The African Equation (12 page)

‘How can you still have faith in these people after what they’ve put you through?’ I asked.

Lying there wrapped in his cloths, Bruno rested his left foot on his right knee and stared up at the rickety beams on the ceiling. Shafts of light filtered through the cracks in the sheet metal and scattered a multitude of golden coins on the sandy ground. An ash-coloured lizard held itself motionless on the wall, almost imperceptible against the cob. Above its head, a vast, tattered spider’s web moved gently in the draught, like a hanging garden in a state of decay. In a corner, near the receptacle we used as a urinal, two beetles grappled in silence … plus of course, searching for gaps in our mosquito nets, our very own pets, the flies!

‘They didn’t put me through anything, Monsieur Krausmann. I wanted to be one of them and I shared their depravity along with everything else. I did it of my own
free will and I don’t have any regrets. I have an almost religious veneration for Africa. I love its highs and lows, its pointless ordeals and its absurd dreams, its miseries as splendid as Greek tragedies and its frugality which is a doctrine in itself, its exaggerated effusions and its fatalism. I love everything about Africa, from the disappointments that punctuated my wanderings to the mirages that deceive those who are lost. Africa is a certain philosophy of redemption. Among these “wretched of the earth”,’ he went on, drawing inverted commas with his fingers, ‘I’ve known happy moments, and I’ve also shared their worries to the full. These people have taught me truths about myself I would never have suspected in Paris or anywhere in the West. I was born in Bordeaux, in a pretty crib, but it’s in Africa that I’ll die, and it doesn’t really matter if I end up in a mass grave or on some godforsaken dirt track, without a hearse or a gravestone.’

‘Strange,’ I said.

‘I see a country where others see a continent, and in this country, I’m myself. As soon as this piracy business is over, I’ll go off along the “forgotten trails” to catch up with the joys and sorrows I’ve missed because of my confinement.’

‘I wish you courage, Monsieur Bruno.’

‘Courage, Monsieur Krausmann, means believing in yourself.’

And already he was gone, a long, long way away, his eyes closed and his hands crossed over his chest. That was Bruno all over: whenever he praised Africa, he became a poet and guru at one and the same time, and an unbridled lyricism swept him away; without warning, his mind was no longer there, and in the suddenly silent jail, all that remained was his exhausted body, as stiff as a dead man’s.

Three days later, Joma came rushing out of the captain’s office, yelled for someone to fetch Chief Moussa, then, catching sight of Bruno and me in the yard of our prison, screamed, ‘Hey, you two, get back in your quarters, and be quick about it!’

‘It isn’t time yet,’ Bruno protested.

‘There’s no fixed time. Do as I say!’

‘Do as I say!’ Bruno aped him half-heartedly. ‘We aren’t your soldiers.’

Joma kicked over the barrier and rushed at us. I didn’t even have time to stand up. Joma grabbed me by the neck and flung me into the cell. I got up and walked back to defy him. He raised his eyebrows, amused by my sudden burst of pride, brought his face close to mine and breathed his drunken breath in my face.

‘Want to hit me, do you? … Go on, then, show me what you’re made of, pretty boy.’

Seeing that I held his gaze, he pushed me away with his hand, seized the grille and, with a single movement, lifted it and hung it from the hooks cemented into the doorway.

‘What strength!’ Bruno said ironically.

‘Oh, yes,’ Joma retorted, padlocking the door. ‘That’s life. There are those who have guns, and those who can only watch and weep.’

‘For how long, Joma, for how long?’

‘That’ll depend on how brave you are, assuming you’re brave at all,’ Joma replied. ‘“If you wish to fight the gods,”’ he quoted, ‘“Fight them and perish!”’

‘Sophocles?’ Bruno ventured, mockingly.

‘Wrong …’

‘Shakespeare?’

‘Why does it have to be a white man?’

‘I’d be tempted to say Anta Diop, but he wasn’t a poet.’

‘Baba-Sy,’ Joma said proudly.

‘Who’s he? I’ve never heard of him.’

A shudder ran through Joma. He put on the last padlock and rejoined his men, who were running in all directions. Orders rang out, the engine of the sidecar motorcycle roared, and the pirates rushed into their barracks and came out with weapons and baggage. Captain Gerima appeared in the doorway of the command post, his belly sticking out of his trousers and the American army belt around his neck. His eyes shone with a malevolent joy. His hands on his hips, he watched part of his flock getting into the back of a pick-up parked under a canopy. Chief Moussa appeared, spick and span in a made-to-measure paratrooper’s uniform, his boots polished and his beret pulled down over his forehead. He saluted the captain, who returned the salute with lordly nonchalance. The two colleagues walked a little way together, as far as the well, conversing in low voices, then retraced their steps. Chief Moussa took leave of his superior with a click of his heels and ran to join the men crammed into the pick-up.

