The Catastrophist: A Novel (23 page)

Auguste’s face betrays no reaction.

“He seems to have lost his sense of humor,” I continue. “He was very serious.”

“Stipe was always very serious.”

“I used to find him more ironic.”

“I think you may have misread him, James. When things were going his way Stipe could afford to pretend he didn’t take anything too seriously. But the moment things went against him and his interests, the real man showed himself. Don’t feel bad that you misunderstood this. So did I.”

I rinse the glass and leave it on the draining board.

“He has been plotting to assassinate Patrice,” Auguste says.

I laugh. “I think that’s going a little too far—even for the new Stipe.”

“No distance is too far for the Americans in this. They have brought a scientist to Léopoldville. He is a poisoner.”

I laugh again. This is sounding like an overblown Jacobean revenge tragedy.

“They call him Dr. Joe,” Auguste continues, “but his name is Gottlieb. His mission is to kill Patrice with a special poison.”

At the mention of Dr. Joe I straighten up.

“How do you know this?” I ask.

“The Americans are not the only spies in Léopoldville.”

It’s too absurd. But I don’t laugh. I think of the ridiculous-looking little man scuttling about with Stipe. I know Stipe wants Lumumba off the scene for good. But would he go that far? A shiver runs down my spine. The sense of well-being brought on by Roger’s words drains away. Stipe’s threats ring in my ears and again I find myself thinking about going to him.

I take a last look at Inès. She rests more easily now. She gives me a wan smile when I sit on the bed.

“The plane tomorrow night is the last chance to get out of here,” she says in a small voice.

“I know,” I say.

“We’re depending on you. If you don’t come to pick us up, we have no chance.”

“Does that mean you’re definitely going to Stanleyville as well?”

She does not say anything.

“I’ll come,” I say when I know what the answer is. “You can depend on me.”

There is so much more to say, and nothing to say at all.

Pulling up at my house, I beep on the horn before remembering Roger has sent Charles home. As I get out of the car to open the gates, two ANC jeeps come roaring up the road. I stop to watch them pass. But they don’t pass. Instead they screech to a halt and a squad of soldiers, led by a captain, jump out and surround me. The captain is a stocky man with wide-spaced eyes and a flat face. His teeth are individual, discolored stumps. They have been filed and filled with gold. He asks if I am James Gillespie. I say, rather haughtily, as though it’s none of their business, that I am. He says that I am to come with them to the Central Prison for questioning. Thinking of Roger’s example, I demand to see his warrant. The captain’s reaction is immediate but at the same time unhurried, almost languid. He simply turns to the soldier next to him, takes his rifle and casually smashes the butt into the side of my head. What I feel first is not pain, but nausea, an overwhelming desire to vomit. It’s a new experience for me—nausea not from the stomach but from the head. As I retch, I try to bend forward but the world is no longer ordered the way I know it to be. Sky and earth are moving, they are intent on changing places. The horizon jumps up to my face, then careers away again. My legs are giving way, I am sliding down. Blinking, I look up at the massed brains of the gray-white clouds above. They swirl around and I am sick again. I splutter and choke as the vomit settles back in my throat. It is not easy to breathe. The captain stoops over me. My eyes are not working as they should. He is in vision for a second, sways away, comes back into view. My head spins.

“Where is Auguste Kilundu?” he demands.

I hear him clearly. My ears are working at least.

“Where is Kilundu?”

I try to speak, but nothing comes. I am not sure what I want to say. To tell him I don’t know where Auguste is or that I do. I concentrate on getting some words out. The effort causes a wave of nausea to rise. I shut my eyes. The next thing I feel is a blow to my stomach and suddenly my lungs are airless. I let out a groan and gasp to breathe. I feel a sharp pain in my temple. Someone may have kicked me in the head, but I cannot be sure. Panic grips me. I am thinking about brain damage and ruptured internal organs. I am worried they will go too far, that they will kill me before I get to the Central Prison. I want to shout out that I will tell them everything.

I feel myself being dragged to my feet. I think I may have pissed myself. The captain is laughing through his filed, peg teeth.

I lie curled up, the side of my face pressed against the oily, ribbed metal of the jeep’s floor. The captain, sitting with his feet at the small of my back, bellows and screams and every now and then he jabs a rifle butt into my side or kicks at me. The kicks are not hard. His boots are restricted by lack of space. I keep my eyes shut and pretend not to hear or feel. All I want is blackness. I want to embrace numbness, to fold into nothing. I want to trust in others. The ambassador. My editor. Alan. Stipe. Grant. George the U.N. press officer. Roger. Anyone. They will do things. I cannot do anything. I do not want to do anything. I just want to lie here wrapped in the cocoon of my pain. I do not want anything to change. If they change they will get worse. Better not to think. I do not even want to try to get my fear under control. The effort is too much. Easier just to give way, to let things take their course, to be led—even if it’s to the torture chamber. To think is only to create in the present the terror of what is to come.

