At last we heard the surveillance helicopter that always preceded the head of state on his travels; then the motorcycle escort; then the ululations of the women, as prescribed by etiquette. The women spread their pagnes on the ground for the president to walk on, so his illustrious boots wouldn’t be soiled before they reached the red carpet that had been laid out for him in the dust. The soldiers were getting more and more nervous, their fingers poised over the triggers of their weapons. This was no time to scratch your nose or make any sudden movement, for they’d shoot you instantly without a second thought. As members of the president’s bodyguard, they were above the law and, like him, could act with total impunity. A few of them were wearing dark glasses, as if they were in some American movie.
After acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, the president stepped onto the platform. Perhaps for reasons of security, no one had told us that he would be accompanied by his wife. But I understood why her presence was necessary: the sacks of food waiting to be distributed had been donated by her—they were all labeled with the name of her organization, Children’s Solidarity. A discreet signal was given, and the selected children began to sing. When the songs of praise were finished, the president’s wife picked up one of the kids—a little girl of about five, who was so thin she was practically swimming in the new clothes she’d been decked out in. Her hair was the reddish color you see on children suffering from kwashiorkor. The woman hugged her, then handed her some vitamin-enriched biscuits while the crowd applauded and the cameras rolled. The little girl was obviously hungry, for she couldn’t wait. No sooner had the president’s wife set her down, out of camera range, than she began tearing open the packet of biscuits. One of the soldiers admonished her, unobtrusively but firmly rapping her on the wrist. The box fell and its contents scattered all over the ground, while the little girl looked in dismay at the biscuits she was forbidden to pick up and cram into her mouth.
The president began to speak. I retained only one thing from his address—namely, that France had donated shovels and lime. I think these were meant to be used for digging up and reinterring all the hastily buried bodies throughout the city so that an epidemic could be averted, the way you sprinkled lime in the pits when burying the bodies of animals that had died of anthrax. Then the ceremony was over. The president, his wife, the motorcycles, and the helicopter all left. The head of state hadn’t bothered to tour the camp.
We’d been told that the food would be distributed after the president’s departure, but, curiously, the soldiers began carrying sacks of it to the trucks they’d parked at the camp’s front entrance. The refugees began to protest—weakly at first, for fear of the guns. But soon their empty stomachs persuaded them to throw caution to the winds, and they tried to grab their share. Sacks of rice and of beans were ripped open, and women hurried to fill their pagnes; the stronger men tried to lift entire sacks or to carry away large containers of cooking oil. The result was a free-for-all.
The little girl who’d been embraced by the president’s wife was now abandoned on the dais, in the midst of the melee. Where was her mother? Or was she one of the countless orphans in the camp, left to fend for themselves? Yes, this was clearly what she was. Scanning the platform and seeing no sign of the soldier who’d reprimanded her, she dropped to her knees and began to stuff her mouth hungrily with the biscuits scattered about. Then she caught sight of the rest of the packet, stretched out her hand, and . . . wham! With shocking violence, a soldier’s belt descended on her, just missing her hand and breaking open a box of powdered milk that had fallen to the boards in the confusion. I looked around. The vicious disciplinarian was standing near me, preparing to inflict another blow. I caught hold of the belt; I think I even snatched it out of his hand. He glared at me and knit his brows threateningly—an absurd, histrionic expression.
And I recognized him. It was Mad Dog, the militiaman who had ruthlessly gunned down the little fruit-seller in the street and whom I’d later seen in the HCR compound. He was a beast. He was getting ready to strike the child again. Calling him every foul name I knew, I quickly bent down and shielded her body with mine. He rained down blows like a demon, each lash searing my flesh and shredding my T-shirt even further. If the little girl herself had received that beating, she would have been reduced to a bloody mess. The pain was becoming unbearable—I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out before I’d have to scream and let go of the child. I braced myself for the next biting lash of the belt. But it never came. Surprised, I looked up.
