The Catastrophist: A Novel (26 page)

“I have some news you probably don’t want to hear,” he says. “First thing tomorrow morning you’re going to receive official notification that your presence in the Congo is no longer welcome. They’ll give you three days to wind up your affairs. It’s for the best, James, believe me.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I was going to leave anyway.”

“We should get you a doctor.”

“Yes. Get Dr. Joe. I’d love to have a talk with him.”

I give him a hard stare.

“Remember what I said about preserving the context,” he says.

“How can I forget?”

“Let’s have a drink at the Regina before you go. It’ll be on me.”

“That would be nice.”

“Call me.”

He beeps the horn and gives me a friendly wave as he drives off. It’s as though he were doing no more than giving me a lift home from work. Why not? For him it has been a normal day, I suppose.

The house has been searched. My clothes and papers and books have been thrown about, ripped, torn, broken. It’s not important.

There was nothing of any value here. I won’t need three days. What affairs have I to wind up?

I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I snort with amusement at my hideous reflection. It’s authentic at least, the result of genuine experience. One day I will draw on these cuts and bruises and the terror and pain they caused. I run a bath and soak in it for an hour or so. If anything, the pain seems worse when I get out. I drop the towel and stand naked in front of the mirror. I pinch the spare flesh at my belly and sides. What Stipe said about me is true. I am old and shabby.

I should know better, but I am only half done. I pat myself dry taking care to avoid the more tender areas around my ribs. I put ointment on the cuts and swallow four painkillers. My lower lip is torn and badly swollen. It will need attention.

Driving into town, I wince with each gear change, each turn of the wheel. I keep a close watch on the rearview mirror. I make a U-turn on the boulevard and drive back almost as far as the turning for Avenue de la Gombé. I pull over, pretend to look for something in the dash, and glance around as I start off again. There is no one behind me. I should know better but I head toward the house on Eugene Henry anyway.

I cannot decide whether I have been heroic or silly. I can be stubborn and resentful and sometimes buoyant, hard to wear down. But that’s not why I did not tell them what they wanted to know in the Central Prison. I did not betray Auguste because if I had I would have lost her. And because I kept silent I will lose her forever. I should know better. This is the stuff of farce, not tragedy. I can see myself on the stage, and I am laughing.

Lumumba stands at the front of the
barque,
his glasses glinting in the last of the sun. Behind him, the old boatman works the craft across the river. The clumps of water hyacinth drift past, the spotter plane circles above. Little Roland is bleeding and crying. His mother is in a distraction. Inès and the others of our convoy who have not already crossed the Sankuru walk to the jetty in their own trance. They cannot believe he is recrossing the river. Nor can the soldiers. He had slipped away from them yet again. Now he is coming back, of his own accord. We watch in stupefied silence, as at the inexplicable workings of some strange natural phenomenon. We all know what this means and are at a loss to understand. Why would a fugitive come back to face his own death? As the
barque
nears us, Inès cries out, “No! Patrice, no!” He makes no sign that he has heard her. His long, thin form is still, his face sculpted and disheartened. Only when the wood of raft and jetty meet and the Baluba soldiers rush forward to take him does he tremble. I see fear penetrate him then, a prevision. At Mangai this morning he told his followers he would be betrayed and tortured and killed. The soldiers jabber with excitement as they bundle him towards their lorry. As we—his companions on this reckless, planless flight—gather round, the soldiers push at us, angrily, violently. They haul Lumumba up to the first of the lorries. An NCO tries to tie his hands behind his back, but the soldiers are already beating him. They are beating him like a dog, settling scores for the massacres in the Kasai. The NCO struggles determinedly but the whirl of limbs and fists defeats him. Exasperated, he complains to his comrades. Around me, people turn away, unable to watch. I look. Of course I look. It is in the nature of my profession. It is in the nature of me. The soldiers leave off their beating to allow the NCO to fulfill his orders and secure the prisoner. Once his hands are tied they start again, as though a referee had blown a whistle. The lorry jolts forward. We stand in its diesel-drenched wake and watch until it disappears from view. The remaining soldiers hustle and harass us, demanding to see our papers, checking identities. I turn to look for Inès. She is by the sky-blue Peugeot with Pauline and Roland. She gazes across the river. Somewhere on the other side Auguste is hurrying through the bush. She hopes he will find safety. She hopes they will be united again. She did not get to kiss him goodbye. The spotter plane is gone. One of the women sitting by the baskets of boiled eggs and
pilipili
and the mounds of little silver fish folds some sweaty banknotes and pushes them between her breasts. She has made a sale. There is always time for spectators to eat.

