Stringer (25 page)

“Maybe a kilometer more,” I said.

He agreed. “Inside we will be safe.”

But the guards would not admit him. I hounded them, saying Serge was my cameraman. I pretended to lose my temper. They said no papers, no entry. But we knew that if Serge had been white it wouldn't have mattered. Serge pulled me aside. He was rubbing his hands over his head, looking distraught, expecting me to produce a solution. We were silent for some time, on the edge of the road. I could not imagine him having to return that
way. Serge said the sooner he left the better. We made a feeble handshake, our palms only sliding—I watched him trudge into the darkness; he looked nervous, and I felt I was to blame.

Armed soldiers, UN, leaned against the compound's high walls. At the gate was a tank from whose hatch emerged a soldier who looked something like a centaur. Inside rows of cars were parked in the sand. The earth was washed-out, and even small stones cast shadows; the halogen lamps blinded when I looked up. Before me was the hall where the results would be declared. I was told the venue normally served as a school.

The hall was packed with journalists. Dignitaries trickled in, each outdoing the other in tardiness. We looked expectantly at the vacant microphone on the rostrum. The crowd made a low chatter. I had brought along a novel, but it was too hot to read. I began to sweat; my mouth went dry. It was like being in a minister's waiting hall—I felt returned to another Congo, a place without urgency. We seemed forgotten. I slipped into an agitated half slumber, my hands on my pockets, over my phone, my bag tight between my legs.

It was four hours after the scheduled start when the commissioner was ushered onto the stage.

Old-fashioned cameras whirred on both his sides. Parked outside the hall was a TV van—small satellite dish atop—transmitting live across the country. I took a seat close to an exit.

The commissioner, beneath his dark suit, had worn his tunic; and it was this sheer, collarless shirt of an abbot that more than the suit gave him protection and authority. He cleared his throat; the crowd hushed. His raspy voice echoed on the high ceiling. There was applause when he congratulated the people on the achievement of democracy, and on rising to meet the historic challenge. He then drew a piece of paper from his pocket and slowly unfolded it. In near-perfect silence he called out each province's name and, in the manner of the tedious radio broadcasts,
the number of votes for each candidate; he stumbled while pronouncing the large figures. He kept us in suspense until the end. Kabila had won.

I stepped out of the hall and relayed the news to the editors in Dakar. I was again the AP's reporter of choice in Kinshasa by this time—the correspondents had stayed for the day of elections and then, the excitement over, had left for other countries. A flurry of activity broke out as I finished up my call. The compound's gates were flung open and, as a long burst of gunfire emanated from the street, the commissioner's convoy—five, six, seven black cars, skidding over the dirt—swept away. The crowd, which had surged forward, following the commissioner, suddenly fell back; gunfire responded from elsewhere in the darkness. The UN centaur pulled his tank's hatch over him. The gate slammed shut.

In the air a shrill humming noise grew progressively louder and ended with a thunderous crash a few feet from the compound: mortar bombs, launched high above us. A soldier yelled that no one should go indoors, so we stood with our bodies flat against the compound wall. Gunfire began to shell the wall's other side, sounding in our ears like hail. Then there was a shout to look up. We saw the figure of a man clamber over the roof's point and into a shadow.

The cry “Sniper!” created new panic. I ran with the others, half tripping, into the hall; the stage and rows of chairs were now empty. The bright lights made it impossible to see outside—one felt blind. And the crowd began an excited hubbub that was amplified by the hall's echoes. A soldier came in and tried to calm the group; but the noise turned into a din. Some of us went outside. We sat not far from the hall entrance, on a stretch of pavement under the building's eaves. It felt safer here. Before us were the compound's high walls, which I noticed were topped with broken glass, in maroon, purple, green: the colors of beer and soft drink bottles. And running around the compound, over
these shards of glass, was thick barbed wire, twisted in large circles. Other journalists joined us on the pavement, some on the phone, some lighting cigarettes. A few preferred to sit inside their cars.

