The Catastrophist: A Novel (22 page)

“Oh, I’ve always had a good view of my motives, Auguste. But I think perhaps you’re in the dark about your own.”

“You think it is wrong to want justice and equality?”

“Those aren’t motives—just words, and rather overused ones at that.”

“I disagree.”

“They’re not words that motivate me—or anyone else I know.”

“They motivate the people I know.”

“Obviously we move in different circles.”

We drive on towards town through the torrential rain.

“There’s a roadblock about a kilometer from here,” I say to Auguste. “It would be best if you hide in the back.”

As he climbs into the trunk and waits for me to close it we realize we are thinking the same thing.

“Have you any idea how I feel about you?” I say.

He flickers.

“Have you thought even for one second what seeing you does to me?”

He hasn’t. It never occurred to him to spare a thought for me. One of love’s privileges is to excuse the lover from the normal, everyday duties and responses. We allow the newly in love certain dispensations. We condone, at least for a time, their self-centeredness. But that doesn’t make this thoughtlessness any easier to bear. I look down at him. We both know he is entirely in my power. I could deliver him to the soldiers at the roadblock. Or to Stipe. I could make up a story for Inès. I could be rid of my rival forever. I slam the trunk shut. We both know I could do this. We both know I won’t. I know my motives better than he. They drive me in one direction. He is safer with me than he can imagine.

Passing the Regina it occurs to me to make a precautionary telephone call. I park the car on Avenue Moulaert and shout back to Auguste, still hiding in the trunk, that I will be five minutes. The storm has passed and the rain has eased a little, but it’s still heavy. I leave the car and make a dash for the hotel. Inside I see Grant talking to George, the U.N. secretary general’s press officer. They shout their hellos and ask if I will join them for a drink. I make my excuses and go straight to the public telephones. I dial my own number. There is no sense in being amateurish about this, there is too much at stake. The phone rings twice.

“Hello?”

It is Roger.

“It’s me. Is everything all right?”

“Ah, James. I’m glad you’ve called. I’m afraid there’s been a little activity. You’ve had some callers.”

My heart thumps in my chest.

“Yes?”

“Military.”

“I see,” I say, my voice uncertain. “Is everything all right?”

“I think so.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

“Not in so many words, but they were rather keen to come in.”

“Is Inès all right?”

“Oh, yes,” he says brightly. “Don’t worry. I sent them packing. Told them not to come back unless it was with a warrant.”

I laugh with relief. I can imagine the scene: Roger facing down an armed body of ANC soldiers with nothing more than the unshakable conviction of the English middle classes that officialdom must always act legally and correctly. It wouldn’t have surprised me to hear he had cited Magna Carta in support of his refusal to allow the soldiers entry.

“However,” he continues, “I think it’s probably not a good idea for Inès to stay here much longer. I have the feeling they may be back.”

“Is she fit to travel?”

“A short distance only. She’s a little better, but still quite weak.”

I fall silent, trying to work out a solution to this latest complication. I am not sure how much I can ask of Roger.

Before I can say anything he speaks again. “I can take her to my house, if you’d like. The coast seems clear now.”

Relief and gratitude flood into my voice as I thank him. But then I think of the possibility that they might raid Roger’s house now they’ve seen him at mine. Nor do I feel comfortable about asking him to shelter Auguste as well. I am sweating heavily in spite of the hotel’s air-conditioning. I glance around, trying to marshal my thoughts. Grant and George are having their drink at a white table near the swimming pool. I feel terribly tired and sticky. My feet are hot and swollen. I wish I could take off my shoes and all my clothes and dive into the pool. I wish I could float face up with my eyes closed and my ears below the surface. I wish I could lie down. I think of Madeleine. It was here, by the poolside, she flirted with me, and I with her.

“James? Are you there?”

Madeleine. The solution comes to me.

“Yes—yes, I’m still here. I’ve thought of something.”

I give him the address of Houthhoofd’s house on Eugene Henry.

“And Roger,” I add, “it’s probably a good idea not to let anyone see that you have a passenger.”

He says he understands. He will put Inès in the back seat and cover her with a blanket.

