SOURCE: “Outfoxing the Fox: Game Strategy in Le Devoir de violence,” in Perspectives on Contemporary Literature, Vol. 6, 1980, pp. 72-79.

[In the following essay, Schikora analyzes aspects of various games and challenges in correlation to Ouologuem's Le Devoir de violence.]

When Ouologuem's Le Devoir de violence appeared in 1968, it was enthusiastically received by those who had been awaiting with some impatience the first “authentically African” novel.¹ (It was subsequently awarded the coveted Prix Renaudot.) This fascinating and controversial novel offers solid evidence on several levels of game strategy at play, both in the overall design and in the detailed execution of the work. Taking as our point of departure the author's dual, anti-histoire objective, we shall focus primarily on the manner in which he “plays with” the conventional notions of history and fiction.

The key to understanding the dynamics of this work lies in the author's thinly camouflaged desire to tell the “true history” (“story”) of blacks. The creation of history, not unlike that of fiction, is a purely arbitrary affair, governed by no fixed criteria for establishing validity, obliged to conform only to the author's perception of the inherent significance of, and causal relationship between, events. With an eye to amending that portion of historical data which concerns the black race (which did not participate in the history-writing process), and determined to rescue it from oblivion or misrepresentation, the author of Devoir forges his anti-histoire. We shall keep the polysemantic French term which indicates more clearly the dual thrust of the author's undertaking, for he calls into question both history and the narrative, undermining the validity of the chronological illusion to which both lay claim.

Juxtaposing “facts” drawn from a number of sources—Arabic chronicles, legend, the oral tradition, ethnological and missionary accounts, colonialist and neo-colonialist records—the author then proceeds to discredit them. First among the devices he utilizes to this end is language parody. He appropriates the language—clichés, jargon, verbal “ticks”—of each of the above-mentioned mystificateurs and, through parody and pastiche, undermines their reliability as historical sources. (The rabelaisian term is not inappropriate here, for one of the most engaging aspects of this work resides in the author's apparent delight in verbal games.)

The chroniclers and other guardians of the oral tradition fall especially prey to the author's creative abuse of their language. Numerous exclamatory asides—terse, ironic comments on the order of “a sob for her,” “a tear for him,” “God save his soul”—punctuate the text. Another feature which he reproduces is their simplistic and manichean practice of designating good and evil characters through the use of epithets, such as “the mild and just emperor,” “the learned Moses.” He underscores their penchant for calling catastrophe on the enemy (“God's malediction upon him!”), favor on the good (“God keep his soul”), and discredit on the age (“O temporal O mores”). In the manner of the chroniclers whose testimony he disparages, the author summarily describes events in cliché-bound language, such as: “he drew his sword: the sun and the moon shone on its blade and in it the earth was reflected as in a mirror” (p. 7). Or again: “His countenance was like the lightning and his gown was white; his reign was just and glorious. (God keep his soul)” (p. 8).

Parody is clearly the controlling device in the extended, syntactical constructions typical of that which opens Part 2, “Ecstasy and Agony”: “How in profound displeasure, with perfumed mouth and eloquence on his tongue … how to that end he spread reports of daily miracles … how on one of his journeys he transformed … and with what diplomacy he feigned indifference …” (p. 25). This is reminiscent of chapter headings of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century narratives. In other passages, the author uses a paratactic construction, parodying a locution which is characteristic of both scriptural and legendary accounts (both of which come under attack in the work).

Finally, mention should be made in this connection of the verbal game of the anagram. In view of the function of each of the characters in the narrative, it is not unreasonable to attribute the suggestive references which their names evoke to authorial design. By transposing a letter, truncating a syllable, or adding a plausible ending, names are seen to add dimension to the characters' significance. For example, although the demonic “hero,” the Saïf, is anything but the naïf of literary fame, he is as capable of playing this role as any other; Raymond Kassoumi, potential opponent to the Saïf's power-mongering, is himself the son of a slave and virtually incapable of altering his status as a soumis, a puppet in the political arena forcibly manipulated by the Saïf; Shrobénius is unmistakably the caricature of the German ethnologist, Leo Frobenius; and finally, the scapegoat role which falls to the hapless Bourémi is suggested by his name, whose resemblance to “scapegoat” in French (bouc émissaire) is too striking to be merely coincidental.

Distortion is an inevitable factor of narrative time, yet the author of Devoir disregards those conventions designed to camouflage that distortion, violating (partially for purposes of satire) certain basic principles of historical accuracy, balance and perspective.