More troops arrived, with fresh cries. I became fatigued. The tank by the entrance was joined by another. I filed nonstop, via telephone; the AP wanted every last detail. The shooting that night, one sensed, had been less a surprise than a deception. No one knew for certain, but it seemed that Bemba's and Kabila's troops were in combat; only the next day would we know that soldiers loyal to the two leaders—all officially in the national army—had overrun Kinshasa.

The violence had paused. A group of photographers made their way to the gate, armed with large cameras. I joined them, tempted to peep out of the compound. There was nothing to see: it was too dark. What streetlights had been working seemed to have been shot out in the battle.

I called Serge at 3:00 a.m. He was still awake. I did not know whether to believe him that the shooting had never reached Victoire. In any case it seemed unlikely that I would be able to make it to Bozene that night.

The soldiers were, at intervals, allowing cars to leave. I moved around the crowd, scanning faces. Richard Bentley was there, looking collected, surrounded by a group of journalist friends who would no doubt sleep at his hotel suite. I skirted them, passed some other groups that also avoided my glances, and came upon two stringers—American and British—who looked equally lost. They asked if I might be willing to share the cost of a room at one of the big hotels. One of them had a car.

The soldier waved his arm. His mouth opened and closed, but I did not hear; our car shot out of the compound and hurtled down the street. The engine beat loudly. From a gap in the window a sharp wind hit my face.

I grabbed the handle above my window and looked out,
searching our surroundings for unusual movements. The buildings passed too quickly. Ours was the only car visible on the road. The American turned off our headlights, and I reclined in the backseat. My body was thrown from one side to the other.

The hotel, as we arrived, appeared as a large and silent block. It was in an area of the
ville
sheltered from the Boulevard. The sky was a faint rose color. We found the main doors barred by an iron grill. I shook them; a guard appeared and directed us to a side entrance. The lights in the lobby were out. There was no music. I passed tall potted plants that looked frail but had been polished. I relaxed. Even without the lights it was evident that this was an environment cared for, tended to; and soon we—unkempt, dirty, tired—would also be looked after, made part of this quietness.

I asked the receptionist, who wore a clean uniform, for a standard room. “We raised prices,” he informed me. When? Since midnight, he said, returning to his register. He tore out the receipt. The stringers had moved to a narrow window in the lobby, where they had lit cigarettes, and leaned out in succession. They said they needed to calm their nerves. I left them for the room.

For many months I had wanted to live in the
ville
. When I had first arrived in Congo it had stunned me—the wide roads, the skyscrapers; it had seemed so peaceful and ordered compared with Victoire. But the transaction with the receptionist recalled, and in a way confirmed, my decision to not move. The transaction made plain to what extent my safety here, bought, was without compassion, and temporary. Such was the
ville
: bound by money, unwelcoming, and in a sense unoccupied, exterior to society. The poor saw it as a place to riot, as a route for escape to a better life; for the rich the
ville
was a shield, a way to keep distance from the menace of the shantytowns. It seemed the most modern part of the city, but the
ville
was in fact the most lawless: it belonged to expatriates, politicians, and
nouveaux riches
,
people to whom the law—the written law as well as those of the streets, of the Donut Society—did not apply. The
ville
obeyed only a most primitive law: force. That plant in the lobby had given a false impression: its frailty I had instinctively taken as a sign of protection. But to exist in the
ville
one needed iron grills, security systems and guards with guns. The orderliness, the feeling of sanctuary: they had deceived.

My impulse was therefore to get away—and I began to think to the morning, to my next flight.

I got into the elevator with two girls. There was a shudder, and the elevator began to rise. I twitched to every click and movement of the machinery.
“Bonsoir,”
one of the girls said, in a sweet voice, before looking at her companion. “Would you like to spend the evening with my friend? I would take you myself, but I have a
rendezvous
.” The elevator doors rolled open with a roar and before me was an open space, dimly lit.

The corridor was decorated with framed pictures of abstract birds and ears of rabbits. The carpet was colored pale mustard. Its floral motifs seemed to glow.

