Dream of Senegal

Friday, January 26, 2007, Fatoumata, a 23-year-old Senegalese woman was sitting across from Alexander, a 47-year-old American of Scots-Irish and English descent, just two strangers sitting across from each other in a crowded metro train in Paris, line No. 5, direction Bobigny/Pablo Picasso, both were just daily commuters. This day was like any other in any bustling city full of unfamiliar faces, and yet fate was about to come into play.

Alexander was struck by the uncommon beauty of Fatoumata’s face, and was studying every line and curve, trying to imprint every detail in his memory to put on canvas afterwards. He was sure that he would never see her again, and he had only the unknown length of the ride to try to memorize this stunning face. Fatoumata couldn’t help but notice the scrutinizing regard of his cool blue eyes, and was wondering “What’s he staring at me like that for?” At the same time, she was studying him. He seemed to have stepped out of another time, far in the past. Dark grey suit, immaculate white shirt and slim red and black paisley tie, an anthracite Borsalino felt hat, black leather trench coat, and slender black Italian shoes. A very simple silver wedding ring adorned his left hand and another simple silver and onyx ring was on his right ring finger. The polished stone was small and uncut, with the silverwork grasping it like fingers. It seemed to be African craftwork. He looked to be in his late 30’s and was carrying a small black leather portfolio. She thought to herself “He looks really elegant, it doesn’t matter though. I’ll probably never see him again.”

When Alex was going up the escalator to the street level at the Hoche station he noticed that the subject of his next painting wasn’t far behind him, and his heart soared as his mind pondered “Maybe she’ll accept to pose?” He waited for her to arrive and approached her without the slightest hesitation; he had never been shy with women, politely reserved sometimes, but never shy when he had a purpose. He delighted in her appearance now. During the time sitting across from her he had been so taken with her face that he had hardly paid any attention to anything else. Now, everything about her pleased him. Not only her face, but her entire self, her style, her assured way of walking, her defiant way of looking at him like “Yeah, I know I’m beautiful…don’t even try to make me!” Red over-the-knee high-heeled boots ran all the way up to where they were met by a white turtle-necked mini-length sweater dress that accentuated the beauty of her deep brown skin. The visible part of her thighs between the top of her boots and the bottom of her dress was bare. Her face radiated with warm undertones of copper and tender shades of pink highlighted her dark gazelle’s eyes. Her night black hair, partly braided and partly loose, fell around her face freely.

“Hi, I’m Alex. Your face is incredibly inspiring, it’s really different. I’d like to paint your portrait.” He went straight to the point, pulling out an embossed chrome metal business card case marked A.B., and offering her his card. She looked at the card skeptically. Alexander Blackwell – Painter - Portraits, Landscapes, Nudes she read pondering. When he opened the card case she had noticed that there were two different cards, in equal quantities.

“And what’s the other card? How many professions do you have anyway?” She asked with some suspicion, as if interrogating a con-man.

“Oh, that’s how I make my living. I only have one profession, painting is just a passion!” He said with a reassuring smile, handing her the other card. ‘Alexander Blackwell, Sales and Marketing Director - ACA, Atelier de Créativité Artistique, 15 rue Franklin, Pantin’ “No, really, I know it probably sounds crazy, but I’m sincere, I really want to paint your portrait. Listen, if you’re not too busy you can come and see my paintings for yourself, my place is just a short walk.”

“You paint nudes, don’t you? Is that what you want me for?” The all-too-common cliché of the artist and nude model finishing in bed together made her wary and still on the defensive, despite his encouraging smile. Men are all the same she was thinking, while at the same time unexplainably attracted to him.

“No, not at all, really, it’s your face that interests me, it’s unique. I’m sure it’ll make a really great canvas.” He was sincere, and she felt it. Alex was always as transparent as the water in a mountain stream. He could never hide his feelings or intentions. Fatou ceded. After all, who knows? What beautiful woman wouldn’t like to have her portrait painted?

“OK, I guess I can take a look at your paintings if it won’t take too long. I’m Fatoumata, but everyone just calls me Fatou. Nice to meet you Alex.” As they shook hands, their eyes locked in mutual fascination. “You speak with an accent, you’re not French.”

“You’re right, I’m American. Your accent is wonderful too! Where are you from?”

“Dakar, Senegal. You don’t look like an American!”

“Yeah, I know, the French always think I’m British. Come on, let’s go then.” He motioned down the Rue de Stalingrad “I have to stop for just a minute at the office, it’s half way, on rue Franklin. I have to drop off an advance payment for an order I just landed from Boucheron.” They set off side by side, walking quickly because of the cold.