“Telescoping” is a distortion process which occurs frequently in the transmission of oral tradition (interestingly, one of the author's prime targets of assault), wherein the actual duration involved is irrelevant and capable of being represented by a single archetypal figure (of the proportions of the Saïf).² This is precisely the technique employed in Part 1, “The Legend of the Saïfs,” twenty-two brief pages in which the reader is catapulted through seven centuries of Saïf reign (encompassing the feudal period, 1202–1898). In contrast to the three subsequent parts, which comprise the bulk of the work, yet which span only the years 1898–1947, the first is apt to be construed as causing a severe structural imbalance, unless one considers the function of the legend, rather than the duration of time involved.

“Periodization” is a conventional chronometric procedure which the author of Devoir exploits by arranging his work into four discrete temporal blocks, corresponding to significant “chapters” in African history (the feudal period, the turn-of-the-century expansionist years, the colonial era, and the period of independence). These in turn represent the four stages of the Saïf dynasty. In terms of the historical consciousness which is evident in this work, the section entitled “Dawn” dispels the romanticizing myth of the Golden Age, the “glorious era of the first States” (p. 8), and obliges those who would “rehabilitate” African history to recognize the shaping influence of the present upon the future.

The chronicle of events moves along a strictly linear line yet, almost from the outset, deterioration of the historical format is evident. No attempt is made to differentiate one event from the next in terms of historical significance. Equal value and weight are attached to each occurrence, hence the trivializing of all. This “leveling” tendency is reinforced by the indiscriminate inclusion or omission of detail. Passages relating massacre, rebellion, or the rise and fall of the powerful enjoy no privilege over accounts of alimental concoctions or the tally of conjugal favors enjoyed by the Saïf on a given night.

Besides this absence of a hierarchical conception of historical events, unsystematic temporal notation enhances the capricious nature of the chronological sequence. The recording of history, or of pseudo history, requires that events be located in time, if not by dating, then by some other method. Particularly in the legendary portion of this novel (Part 1), one is told that a certain incident occurred “one day among others,” “one Friday afternoon,” “at the end of long moons,” “the twelfth day of Ramadan,” and so on. The real significance of the chronometric methods used in this work is not to be discerned by regarding them as illustrative of a naive, or “primitive” temporal sense, nor of a certain malaise over the disintegration of meaning in time and history.³ Rather it is to be seen in the coupling of incompatible historical conceptions, for elsewhere, not only are we given the precise date, but even the time of day or the type of weather. In the same ludic vein, the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille is unduly distinguished by the number of incidents which occur on or near 14 July (cf. pp. 32, 65, 85, 97, 167). These are the principal means by which the historical process is parodied and its flaws exposed. They are subversive tactics by which history is shown to contain the terms of its own destruction. Chronology and periodization are depicted as arbitrary devices, manipulation of which can produce totally dissimilar results.

Although Histoire (often capitalized in the work), both as a genre and as a mode of knowledge of the past, provides a clearly enunciated reference point, the fictional character of Devoir is iterated with equal emphasis. The author calls his work a novel, a fiction, and provides the customary disclaimer that “any resemblance to real people is purely fortuitous.” Yet the reader is forestalled from entering into the fictional present of the work until Part 3. No-where more than in Ouologuem's novel is the customary practice of dissimulating the author's voice pursued less vigorously. This is surely one of Ouologuem's major assaults on the “traditional” narrative structure of which he is heir. The conventionalized habit of thinking of the narrator as midwife, standing somewhere between language (itself a metaphor) and text, or between the author and the fiction, is rudely undermined in Devoir. Especially in Parts 1 and 2, a voice from “beyond” the text competes in resonance and intensity for the reader's attention.

Human time is an insignificant factor in the shape and arrangement of narrative events. The author's apparent aim is to conform as closely as possible to the “real” chronological sequence yet, by doing so, he destroys the illusion of fiction. Having espoused (not without some malice) the historian's methods for Parts 1 and 2, he appropriates and manipulates those of the writer of fiction in later sections. Even here, though, he repeatedly disrupts the illusion of immediacy, confounding the reader's legitimate expectation that, in reading, he temporarily lose himself in the fictional present of the story. The numerous authorial intrusions represent another subversive tactic, for they undermine the principle of narrative time and negate the steps that have been taken toward synthesizing the respective “moment” of author, narrator, and reader.

