The Catastrophist: A Novel

by Ronan Bennett

  “Probably just a stone that came up from the road,” she says with an evasive shrug.

  She gets out of the car. I do the same.

  “It didn’t come up from the road, someone threw it,” Smail says, inspecting his windshield. The glass is chipped and there is a lightning fork of splintered lines; the damage is not serious. A smile plays in the corner of his eyes. He is a lighthearted and amused man. I am beginning to like him, in spite of his familiarity with Inès.

  He starts walking down the way we came, a desultory search for the culprit. The car’s engine thrums and the air is still. There are some far-off noises from the jungle. Monkeys? A guess—what would I know? I stare into the trees and the foliage. The jungle is dense, undivided, but it does not seem virulent or vengeful. There are pretty wild flowers fringing the roadside and at the soft edges of the rain pools small violet and yellow butterflies sap the mineral mud. This is not An Outpost of Progress. The sky above is clear now, and only the sun is implacable.

  “You saw something,” I say.

  “No, nothing,” she replies.

  I look at her with plain sight, but she resists my gaze. Her demeanor has changed quite suddenly. She is away from me, in her own thoughts. I try coaxing her with small talk and news of our friends in London, but she won’t come back.

  The suburbs are pleasant and spacious. The bungalows are whitewashed and the rust on the iron roofs has been tamped down with years of paint—deep red and olive green—and the thin metal now has texture and substance, like canvas worked in oils. Over the walls and spiked fences giant flowering shrubs lie in brilliant mantles. Gardeners in blue boiler suits and Wellington boots are already at work. The air smells summery, of cut grass and the diesel of lawnmowers.

  A long, wide, tree-lined avenue cuts the heart of the city, Boulevard Albert I. On traffic islands white-gloved policemen in pith helmets control the flow. The cars are new and shiny, luxury European models and expensive American convertibles, chromed and extravagantly finned. There are flat-backed trucks and delivery vans and taxis and buses, and a silver-black stream of bicycles ridden by the Congolese. At the pavement cafés Europeans read their papers over coffee and croissants. There are boutiques, jewelers, delicatessens, patisseries, ice cream parlors and hotels. The doors of the Banque Belge d’Afrique are just opening.

  Smail drops us outside a new seven-story apartment block, one of a small cluster at this end of the double boulevard. Inès has borrowed the flat from someone who has gone to Uganda for a year. I thank Smail for the lift. He suggests dinner tonight at the Zoo. The owners are French and the cuisine is the best in Léopoldville.

  I yawn and stretch happily. The welcome has been good.

  c h a p t e r t w o

  There are two smooth depressions, little dips, at the small of her back, above her hips. She lies in my arms and I touch them with my fingertips. I am falling in and out of sleep.

  She talks—how I love her song—of things I can only half follow. She pauses from time to time to kiss my chest and squeeze me. In the gloom of the long flight from London I could find reason only for pessimism, but I had overlooked one thing: her need for me. She enjoys me, she is attracted to the physical me, to this body, these arms. She told me once of a lover whose fingers she had almost to unclaw before he touched her. My hands at least are not like that. She likes these fingers, where they go, what they do to her. I close my eyes and soak in the pouring words.

  It is a story to do with the war when she was small and the Germans were in Bologna. She remembers a soldier who rode a white horse every day in the Piazza Maggiore, an officer, though not a big officer. One morning as usual the German went out to ride his horse. He was never seen again. There were rumors that he had deserted and run off with his lover, an Italian, a married woman; others said the partisans had captured and killed him. No one knew for certain. When she was reunited with her father, after his partisan band came down from the mountains in the last days of the town’s occupation, she plied him with questions about what happened to the horse, for even as a child she loved horses. But he had heard nothing and could find out nothing. I am not sure if there is a point to her story or even if I have understood everything: her accent and grammar tear at narrative. We lie still and I see the little girl, big-eyed and hopeful, waiting in the shaded galleries for the day the German soldier’s horse will canter riderless into the square looking for her so that she can take him home.

  I feel the blink of lashes on my shoulder and close my eyes to sleep.

  I smell coffee. She is sitting on the end of the bed. I feel it peevishly, as a form of rejection, that she is already dressed. She puts a hand in my hair and messes it. I rub my eyes.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine.”

  Night? Morning? I have no idea.

  She passes me the cup. “Drink this.”

  “Why are you dressed?” I ask.

  “For dinner. But we don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

  She makes coffee very sweet.

  “What was going on there, on the road?” I ask. “I know you saw something.”

  She shrugs and turns down the corners of her mouth. “It was only a small boy, twelve or thirteen. He was hiding in the trees.”

  “You saw him throw the stone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you say you hadn’t seen anything?”

  A shrug. She will not be drawn. But I already know. It was not that she was frightened, rather that she had been caught on the wrong side—a white woman in a white man’s car—and was ashamed.

  “Is there a lot of stone-throwing?” I ask.

  “No. The opposite in fact. This is a controlled place. The Belgians are very efficient policemen, the Flemish in particular. As soon as they think someone is a troublemaker they arrest him. Like they did with Patrice.”

  “I’ve been reading a lot about Patrice.”