“You mean Boucheron like La Place Vendome?”

“Yeah, we make POS displays, and a lot of our customers are in the luxury sector. That’s why I have to look sharp. You won’t sell anything if you don’t look the part. I used to work in the music industry, and I could sell in jeans and a t-shirt. It all depends on who the customer is.”

Alex invited Fatou to wait in his office while he dropped off the check at accounting. He was back in no time and they set out.

Alex had just rented a room above a bar, “Le Surcouf” on the corner of Rue Staligrad. The bar used to be a hangout when he worked with musicians, as there was a recording studio nearby. They went upstairs by a staircase that didn’t go through the bar. Fatou only needed a glance in his room to see that it was true; he was a painter, so it wasn’t just a line to pick her up.

“I have an exhibition planned for April in a café nearby. We can stop by and talk to the owner if you want, I’ll buy you a drink, OK?” Alex wanted to make sure that Fatou was completely assured. He didn’t want his new muse to vanish.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to have a drink, but no alcohol. I eat halal too, just for the info. I really like that one, the big one with the woman’s back.”

“It’s one of my favorites too. You see, my nudes are never vulgar. But you won’t have to pose nude. I promise.”

“Will I have to sit while you paint?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll shoot a bunch of photos and then pick one to work from. I always frame my compositions with the camera. Are you free tomorrow? I don’t work weekends so I’m free.”

“Yeah, I’m free tomorrow, just not too early. The afternoon’s OK. What should I wear? Something special? Maybe something African?”

“Hey, that’s a great idea! I hadn’t thought of it, do you have a large African cloth you could drape around yourself?”

“I do.”

They went down the road to the ‘Vanilla C@fé’, Alex had a good strong Belgian dark beer and Fatou had a Vittel Menthe while Alex introduced her to the café’s owner. Alex offered to accompany her home, and she said no, not to worry, she knew how to defend herself, and Alex was sure that she did.

Fatou brought a large printed shawl with the colors of Africa; black, green, yellow, and red, and the effigy of Bob Marley, and the shooting went as planned…or almost. She was wearing the same red over-the-knee high-heeled boots as the day before, and she asked Alex to help her take them off so she could do the shooting barefoot. When Alex kneeled down and pulled off her boots, exposing her dark, perfectly rounded calves and thighs, the act was so sensual that Alex couldn’t hold himself back… and they were both in each other’s arms and in bed before the shooting even started. After the shooting they went back to bed again, and this time, after having satisfied their desire, they lay together both happy and fulfilled, Fatou’s head resting on Alex’s chest.

“You wear a wedding ring. Tell me about your wife.” Fatou said in a gentle tone without a trace of jealousy, it was obvious that she was just curious.

“We were happily married for 22 years. I loved her, I never once cheated on her, and I was her everything.” Tears were coming into Alex’s eyes. Fatou didn’t say a word, somehow sensing that he was about to tell her everything and that it was better not to interrupt. He continued. “She’s always been a violent woman. No, not always, not in the beginning years, but as the years went by she got worse and worse. She screamed and bitched about everything and nothing, every day. Once she threw mashed spinach in my face because I had invited a friend to our house to have a beer after work. She’s slapped me in the face many times for stupid little things. She also slaps the children in the face, and that makes me furious. I’ve never hit her or responded with violence. You know, there are so many men who beat their wives…but does anyone ever hear about a man who takes abuse from his wife? It got to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore. Every day I said to myself ‘this has to end’. We got in a huge dispute three weeks ago, and I left her. I moved into this little room and brought my paints with me. They had been sitting in the attic for 20 years. I really missed painting all those years, but when I told her she didn’t understand. She used to say ‘Yeah, I’d like to do knitting too, but we don’t have time for that kind of stuff.’ You can’t imagine the thrill I got when I started painting again after all these years! And now, I have the most beautiful muse I’ve ever set eyes on…I’m sure your portrait will be incredible!”

“How old are you? I thought you were about 37, but you didn’t marry when you were 15!”

“I’m 46. I’ll be 47 on March 8^th. In fact I have to go to the States to renew my Driver’s license before it expires. How old are you, maybe 22?”

“I’m 23. You sure don’t look your age!”

“I know. When I came to Paris in ’83 I was your age, 23, but everyone thought I was 16. It was a bitch, but now it’s nice. You know, I’m too old for you. I could be your father.”

“No, Alex, you’re not too old. Age doesn’t matter. In Senegal it’s very common for a woman to marry a man who’s twice her age.” Fatou gazed lovingly at Alex as if to say ‘I could be your wife’ and all the meaning in her look was understood without her having to say the words.