This didn’t have to happen. The whole episode has been shambolic, ludicrous, unnecessary. In three days we covered only four hundred miles. Poor going. The roads are not so bad, the rain has for the most part held off. We should have been within striking distance of Stanleyville by now. Our failure . . . I keep inadvertently slipping and saying
our, we.
It comes from nothing more than the fact that I am here in this place with these people; the meaning beneath my presence is clear to everyone. I am still not part of this. I am here through accident, default, chance, caprice, stupidity, bad judgment . . . Our failure is not surprising. What I have seen since we left the capital has been time-wasting, disorganization and incompetence. I have seen confusion and blundering, lack of direction and leadership. Sometimes panic. We have been constantly at the mercy of rumor. I did not see a plan. I did not see anyone who could think fast on his feet, who could come up with viable and realistic alternatives once things began to go wrong, and they went wrong right from the start, when the convoy approached the airport only to be told there was no Egyptian plane. They held one of their interminable meetings, even though Lumumba’s escape might be discovered at any minute (
escape
is hardly the right word here, it is to imply drama and daring when in fact all he did was crouch on the floor of the car that left the Primature and drove unchallenged through the U.N. and ANC cordons). Some argued that they should wait, that Nasser would not let them down, that the plane would come, others that they should try to get to Brazzaville. In the end they decided to make for Stanleyville, where Gizenga has organized an army to fight against Mobutu and his new ally Kasavubu. They would need cars for the long journey. Good cars. There were so many people. They needed my car. I could easily have handed over the keys. I was going to abandon it in any case within three days. Instead I went along with them. I went for the exactly same reasons that I said nothing in the Central Prison. I went along, a bit player in the farce of his flight. It was an uncomfortable, exhausting journey for my aching body and I found it difficult to eat because of my gashed lip. But there was compensation—the compensation I had been relying on. For almost the whole three days Inès was beside me. We were not alone. In the back there were never fewer than three of her comrades. Not Auguste though. Once we got under way he transferred to Patrice’s car. The leaders had to confer. I think Inès may have been a little disappointed that she was not invited to partake in their decisions. She was quiet at the beginning. Then she became more talkative, at first with her comrades, then with me. When we stopped at Bulungu they held an impromptu rally. We were wasting time, but there was no persuading him. She came to me then and looked at my wounds. She is a good and loving carer. The smallest sign of illness in me always brought out her nursing instinct. She kissed me and hugged me, a friend, a sister. She asked questions. I did not tell her much. I did not tell her about the captain or Stipe, but I did say that I had seen Smail’s body. Her eyes filled with tears, but she set her jaw and fought them back. “I have made a rule,” she said, “no more tears.” She put her little hand in mine and I closed my fingers around it. The sounds of Lumumba’s speech and the murmuring crowd came to us softly on the wind. I was reminded of a balmy day when I was a boy at school and the masters decided to take the whole school to a field on the mountain. We sat in the sun, an easy breeze riffling the pages of our books, the hum of our teachers and the other classes a low buzz in the air around us. It was special, different, there was a kind of magic about it. It was the sort of day which made a child think that life had other, hidden possibilities, that it was not all on the surface. I felt like that with Inès. I felt dreamy and warm, and when she spoke of her hopes and plans I held down my usual irritation and listened, happy just to hear that voice again, to let myself be lulled by her song, to be convinced—if only for a moment—that there are other ways of seeing things, that it’s not all on the surface.

There is another way to describe what happened at the Sankuru River. Another way to tell the story of Lumumba’s escape from house arrest, the race to the airport, the disappointment there, and the long journey which ended at the crossing near Port Francqui. My way, Inès would say, is inadequate. Were she to hear it, she would claim not to recognize the events it purports to describe. Hers is the other way.