  “That’s because I have been writing a lot about him.”

  “I know, but he’s mentioned in the British press now as well.”

  She makes a little noise of disdain. Others might now acknowledge Lumumba’s importance but she had recognized him first. She came to the Congo for him, for the hopes he inspired and embodied. The first interview appeared in L’Unità only days after her arrival. I read it in London and my heart sank. She wrote to me afterwards in a thrill of commitment and dedication. You must understand, the letter said, that my life now can never be the same. What was she saying with that? What about our life?

  She tells me: “Patrice used to work at the post office in Stanleyville. As soon as he was making a name for himself in the independence movement, the Belgians framed him for taking money. Now they can say Patrice Lumumba is nothing more than a convicted thief.”

  “Did he steal the money?”

  Steal. I opt for steal. She pretends not to have heard the distinction.

  “Of course not.” She is emphatic. “You will meet him. He is brilliant.”

  Brilliant the way Smail is brilliant. Her language has always been unconditional and absolute. Nothing-everything; never-always; worst-best-brilliant—lots of brilliants. I was brilliant once. “The years since the war,” I remember her saying one time, “have been a very omologated period.”

  “Omologated?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Omologare? You don’t have this word? It means,” she had explained patiently, “to accept everything without thinking. It’s a very communistic word.”

  “Homologate?” I offered. “But I don’t think it’s politically loaded.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I’m sure it’s a legal term.”

  She made one of those impatient little sounds of hers, something between a squeak and a grunt. We checked the dictionaries and it was only with reluctance that she accepted homologate as a rough approximation, a needy one. She ascribed this dereliction of language to broader deficiencies in the British outlook.

  “It is n
ot surprising the British cannot be left—they don’t even have the words for a left way of thinking.” She had looked at me with a grin: “Lucky for me you are Irish.”

  “Inès,” I had told her with exaggerated but affectionate weariness—these discussions were frequent and had evolved their own rituals—“when you find a ‘left way of thinking’ in Ireland you will have the scoop of a lifetime.”

  “You have lived too long in London.”

  She smacked a kiss to my forehead. It was typical of her way of argument to end with an overplayed generalization, a little barb of criticism and a kiss.

  I shower and shave. I give up trying to dry myself. The air is humid, the windows and the walls are sweating.

  As I dress she tells me more about the brilliant Patrice Lumumba. She has been to his house in Tshopo, the native quarter of Stanleyville, and to the one here in Léopoldville on Boulevard Albert I, opposite the golf course. She knows his wife, Pauline, who is modest and shy. They have four children; one—Roland—is just a little baby and is very beautiful. “They have practically adopted me,” she says. “We are so close now.”

  We will see Patrice tomorrow because the Mouvement National Congolais is staging a pro-independence rally.

  She takes my arm as we walk up to the Zoo. The streets are well lit and the people take ease as their due. There are no blacks. Talking about Lumumba and tomorrow’s rally has animated her. The demonstration will be big. Things in the Congo are moving fast now. I am between waking and sleeping, and I take her word on everything.

  c h a p t e r t h r e e

  Smail and his friends bid me welcome to Léopoldville. They are in high spirits and talk noisily over each other. Inès is shepherded to one end of the table to be with Smail, I to the other. I find myself between a small, pale man of about sixty and a handsome, large-boned woman of around my own age. She has blue eyes and straight, thick, flat flaxen hair.

  The man introduces himself: he is Romain de Scheut, the general manager of a Unilever soap factory in Léopoldville. His dry face has smoker’s lines, the eyes are watery and kind.

  “Smail has been telling us about the ambush on the way from the airport,” he says with a smile.

  I am not sure what he is talking about; then I say “Oh, yes” as the penny drops. He is not being serious. I am aware that the flaxen-haired woman is listening.

  “It wasn’t an ambush, though,” I say for her. “I’m not even sure it was deliberate.”

  “Of course it was,” the woman says. “You don’t know the macaques.”

  De Scheut chuckles at her vehemence.

  “Madeleine has strong views on these matters,” he says.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I am one of Léopoldville’s most notorious liberals. It makes me very unpopular with Madeleine. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

  “You should be locked up,” Madeleine replies, meaning it and not.

  Her eyebrows are carefully plucked, giving her face, with its high cheekbones and strong jaw, a lapidary look. The top buttons of her blouse are undone.

  De Scheut recommends the chicken cooked in butter or the tilapia or the fondue. There’s plenty to choose from. “The mussels are good too,” he says.

  I go for the fish.

  “Zoubir tells me you are a writer,” de Scheut says. “What do you write?”

  “Novels,” I say.

  “Are you going to write a novel about Africa?”

  “I’m one of those writers who likes to stay with what he knows.”

  “Which is what?”

  “London, I suppose.”

  “You are Irish, though, aren’t you?”

  This always bores me. Irish, English, what’s the difference, what does it matter? I have lived in London a long time is all I say.

  “Are you a journalist as well, like Inès?”

  “I sometimes write for magazines and Sunday newspapers to make ends meet.”

  “Novels don’t pay?”

  “Not mine.”

  “Is that why you’ve come to the Congo—to write for the newspapers?”