Mad Dog was on the ground, being pummeled from every side. A riot had broken out. The mothers in the camp, many of whom had sunk into apathy as a result of the humiliations they’d endured, had recovered their spirit and were attacking the soldiers with anything they could lay their hands on. The defeated, discouraged men who were ashamed of being unable to protect their families in adversity seemed likewise to be taking their revenge. After all, there were about a thousand of them, whereas there were only about a hundred soldiers. Unfortunately, though, the latter had guns, and were more than willing to use them . . .
After the riot had been quelled, the soldiers punished everyone by announcing that no food would be distributed for forty-eight hours. Then they made a sweep through the camp. They systematically rounded up all the men of fighting age, and, as usual, took some women along. I was preparing to go back to my tent with the little girl in my arms when Mad Dog forcibly stopped me. He was still boiling with anger. Two of his fellow soldiers picked me up and threw me into one of the trucks. If the child hadn’t been holding tight to me, I would have dropped her.
The trucks made stops at two or three military camps, each time unloading some men. I was sure their wives would never see them again. At each stop, too, the soldiers unloaded the women they had picked out—for the pleasure of raping them, I suppose. Brave warriors. When, at the last stop, I was transferred to a Toyota Hi-Lux and Mad Dog took the wheel, I understood that my future lay in his paws. He drove at an insane speed, honking loudly, barreling through intersections without slowing down, and at last coming to a halt before a house in one of the western districts of the city. He got out first and went to unlock the front door and turn on the exterior light, since it was after dark. He came back to the vehicle and in a hoarse voice ordered me to get out.
As I stood there with the child in my arms and watched that killer put the car in the garage, I knew that this was the moment of reckoning. I’d seen and lived through so much in this rotten country that nothing could surprise me any longer. I knew that he would order me into the house, and that of course I’d refuse and try to resist. He would strike me with his fists or with his gun, he would torment the child, and eventually I’d have to yield to his brute strength. I’d be dragged into the house, and what happened after that would be anybody’s guess. Well, it would be good to keep my wits about me, in any case. The familiar expression “to meet one’s fate” occurred to me. So I decided to really go and meet my fate—to take the initiative and not simply wait until he gave me an order.
With a determination that was part bravado, part movie gesture, I opened the unlocked door and entered the beast’s lair. It was like walking into Ali Baba’s cave. Televisions, CD players, computers, refrigerators, gas cookers, medical supplies, and on and on. More surprising was that he’d also stolen books. I never would have thought an animal like him would steal books, since they weren’t worth anything on the local market. I chose the handsomest armchair, sat down, turned out the light, and waited for him—waited for him in the darkness. One thing was sure: I wouldn’t just give up. I’d fight tooth and nail until the end. There was only one thing I regretted, namely that I couldn’t save the child sitting on my lap—the child who no doubt thought I could protect her from the rest of the world.
Chapter Thirty
Johnny, Known as Mad Dog
Strange woman, strange girl. No one—certainly no woman—had ever given me such an impression before. When I got out of the car aft
er stowing it in the garage, she’d vanished. I thought she had run away, and I was angry at myself for not keeping an eye on her. Well, she couldn’t have gotten far in this unfamiliar neighborhood, especially hauling a child around, and I’d catch her without difficulty as soon as I went after her. To see if she might be somewhere near the house, I took a walk around it. I looked in the clumps of lantana and hibiscus that bordered the property, but she wasn’t there. I even looked behind the fencing that surrounded the cesspool, thinking she might have been able to bear the nauseating stench, but I didn’t find her there, either. There was nothing left to do but put away the two tins of cooking oil and the sack of beans I’d taken, and head off in pursuit. This time I wouldn’t go lightly on her—she’d feel the full brunt of my anger.
I went into the house. I thought I’d turned on all the lights a few minutes before, but evidently I hadn’t, because the living room was completely dark. I flipped the switch. The light came on—and I nearly had a heart attack! A ghost had sprung from the darkness: it was sitting in an armchair with a child on its lap. Turn around! Run! But no, my fear passed. I got hold of myself just in time. What the devil—it was her!