They see him as a fugitive, even those closest to him like Auguste and Mulele and Kemishanga, but that is not how he sees himself. He is the elected prime minister, the leader of the independent Congo, head of state, and he carries himself as such. And soon everyone sees that this is what he is. They see the dignity of his bearing. He is a man who is always in motion, who is always going here and there, who is never still. His movements are graceful, never hurried or jerky. He puts people at their ease at once, for though he is the prime minister and all the world knows his name he has not forgotten what it is to be of the people. At Bulungu, our first stop after a night of driving, he goes to buy provisions in a little store. The people recognize him at once, for his face is striking and handsome. Word spreads and by the time he is ready to leave the villagers have gathered. Stay and talk to us, Patrice, they say. Explain what is happening. Tell us why the Belgians sent their paratroopers to kill and burn. Tell us why they sent arms to Tshombe in Katanga. Tell us why the U.N. have come and why they refuse to go. Tell us why the Americans have helped Mobutu and Kasavubu. And he talks, explaining everything. They bring us food to eat and beer to drink. They do not want him to leave, they want their prime minister to stay with them. He promises he will never desert them, that he will be back, that the cause he and so many others have served will triumph. He tells them that they have the right, which no one can take away, to an honorable life, to unstained dignity, to independence without restrictions. He tells them that the Belgians and their allies have corrupted some of their compatriots and bribed others, that they have distorted the truth and brought independence into dishonor. He tells them that his own actions have been criticized, that some said he spoke too rashly in the Palais de la Nation and that he has spoken too directly many times since. But how could he speak otherwise? Dead or alive, free or in prison, it is not he who counts. It is the Congo, it is the poor people for whom independence has been transformed into a cage. He tells them he knows in his heart that sooner or later the people will rid themselves of all their enemies, that they will rise as one to say No! to the degradation and shame of colonialism, that they will regain their dignity in the clear light of the sun. And he tells them they are not alone. In Africa and Asia, the free liberated people will always be found on the side of the millions of Congolese who will not abandon the struggle until the day when there are no longer any colonialists or mercenaries in their country. Mulele and Mungul and Auguste and Pauline all urge him to be on his way, that the soldiers cannot be far behind. He says that neither brutality nor cruelty nor torture will ever bring him to abandon the cause to which he has dedicated his life. If they capture him, he will never beg for their mercy. He would prefer to die with his head unbowed, his faith unshakable, and with profound trust in the destiny of the Congo rather than live under subjection and without principles. History, he tells them, one day will have its say, but it will not be the history that is taught in Brussels, Paris, Washington or the United Nations, but the history that a free Africa, north and south of the Sahara, will write. A glorious and dignified history. At last they get him into the car. But it is the same again at Pukulu, and the same again at Mangai. He tells the people that their independence has to be defended, that he will defend it, even with his life. Pauline tugs at him, pleading with him to come away. Some say there is a spotter plane in the air, that the soldiers are on their heels. He speaks gently to his wife and caresses her, he lifts up his infant son and kisses him. He is the husband you know would always be kind, the father who would be loving and just. Pauline pleads with him and he would do anything for her. We run into a checkpoint on the other side of Mangai. The soldiers surround him and start to beat him but he talks to them and he explains the truth of what is happening to the Congo. And instead of beating him, they take his hands and hold them. And they cheer him on his way when he leaves them. Some of the soldiers are crying. They shout, Long Live the Congo!
Depanda! Depanda!
See what this man is. See how loved he is. And at the Sankuru River, when he could have made his escape, he gives up his life because he will not leave his wife and child behind. Even though Pauline shakes her head and silently begs him to save himself. He steps onto the
barque
and commands the old boatman to deliver him to his enemies. How can you say this is a farce? Which of us would have made such a gesture? He gave up his life because he believed in something.

This is how Inès sees it, because she sees dreams.

In Léopoldville, two days later, Grant tells us that he saw Lumumba and the soldiers arrive. It was a carnival, he says, a sick and vicious carnival. Mobutu stood with folded arms and watched the soldiers slap and abuse their prisoner. They pulled his hair and threw away his glasses. One of the NCOs sarcastically read out Lumumba’s declaration in which he had affirmed that Mobutu’s coup was illegal and that he was still head of state. When the NCO had finished, he rolled the paper into a ball and rammed it down Lumumba’s throat. Lumumba did not flinch. He stood his ground, bearing the indignities and the pain. He was taken away. Grant and the journalists were not able to see what happened next, but they heard the screams.

Inès and I go to Gombé, to my house. She waits while I pack. I am done in less than an hour. Then we drive to the public docks and take the ferry to Brazzaville.