My key-card slotted clumsily into the socket; the lock clicked and buzzed. “Aren't you going to be lonely?” the girl said, from behind. I had not thought she would follow me. Her top was tight; she looked timid. The handle felt large to my grip. I leaned with my weight to open the door. I told her our bed was going to be full that night.

This bed was large, plush, white. A quilt came down its sides and touched the carpet. The bathroom smelled of disinfectant. I fiddled with the taps. The tub was dry, of a cream color. And the room's large window opened onto the Boulevard, whose towers rose and seemed to touch the cover of dark clouds. The view was vertiginous.

I tucked myself in, ruffling the cotton sheets against my neck. My limbs slackened. My thoughts eased. The Boulevard seemed distant. The stringers arrived before I was fully asleep, and I
rolled to the bed edge. Soon they snored, establishing a throbbing peace. I stared at the clock's green digits. I meditated on the evening. Gradually, the blinking of the digits became heavy to my eye; and at some point in the night they began to make a soft beating in my mind. The stringers didn't sleep soundly either. I got up to go to the bathroom. The carpet tickled my soles, and I felt the sensation run in my jaw, over my teeth. There was a scratching on the door. It repeated. I looked through the peephole and opened the door a crack. It was the timid girl. She had taken off her shawl, and thrown back her shoulders exaggeratedly. “I like your physique,” she said, swaying.

The sun's golden glow fell on the curtains, which rippled from a slight opening in the window. I stepped to the view.

The city was utterly calm. Pillars of smoke billowed from places but I could not tell if they were due to the battle. In fact I was able to discern little about the urban expanse: the pedestrians seemed small, nearly absent. The shacks of neighborhoods were reduced to two-dimensional shiny roofs. I was too far away to hear the radios and pestles. The roads were filthy. I smelled an odor of citrus. Nothing corresponded: the room was a void and in it I felt severed. The city seemed grotesque, a noiseless machine moving urgently but without implication.

I spent the morning watching the street in front of the hotel; and just before noon, though the taxibuses had started to run, I hired a hotel taxi, a gray Mercedes, to take me to Victoire. The driver insisted I pay in advance. I sat in the back of the car, by a window, with one arm stretched over the length of the seat.

The day seemed to have begun with the typical fracas. On the Boulevard shops had shut, and outside a popular travel agency were haphazardly parked UN jeeps. But the roads were jammed as usual. Women walked in groups, bearing baskets of vegetables and sliced coconut on their heads. Children played with bicycle
rims, propelling them forward with twigs. When the bureau called I was assured and brisk. “Nothing to report,” I said. “I'm on my way home. Kinshasa seems calm—”

“What?” the editor said. “Who told you to go home?”

“The fighting is over.”

“Do you have a flak jacket and helmet?”

“No.”

“
Wait
a minute.” He paused, muttering. “Don't you live away from town? What made you think you could just go? Why didn't you call us?”

“Man, I live in Victoire, not at the hotel. My money and passport are at home. What do I do if they shut down the roads?”

“The roads? Don't you get it, Anjan? What do we tell your mother, that they shut down the roads?” He was shouting now. “You have
no
idea what's going to happen in that city! There was a fucking battle last night! You should have stayed at that hotel!”

“Fine, all right—let me think,” I said. “I'm in the car already.” And I placed my phone beside me on the seat.

When we came to the turn for the Avenue des Huileries, which led to Victoire, I told the driver to keep going.
“Tout droit?”
His hands hesitated on the wheel. I made him go a mile or so and then turn, past the South African embassy, some distance away from the main road, toward the river, until we were driving past the low walls of the Indian margarine factory.

The factory belonged to the Rawji Group, the billionaire Indians. I had come here twice before, to do interviews for business stories. I did not know the owners particularly well—I was told they were wary of journalists. But they had operated in Congo for many generations, through the wars, coups and dictatorships; and they had much to lose from a prolonged battle: no business in Kinshasa matched this factory's scale and investment (its margarine was almost a necessity in Congo). I only wanted to stop for a few minutes—I thought it would be worthwhile to gauge the level of vigilance here.