The Catastrophist: A Novel (15 page)

“Why on earth would you do that?” I ask, taken aback. “This man’s obviously a charlatan. Why would you vote for him and his party?”

I sense Cleophas wants to answer but is afraid of offending me.

“I would like to know,” I say, modifying my tone, making it less strident, “but only if you want to tell me.”

Cleophas gathers his nerve.

“I will vote for the MNC because Mr. Lumumba is the only leader who tells us we do not have to be poor forever, that if we unite as one nation we can use the riches of the Congo for the people of the Congo.”

From the checkpoint comes a shout. I look over to see two soldiers angrily confronting Stipe. He raises his hands to show he intends no aggression. A soldier pushes him roughly. I start forward.

“No, James,” Auguste says instantly. “The soldiers are bad men.”

The soldiers shout at Stipe, waving their arms hysterically. He looks over and signals for me to stay put.

“Please get in the car, sir,” Cleophas says, “and be ready to drive. I will explain to the soldiers.”

Before I can say anything he has set off to the checkpoint. Auguste and I watch as he walks submissively towards the soldiers, his hands open, his arms by his sides. He goes up to the surrounded Stipe and starts to intercede for him.

Auguste and I get into the car. I start the engine. Behind us, the crowd is getting heated, responding to the candidate’s oratory.

A soldier raises his rifle butt as though about to strike Cleophas. He lowers his head but does not attempt to defend himself. The soldiers gather round and shout at him. They push him forward and back. He endures everything, he says nothing. Stipe remains still. Cleophas starts to plead again for him, whispered intercessions. From time to time the soldiers threaten him into silence, only for him to begin again.

The candidate’s speech continues to cheers and chanting. Suddenly, the tribesmen rush to surround the car. A warrior with a spear jabs at the headlights as though taunting a chained beast.

“Go, James,” Auguste says. “We must go.”

I edge slowly forward towards the checkpoint. The warriors bang the hood and roof and slap the windshield with their hands. I press on the accelerator and slowly increase our speed. When they flock in front of us I put my foot down sharply. The warriors spring out of the way.

I accelerate to the roadblock. They give chase and throw a few stones, then jeer and laugh at us.

Cleophas hurries over.

“The soldiers are good men,” he says. “They are Bamongo people, far from their villages and they are very frightened.”

“Will they let us go now?” I say.

Cleophas looks back at the soldiers. One of them nods tersely.

Auguste calls Stipe to the car, reaching over to open the back door. Behind, the tribesmen seem to be preparing to rush us again.

“What about you?” I ask Cleophas. “Will you be all right?”

“I will be all right, sir,” he says. “Thank you.”

His eyes are muddy, without definition; the irises have a kind of grayish bloom around the edges.

“Go, James,” Auguste urges me as Stipe jumps in the back.

The soldiers stand aside. I put my foot down. Auguste waves to Cleophas and we shoot through the checkpoint.

Something flies in through the open window behind me. I look back to see an arrow impaled in the armrest of the near-side back door an inch or two above Stipe’s knees.

“Roll up your window,” Stipe shouts.

More arrows hit us, not from behind, not from the village, but from both sides. Men leap from the elephant grass, hundreds of them. One appears on the road ahead of us and launches a spear. It skims the hood and cracks the windshield. He jumps out of the way as our speed gets up. There is a rifle shot.

I turn back to see the soldiers at the roadblock fleeing towards the village under a shower of arrows and spears. Cleophas is nowhere in sight.

“It’s a Lulua attack,” Stipe says.

I press my foot to the floor. I wish Inès had been here. I wish she had been here to see the triumph of this her new cause.

I will write the article they want me to write. It’s a good story, they did not have to work hard to convince me of that. I will write it though I know what it means for Inès and me. I will write it
because
I know.

Stipe and Houthhoofd do not get down to business straight away. First there are long cool drinks on the verandah during which there is an account of our escape from the village. Houthhoofd reacts with a shrug. What can you expect? There will be worse to come unless strong measures are taken. But the government in Brussels has a weak stomach; it’s up to the
colons
themselves to bring order out of the looming havoc.

Afterwards, Houthhoofd takes us on a brief tour of the estate. I don’t know that I’ve seen anywhere in the world as beautiful. It is early evening and the sky is red and gold. The views are long and calming. I can imagine an early morning climb to one of the huge boulders on the hills overlooking the valleys where the thorn trees and baobabs rise out of the yellow grass of the savannah. There I might spend the whole day alone, my thoughts going nowhere, the scenery for balm. Noises in this place come softly, unwilling to disturb or clutter. In such a setting I might be free of Inès.

Houthhoofd shows me copper clearings where the mineral is so dense in the ground trees cannot grow, and he tells me that Africa is a poor continent with a handful of extravagantly rich areas. Katanga, the size of Britain, is one of the richest.
The
richest. The mines of the Union Minière and Forminière provide the world with eight percent of its copper, sixty percent of its uranium, seventy-three percent of its cobalt, eighty percent of its industrial diamonds. Katanga has gold, silver, tin, zinc, manganese, columbium, cadmium, tungsten, tantalum; its supplies will never be exhausted.

