I render and we think about it, Haj deeply. Head sandwiched between his long hands, his bubbly gaze fixed on Maxie, he is the unconscious twin to Dieudonne, who broods beside him in a similar attitude.
“No middlemen, no bandits, no protection money, no customs or troops to pay off,” Maxie is assuring us, so I am too. “Service your mines from base, shuttle your ore direct to purchaser, no slice of the cake for Kinshasa. Spell it out for 'em loud and clear, old boy.”
I spell it out for 'em and they are duly impressed — except for Haj, who jumps in with another maddening objection.
“Goma's runway is longer,” he insists, striking out an arm.
“And one end of it is coated in lava,” Maxie retorts, as his billiards cue taps a tattoo on a cluster of volcanoes.
“It's got two ends, hasn't it? It's a runway.”
Franco emits a bark of laughter, Dieudonne allows himself a rare smile. Maxie takes a breath, and so do I. I wish I could have five minutes alone with Haj in his native Shi, man to man. Then I could explain to him how near he is to snarling up the operation with his petty objections.
Maxie resolutely continues: “We stick with Kavumu. Period.”
He drags a fist roughly across his mouth and starts again. Haj, I fear, is really getting to him. “I want to hear it from 'em, one by one. Are they all aboard, or not? Do we kick off by taking Kavumu or do we fuck around with half-measures, give the game to the competition, and lose the best opportunity for real progress the Eastern Congo has had in bloody years? Start with Franco.”
I start with Franco. As usual he takes his time. Glowers at me, at the map, then at Maxie. But his longest glower is reserved for the despised Dieudonne next to him.
“It is my general's judgment that Monsieur le Colonel is talking sense,” he grinds out.
“I want it straighter than that. And I'm talking to all of them. Do we take the airport — Kavumu airport — before advancing on the cities and mines? It's a clear question, needs a clear answer. Ask him again.”
I do. Franco unclasps his fist, glowers at something in his palm, closes it. “My general is determined. We will first take the airport and afterwards the mines and cities.”
“As an alliance?” Maxie persists. “Alongside the Banyamulenge? As comrades, forgetting your traditional differences?” I stare at my Perrier bottle, conscious of Haj's manic gaze switching from one man to the other, and then to me.
“It is agreed,” Franco intones.
Dieudonne seems unable to believe what he is hearing.
“With us?” he asks softly. “You accept the Banyamulenge as equal partners in this enterprise?”
“If we must, we will.”
“And afterwards, when we have won? Shall we jointly maintain the peace? Is that truly what is agreed here?”
“My general says with you, so with you,” Franco growls. And to clinch matters, hauls yet another proverb from his seemingly inexhaustible store. “ ‘The friends of my friends are my friends.’ ”
It's Dieudonne's turn. He looks only at Franco while he reaches for breath in painful gasps. “If your general will keep his word. And you will keep yours. And the Mwangaza will keep his. Then the Banyamulenge will collaborate in this undertaking,” he pronounces.
All eyes turn to Haj, my own included. Conscious that he is the centre of attention, he plunges a hand into the mustard lining of his Zegna and half withdraws his gold cigarette case. Spotting the No Smoking sign, he pulls a face, lets it fall back into his pocket and shrugs. And for Maxie, it's a shrug too far.
“Mind telling Haj something for me, old boy?”
At your service, Skipper.
“Not terribly in love with this on-the-one-hand-and-on-the-other-hand shit. We're here to form an alliance, not sit around with the fence halfway up our arses. If he's standing in for his father, why can't he do his father's bidding instead of rocking the fucking boat? Think you can get that across without sounding offensive?”
