Black Bazaar (19 page)

The King of Fools hadn't annihilated Moleki Nzela because of any political disagreement, no, it was a tale of lust. The President and his opponent were well acquainted with Mama Fiat 500 who ran the biggest
pleasure business in the country opposite, right in the centre of the district of Matongé, and she kept the high-ranking personalities for herself because, again according to the singer from Sète, you don't wiggle your backside in the same way for a hardware-store owner, a sacristan, or a civil servant, let alone a President for life or an implacable opponent. It was a close run thing as to whether the President opposite and his opponent might bump into each other in front of Mama Fiat 500's door, where each was going to do his business. She knew how to set the timetable, but a traffic jam could mess with all that. Normally the King of Fools would turn up late at night. He came to escape the tantrums of his wife, a real pain in the neck who forced the King of Fools to clean his nails while he was jigging about on top of her even though their whole country, and ours too, knew that she was no Venus.

On the first evening that the King of Fools thought he'd spotted his eternal opponent round at Mama Fiat 500's, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief and turned round several times to face his four fixers crammed into an ordinary car but armed right up to their dental cavities:

“Shit, did you see what I just saw? That man sneaking out by the secret door, over there, on the other side, can you see him? That's Moleki Nzela, my bloody idiot of an opponent who spouts a load of rubbish about me from Belgium!”

The henchmen replied with one voice:

“Oh no, Mr President, Moleki Nzela lives in Brussels. He has been banned from entering this country for seventeen years, we have your presidential decree in our glove compartment.”

He glanced at the decree, and recognised his signature:

“That is indeed my signature … But all the same, are you sure it wasn't him I just saw?”

“Absolutely certain, Mr President! Moleki Nzela, that son of a bitch, is meant to be sick in Brussels and he can't even pay for his hospital expenses any more, rumour has it that he'd like to call upon your goodwill to honour his bills, which are piling up! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Ah, yes, that's right, I have heard that story, I must just be imagining things! That fool will get nothing out of me, let him croak his last over there in Europe! I'd rather pay for his funeral, it would cost the State less.”

The henchmen burst out laughing and praised the presidential sense of humour which, according to them, the King of Fools always exercised. They scrupulously noted down what they referred to as “the President's humoristic nuggets”.

After a little while, the King of Fools stopped laughing. He returned to the attack, as if suddenly bitten by a mosquito:

“Hold on, hold on, hold on, oh no, oh dearie me no, there's something wrong with this story … You're saying it wasn't Moleki Nzela I just saw over there, eh? All right,
but a man still got away on the other side, and if it wasn't that bloody idiot of an opponent Moleki Nzela, then tell me who the fugitive was, eh? Isn't that what I pay you for?”

One of the men, the shortest one who always had an answer for everything, tried to calm the King of Fools:

“Mr President, allow me to point out that there are a lot of girls on Mama Fiat 500's plot of land …”

“So?”

“It's their trade. And she's their boss.”

“So?”

“Just as there are lots of girls, so there are also lots of men who come, who leave, who sneak out by the back door because they need to keep things hush-hush, it's like that every day …”

“Yes, but there is only one Mama Fiat 500 inside! And anyway, you get up my nose, you've always got an answer for everything! Well then, shit, that is why you are not tall!”

“Allow me to offer my apologies, Mr President …”

“I suppose you think I'm impressed by your degree from Sciences Po?”

“Not at all, Mr President …”

“Do you realise that I fought in Indo-China?”

“Of course, Mr President, all the textbooks for our History remind us of this fact …”

“Do you realise that there are important people who study my place in the history of political ideas in this world? Do you realise that even de Gaulle and
Pompidou were frightened of me, eh? Do you realise that when I cough France catches the flu, eh?”

“Quite so, Mr President …”

“Well, I've had enough of short men like you, tomorrow you're fired! You will hand back your black Mercedes to the presidency, along with your villa by the river! Find me a tall man, you imbecile, and preferably one without a degree from Sciences Po! What I'm asking for right now isn't rocket science: I want to know who that man was who just left my Mama Fiat 500's place, do I make myself crystal clear?”