On my way out I run into Stipe talking to two U.N. officials on the concourse. He seems different, cooler towards me, as though he knows something. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that of course he doesn’t know, that he’s often like this when he’s “working,” that it’s only my nervous imagination. But even when he asks about my foot there is a hardness in his tone. Just a scratch, I say, smiling too much. Nothing to worry about. As the officials move off I spot someone coming towards us.

“Isn’t that Dr. Joe from Paris?” I say, eager for an opportunity to divert him.

Stipe’s face darkens and he signals to Dr. Joe to wait a moment. The bizarre little man stops and tries to look inconspicuous.

“One of your shadier friends,” I say lightly.

“Just someone who’s here to do a job,” he says.

“What job would that be?”

Stipe looks at me with small, hard eyes.

“You wouldn’t be trying to fuck me, James, would you?”

“What?” I say, shocked by the question and the tone.

He stares at me.

“It’s just that there are rumors,” he continues.

“What rumors?”

“Certain MNC sympathizers and people who have been under surveillance have dropped out of sight. They’ve left their houses, their jobs. Other people have been overheard on the phones taking care what they say, obviously talking in code. Something’s going on.”

“You’ll tip me off, won’t you, whatever it is?” I josh matily. “You know I don’t like to miss out on stories. It makes the paper think I’m not doing my job.”

He looks at me like a parent who suspects his child of lying, but—short of a full confession—cannot prove it. I know all I have to do is keep my mouth shut, but part of me is desperate to confess.

“I know as a matter of principle you don’t like to get involved,” he says. “This isn’t the time to change the habit of a lifetime.”

“You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”

“Have I?”

“Very much,” I say, struggling to maintain my act.

His mouth tightens. “I hope so,” he says. “I really do. I won’t bullshit you. Inès is in a lot of trouble.”

I don’t have to act. I can feel the blood drain from my face. I am like a drunk fighting to keep upright, concentrating on keeping the contents of my stomach where they are.

“If she comes to you—”

“I’d be the last person she’d come to,” I put in quickly.

Perhaps too quickly. He stares at me bleakly.

“If she comes to you,” he repeats slowly, “you can do her a big favor.”

“What would that be?” I ask.

“You can tell me where she is.”

“Why would that be doing her a favor?”

“Because I’d try to keep her alive.”

I let out a nervous little laugh.

“This is all suddenly terribly melodramatic,” I say as lightly as I can.

He glares at me.

“You find the idea of Inès ending up in a torture cell in the Central Prison amusing?”

“Would they do that to a foreign journalist? Would they torture a white woman?”

Stipe snorts, amazed by my naïveté. He looks me up and down.

“You really don’t know where Inès is? You’re telling me the truth?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Call me if she tries to get in touch. I can help her. I can help you too, because if she drags you into this you’re going to need help.”

He nods to Dr. Joe, who scuttles over. The little man’s chin is coarse with blond-brown stubble. There is an odor about him like bad eggs. He avoids looking me in the eye.

“Let’s have a drink soon,” Stipe says.

He and Dr. Joe leave together. I follow after them. The rain has stopped. I watch as they walk past my Mercedes to their own car.

I am trembling as I get in behind the wheel. I do not immediately start the engine. I sit and think about Stipe’s offer of help. Was he being truthful with me? Would he help Inès? And if he did, what would be the price? The total price? Surrendering Auguste might be a down payment only. He might want more from Inès and she would give nothing. I see Stipe’s Chevrolet make a right turn, heading down to Boulevard Albert I. I think about driving after him, stopping him and confessing everything. I watch as the car stops at the bottom of the street, indicates left, waits for a space, pulls out and disappears.

“Are you okay?” I ask Auguste.

There is an answering murmur from the trunk. I turn on the engine and put the car in gear.

I close the gates behind us and—leaving Auguste locked in the trunk, which gives me a malicious little thrill—walk to the back of the house where the windows of the washroom are not shuttered. I lift a stone from the garden, check to make sure I am unobserved, then break the glass.