There is perhaps more irony in the author's initial disclaimer than is at first realized, for in order to resemble “real” people, characters in a work of fiction must display some degree of susceptibility to the effects of temporal existence. Yet most of the characters in Devoir operate on an atemporal plane. They are timeless and immutable, not literary types but stereotypes. It would appear that this too is part of the author's game strategy, for although he denounces those aspects of an outsider's, stereotypical portrait of the Negro, which unduly dwell upon his “sexuality” or his “primitivism,” the Negro characterization which he creates is equally superficial. Kassoumi literally drowns in self-pity and self-deprecation. His parents, toward whom the author appears to be most sympathetic, are strikingly one-dimensional—docile, naive, sensual, guided only by their animalistic attraction for one another. His portrait of a black woman (particularly that of Awa) is simply that of a sex object. The presence of such characters is uninformed by a sense of history and uninspired by hope in the future. The author's reluctance to provide them with a meaningful temporal reality may be interpreted in two ways. Either he is pursuing his attack on characterization, one of the basic tools of narrative, and hence on the traditional novelistic genre; or he is making a statement whose implications go beyond formal experimentation. He is perhaps saying that the individual's function in historic processes (as in the narrative development of this work) is almost negligible. If the dissolution of the personality marks a good portion of contemporary literature, this novel appears to deny that the (African) personality ever existed. The textual evidence suggests that both of the above interpretations are valid.

Le jeu provides the work's most important symbolic structure. Game imagery and subtle references to opponents, strategy, rules, and clearly defined objects are part of the texture of the entire work. Part 4, “Dawn,” is constructed upon an elaborate game metaphor, utilizing the most intellectual of games, and one which represents most graphically the sublimation of aggression and violence, the age old war game of chess. It is curious that the author should choose to conclude his chronicle of sanguinary events with a chess match between the Saïf and the bishop Henry, but the incongruity of this selection is only superficial. By structuring the final episode of his work around the metaphor of the chess match, the author exploits the suggestive potential of the already firmly established theme of game, while focusing more sharply upon the ideological lines and relative manoeuverability of the two opponents. Thus, while le jeu provides the broad, structural context within which the narrative unfolds, chess serves as an aptly chosen metaphorical device by which the turbulent events of Parts 1–3 are re-enacted in miniature.

The Nakem empire is depicted very early as a battlefield, onto which various contenders, intruders, and would-be usurpers venture. Some (Chevalier and Vandame, for example) decipher the rules, yet play the game badly, and lose. Others are manipulated and disposed of at will, as the legendary Saïf calculates and manoeuvres and changes his tactics, adapting his defense to the strengths and weaknesses of each successive opponent. Feint, ruse, and deceit prove to be incomparably formidable tactics against the puerile manoeuvres of over-anxious foes. Nearly every relationship is characterized by deception and hypocrisy. Nakemian politics provides the arena in which a wide variety of game strategy is utilized—diversion tactics, bluffing, charade, front men, “fall guys,” and cheating.

“Dawn” consists almost exclusively of a dialogue between the Saïf and Henry, engaged simultaneously in a chess match, an intellectual skirmish, and a test of wills (the game serving as a pretext for the Saïf's very concrete plans to eliminate the bishop). As the chapter progresses, the move/counter-move format of chess is further accentuated, and the dialogue is constructed from moments of hesitation and mute uncertainty, truncated sentences, and monosyllabic replies.

The most explicit statement of the metaphorical implications of this war game is offered in the final pages:

Just look: the squares, the pawns lined up like soldiers in the night of Nakem, the two fools, Chevalier and Vandame, the two knights, Kratonga and Wampoulo, the two rooks, Kassoumi and Bouremi. Look! The queen. The most powerful of all: she moves in all directions, the others have only one direction. And all that, the whole panoply, is only to save the king's head—your conscience—the immobilized piece. You see? All that! … to defend the king. You face life in a brotherly confrontation of your forces, and you play, you calculate, you play, you adapt, you fall, yes, no, watch out, every move counts, you calculate. …

(pp. 178–79)

In addition to this overt reference, the metaphor of chess operates on several other planes. Let us consider the historical and strategic role assigned to each of the pieces:

1) the king: While he must be defended at all costs, he is not the most versatile piece for he cannot expose himself to capture or death (“king's immunity” makes it illegal for him to move into check). Kings were regarded as spiritual as well as temporal rulers, the same being true of the Moslem caliph (the Saïf's role). The theme of the confounding of politics and religion runs throughout the novel and is suggested by the very checkering of the board. The object of chess is to defend one's king (the embodiment of complete sovereignty), suggesting that power for its own sake is the ultimate object of the game which Ouologuem depicts;

2) the queen: She moves in all directions and is the most powerful piece because of her versatility, mobility, manoeuverability. The most pertinent reference to a queen in this work is that of the Queen of Sheba. On pp. 45–46, one reads: “if it is true that the sons of Ham spoken of in the Scriptures are an accursed people, and if we are indeed a part of that black Jewish people descended from the Queen of Sheba, how do you account for our ability to fight against the white man?” It is conceivable, therefore, that this powerful, versatile piece represents Africa;