Seeing as the short man with an answer for everything had gone very quiet and teary-eyed, the tallest of the four ventured:

“Mr President, I don't have a degree from Sciences Po, and I'm tall, one metre ninety-three centimetres as a matter of fact … With your permission I would simply like to remind you that your Mama Fiat 500 may be the boss of these girls, but she is yours, and yours alone, Mr President. She only does that thing with you, nobody else may touch her. That said, she does have to eat, to feed herself as it is written in the Constitution that you yourself drew up with wisdom and sagacity, and I quote, if I may be so bold, the sublime Article 15 of our supreme Law: “All citizens, both men and women, must find a way of getting by in life and not wait for help from the founding Father of the Nation …”

The King of Fools was startled:

“That is very badly written! Very, very badly written, that Article 15! Are you sure it's in my Constitution by me, that?”

“Yes, it's in your Constitution by you, Mr President. And in addition, Article 17 as modified by …”

“All right, all right, you can spare me your opinion of-no-fixed-degree! You sat the exams for all the degrees in France but didn't get a single one, and now you dare open your mouth to talk to me about the modification of my supreme Law? Did I ask for your opinion, eh?”

“No, Mr President …”

“Well then, shit, don't open your mouth unless what you have to say is more beautiful than silence! I know my law, because it's my law, and because I am the law!”

“Right you are, Mr President …

“Let us return to serious matters: who was the character I saw leaving Mama Fiat 500's place if it wasn't Moleki Nzela, that complete fool of an opponent who criticises me on the cable channels of Europe with the tacit support of the Whites who are jealous of our diamonds and our okapi, eh?”

Another bodyguard shyly took over:

“Mr President, with your permission …”

“How tall are you, eh?

“One metre sixty-three centimetres, but I get up to one metre sixty-seven centimetres when I wear the Salamander shoes they sell in the Lebanese shops in the centre of town …”

“What have you got to say on the subject of this man who vanished on our approach?”

“As a matter of fact, Mama Fiat 500 has a little business going with the girls …”

“And what has that got to do with anything?”

“What I mean is, there are other customers who come for these other girls …”

“I still don't see the connection!”

“These customers have to go in to Mama Fiat 500's private sitting room …”

“What for?”

“To pay for their session, they don't pay the girls directly, they pay the boss and …”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on a minute … You're not as stupid as I thought, you're the best!”

“Thank you, Mr President …”

“So you're saying that the character who just left is a customer who came for another girl, not for my Mama Fiat 500 who's mine?”

“Exactly so, Mr President …”

“Well, that does indeed change everything!”

“Mr President, we should be discreet and not hang about even if we are in an unmarked car, either we've got to leave or you've got to go and find your Mama Fiat 500 …”

“This is true … But how did I never notice you were so talented before?”

“Because my other colleagues are taller than me, and
it's hard to see me especially when I always walk behind them …”

“So why were you hiding how smart you were from me? Why were you letting these other idiots with their foul-smelling mouths do the talking, eh?”

“They are my bosses, Mr President …”

“Well from this minute on, you are their boss!”

“Thank you, Mr President …”

“I have to go in now.”

“Please do, Mr President, we will guarantee your cover as usual …”

A few days later, when the King of Fools returned to the premises, with the same henchmen, he witnessed the same scene being played out. It was indeed Moleki Nzela who had managed to return to the country opposite by travelling via our country. The four men were first of all dismissed for offences against national security, then eliminated without trial.

From now on four new hefty guards accompanied the King of Fools to Mama Fiat 500's with, as their secondary mission, laying a trap for Moleki Nzela.

Just as Moleki Nzela was coming out of Mama Fiat 500's shack, two henchmen grabbed him, immobilised him and forced him to swallow hemlock.

“At least he'll die a philosopher's death,” remarked one of the henchmen.

The news that did the rounds in the country opposite
was clear: Moleki Nzela was dead following a long illness in a Brussels hospital. The President in his boundless generosity, the press release pointed out, would pay for his funeral and promote this worthy son of the country to the rank of Hero of the Revolution …

* * *

I switched off the telly and the light, and fell asleep thinking about how the new opponent who had just been murdered in Africa would also be promoted to the rank of Hero of the Revolution because “the dead are all brave men”, as the singer from Sète would have said …

My surprises with
Mr Hippocratic weren't over yet. He knocked on my door to invite me to the Roi du Café. He had, he added, something very important to tell me.

I followed him because I could still hear Louis-Philippe advising me to reach out to him. Not that I could see what we had to say to each other. So I let Mr Hippocratic do the talking just as I let our Arab on the corner do the talking.

We sat inside, at a spot that wasn't far from the terrace. Mr Hippocratic couldn't keep still, he seemed to have a case of ants in his pants.