I am coming out the front door when I hear a car pull up in the street. I hurry to reopen the gates and let Roger through. Together we help Inès into the house. The fever has broken but she is exhausted. We take her to the main bedroom and set her in a chair while I prepare the bed in which Madeleine and I have spent many afternoons and nights.

“Auguste?” Inès says in a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Auguste’s safe. Everything’s going to be all right.”

I ask Roger if he thinks they were followed.

“Not as far as I could tell,” he says, looking around the room. “Rather nice place.”

“It belongs to Bernard Houthhoofd,” I say.

Roger raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry. They’ll never think to come here. Houthhoofd’s in Katanga and there’s only one other person who uses the house.”

“What if he shows up?”

“She won’t. I’ll make certain of it.”

I leave Roger to tend to Inès and go to the Mercedes. Auguste stretches and rubs his shoulder when I let him out of the trunk. I give him the suitcase and I take the typewriter. As we enter the house he asks about Inès.

“She’s in there,” I say sourly as Roger comes out of the bedroom.

Auguste goes to her.

Roger, a little embarrassed in a situation the like of which I feel certain he has never encountered before, says matter-of-factly, “By the way, I hope you don’t mind, but I let the houseboy go for the day. He kept on about having to cut the grass, but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to have him around, what with the military and so forth.”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, I think I should be on my way,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I’m playing tennis with one of the U.N. chaps. American. Terribly decent fellow. Might have dinner at the Zoo if we can get in.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

“Think nothing of it,” he says quickly, as though to stave off an embarrassing display on my part.

He checks his bag and pats his pockets for his keys.

“I didn’t have a vote, of course,” he says on his way out, “but if I had, I would never have voted for Lumumba. Not likely. Rather too headstrong for my tastes. But the point is he won the election and I know we’re all supposed to be grateful to this Mobutu chap for restoring order, but there is actually a principle here.”

“Yes, indeed,” I say, though I am not too clear about what principle Roger has in mind.

“Dictators always arrive with excuses,” he continues. “Mussolini had his and so did Hitler and so did Franco. But the fact is one shouldn’t have any truck with them. It’s quite wrong.”

“Yes,” I say.

I find myself absurdly moved by Roger’s simple precepts, particularly because there are risks he does not seem aware of. I give him a brief version of what Stipe told me in the Regina. He is blasé.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’m a personal friend of the ambassador. If they try any monkey business with me they’ll soon find out who they’re dealing with. Same goes for you. You’re a British citizen.”

His insouciance is infectious. I feel suddenly as though a great weight has been lifted. Confidence sweeps over me. I can see Stipe’s threats in perspective. We will come through this. I extend my hand and when he puts his in mine I squeeze it with emotion, grateful not just for his practical help but for the lift he has given my spirits. None of this seems to register with him. He appears utterly oblivious both of the gratitude and the feeling behind my gesture. He says only that he has left some more chloroquine for Inès on the bedside table. I go out to open the gate for him. He gives me a polite little nod as he drives off for his tennis game and his aperitif and his dinner. When he is gone I feel as though I have lost a trusted friend.

I walk to the bedroom door. Inside I see Auguste on his knees by the side of the bed. He holds Inès’s hand in his and whispers to her. She makes little sounds in response. He strokes her brow and I can stand it no more.

I go to the kitchen and fix myself a gin. It is only just after three, but I suddenly feel exhausted. I remember that I did not go to bed last night. I have not eaten all day. I will go home. I will have a shower, then call Madeleine. I will suggest she come to my house instead of meeting here as we usually do. She will agree to that. I have never allowed her into my house before. She will be curious; perhaps she will think the invitation presages some new development in our relationship. In any case she will come.

I hear a noise behind me. It is Auguste.

“You’ll have to be as quiet as possible here,” I say. “There are a few tins of stuff in the cupboards and there are beers in the fridge. I wouldn’t turn on the lights. It might attract unwelcome attention. Better just to get an early night. I’ll be back tomorrow evening to pick you up. What time should I get here?”

“Before eight,” he says. “The plane will be at the airport at nine.”

I down the last of the drink.

“I ran into Stipe at the Regina,” I say.