At dinner Houthhoofd asks rhetorically, “Can we trust these riches to a man like Patrice Lumumba?”

Stipe is unusually silent; he lets the Belgians make the running—is he feeling guilty about turning on his old friend?—in tandem with the man I have been brought to meet: Victor Nendaka. Nendaka is one of Lumumba’s closest aides, vice chairman of the party. He made a name for himself when he forced the Belgians to release Lumumba by telling them he would not bring the MNC delegation to Brussels for the roundtable conference without his leader. I know him. I met him in Auguste’s house in the cité, the night I first saw Lumumba. He struck me then as a man of limitless insincerity. He is sleek and self-satisfied and has a specious charm. I have always thought he would make a good pimp. He owns a bar, a travel agency and an insurance company.

I am only half listening. I have already made my decision. I am in any case distracted by another of the guests. Madeleine is here. She is having an affair with Houthhoofd, it is obvious from the extent of their discretion, from the care with which they avoid each other’s eyes.

She sits opposite me. Something strange is going on in my head. It is to do with sex. With Inès I enjoyed a sexual life I had not thought possible. Inès’s physical preferences are direct. She is not prudish, but I cannot really say she is adventurous. Not like Margaret, who loved to be surprised, demanded it. With Inès, there was very little foreplay—she was easily aroused—and she liked it best with me on top and she wanted that I get there quickly. The variations didn’t hold much for her. To begin with, I did not think her simple tastes could sustain my interest. But they did. I found sex with her profoundly, deeply satisfying—moving. I never knew I could feel so good afterwards. I remember looking forward every night to going to bed. Waiting for her to finish what she was doing, telling her to hurry up, sometimes saying all right that’s enough and taking her by the wrist. I suppose one reason I loved it so much was because I seemed to be pleasing her so much. (A terrifying thought strikes me: am I overestimating how much I pleased her? Am I deluding myself, typical man? Perhaps her disillusion with me is no more than the disillusion of the bored sexual partner? If I pleased her so much, would she be so distant? Perhaps, like Bovary, I took her happiness for granted; and perhaps, like Emma, she found happiness elsewhere. I fight down the thought, it makes me sick in my stomach.) I loved it with her. I needed it. I could say that it was more important emotionally than physically—and it is true my emotions were sparked by our intimacy, then soothed and calmed. I could say this and claim for myself a kind of sensitivity. But the truth is I relished her, the squeeze and the smell and the wrap and the fit of her. When I was jammed inside her and could hear her hard breath, could feel her heart pound and the quiver in her leg. Then my body was alight, all my senses. The pleasure of it, the pleasure . . .

It is not until tonight that I realize how much I have missed this part of my life. Since arriving in the Congo, I have almost forgotten about women. I cannot remember the last time Inès and I made love.

The sight of Madeleine arouses me. As Houthhoofd speaks I am entertaining fantasies of fucking his mistress. I let the red wine seep into my imagination, staining it, dirtying it. Her thick blonde-silver hair is tied back as usual, showing off her long, slim neck and little ears. I want to bite them and whisper things to her.

“He’s dangerous,” Houthhoofd is saying. “He’s the most dangerous man on the African continent today.”

I suppose I should say something to make it look as if I am interested. I keep a lazy, insolent eye on Madeleine as I remind Stipe that he has many times sung Lumumba’s praises. An outstanding man, was his earlier verdict.

Stipe shrugs. “I tried to keep Patrice on the straight and narrow, so did Bernard, so did everyone else, but Patrice is headstrong.”

“He’s unstable,” Houthhoofd interjects. “I think he may be mentally ill.”

“He uses dope,” Stipe tells me.

I look skeptical.

“It’s true, James,” Stipe continues matter-of-factly, without any special emphasis, sure of his case. “I’ve seen him in his office smoking weed with his cronies and a couple of pretty secretaries hanging around, who, incidentally, he’s balling. In a country of swordsmen, our boy is a veritable D’Artagnan.”

“I have nothing against a black government if it’s a government led by responsible men,” Houthhoofd says.

“Do you have a particular responsible man in mind?” I ask without interest.

I am thinking about kissing Madeleine. She has stayed out of the conversation, she has barely looked in my direction, but I know she is aware of my gaze. I lean back in my chair, drain my glass and stretch my legs out straight under the table, crossing my ankles. A houseboy refills my glass.

“In Leo there is Kasavubu,” Houthhoofd continues. “He used to be a firebrand, very anti-Belgian, and he’s an introverted and solitary man, but he’s become more stable recently. In Katanga there is Tshombe. He’s not quite as stable—in fact he’s a playboy and a gambler—but he knows enough to listen to good advice from businesspeople.”