There is a limit to how much the most dexterous interpreter can soften a blow, particularly when it is delivered by a client of Maxie's outspokenness. I do my best, and being by now conversant both above and below the waterline with Haj's undisciplined outbursts, I ready myself for the onslaught that is sure to come. Picture my surprise therefore when I find myself rendering the closely reasoned arguments of a starred graduate of the Sorbonne business school. His speech must have taken a good five minutes, yet I do not recall a single hesitation or repetition. It is challenging, it is dispassionate. It contains no hint that he's discussing the fate of his beloved home town, and mine. What follows is a digest:
Exploitation of the mines cannot take place without the compliance of the local population. Military muscle by itself is not enough. What is needed for any long-term solution is a period without war, more commonly known as peace.
The issue before the delegates therefore is not whether the colonel's plan offers the best method of extracting and shipping ore, but whether the Mwangaza and his Middle Path can deliver on their promise to achieve a social consensus.
Access. Haj is referring not merely to physical access to the mines, but legal access. Clearly the proposed new government of Kivu under the Mwangaza will grant the Syndicate all necessary concessions, rights and permissions as required by local law.
But what about Congolese law? Kinshasa may be two thousand kilometres away, but it is still the capital city. At international level, it speaks for the Democratic Republic of Congo in toto, and its jurisdiction over the eastern regions is enshrined in the Constitution. In the long view, Kinshasa remains the key.
Haj turns his exophthalmic gaze on Philip:
“So my question is, Mzee Philip, how does your Syndicate propose to circumvent the authority of Kinshasa? The Mwangaza speaks of Kinshasa with derision. The colonel tells us Kinshasa will receive no financial benefit from the coup. But when the dust has settled, it will be Kinshasa, not the Mwangaza, who will have the last word.”
Philip has listened intently to Haj's discourse and, if his admiring smile is anything to go by, relished it. He passes a cupped hand lightly over his waved white hair, while managing not to touch it.
“It will require strong nerves and strong men, Haj,” he explains through his smile. “The Mwangaza for one, your esteemed father for another. It will take time, and so it should. There are stages in the negotiating process that we can only deal with when we reach them. I suggest this is one of them.”
Haj acts amazed: to my eye, a little too amazed, but why?
“You mean no side agreements with the Kinshasa fatcats in advance? You're sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You didn't think to buy them now while they're going cheap?”
“Certainly not!” — virtuous laughter.
“You're crazy, man. If you wait till you need them, they'll screw you.”
But Philip stands fast, for which I admire him. “No prior talks with Kinshasa whatsoever, Haj, I'm afraid, no side deals, no backhanders, no slice of the cake. It may cost us down the line but it would be contrary to everything we stand for.”
Maxie bounds to his feet as if renewed, the tip of his billiards cue settles first on Goma, then follows the road southward down the western shore of Lake Kivu.
“Mzee Franco. I've heard that from time to time groups of your distinguished militia mount ambushes along this road.”
“So it is said,” Franco replies warily.
“Starting at first light on the day in question, we ask that their ambushes be intensified, closing the road to transport in both directions.”
Haj lets out a squeal of protest. “You mean my dad's trucks? Our beer trucks, going north?”
“Your customers will have to go thirsty for a couple of days,” Maxie retorts, and returns to Franco. “I have also heard that your revered general is in contact with significant groups of Mai Mai militia stationed here — between Fizi and Baraka.”
“What you have heard is possib
le,” Franco grudgingly concedes.
“And in the north around Walikale, the Mai Mai is also strong.”
“These are military secrets.”
“On the day in question, I ask that the Mai Mai converge on Bukavu. You also have groups of men around Uvira. They should come up in support.”
Once again, Haj must interrupt. Does he intend to sabotage Maxie's flow, or is it only chance? I fear the first.
“I would like to know, please, the colonel's precise plans for taking Kavumu airport. Okay, the troops are stoned. They're unhappy and they're not paid. But they've got guns and they like shooting people.”
Maxie replies on one note, all inflection gone. “I plan a small, casually dressed squad of crack mercenaries with enough experience and discipline to bluff their way in without a shot being fired. All right so far?”
Haj gives a nod of his lacquered forelock. Chin in hand, he is leaning forward in an exaggerated pose of attention.