He cleared his throat and began:

“I am not against you, that is why I have invited you here today … I had a bad dream about you. A car ran you over at the Gare du Nord and everybody walked past your body without stopping. I was passing by, I lifted you onto my shoulders so I could drive you to Lariboisière. But it was too late, there was too much blood, and you died in my arms … I cried for the first time in my life. I don't want to go to heaven thinking I'm the cause of your death. So I'm asking for your forgiveness, yes, I'm asking
you to forgive me for everything I've done to you. And if you die today or tomorrow, remember it's got nothing to do with me, I've covered myself with a
mea culpa
… That said, I would also like you to find out who I am and what I think, because I know that you are going to die soon, my dreams always come true in the end. I'm a good person, and an upright citizen, my skin isn't too black, and my nose isn't too squashy. In my opinion, small minds exaggerate the injustice done to Africans when to this day your man in black Africa lives in a state of barbarism and savagery that prevents him from being part and parcel of civilisation. Now take me, I love France, I'm a big fan of white women and pig's trotters, so please understand my anger, it's not directed against you but against all the Blacks who criticise colonisation. You're not like them, it's taken me a long while to realise this, I was very wrong to give you such a hard time. Do you fully appreciate that without colonisation you wouldn't have had blondes, redheads and pig's trotters, eh? Come on now, let's be honest about this!”

A waiter came by with two coffees. Mr Hippocratic looked daggers at him, as if he had committed a crime against humanity.

“Waiter! What are you serving me here? I asked for a cognac, not wild cat's piss! I've been coming here for years, have you ever seen me drink that stuff?”

The waiter shook his head. He appeared to have got the measure of Mr Hippocratic's temperament. He
came back with a cognac.

“And where are my ice?”

“You usually take your cognac without ice, monsieur …”

“Well, today I want ice!”

While the waiter went to find some ice, Mr Hippocratic leaned in towards me:

“Did you see that waiter? I'll have him fired, I swear! His hair's a bit fuzzy, I wouldn't be surprised if he had negro blood somewhere! Take a good look at him, is it normal to employ people like that, eh?”

The waiter put the ice on the table.

“You won't be getting a tip today!” Mr Hippocratic called out after him.

Then he downed his cognac in one before carrying on:

“I hear that some ungrateful Blacks are seeking reparations for the losses caused by colonisation. Come, come. Let us not pick the wrong battle. I say there is much to be gained from the legacy of colonisation. What is colonisation, eh? It is a movement of generosity, it is aid for the small nations in darkness! Do you understand? Civilised beings went to help the savages who were living in trees and scratching themselves with their toes. The natives used to eat each other, without even adding salt to their human flesh! Is that a normal way to behave? In fact, my favourite colonisers are the Belgians. They didn't mess about, those Belgians! To
understand this properly, you need to take a close look at the photos of the natives in the Belgian Congo during the blessed era of the colonies. And let me tell you, they are magnificent! What artistry! There are chopped hands. There are shaved heads. It was the Belgians who invented the number-one haircut, because they wouldn't tolerate fuzzy hair. It was all positive, but the natives could only see the down side. And when the Belgians got annoyed, well, they chopped off the natives' hands and shaved their heads without any other form of trial! Which was only to be expected, considering the natives talked too much without saying anything. They bring you light, they bring you civilisation and other knick-knacks, and you lot still dare to make a fuss in your pidgin French. At the very least you could have said: “Thank you, Bwana! Thank you, Bwana! Thank you, Bwana!” On top of which, those natives were now learning how to pronounce the word
Independence
. But it was the glasses of Patrice Lumumba and Co. that irritated the Belgians most of all, which is why they were keener on that brave sergeant Mobutu who entered the Pantheon of the century's Great Men. Thanks to what? To colonisation, by Jove! Now listen here, just a few days ago I was thinking about how serious the situation was becoming. Luckily we voted in a brilliant law, which enhances the status of colonisation. There was no point in waiting for acknowledgement like that to come from those ungrateful Negroes! They are so black that they
blacken everything, even those truths that leap out at you. I say that the African leaders should be inspired by this law, which restores the glory of colonisation. For example, a banana republic could promulgate a law that recognises the benefits of Idi Amin Dada's dictatorship, of Mobutu's one-party system, of torture in the death camps of Sékou Touré, etc. Isn't that brilliant, eh? And I'm only talking to you about dead dictators here. I don't want any trouble with the ones who are still alive …”