‘Are they going on a raid?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Bruno said. ‘They don’t usually have to lock us up.’

The pick-up manoeuvred round and headed for the infirmary. From the door of our jail, we couldn’t follow it. I went to the window that looked out on the valley and waited for something that might tell me what was going on. Ten minutes later, I saw the sidecar motorcycle set off in front. When the pick-up reappeared on the other side
of the rampart, my heart leapt in my chest: in the middle of the pirates crammed into the pick-up, I saw Hans, his hands tied behind his back, pinned to the bed of the truck.

The ground almost gave way beneath my feet.

The transfer of Hans plunged Bruno and me into a kind of daze. We had been half expecting it and, now that it had happened, we felt that we had been caught off guard. We were so upset we couldn’t find words to comfort each other. Bruno retreated behind his mosquito net, and I was so dismayed I couldn’t put my thoughts in order.

The sun had not yet set when two guards, rifles at the ready, disturbed our meditation. It was rare for food to be brought to us with firearms aimed at us. Blackmoon placed a tray in front of me with a metal plate on it, in which soup had congealed. He deliberately stepped on my toes and, having attracted my attention, made a sign with his eyes to indicate that the piece of bread that came with the soup had something in it for me.

The pirates left, padlocking the grille. I heard their steps shuffling in the yard before being lost in the noises of the fort. I bent over the slice of bread and tore it with my fingers; a piece of paper was hidden inside. I took it out, unfolded it very carefully and recognised Hans’s feverish handwriting.

His little note was short: two sentences scribbled in pencil and set out on two lines:

Stand firm.

Every day is a miracle.

Against all expectations, it was Bruno who cracked first. His thick shell, formed through forty years’ experience in Africa, shattered into pieces. With a kick, he sent his meal flying against the wall, threw himself on the grille, shook it angrily and then collapsed exhausted on his bundle of cloths. When the noises of the fort faded, he got up and started pacing up and down the cell, breathing harshly, like a wild beast looking for an opening in its cage.

The previous day, at nightfall, the pirates had lit a fire and danced like mad gods to music blaring from a huge radio cassette player. Laughing as he watched them writhing about, Bruno had found them brilliant. ‘Do you realise what a sensation they’d be on the Paris stage?’ he had cried, as enchanted as a groupie in the presence of his idol. I had asked him what our kidnappers were so happy about. ‘The end of the civil war, probably,’ he had replied. Actually, it was the transfer of Hans Makkenroth they were celebrating!

The sun had been up for some time when Bruno decided to show signs of life. He stared at the grille as if trying to blow it up with his eyes, then hoisted himself to his feet, shuffled over to the door, his legs like cotton wool, and grabbed hold of the grille in order not to collapse.

‘Hey, Gerima!’ he cried. ‘Gerima, can you hear me? Come out of your lair, you son of a bitch!’

I ran to him and tried to calm him; he pushed me away and started yelling again.

‘What are you waiting for to sell us on the black market, you bastard? You’re an expert in that, aren’t you? You did well for yourself when you filched rations from your unit. What’s the difference between a hostage and a can of food? Can you hear me, Gerima?’

I put my hand over his mouth to stifle his cries; he bit me and, still clinging to the grille, screamed out all his rage and frustration. A guard hit his fingers with his rifle butt to make him let go; Bruno didn’t even notice. He continued to pour out his anger at the captain, who emerged now from his command post, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Ah, there you are at last!’ Bruno cried. ‘I thought you were hibernating! I order you to let us go right now. This farce has lasted long enough. You’re going to release us, you piece of shit. What right do you have to keep us in this hole?’

The captain signalled to two guards to fetch Bruno. I wanted to go with him, but I was pushed back inside the cell and the grille was banged shut.

Bruno was forced by the two guards to kneel at the captain’s feet. He immediately got up again and resumed taunting the captain.

‘Who do you think you are? Just because you’re surrounded by a gang of nutcases, do you think you can lay down the law for the whole world? You’re just a common highwayman, Gerima, a bastard of a deserter heading for ruin.’

The captain slapped Bruno.

‘Didn’t even hurt,’ Bruno said.

A second, harder slap.

‘Put a bit more strength into it, captain.’

A third slap.

Stunned, Bruno swayed a little. But then he regained his self-control and, driven by some kind of suicidal stubbornness, put his hands around his mouth like a funnel and cried, ‘You’re nothing but a loser, Gerima!’

Gerima threw his head back in a Homeric laugh, then, contorting his features into an expression of outraged hatred, grabbed Bruno by the throat. ‘Now that you’ve made a spectacle of yourself, why don’t you unplug your ears and listen to me for two seconds. I’m not a crook, I’m a soldier. You’re not a can of rations, you’re part of the spoils of war. You’re going to go back to your fridge and be a well-behaved vegetable until the cook comes for you. And if you ever again bring out this pathetic Spartacus act of yours, I swear to God and all his saints that I’ll hang you by the balls until you crumble to dust.’