In the boldness of my reverie I summon up the image of Madeleine as she stood before me at the Regina’s poolside, dressed in her black swimsuit. I remember the heavy breasts and the little ridge of weight on her belly. I remember her nervousness when she tried to pick me up. Why didn’t I go along with it? We might even have gone up to her room then and there. I could have pushed her against the wall and pulled down her top and licked her nipples. I could have pushed her knees apart and pressed my cock against her. I could have turned her round and slapped her palms against the wall and pulled her back and tugged the swimsuit over her arse. Why didn’t I do it? What did I deny myself for? For Inès? For the nothing she gives me, for the pain she inflicts? Fuck you, Inès. I’m going to fuck Madeleine, I am going to fuck her. As soon as I get the chance.

“Lumumba is taking money from the Soviets.”

The conversation has been rolling on. I haven’t really heard any of it. I look over vaguely at the present speaker. It is Nendaka.

He says again, “Lumumba is taking money from the Soviets.It’s intolerable.”

I look at the fat bar owner. I can’t think of anything to say. I’m not interested. I’m interested only in Madeleine. I am quite drunk. To Nendaka and Houthhoofd and Stipe my lack of reaction seems to cause some consternation. They exchange glances. I’m giving the impression of a man not easily impressed.

“Is that so surprising?” I say at last.

I look across at Madeleine. Stipe starts to say something about how Lumumba has flirted with the Soviets, like he’s flirted with everyone else. But taking Red gold at this point is a big statement about the direction he’s taking the MNC and about his plans for the Congo post-independence.

I put my foot on the bar of Madeleine’s chair. I move my leg and press against her calf. She looks suddenly up. I hold her gaze.

“We have copies of the financial records—lodgments, transfers, withdrawals,” Houthhoofd is saying.

I press. Madeleine raises her glass and takes a shallow sip. Slowly she licks her lower lip, puts the glass down, gives me a look, then turns to the others. Nendaka is announcing that he is going to lead a breakaway faction of the MNC. He says he will split the party in two.

I nod my understanding, thinking of Madeleine with her palms against the wall, her swimsuit snagged around her ankles.

Houthhoofd is summing up. The MNC will soon be split. Business won’t accept the party’s program. The officers of the Force Publique won’t accept it. The black soldiers won’t accept it. Katanga won’t accept it. Patrice Lumumba, Houthhoofd concludes with satisfaction, is finished.

Over the brandies Houthhoofd stares at me, wordless and cold. I don’t care. I feel like the young lion eyeing the old. Madeleine sits as far away from me as possible and fusses about her lover. Stipe tries to cover up with small talk. He’s not good at it.

Houthhoofd suddenly asks if I make my living from journalism. There’s a barb in his tone.

“And books,” I say.

“Books?”

“I’m finishing my fourth novel at the moment.”

He stares at me with contempt, and even I can hear how the word
novel,
spoken in his presence, sounds weak. If I’d said I liked to build model boats or collect postage stamps he would not have looked at me with any less disdain.

For the first time that night I feel disadvantaged, suddenly put down, even a little panicked, and all because of what I do. Even Stipe, who loves books, thinks, at bottom, that writers are of no account. I stop fantasizing about Madeleine; the semi-erection I’ve had since dinner shrinks away.

We set off at noon the following day, after a formal interview with Nendaka. As Auguste loads our bags into the Chevrolet, Madeleine lets drop that she will be in Leo next week.

The road back to the Kasai is a tunnel into cruelty and grief. The destruction is terrifying. Villages and hamlets are burned-out, see-through. Refugees choke the roads.

The thatched classroom has been burned to the ground. A pink piglet with a crooked hind leg snuffles about in the dirt but otherwise nothing moves. There are dark, fly-flecked stains on the ground, probably of blood. We come to a stand of acacia trees, where we find the first bodies. They hang, naked and mutilated, from the drooping branches among the abandoned weaverbirds’ nests. The skin is taut and ballooned, as though pumped up with air. I walk up the desolate road with Stipe. He is carrying his gun.

“What the fuck were you thinking of last night with Madeleine?” he says. “I thought any minute you were going to take out your thing and start waving it around.”

I do not say anything. I am embarrassed. The thought of Inès makes my heart heavy. I wish I were back in Léopoldville, I wish we were out of this awful, nameless, limose place.

Glancing about I see something lying at the edge of the track which looks repellently familiar. It is covered with a heaving mantle of buzzing flies. It is a limb, a leg, severed high up; still attached is part of the pelvic bone. A little further on is a hand, then another one. There is something lying in the grass. A length of twine. I am about to pick it up when a small cloud of flies rises up suddenly and I see it is attached to a man’s genitalia. Where is the owner? What agonies did he go through?

Auguste calls to us. We walk back to the trees. He has found Cleophas. The teacher’s wide, flat feet are swollen. His killers have left him his shirt and tie, but his old patched trousers are gone. And now I know who the owner is. What can we do except stare?