3) the bishop: French is the only language in which the chess bishop is a fool. Historically, the bishop's moves are characterized by confinement to squares of one color, while noted also for his weaving attack through small openings in the opponent's line. The bishop, therefore, is synonymous with alertness and long-range diagonal strategy. Ouologuem assigns this role to Chevalier and Vandame, two Europeans, both of whom deciphered the rules of the Saïf's game and attempted (though unsuccessfully) to enroll the people in a plot to eliminate him;

4) the rook: The tour is the only chess piece which is a vehicle, a tool, the other pieces representing human figures. Ouologuem assigns this role to Kassoumi and Bourémi, whose scapegoat role has been noted;

5) the knight: Representing the cavalry, this mounted figure is extremely dangerous and powerful. In Devoir, two paid killers, Wampoulo and Kratonga, are designated as the chevaliers: these two are masters of the lethal art of training aspic vipers to kill;

6) finally, the pawn: Representing the infantry (most numerous, most easily sacrificed, backbone of the army, characterized by his forward motion), the pawn's defining feature is his complete expendability: this notion corresponds exactly to the portrait drawn by Ouologuem of the négraille. The single most significant element of chess play with respect to the pawn and his function in this work is that of “pawn promotion,” “queening.” Good pawn play is for this reason an essential aspect of good chess play. This certainly sheds some light on Raymond's ultimate function, for although his viability as a potential threat to the Saïf and his capacity for effecting radical change remain ambiguous, his potential promotion to a position of high power should not be overlooked. In addition, like the rook, he becomes most effective in mid-and end-game play.

Two final remarks concerning the advantages of the chess metaphor, as a structurally unifying device, bear mentioning. If, as some have suggested, a trend in chess tactics in the twentieth century is for players to depend, “more on advantages of position and timing and less on the capturing of pieces or the winning of exchanges,”⁴ then this indicates another ramification of the chess metaphor on Ouologuem's work, whose final chapter turns on the prescription of replacing violence with ruse, bloody battle with game strategy. Finally, the chess metaphor is aptly chosen for providing a conclusion to a work whose major premise seems to preclude that possibility: stalemate is an alternative conclusion to the game, in lieu of clear victory for either side. The points of suspension with which the final sentence is punctuated emphasize very strikingly the improvisational nature of modern Africa's present and future: “… a dusk fell on the chessboard; … And such was the earth of men that the balance between air, water, and fire was no more than a game” (p. 182). Unfortunately, these points of suspension are omitted in the English translation, and the translator strays somewhat in his rendition of the French text. Since this line is pertinent to the discussion, we offer the original French and a brief comment upon it: “Dans l'air, l'eau et le feu, aussi, la terre des hommes fit n'y avoir qu'un jeu …” The meaning of this line is ambiguous, as indeed it is intended to be: does the author wish to suggest that life is quite simply a game to be played to the best of one's abilities, keeping only the goal of winning in sight? Or is he making a more pointed comment on the nature of the game, by intimating that there is only one which counts when all is said and done? Whichever interpretation one is inclined to accept, game strategy provides a pervasive image in Ouologuem's novel; moreover, it underlies the work's basic structural unity. And if the author is to be taken “seriously,” his own literary game must not be overlooked.⁵ He has set out to challenge our conventional notions concerning l'Histoire (historical fact and fiction), violating the rules of both genres to produce an unprecedented work.

Notes

1. Yambo Ouologuem, Le Devoir de violence (Paris: Seuil, 1968); trans. Ralph Manheim (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. 1971) under the title Bound to Violence. References contained in this paper are taken from the English translation and are signaled by page numbers within parentheses.

2. David P. Henige, The Chronology of Oral Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), p. 5.

3. We are reminded of Pozzo's rage at Vladimir's incessant desire for precise time: “Vous n'avez pas fini de m'empoisonner avec vos histoires de temps? C'est insensé! Quand! Quand! Un jour, ça ne vous suffit pas?” in Samuel Beckett, En Attendant Godot (Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1952), p. 154.

4. Henry Davidson, A Short History of Chess (New York: McKay Co., 1949), p. 181.

5. While one may never know the extent of Ouologuem's iconoclastic objective, it is certainly not unthinkable that the liberties which he took with the inherited, narrative forms and structures represent for him a moral victory of sorts over the time-honored, literary traditions of the West. Cf. Yambo Ouologuem, “Lettre aux pisse-copie, nègres d'écrivains célèbres,” in his Lettre à la France nègre (Paris: Edmond Nalis, 1968).