The following days flew by at a brisk pace, between the subsidiary's offices near Analakely and the residence perched on the heights of Ambatonakanga. Johary introduced me to other candidates, and I ended up hiring two promising profiles. First Rina, a 25-year-old developer from the highlands, trained at the University of Antananarivo. She mastered Python and the basics of our software, with an infectious energy that reminded me of my early days in IT. Then Andry, an experienced manager in his thirties, from the east coast near Toamasina. He had already led a small team in a local telecom company and seemed perfect for overseeing day-to-day recruitment.
I validated their contracts by email with headquarters in Paris, and Johary handled the Malagasy administrative formalities, with those official stamps and cascading signatures that are part of bureaucratic life here.
Work was progressing well, but after five days, the jet lag fatigue and the routine caught up with me. The weekend was approaching – it was Saturday morning – and I wanted to discover a bit more of this city that disconcerted me so much. Tana, as they call it here, with its steep sloping streets, zebus pulling carts amid the 4x4s, and visible poverty everywhere, from children selling fruit on street corners to families crammed into red-brick houses. But how to go about it? I had no guide, and Johary had gone to join his family for the weekend. While rummaging through my wallet, I came across that napkin scrap with Ennemiah's number. Why not? She seemed to know the city, and it was just for a friendly visit, I told myself. I hesitated for a moment, thinking of my wife and children in Paris, but it was innocent. I sent a simple message: "Hello Ennemiah, it's Damien from the bar. If your offer for a visit still stands, I'm free this afternoon."
Her reply came almost immediately: "Of course, vazaha! Meet at 2 p.m. at Lake Anosy. I'll wait for you near the war memorial." I smiled despite myself. Lake Anosy, Johary had told me about it – an artificial heart-shaped lake in the city centre, bordered by jacarandas that bloom purple in October, even though it was November and petals still carpeted the ground. It was an iconic spot, with its small island in the middle where a commemorative statue from the First World War stands.
I took a taxi to get there, avoiding the pousse-pousse that climb and descend the hills with incredible endurance. When I arrived, Ennemiah was there, leaning against a railing, in a light dress made of lambahoany fabric printed with traditional Malagasy floral motifs. Her braided hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her dazzling smile contrasted with her smooth, matte skin glowing under the tropical sun. She had a natural, almost instinctive sensuality: the way her dress hugged her slender curves, accentuating the sway of her hips when she turned, or how she ran a hand through her hair while laughing, releasing a subtle scent of vanilla and ylang-ylang that floated in the humid air.
"Damien! You look rested," she said, kissing me on both cheeks in the local fashion, her body brushing against mine for a moment too long. I blushed slightly, surprised by this immediate closeness. We started walking around the lake, where families were picnicking on the grass, street vendors offering mofo gasy – those little fried rice cakes, crispy on the outside and soft inside, which I tasted for the first time. Ennemiah bought two, insisting I bite into one: "This is real Malagasy, not like your French baguettes!" Her laugh was musical, and she looked at me with those huge, sparkling eyes, as if I were the centre of her world.
During the walk, she told me anecdotes about the city: how the lake was dug in the 19th century by Queen Ranavalona to irrigate the surrounding rice fields, or the fady – local taboos – that forbid pointing at the water out of respect for the ancestors. She walked close to me, her arm brushing mine with every uneven step on the cobblestones, and I felt the warmth of her skin against mine. "You're married, aren't you? But here in Tana, we live in the moment," she murmured, leaning toward me, her warm breath on my ear. I nodded, mentioning my wife and my now-independent student children. But she didn't let go, asking questions about my life in France while slipping in compliments: "You seem so strong, so experienced... Men here aren't like you."
We continued toward the Analakely market, not far away, an organized chaos of stalls selling everything: spices like bourbon vanilla, exotic fruits – juicy mangoes, fresh lychees – and colourful lamba fabrics. Ennemiah negotiated with the vendors in Malagasy, laughing heartily, and offered me grilled zebu skewers spiced with ginger and chilli. "Taste this, it's romazava in street-food version," she said, handing me a piece, her fingers deliberately brushing mine. Her sensuality was everywhere: in the way she bit into a fruit, letting the juice run over her full lips, or how she almost danced while walking, her hips swaying to the rhythm of an invisible distant music – perhaps a hiragasy, that tradition of songs and dances I sometimes heard in the streets.
At one point, she stopped near a fountain, took my hand to show me a view of Independence Avenue, and let her fingers intertwine with mine. "Come on, we could go further, maybe to Tsimbazaza, the zoo with the lemurs. Or to my place, for a real Malagasy meal." Her gaze was direct, laden with a clear invitation, and I felt my pulse quicken. She appealed to me terribly – this vitality, this raw beauty, so different from everything I knew. But a moral dilemma gnawed at me: I hadn't come here for that. My wife, our twenty-five years of marriage, the children... I gently withdrew my hand, claiming fatigue. "That's kind, Ennemiah, but I have to go back. Thank you for this incredible visit."
She pouted, but didn't insist too much, slipping another kiss on my cheek, longer this time, her lips brushing the corner of mine. "Tomorrow, maybe? Call me." I nodded vaguely, but on the way back to the residence by taxi, along the lively streets of Isoraka, I felt troubled. Rejecting her advances was becoming harder; her image imposed itself, sensual and enchanting, and I wondered if I could hold out much longer. But no, I couldn't. Not like this.
That evening, I called my wife to tell her about my day – omitting certain details, of course.