“Either they go in with the maintenance workers first thing in the morning, or they roll up on a Saturday evening looking like a football squad in search of a game. There are two soccer pitches, beer's on free flow and girls come from the villages, so it's pretty informal. Still with me?”
Another nod.
“Once inside they don't run, they walk. They stay easy. They keep their guns out of sight, smile, wave. In ten minutes we own the control tower, the runway and the ammunition dump. We spread cigarettes and beer around, money, pat everybody on the back, talk to the head-boys, cut a deal. All we're doing, far as they're concerned, we're informally renting the airport while we fly in a few loads of mining equipment without troubling customs.”
Haj's tone becomes unnaturally servile. “With all due respect for the colonel's military distinction, what will be the precise composition of this squad of crack mercenaries?”
“Top-rank professionals. South African, Special Forces trained, hand-picked.”
“Black, Monsieur le Colonel? If I may enquire?”
“Zulus and Ovambos, brought in from Angola. Veterans, no mavericks. Best fighters in the world.”
“How many, please, Monsieur le Colonel?”
“No more than fifty, no less than forty on present count.”
“And who will lead these fine men into battle, please?”
“I will. In person. Me myself, who d'you think?” — cutting his sentences shorter and shorter — “Plus Anton here. Plus a couple of close comrades of my acquaintance.”
“But forgive me. Monsieur le Colonel is white.”
Maxie rolls back his right sleeve and for a moment I really do believe we have a situation. But he is only examining the underside of his forearm. “Damn me, so I am!” he exclaims, to a relieved burst of merriment round the table in which Haj himself takes ostentatious part.
“And your colleagues, Monsieur le Colonel? They are also white?” — when the laughter has sufficiently subsided.
“As snow.”
“Then can you explain to us, please, how a small group of strangers, white as snow, can pull off a surprise attack on Bukavu airport without attracting a certain amount of attention from those who are not so fortunate?”
This time no one laughs. This time, all we hear is the gulls and crows and the rustle of warm wind coming down the grass rise.
“Very easily. On the Day in Question” — Maxie's term, we are learning, for the day on which the coup will be launched — “a Swiss manufacturing company specialising in air traffic control systems will be conducting an on-site survey of the airport's facilities as a prelude to making an unsolicited bid.”
Silence, broken only by my rendering.
“Their charter plane, which will contain technical equipment of an unspecified nature” — heavy emphasis which I am careful to reproduce — “will be parked close to the control tower. The Swiss company's technicians will be European. They will include myself, Anton here and Benny whom you briefly met. On a signal from me, my select band of mercenaries, who by now have entered the airport via the main gate, will board the plane. Inside it they will find heavy machine-guns, shoulder-held rocket-launchers, grenades, illuminated armbands, rations and a plentiful supply of ammunition. If anybody shoots at them, they will shoot back with the minimum of force.”
I totally understand why Philip did what he did next. Whose side was Haj on anyway? How much longer were we going to have to put up with his nitpicking? The man wasn't even an invited guest! He was his father's proxy, parachuted in at the last minute. Time to cut him down to size, get him to put his backside squarely on the line.
“Monsieur Haj,” Philip begins, silkily echoing Haj's own Monsieur le Colonel — “Haj, dear boy. With all due respect to your dear father, whom we sorely miss. We've all been very reticent so far, perhaps too reticent, about the vital part you personally will be playing in support of the Mwangaza's campaign. How will you be preparing for the great Coming? In Bukavu specifically, which is your manor, as it were? I wondered whether this might be a good moment for you to enlighten us.”
At first, Haj seems not to have heard Philip's question, or my rendering. Then he whispers a few words of Shi which, though coarser, are oddly reminiscent of those spoken by the little gentleman at the trattoria in Battersea: God give me strength to address this son of an arsehole, et cetera — and of course I give no indication whatever of understanding this, preferring to make a few innocent doodles on my notepad.