‘I’m not part of the spoils of war, and you’re nothing but a trafficker of the worst kind.’

A guard made to hit Bruno, but the captain lifted his finger to stop him. He leant over Bruno and said, ‘We’re at war, and I wage mine as I see fit.’

‘Rubbish! You pillage, rape, massacre poor defenceless devils, kidnap foreigners, blackmail governments that are in no way involved in the mess you’ve made …’

‘That’s war!’ the captain exploded. ‘What do
you
know about war? TV newsflashes that come on between the adverts while you’re drinking aperitifs in your cosy
living room, with your arms around your girlfriend? Newsflashes that you register briefly and then forget almost immediately?’

‘Don’t give me that!’ Bruno retorted, totally unimpressed. ‘We’re following your pseudo-war in close-up, and in real time. We aren’t in our living rooms, we’re up to our necks in your shit, putting up with you morning, noon and night. You’re nothing but a pack of bandits who don’t believe in anything, scavenge on corpses and rob from the poor.’

‘That’s war, too.’

‘I’ll tell you what war is. War is a balance sheet. And yours is disastrous. Lots of murderers like you thought that a uniform would lessen their punishment. That doesn’t work any more. Soldiers or not, the International Criminal Court is ready and waiting for them. You’ll end up in front of it, too, and you’ll be judged for your crimes.’

Mention of the International Criminal Court shook the captain: intoxicated as he was with the impunity he enjoyed in this territory where every abuse was allowed, he had probably not foreseen that eventuality.

He swallowed, then grunted with a flagrant lack of conviction, ‘Your court can go to hell!’

‘That’s what genocidal tyrants cry out loud when they swagger around their village squares. Where are they now? In the dock, trying to make themselves very small. However many witnesses you get rid of, however hard you sweep around your mass graves to wipe out all trace of your crimes, your own accomplices will blab every last detail of your murders and rapes.’

Gerima was taken aback by Bruno’s threats. He tried to
appear composed, but in vain. Sweat was pouring down his face, and his nostrils were quivering. Bruno realised that he had knocked him off balance, and that emboldened him to deliver the final blow.

‘The world has changed, captain. There’s nowhere you can escape punishment. The new laws reach far and wide. Wherever you go to ground, they’ll find you …’

Gerima gave a bloodcurdling cry, threw Bruno to the ground and started beating him with his studded belt. Bruno covered his face with his arms and pulled his knees up to his chest to protect himself. In a frenzy now, the captain beat him and beat him, beat him with all his strength, again and again, extinguishing his moans and groans one by one. Bruno could neither get up nor hide behind his bruised limbs. Soon, his convulsions became less frequent and, after a few last jerks and shudders, eventually ceased altogether. The captain continued to strike Bruno’s shattered body as if trying to reduce it to a pulp. It was the first time in my life I had witnessed such a violent, bestial scene. I was overcome, unable to resign myself to the idea that you could attack a defenceless person like that and still call yourself a man.

Bruno spent two nights in the infirmary.

When they brought him back to the cell, they had to drag him. Blackmoon was holding him by the armpit, and another pirate by the waist; Joma followed behind, a revolver in his belt. They laid him down very carefully on his cloths. Bruno asked for something to quench his thirst; they helped him to lift his head and drink from the neck of
his flask. The water gushed over his cracked lips and onto his shirt. After three gulps, he choked and fell back on his straw mattress.

The two porters took off his shoes and prepared to leave.

‘Thanks, Blackmoon,’ I said.

From the way he suddenly clenched his jaws, I realised I had made a blunder. Blackmoon gave me a look that was a mixture of annoyance and fear. I had simply wanted to thank him for Hans’s message; in my pressing need to resume my old habits in order to believe that I was still among human beings, I had forgotten to choose the right moment to express my gratitude. My fear grew all the greater when I noticed that Joma had also given a start.

Much to my relief, I realised that it wasn’t the ‘thanks’ but the name ‘Blackmoon’ that had caught Joma’s attention.

‘What did he call you?’ Joma asked his boy.

Blackmoon swallowed.

Joma gave him a shove. ‘What have you been telling this white man?’

‘I don’t know what he’s talking about,’ Blackmoon said in a small voice.

‘No kidding! So he can read your thoughts now, can he? You have a loose tongue, Chaolo. Make sure I don’t tear it out.’

The three men went out, leaving the door of our jail open.

I went to Bruno. He was in a terrible mess. A clumsy bandage had been tied around his head. His face was battered; one eye was closed thanks to a nasty wound above it; his lips were bleeding in places … He groaned when I touched him with my fingertips.