  “No, I’m here really”—I hesitate to say this in front of a stranger, but there is something about de Scheut I have already taken to—“because Inès is here.”

  “You have made the right decision,” he says, and he pats my forearm. “She’s a very particular young woman, and she’s very popular here.”

  “She likes to be liked,” I say.

  “As we all do.”

  He looks at me with sympathy, as though he knows what’s going on in my head, the fears I have, the doubts. I have always had a weakness for father figures.

  The food arrives, course after course, and so does the drink. When the dinner plates are removed the waiters set before us a selection of cheeses—Camembert, Brie and—a concession to Flemish tastes—Hervese. They bring us liqueurs and spirits; then a bottle of champagne, another, another.

  My eyes keep being drawn back to Inès and her lighthearted group. I might have begun to resent my exclusion from the ribbons of her laughter had I not enjoyed seeing again her social display—the flash of the eyes, the gestures, the pantomimic swiftness of the change in tone and look: someone says something and her disagreement is transparent and unmitigated; seconds later she is in full and extravagant accord with the same person. She happens to glance in my direction and gives me a bold wink, then turns back to her friends. She always has friends, she is always with others. In the two years we have been lovers I do not recall ever having seen her alone. I exaggerate. Moments, yes, the small, inevitable domestic moments: when I would return to the flat to find her preparing food or performing some other chore. Images jump into my mind. Of her lying on her stomach on the bed, a pillow under her shoulders and a book propped open before her, wearing only a vest. Or that awful afternoon when unexpectedly I glimpsed her from the upper deck of a bus as she returned from the doctor’s appointment. How frail she seemed as she trudged along Kentish Town Road in the miserable January slush. I almost didn’t recognize the small, slow figure. But that was not Inès—vital, subversive, impatient, and always part of others’ lives.

  “You look older than Inès.”

  It is Madeleine.

  “I am.”

  “By how much?”

  I do not want to appear defensive, but I am unused to direct personal questions of any kind.

  “By thirteen years,” I say as evenly as I can.

  She studies me closely before taking a cigarette from its packet.

  “Hardly anything,” she says. “My husband is twenty-seven years older than me. He’s a farmer.”

  I light her cigarette. She holds up a champagne bottle, a mimed query to me. I nod and she pours.

  “Are you here like Inès to write about the great Patrice Lumumba?”

  She crosses her legs and leans towards me a little.

  “Is he great?”

  “Ha!”

  She drinks from her glass. A bead of sweat trickles by her ear; her hair is tied stringently back.

  “Are you going to Bernard Houthhoofd’s tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Where?”

  “Bernard Houthhoofd has people over on Saturdays to his house in Brazzaville.”

  “I don’t know if we have an invitation,” I say.

  “Inès has been before. You should come.”

  She says it like a challenge. Her throat is shiny with more of her sweat. She turns back to her companions.

  Inès decides it’s time to go home. Smail and de Scheut leave with us. Madeleine, busy with someone else, doesn’t notice my departure.

  Beyond the Zoo, where the streets are darker and the houses meaner, a pair of gendarmes stand guard at a checkpoint.

  “The cité indigène, where the blacks live,” she says.

  We are walking the other way.

  “The Congolese must be out of the European quarter before dark unless they have a special permission from the police,” Smail tells me; he add
s with light sarcasm: “It makes us settlers feel safe.”

  “Not all settlers are the same,” de Scheut puts in amiably. “Really there are two kinds. The first is born here or has lived here a long time. He understands the African mind, he speaks Lingala or Swahili or Kikongo or one of the other languages, if not several. He loves the country, it is his home. He wants to die and be buried here.”

  “And the second kind?” I ask.

  “Sees himself as Belgian. He wears a jacket and tie and looks down on the whites whose shoes are not shined. He imports frozen butter and cheese, lobster and chicken rather than eat locally produced food, which is better and cheaper. In the middle of the most exotic fruit garden in the world, he imports tinned peaches and pears—at great expense. He is forever complaining about the heat, the water and the Congolese; he is obsessed with malaria, sleeping sickness, bilharzia, river blindness, blackwater fever and gonorrhea. He knows someone who has had them all. He is here to make money and go home.”

  From somewhere not too far off we hear raised voices. We turn and look back to the boundary of the cité, where three or four white men stand with the gendarmes in a watchful, wary attitude.

  A party of police hurries to the top of the street. There is the sound of breaking glass and more shouting.

  “What’s going on?” de Scheut shouts to the gendarmes.

  “It’s the macaques,” one of them shouts back.

  “I keep hearing that—macaque,” I say.

  “You know what a macaque is,” Smail explains. “It’s a monkey.” People have left their tables and come out from the restaurants and clubs. They peer towards the darkness of the cité, puzzled and tipsy.

  We follow the gendarmes to the cité’s boundary, where a small group of settlers have gathered. Confronting them is a crowd of blacks. I can’t tell whether there are tens or hundreds. Faces and limbs catch the light for a second and disappear again, rippling the dark. A window beside me explodes.

  “Not more stones!” Smail grumbles in mock complaint. “Will someone tell them please we are friends of Patrice!”