After which he proceeds to go crazy. He leaps to his feet, pirouettes, snaps his fingers and flings his head about. And bit by bit he begins to compose a rhythmic response to Philip's question. And since words are my only music, and as far as Congolese bands are concerned I am a complete ignoramus, I couldn't tell you even today which great artiste, or which band, or which genus of music, he is mimicking.
But almost everyone else in the room could. For everyone but me and Maxie, whom I know by osmosis to be similarly devoid of musical appreciation, it is a virtuoso performance, instantly recognisable and very funny. The austere Dieudonne is laughing his head off and clapping his hands rhythmically in delight. Franco's great bulk too is rocking with pleasure, while your top interpreter, trained to function under all weather conditions, continues his renderings, now into French and now — on a hard glance from Maxie — into English, of which the following is a worked-up version, based on my frenetic jottings at the time:
We're going to buy the soldiers
We're going to buy the teachers and the doctors
We're going to buy the Garrison Commander of Bukavu Town
and the head of the police
and the second head of the police.
We're going to bust open the prison and put a truckload of fucking beer on the corner of every fucking street in Town—
and a couple of pounds of Semtex to wash it down.
And we're going to rally all the anti-Rwandan Rwandans and give them fine new guns out of our trucks,
anybody not got a gun, just step this way.
And all the bums and crazies and the guys who shoot at you because they've seen the Devil in you somewhere—
we're going to give them beer and guns too.
And all the good Roman Catholics of Bukavu, and all the priests and nuns, who love Jesus and don't want any trouble, and aren't going to make any because they know just how scarce good Christians are—
We're going to tell them that the Prince of Poverty Himself is riding into the new Jerusalem on his fucking ass—
So have yourself another beer, baby, and make yourself another Molotov cocktail, and smash yourself a few more fine windows and settle yourself a few old scores—
Because the People's Paradise is sure as hell coming to get you!
Now Philip too is laughing and shaking his head in wonder as he rings his handbell for the next recess. But it's Tabizi who commands my surreptitious attention. His face is a mask of ill-concealed fury. His pitch-black eyes, peering from the cover of heavy eyelids, are targeted like t
win gun barrels at Haj's forehead, reminding me that there is a class of Arab who holds his sub-Saharan brother in unalterable contempt.
11
Where the hell are they, Sam? I'm getting a loud silence.
I'm checking, dear. Be patient.
I try to be patient. Unintelligible garble while Sam's voice consults Anton's, then Philip's.
We've found Franco.
Where?
In the royal apartments. Having a knees-up with the Mwangaza.
Go there? I enquire too eagerly.
On no account, thank you, Brian. They'll do very nicely without you.
Over my headset I pick up Haj's crocs slapping down the walkway, accompanied by a second pair of footsteps which I tentatively assign to Dieudonne. Sam immediately confirms the identification: watchers report that Haj has grabbed Dieudonne by the elbow and is literally leading him up the garden path. Better still, Haj has put a finger to his lips, commanding Dieudonne's silence until they are clear of the house. My spirits soar. There is no finer music to your part-time sound-thief's ear than: “Let's go somewhere where we can't be overheard,” or “Wait where you are while I get to a public phone box.”
Yet even in my excitement I feel a surge of sympathy for Dieudonne who, having been tugged in one direction by Maxie's grand design, is now being tugged in the other by the recalcitrant Haj.
The two men have reached the gazebo steps and started climbing. As they climb Haj starts to dance. And as he dances he begins speaking in bursts: a rap of the crocs, a rap of speech. Sound-thieves hear like the blind. But sometimes they also see like the blind, which is what I'm doing now: bright and clear as day in my blind man's eye. I see Haj's slime-green crocs skimming the stone steps, slappety-whack, slappety-whack. I see his lacquered forelock bucking, his slender body arched backwards, hands trailing like silk scarves against the clear blue sky.while he keeps his voice below the level of his slapping crocs. If his body is a wild man's, his voice is a steady man's, and the more quiedy he talks, the more din he makes with his feet, and the more he flings his head around in the course of a single sentence as he feeds the mikes, one garbled morsel down each little throat.
The Mission Song Page 34