The captain leans forward and puts his mouth to my ear. He screams so loudly I cannot hear the words. He straightens up again, muttering something to his men in a tone of disgust, and—almost as an afterthought—slaps my ear with his open hand. He pulls up my left hand and yanks the watch from my wrist. Someone else is going through my pockets. The captain spits at me and I feel the tickle of his phlegm sliding down my neck. He kicks my arse. The blow causes my legs an involuntary jerk, and I feel the wetness. I
have
pissed myself.

The embarrassment of this. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want this to be happening. Let me go, please, it’s nothing to do with me. If you call Stipe he will explain everything. He will tell you that I’m not a Lumumbist. I’m not on their side, I’m not on anyone’s side. I see all sides. My craft demands it. I am against things, yes, I admit that. The things of intolerance and illiberalism. I am against dogma and certainty and ideology and all the things that close our options. I am against. I am not
for.
I am
for
nothing. I can’t be.
Je suis un homme-plume.
I live for words, my life is in words. You must understand. Only words, and words cannot be
for
because they have already described everything. They know too much, they know where everything leads. They undercut, they expose, they stand apart, they refuse to be drawn in. They are not involved and I am not involved. Not in anything.
Je suis un homme-plume.

The captain kicks me in the head.

It’s useless. I know it. My justifications will not work. I must think. If I am to survive I must force myself to think.

The jeep jolts sharply. My head bangs on the metal. At least the nausea is subsiding. My senses are making an unsteady return. I run my swollen tongue over my teeth. I think they are all there. But there is blood, thick and salty and sweet tasting. I find the source, a gash on my lower lip and I suck at the blood. I suck hard because the hot liquid is me; I am taking myself in, I am reassuring myself, loving myself, reminding myself of me. I am real. My blood makes me real and worth preserving. I must think. I must work out a version of events to give them. The journey to the Central Prison will take fifteen to twenty minutes. Once I am in the interrogation cell there will be no time to concoct a story. I must come up with one now. Something plausible. I must use these precious, shuddering minutes.

What do they know? Start there. What do they know? Think. Think. Think. The black Citroën. The car that seemed to be following us last night when Roger gave me a lift home. Was that the Sûreté? Were they following us, keeping us under surveillance? If they were they may already know everything. They would know that Inès came to me after Roger dropped me off, that I drove to Harry’s shack the next morning—this morning; ages have passed. They would know that I went to Houthhoofd’s house, that Roger joined me there later with Inès. They would know that Auguste was there as well.

But they don’t know. A triumph! Yes! They don’t know where Auguste is. So they weren’t following me, at least not all the time. Then why have they arrested me? Think. Think.

They’re going on a hunch. It has to be that. They know about me and Inès and they know about Inès and Auguste. They are doing what investigators anywhere would do. They are bringing in a known associate of a wanted man for questioning. They have nothing specific against me.

Confidence starts a slow infiltration into my head. Perhaps this situation is not as impossible as it seems. I can deny everything, including the most compromising fact of all, the thing that started this: I can deny that Inès was ever in my house. There is a blow to my knee. They are all kicking at me now, front and back, and they are spitting. There are gobs in my eyes and nose and chin and hair. It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I can handle this. I’m in the clear. I can deny everything.

I can deny everything.

Yes.

Absolutely everything . . .

Charles.

Oh no. Please no.

Charles.

Think.

The houseboy will tell them everything. Why would he not? He has no loyalty to me. I inherited him. He came with the house. Part of the goods and chattels. I kept him on. I tried at least to be a reasonable employer, paying slightly over the going rate, being flexible about his hours, but he rebuffed all my attempts to get any closer. He doesn’t like me. Why would he not tell them about Inès? He is Bakongo, and they are no lovers of Lumumba. He has probably already told them. There was a white woman in the
nókó’s
bed when I arrived for work this morning. A small white woman who was sick. The
nókó
told me not to let anyone in to see her except the English doctor.

They will guess the woman’s identity immediately.

What does this mean for me?

Nothing good, nothing good.

It’s hopeless, it’s useless, hopeless.

The English doctor.

It’s getting worse. They will go to Roger. Why did I involve him? Accomplices always betray. How long will Roger’s high principles hold out? Not long. Roger is a law-abiding man, and these people will soon convince him that they are now the law. He may make a protest, he may deliver an indignant lecture, but the protest will be small, the lecture brief, they will be for form’s sake.

Then he will tell them.

I can still deny it.

Why not?

His word against mine.

What if they search the house and find something of hers? Is there anything of hers to find? A piece of clothing perhaps. All right, so there’s a piece of woman’s clothing, but that doesn’t mean it belongs to Inès. Or that she left it there last night. They won’t believe me.

We must be near the prison now. A minute or two away.

They won’t believe me. I was wrong to start thinking. Why didn’t I stay in my womb of pain and bruises?

Time is running out. I have to get my story straight.

I make my decision. I shall deny Inès was ever in the house. I will say I haven’t seen her since—when was the last time? Independence day. I saw her in the Palais de la Nation on independence day. June 30th. On the press benches. Almost five months ago.

And Auguste?

I have not seen Auguste either, not for many months. I certainly would not help him, in any way. I can use his theft of Inès from me to give this statement extra weight—I will keep this in reserve. A trump card; I will not play it too soon. As men they will understand. Why would I help the man who cuckolded me?

