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thoughts kept returning to his wives.
    Modu drew up in front of the import-export shop that was also his office. His secretary-saleslady, seeing her employer arrive, stopped her work with the Flytox and hurried forward to congratulate him.
    â€˜It was wonderful yesterday. My congratulations.’
    â€˜Thank you, Madame Diouf,’ replied El Hadji, taking refuge in the tiny room he called his office.
    Madame Diouf resumed her battle against the never-ending invasion of flies, cockroaches and geckos.
    El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was very depressed. He contemplated the door of his office, without seeing anything of the carpenter’s bad handiwork. The noise from the street reached him, interrupting his reflections. The monotonous scraps of a beggar’s chanting on the other side of the road got on his nerves. He returned to reality like a drowning man who reaches the surface and finds he can breathe again. To his surprise he found himself already regretting this third marriage. Should he get a divorce this very morning? He put that solution out of his mind. Did he love N’Gone? The question brought no clear answer. It would not upset him to leave her. Yet to drop her after all he had spent seemed intolerable. There was the car. And the villa. And all the other expenses. To repudiate her now would hurt his male pride. Even if he were to reach such a decision he would be incapable of carrying it out. What would people say? That he was not a man.
    There had been a time when he had loved (or at least desired) N’Gone. She had attracted him. And now? What would become of him? What was he to do?

    Modu sat on his stool, his back against the wall, as he supervised the little boy who was washing the car. His torso bare, the lad was busily
wiping the car with a sponge. Modu was one of his best customers, for his employer was a man of importance. At the corner of the same crowded, busy street, on the right-hand side, the beggar sat cross-legged on his worn-out sheepskin, chanting. Now and again his piercing voice dominated the other noises. Beside him lay a heap of nickel and bronze coins, the gifts of passers-by.
    Modu enjoyed the beggar’s song. The chant rose in a spiral, up and up, then fell back to the ground to accompany the feet of the pedestrians. The beggar was part of the décor like the dirty walls and the ancient lorries delivering goods. He was well-known in the street. The only person who found him irritating was El Hadji, who had had him picked up by the police on several occasions. But he would always come back weeks later to his old place. He seemed attached to it.

    Alassane, the chauffeur-domestic employed to drive El Hadji’s children to and from school, was late this morning. He too had been celebrating the day before. He had a great weakness for beer. The morning round began as usual at Oumi N’Doye’s villa.
    As soon as Alassane hooted the children came running out of the house with their satchels.
    â€˜Alassane!’ called Oumi N’Doye, still in her dressing-gown, from the doorway.
    â€˜Madam?’
    â€˜Have you seen the master this morning?’
    â€˜No, madam,’ replied Alassane, helping the children. into the vehicle.
    â€˜Alassane, when you have dropped the children, come straight back here.’
    â€˜Yes, madam,’ he said, driving off.
    Oumi N’Doye’s offspring were in their places. The back of the mini-bus was divided in two. Each family had its bench. This segregation had not been the work of the parents but a spontaneous decision on the part of the children themselves.

    In his office El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was raging against the beggar. That vagabond! He had asked his secretary to telephone the President of the ‘Group’. The wait seemed interminable. He ached between the shoulders. The telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver.
    â€˜Hullo! Yes! Speaking. I need your help, President. Yes, it’s very urgent. Very. In my