‘What possessed you to provoke that monster?’ I said.

He smiled at me through his wounds. His laughing eyes seemed to mock me. ‘Undress me,’ he said. ‘My body’s burning.’

‘You fool!’

I took off his shirt as if tearing off his skin. He clenched his teeth, but couldn’t stifle his groans. His chest was covered in marks and purplish scratches. His back had the same blue streaks, with darker patches on the shoulders and hips. I had to let him catch his breath before taking off his trousers. The skin of his knees was peeled, and his legs looked as if they had been attacked with a meat cleaver. There was a deep, suppurating cut on his left calf. The person working in the infirmary hadn’t done much, merely putting poultices over the wounds without disinfecting them and smearing antiseptic over the bruises.

Bruno pointed with his chin at the bag containing the ‘miracle powder’. ‘Put that on the open wounds … Then put the balm above my eye.’

Having nothing else to suggest, I did as I was told.

He watched me with a smile; every now and again, his smile turned to a grimace, then reappeared, enigmatic, absurd, disturbing.

‘He gave me quite a thrashing,’ he said with a hoarse laugh.

‘Where did it get you?’

‘It made a change from the general monotony, didn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand you. You’ve been telling me to be detached and keep a clear head ever since I got here, and now you go off the rails like that. He could have killed you.’

‘I did go a bit crazy,’ he admitted. ‘It happens to the toughest of us … Hans is the third hostage I’ve seen leave. It was as if a fuse blew inside me … I keep telling these sons of bitches that I’m not a hostage like the others, that I’ve been an African for forty years, that nobody in France knows what’s become of me and so no government would ask for me back, but the bastards just won’t listen to me. Even if anybody did ask for me back, I have no intention of leaving Africa. I’m an African, a wandering anchorite. I have no wife, no children, no money and no fixed abode, and my papers are years out of date … Who’s going to bother spending a small fortune on a ghost?’

‘That’s no reason to put yourself in danger.’

‘I’ve had enough,’ he said, out of breath, his smile disappearing to be replaced by an immense weariness. ‘I can’t stand it any more, I’ve had it up to here … I want to go back to the dusty roads, and walk and walk without any particular destination, walk until I pass out. These walls are blinding me.’ His voice was quivering now. ‘They’re stifling me, driving me crazy … I need wide open spaces and mirages and dromedaries. I want to stumble upon a hut in the middle of nowhere, share a shepherd’s meal and take my leave of him early in the morning; I want to turn the corner of a cathedral-shaped rock and run into an old acquaintance, walk with him a little way and lose sight of him at nightfall. I want to see my pilgrim stars again, my Great Bear and Little Bear, and my shooting stars crossing my skies like signs of destiny. And when I’m so hungry I’d take a grasshopper for a turkey, and so thirsty I could drink the sea, I’ll drop by a dive for reformed crooks and get as drunk as ten Poles, then, after spewing worse than a volcano, I’ll wipe my mouth on the whores’ petticoats
and swear on their lives it won’t happen again and set off through the deserts, barely capable of staying upright, to visit the ancient tombs buried in the sand; I’ll bivouac at the foot of a rock and tell myself stories until I end up believing them more than anything in the world … That’s how it’s always been, Monsieur Krausmann, in my life and in my mind. I’m a puff of smoke blown about by contrary winds, my eyes are hunters of horizons and my heels are cut out of flying carpets …’

Broken, exhausted, moved by his own words, he huddled in his rags, brought his knees up to his stomach and made himself so small that his sobs almost drowned him.

Having wept all the tears he had in his body, he raised himself up on one elbow, turned to me and showed me his ruined teeth in a smile as tragic as a surrender.

‘My God, a bit of self-pity does you a power of good every now and again!’

In the afternoon, Captain Gerima came into our prison yard. He began by yelling at a guard, just to announce himself, then appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. His hand on the door, he looked into the corners of the cell, and his gaze came to rest on Bruno, who had retreated beneath his mosquito net.

‘How is he?’ he asked me.

‘You almost blinded him in one eye,’ I said in disgust. I would have preferred not to speak to him at all, but it just came out.

He scratched the top of his head, embarrassed. It was obvious he’d had a bad night: he had bags under his eyes
and his jowls hung flabby and formless over his jaws. To make himself look perkier, he had buttoned up his tunic, which he usually left half open over his big belly – a mark, in his opinion, of the panache befitting a rebel chief. ‘That’s a real pity!’ he said.

He was trying to be conciliatory, but as this was unusual in the life he had chosen for himself, the humility he was attempting to show struck me as pathetic and misplaced. There are people who are merely the expression of their misdeeds, vile because they have no scruples, ugly because their treachery makes them repulsive. Captain Gerima was one of them: if you held out a stick to help him up, he’d grab it to hit you with.