What else? I must work through the corollaries of my denials.

I saw Roger last night but only because I picked up a slight wound in the shooting outside the Ghanaian ambassador’s residence. I have not talked to him since. Whatever he says. Keep it simple.

My movements this morning?

Where can I say I have been? I cannot risk giving them the name of a third party. The lie would be too easily exposed.

I went for a drive.

I went for a drive to look for “color” for an article. I am a journalist. Yes, a drive around Leo. An observer. A watcher. Collecting details for an article. No. This sounds too much like spying. And if you are a spy you are a Belgian and if you are a Belgian you are a para. Color for a novel.
Je suis un homme-plume.
Nothing more, nothing more.

The jeep judders as though passing over a ramp. We are arrived. I cannot stop myself from trembling. We come to a halt. I hear the sound of a heavy gate closing behind us. The soldiers’ boots hit the concrete. At least I have got my story straight. It has the advantage of being a simple series of denials; it has the disadvantage of being untrue.

The soldiers grab me and haul me out of the jeep.

We are in some kind of courtyard. To one side is the perimeter wall and main gate, to the other a low gray concrete block. Three men in shabby uniforms lounge by the block’s entrance, a rust-colored steel door. They regard me with little more than mild interest, though they cannot have seen many white men in here. I may even be the first. Then I remember that Smail has been arrested. He may still be here.

The captain shoves me from behind and the soldiers frog-march me towards the block. One of the shabby guards unlocks the steel door. He shares a joke with his friends as I pass inside.

I have the impression the captain may be insane. In the dark tunnels below the prison he screams and laughs hysterically. I do not think he is putting on an act. The two soldiers who have continued with us are quiet now and I notice they avoid his eyes. He jabbers sometimes, as though to himself, rapid, disconnected speech.

At the end of a long, gloomy passage, we come to a barred gate beside which a man in drab and dirty civilian clothes sits at a desk. Before him is a large book, like a hotel register. The captain pushes me forward and I flop against the gate. The two soldiers pull me roughly up and push me back against the wall. The captain commands the man in civilian clothes to open up. There is an exchange in Lingala. I understand enough to know that the civilian is asking for the prisoner’s details—name, age, nationality, suspected offense. The captain shouts angrily. The civilian insists. He also seems to want the captain’s signature. This the captain refuses to give and he starts to rant. The civilian, in a reasonable tone, tries to interrupt, but nothing can stop the captain. He goes on and on.

I use the distraction to review my story. Deny everything. Inès did not come to the house. I have not seen Auguste. I don’t know where he is hiding.

There is a flaw. There is a terrible flaw in my calculations.

Auguste and Inès are at Houthhoofd’s house. What if Madeleine should go there tonight? What if she brings another lover to the bed in which Inès and Auguste now lie? My plan had been to divert her, but now I cannot. She will want to go to the house. She will call me and when she can’t get me she will call another. She will open the door and realize immediately something is wrong. Her senses are sharp. She knows smells. She will smell another presence, she will smell a woman, she will smell the malaria. She will sniff out the
macaque.
She might confront them. She may even be armed. Madeleine often carries a gun. She knows how to use it.

Everything is lost. I was right. This is hopeless. I should never have brought Auguste to Houthhoofd’s house. What was I thinking of? I thought I was being clever but I’ve led myself into a trap.

The captain continues his rant. The civilian remains impassive and unimpressed.

I drop my head. I bend over and put my hands on my knees to rest. I feel depression and despair close on me. My legs are weak. My head is dizzy. And then—with the sudden blinding clarity of religious revelation—I understand that I am protected. They can do nothing to me. I feel the despair lift in an instant. I have more protection than any ambassador, any editor, friend or politician, can provide. My knowledge is my protection. I don’t have to undergo torture, I don’t have to die. I don’t even have to be here. I can tell them what I know. Why should I help Auguste? I hate him. There are times when I could have killed him myself. I ask myself could I live with the knowledge that I had betrayed Auguste? I picture myself in London, in my flat, ten years from now, twenty. Would I sleep at night? Would I be tormented by feelings of guilt? Would I look inside myself and see only blackness and weakness and selfishness and hate? And I know the answer. Inwardly I’m already apologizing to Inès. It’s not difficult. I have let so many people down over the years that I carry my apologies with me always. Still, part of me means it this time. I am sorry, Inès, for all that I’ve done, for all that I am about to do.

The captain, still by the desk with the civilian, looks over at me and shouts something, a command, a threat. The soldiers haul me up and shove me back against the wall. I must stand, not slouch, the captain commands. I ignore him. I am not afraid. I must talk to Stipe. Telling the captain will guarantee me nothing. I shout out that I want to talk to Mark Stipe at the American embassy. I shout out two telephone numbers and repeat the name—Mark Stipe, Mark Stipe.

The captain screams at me to be quiet.

I take a breath and go on. I want to talk to Mark Stipe at the American embassy. He is a friend of Mobutu. He is a friend of mine. He will want to know I am here and he will want to talk to me. I have important information for Mark Stipe. Only for Mark Stipe.