Strange woman, strange girl. She looked at me fearlessly, as if waiting with curiosity to see what I was going to do to her. She wasn’t stupid. She must have noticed that I’d gone haywire for a moment when I’d seen her. So I immediately had to reestablish the natural order of things—had to make her understand right away that I was in control here.
“Who . . . who gave you permission to enter my house?” I said foolishly.
“Who gave you permission to kidnap me?”
“What? I do as I please—I don’t take orders from anyone!”
“I don’t either! I do as I please—nobody gives me orders!”
“What’s your name?”
“You really think I’m going to tell you?”
The cunt! What did she take me for?
“What do you take me for?” I shouted.
“For what you are—a murderer!”
The insult hit me like a blow.
“I’m not a murderer, for your information! I fight wars! In war, you kill, you burn buildings, you rape women. That’s normal. That’s what war is all about—killing is natural. But that doesn’t mean I’m a common murderer!”
“Why don’t you just go ahead and rape me, Mad Dog?”
Wham! No shit, I was speechless. She knew me! She knew my name! Who on earth was she, this plain-looking girl in the ragged T-shirt? This girl who still defied me, in spite of the beating I’d given her? Who had no fear of the gun in my belt? Maybe I’d brought a witch into my house! I confess I was scared. In my country, you’ve got to watch out for women. There are certain women called mamiwatas who live in rivers and streams and can cast an evil spell on a man with their beauty and sensuality. Maybe she was one of them. Or a succubus who had waited for nightfall so she could lure me into an orgy and drain me of all my virility by taking my thing into her mouth! . . . No, she was neither of these, because mamiwatas and succubi appeared only in the dead of night or at dawn. She was nothing but a shabby refugee I’d picked up in a camp. I touched my pistol. Force was my weapon, and guns were my instruments of terror. Yet what could I do when someone had no fear of force or guns? I was lost. I could kill her easily. But if I killed her without making her afraid, without humiliating her, she would have won. “Why don’t you just go ahead and rape me?” she’d asked sarcastically. But who could get a hard-on and feel like committing rape after such mockery, in the face of such contempt?
“You’re wrong—I don’t even want to touch you. Look at you,” I sneered. “You’re filthy. That rat’s nest on your head—it’s like the hair of a grieving widow. And you’re a whore. I bet you don’t even know the name of your child’s father. How do I know you don’t have AIDS? Who’d want to fuck a woman like you? I’d a million times rather masturbate.”
No, she wasn’t incensed. My insults hadn’t driven her into a rage. She continued to look at me coldly, exasperatingly, all the while tenderly holding her child.
“Answer me!” I shouted. “When I speak, people answer me!”
Still she said nothing.
“You think I do nothing in life but kill people? Come look!” I said angrily.
I opened the door to the bedroom and went in. She set the child down in the chair and followed me. Remaining on her guard, though, she halted on the threshold.
I threw open the closet with a furious jerk. It contained everything I’d looted and purchased in my life. Before joining the militia, I’d been a member of the Society of Ambiancers and Persons of Elegance, one of the kings of SAPE—those nightclub patrons and arbiters of taste, always dressed in the height of fashion. Hot with anger, I pulled out a suit by my favorite London tailor, Old River: navy blue pants, always worn with the hand-sewn Versace belt that I kept looped around the waistband, and a slim-fitting three-button jacket, in super-100 fabric, likewise navy blue, with piping around the pockets. I flung them down on the bed. On a handmade Yves Saint Laurent shirt of yellow cotton piqué I placed a tie of solid yellow, the same shade as the shirt, to illustrate what we, the new generation of sapeurs, called “tone on tone” dressing. I had replaced the traditional cuff links with what we termed “snowballs,” imported directly from Italy. As for shoes, I showed her my Westons, my Salamanders, my John Lobbs. What else? My little Gucci parasol, for protection against the sun. Cologne? Giorgio Armani. So—would a common murderer ever dress like that?