Alex walked her home this time, stopping at a drugstore to buy her a morning-after pill. She asked him to stop at a distance from her apartment in Pantin, she lived with her parents and said her father wouldn’t approve of it if he saw her with Alex. He didn’t take it badly, and it made no difference to him what her father thought.

As soon as the photos from the shoot had been developed, using a one-hour service, Alex went through them excitedly and decided on the one he would use, a profile shot of her face that showed the graceful curves of her nose, lips, and chin perfectly. A small silver nose stud made a little spot of light that enhanced the image. One of Alex’s main inspirations was Botticelli, and he loved to highlight forms and make sensual curving lines by juxtaposition of heavy contrasts, but whereas Botticelli’s profiles were white faces with dark backgrounds, this one would be a dark face emphasized by a light background. In the two decades that he had stopped painting he had lost a lot of the technical skill he had acquired in his youth as a studio arts major, but what he had lost in technical skill was more than made up for. He had gained the confidence of a man who has worked hard to raise a family, and now he worked quickly and intently, using bold strokes with paint charged brushes, and finishing with delicate touches to make the subtle differences which made it Fatoumata, without a doubt. The week flew by as he strived every day after work and late into the night, getting almost no sleep. At the end of the week he was extenuated, and the result was astonishing. The canvas was charged with emotion, it was her, and it was one of the best pieces he had ever done. All of the other paintings he had prepared, and all those he would do in the next two months before the exhibition were no match for Fatoumata’s portrait. When Fatou saw the result she was completely taken aback by how closely it resembled her. Alex had a high resolution full size poster made and gave it to her.

Needless to say, they saw each other all the time, whenever they could. Alex was head over heels, and Fatou was awed in admiration. She had never known an artist before. He was different from all the men she had known; gentle, patient, and caring. When they made love he was more concerned with her pleasure than his own, something she didn’t know existed in a man. Now she thought to herself “I was wrong, not all men are the same.”

When he went to Minneapolis in March to renew his driver’s license he called her every day.

The night of the vernissage was approaching, and they lay in bed in Alex’s room as usual.

“Of course you’ll be at Vanilla C@fé for the opening, won’t you?” Alex wasn’t really asking, for him it was obvious.

“Insha Allah” came the reply softly. “How much are you going to sell the painting for?”

“I’m not going to put a price on it. I’m going to leave all of the paintings without a price, and ask for offers. We’ll see. I don’t really want to sell it, and especially if I think the offers aren’t worth it. Money doesn’t matter.”

She smiled at his answer. “I hope you keep it. Are you going to get a divorce?”

“I’ve already seen a lawyer, and yes, I’m filing for divorce. I can’t imagine ever going back to the life I had before. But what about my children? I love them so! Their mother does too, even if she slaps them sometimes. She always says “A good slap puts ideas right.” But I don’t agree. At least they’re not too young. I miss them, and I still feel love for my wife, even if I can’t live with her. I don’t think it’s possible to share more than 20 years with someone and not feel hurt by the separation. You know that I love you too Fatou, but it’s different. I know that you’d never hit me unless I struck you first, and that’s impossible. You’re a strong woman, and you light up my world, but I still think I’m too old for you. You can find a young man your age, it’ll be better for you that way.”

“I don’t want a young man my age. You’re not too old, stop saying that, really, you look so young and you don’t act old either. I’ll never find another man like you. You know, I was promised to a man in Senegal, my father arranged for the wedding when I was only 11 years old. He wants to marry me but I don’t love him. He’s 50, Papa Demba Mbaye, he’s an important business man. He’ll surely show up here in Paris to claim his wife soon. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re not going to marry him are you?”

“It’s hard. I feel obliged to obey my father. But I don’t want to. I’ll be unhappy if I do. How long will it take for you to get divorced?”

“I don’t know. She’ll have to agree, and I don’t know if she will.”

“Insha Allah. Allah knows best.”

When the night of the vernissage came, Fatoumata didn’t come. She didn’t answer her phone, even during the weeks that followed. Alex lost hope of ever seeing her again. Then one night two months later she called. Papa Demba had come. He had locked her in an apartment and taken her phone. She had just managed to persuade him to let her go out to prepare for their wedding, and she had fled. They met and made passionate love one last time. Alex bought her a one-way ticket to Dakar and gave her €1000. She said she would manage. Her dream was to open a women’s fashion store in Dakar, she would get her poster framed and hang it in the shop.

Alexander named the portrait “Dream of Senegal”. He didn’t sell it.