, but several days ago I took a small step toward psychological closure.
I was sitting comfortably behind Gallery Bundu's narrow counter, drinking tea with Elli. She is a tall, dark Lebanese woman in her late thirties. Her presence blends well with the West African statuary she has spotlighted on shelves and pedestals-slender and shadowy figures in the dim light. As on most days, she was dressed casually in black-a round-necked cashmere sweater offset by a simple silver rope necklace and a long wool skirt that partially covered black boots. Her long black hair, parted in the middle, frames an elegant oval face marked by lustrous olive skin, an aristocratically thin nose, a narrow, sensuous mouth, and large hazel eyes. I met Elli in 1991 at the American Embassy in Niger, where she worked as a clinical psychologist. We fell in love and have been together ever since. On the day in question, we had been suffering through a slow business cycle, and Elli was hoping that the new shipment of objects we were expecting might spark some new sales.
I'm a tall man of 52 years. My hair is still long, thick, and black. Call me vain, but I'm proud that I don't use hair dye. My beard is also black, but laced with streaks of white. I have a broad nose and prominent cheekbones-strong features. Elli says that my face is softened by a thin mouth and deep-set brown eyes.
That morning, as on most mornings, Elli sipped her tea and listened to classical music. Tea and music would ground her for the day. I've always preferred the blues, but Elli has never allowed me to play blues in the gallery. Blues and African art are like oil and water, Elli always says-bad for business.
"I'm nervous about this shipment," Elli announced. "I hope Mamadou Demba brings us good pieces today. How long has he been away?"
"Five months."
"Five months," she repeated. "Maybe he brought back some real finds?"
"I hope so." During the first three years of Gallery Bundu, which translates to "gallery of wood," I spent much of my spare time traveling through West Africa with my partner, Diop, in search of fine sculpture and masks. The expense and strain of travel, however, soon became a burden on the business. In time we found it more economical to receive shipments from Diop or to look for African art in New York City, where West African traders have established The Warehouse, a huge repository in Chelsea.
When I left the pregnant Zeinabou in Niger, I returned home to study art history. But I also wanted to study with Amadu, a master weaver among the Songhay people. So after graduate school at Yale, I returned to Niger and spent one year with Amadu. Besides explaining to me the techniques and symbolism of West African weaving, he taught me what it meant to "weave the world." I graduated from Yale and then joined the Art History Department at Bendix College, in Bernardsville, New Jersey. I've been teaching there for twenty years. Students usually like my courses. Colleagues have spoken positively about my published work. As for my business skills, they are, to be honest, very much lacking. Thank God Elli, who comes from a family of Lebanese merchants, has always insisted that I refrain from discussing prices with the art traders.
Elli looked down at her teacup. "I hope they can unload in front of the store."
"So do I."
Looking out the storefront window, she suddenly jumped up. "You better go out there and stand in that empty parking space that just opened up. Go now. Grab your coat and be sure to stand your ground," she ordered quickly, as she shoved me out the door before I could object.
I soon found myself out in the cool, penetratingly moist November air, guarding an open parking spot on Spring Street in Soho. I waited and watched, and after almost twenty minutes in the damp chill, I wondered when the traders were going to show. I was looking for a van. Standing in an open parking spot, as you might imagine, is a dangerous pursuit in Manhattan. Two people seeking the precious parking spot had already cursed me.
"Who do you think you are?" complained a heavyset man in a delivery truck. "You can't just stand there."
Another man, in a red Pontiac Grand Am, tried to nudge me away by actually inching his car into the space. Wrapped in my ample down jacket and anchored by bulky hiking boots, I somehow managed to stand firm.
"Are you crazy? You gonna get yourself killed out here." Giving up, the man drove away.
When was Mamadou going to arrive? I stewed. Why do these Africans always have to be late? Gritty gallery work had become increasingly irritating. I love to collect African art, but can't stand selling it. I enjoy wonderful conversations with traders on buying trips in Africa, but hate the tedious details of mounting an exhibit in New York. I feel comforted by the presence of ancestral statues and spirit masks, but my collection of "wood," the term African traders use to describe their art, also makes me sad. It's another reminder of the past-of Zeinabou and all that I've lost.
The sound of Mamadou's sputtering white Econoline van jolted me back to the present. I waved vigorously and the van crept toward the parking spot on the street. I breathed a sigh of relief.