From the bundles of pagnes I’d found at Mr. Ibara’s house, I took out the ones I’d set aside for my late darling Lovelita, and of these I picked out the most beautiful. It was a Dutch superwax adorned with proud cocks showing off their plumage against a flowered background.
“Here—you can have it. See? Mad Dog is no vicious beast.”
She wasn’t impressed in the slightest and showed no interest at all, returning to the living room before I’d even finished displaying all of my treasures. She sat down next to the child. I didn’t know what else to do to intimidate her, impress her, make her react. Shit. I went into the living room and said:
“I’m not just a king of SAPE. I’m also an intellectual.”
At this, she was genuinely surprised. She stared at me as if I’d dropped from the moon. Maybe she didn’t know what an intellectual was!
“That means someone who’s been to school and whose brain keeps working even at night while he’s sleeping. He can figure out the surface of a cube and of a sphere, he’s studied grammatology and stroboscopy, he has beautiful books in his library,” I explained all in one breath. She probably didn’t believe me—I was talking to a brick wall. I reached toward the bookshelf to my right and pulled out a large hardcover volume bound in leather. It was the first book in my collection—the blood-spattered Bible I’d taken from the home of that old mystic in Kandahar. It was even heavier than I thought. I tossed it to her.
“Here’s the first book I got for my library. A Bible.”
It landed in her lap, which the child was no longer sitting in. She picked it up with both hands and held it in her left, so she could defend herself with her right hand if she needed to. An old fox like me knew that trick. She made no move to open the book. And still refused to say anything, which irritated me more and more.
“When I speak, people answer! Answer me!”
Still that look of contempt and that disdainful curl of the lips. It was too much. And to be chattering away in front of a woman was a sign of weakness. It was time for action. A man must act. Deliver a good slap, for example.
“Okay, you don’t want to speak? Fine. I’ll make you scream.”
I moved toward her. I didn’t see the Bible coming.
Thrown with her left hand, the heavy book struck me full in the face, right between the eyes, with incredible force. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that the witch must be left-handed? I fell over backward from the blow. The nape of my neck smashed against the
edge of the table, and I landed on the floor, stunned, bleeding profusely from my nose and neck. I was dead, killed by a Bible. People had always told me to beware of women and books! The room was swimming around me. I had to get up, I had to kill her. My hand reached instinctively for the gun at my hip, but a heavy object came smashing down on my fingers. And then a fury began giving me relentless, repeated blows between my legs. The pain was unbearable. I screamed, I pleaded for it to stop—but the fury didn’t know what pity was, and continued to strike, to strike. I began pissing blood, my testicles burst, my balls were pulp. I was castrated. But the fury still didn’t stop. Now the pain filled my entire body . . . I was in agony . . . I was dying . . . I was dead . . . I . . . I . . .
Chapter Thirty-one
Laokolé
He was petrified when the light came on and he saw me there, sitting in an armchair with my child. I’d shaken him out of his preening arrogance and had chalked up a solid point against him. On the one hand, that was a good thing because he’d be more afraid of me and more cautious about what he tried to do to me. On the other hand, it might also be a bad thing because it could make him more cruel. I had to stay one step ahead of him at all costs, had to maintain my psychological advantage. Now I knew that so long as I gave him no opportunity to use his gun, I’d be able to manage him.
I began by giving a quick, aggressive retort to everything he said, thus throwing him even further off balance. I don’t think any of his victims had ever stood up to him like that. What completely disoriented him was my refusal to tell him my name, followed by my complete silence. The silence of the deep sea. To hide his disarray, he invited me to see the contents of his closet, which was stuffed with clothes from the finest London tailors and shoemakers, things that he’d looted from all over. In his stupidity and naivete, he went so far as to offer me some stolen pagnes. When I still refused to say anything, he came out with something truly astounding: he announced that he was an intellectual.
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