THREE
Mamadou Demba is a tall, barrel-chested man who takes pride in his sense of style. He wore black dress slacks, a brown silk shirt, and a new-looking leather jacket. He smiled as he stepped onto the sidewalk, exposing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth.
"David, I am happy to see you," he said pleasantly. We had met the previous year at The Warehouse.
"I am also happy to see you," I said, "but I almost got killed protecting this parking space."
Mamadou stared at me quizzically. "America," he stated, "is a very strange place. Very strange."
Another man stepped onto the street from the passenger side. His short, slight frame was draped by a black down jacket frayed at the cuffs and a shabby pair of khaki trousers. He wore a New York Yankees baseball cap and oil-stained hiking boots. He walked toward Mamadou and me.
"This is Daouda Kouyate, my helper," Mamadou said, pointing toward his colleague. "It's his first time in America and he speaks no English."
I shook the helper's hand and greeted him in French. As is the custom in West Africa, we inquired after each other's families. Years before I had learned that it was impolite to jump right into business matters.
Mamadou looked back at the van. "I'm hoping we can do some business today." He strolled to the van's back door and opened it, revealing a space in which every square inch was stuffed with African art. "We have a fine shipment of wood here," he said. "Tell Elli we brought you good things this time-with good prices. We'll be ready to talk in a little while."
I walked back into the gallery and flashed Elli a sarcastic smile. "They almost killed me out there."
"I noticed," she said, looking at the gallery's books. "How long before they're ready with their display?"
"Who knows?" I was a bit irritated at her lack of sympathy. "They said they'd be a little while."
"I'll need your help on this, David," she said, trying to appease me. She's always trying to appease me, a charitable way to adapt to my "issues." "I don't want you to bargain, but can you tell me what's really good?"
"Okay," I agreed with some relief. "Besides, you always bargain for the best deal."
Elli is an excellent bargainer; it's a skill she acquired as a child surrounded by merchants in Lebanon. She stared out the storefront window at the Africans. They were unloading their cargo, which they arranged in rows on the sidewalk. A small crowd of onlookers had stopped to observe the proceedings.
"I better go out and greet them. Don't want to be rude," she said. She slipped on a short black leather jacket, walked outside, and shook Mamadou's giant, fleshy hand.
"Ah, Elli. It has been so long since we last met." "Far too long,Mamadou. How are your wife and your children?" They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before Mamadou asked after the business.
"We get by with God's help," Elli intoned, following traditional West African as well as Middle Eastern salutatory traditions.
"May God be with us all," Mamadou answered. He looked at his helper, who continued to unload art objects. "Please excuse me, Elli, but I must return to work. We'll be ready to talk business soon."
Elli came back into the shop. Twenty minutes later we walked out to a sidewalk that had been transformed into an African art bazaar. Dozens of objects were on display: statues, stools, chairs, masks, textiles, and beads. Closest to the curb, Mamadou had arranged a line of ten Ashanti stools, three-foot rectangular structures from Ghana. Their curved seats make them look like miniature pagodas. Next to the Ashanti stools were Dogon stools from Mali, which take the form of flat-backed donkeys-four hooves, a neck, a head, and a tail. There was a low wooden bed, perhaps seven feet long, supported by four substantial pegs.
"These are stunning pieces," I said.
Elli's eye focused on a pair of short figures, one male and one female, into whose long-necked bodies the artist had carved swirling patterns. At the center of the display stood a three-foot pile of antique kente, brightly colored geometric patterns of silk cloth cut into strips that had been sewn together to create regal togas. As Elli caressed the cloth, I looked at Mamadou. Holding his hands behind his back, he stood stiffly, rocking back and forth on his heels. His face beamed with pride.
"How do you like the presentation?" he asked.
"It's impressive," said Elli.
"Very creative," I said.
Mamadou had unpacked five majestically tall male ancestor figures from Congo. One of the pieces had a masked face decorated with brass tacks. The figures had ample potbellies, and except for one, had had their penises cut off.
"I think that's to excise their power before they're sold," I explained to Elli.
Mamadou strolled over to them, ready to talk business. "You can buy the whole display ... only $20,000."
Because I'm excluded from bargaining, I politely excused myself. "I'll go inside and make lunch." Mamadou and I shook hands. "After you're finished you must come in and sample my African cooking."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from GALLERY BUNDU by Paul Stoller Copyright © 2005 by The University of Chicago. Excerpted by permission.
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