The Catastrophist: A Novel

by Ronan Bennett

  A shadow falls across my legs. I look up to see Auguste. With him is the teacher. He is stick-thin, with wiry gray hairs at his temples and a dry, lined face. Up close, his shirt is shabby, his dark blue tie is frayed and stained. His baggy trousers are the color of the earth and patched at the knees. His bare feet are splayed and grow out of the dust.

  “This is my brother Cleophas,” Auguste says.

  “Your brother?” I say. Another brother? How many are there?

  “Yes—not my real brother,” he replies as though I’d asked a stupid question.

  Cleophas bows uncertainly and asks politely how we are. His French is simple, easy for me to understand, and his tone is deferential. He can barely look us in the eye.

  “You must leave here at once,” he says quietly, “to be safe. Here is not safe.”

  He raises a finger and points to something approaching from the same direction we have come. The road is shimmering with mirages. The ocean of yellow elephant grass around the village is limitless and still. I shade my eyes and see an open-topped limousine in which a man stands as though in a chariot. He is dressed in what looks to be black tie and tails, over which is draped a leopard skin. As he comes closer I see he is wearing white gloves. He has a sergeant-major’s swagger stick tucked under his arm and he wears dark glasses. A huge black umbrella held aloft by a tall servant protects him from the sun. Behind the cruising limousine are perhaps thirty or forty followers, armed with spears, machetes, bows and arrows, and stone-age clubs and axes.

  The villagers come out from their huts and converge in the open space around the water pump.

  “What the hell is going on?” Stipe asks.

  “It’s an election meeting,” Cleophas explains. “This gentleman is the MNC candidate. He has come to ask for our votes.”

  “It’s not how they do it in my country,” Stipe says.

  “Isn’t it?” Auguste asks.

  He and Stipe regard each other for a moment.

  “Maybe he has a point, Mark,” I say reasonably. “It’s not as if you don’t have political razzmatazz in America.”

  Stipe says nothing. He looks sulky.

  “This village is Baluba, but all around is Lulua,” Cleophas explains. “There has been much fighting.”

  The limousine pulls in, followed by the Baluba tribesmen. They jeer at us as they pass and make feinting lunges. One man wearing an army helmet and a loincloth runs up. A small monkey perches on his shoulder. The man jabs his spear to within an inch of Stipe’s face and utters a stream of taunts and insults. Stipe doesn’t flinch. Cleophas speaks sharply to the warrior, who, after another feint, gives up his sport to rejoin his comrades.

  “You should leave,” Cleophas says again. “It is not safe here for you.”

  “I’ll go talk with the soldiers again,” Stipe says.

  The candidate, standing in the limousine, starts to speak. He is a vigorous orator.

  “What language is that?” I ask Cleophas after a while.

  “It is Tshiluba language, the language of the Baluba people.”

  “What’s the candidate saying?”

  “Bad things, sir.”

  “What bad things?”

  “He is telling the people that if they vote for him, they will all live in big houses, that they will have the houses of the whites and also the wives of the whites.”

  A raucous cheer goes up from the villagers.

  “He is telling the people now that if they vote for him their crops will be good . . .”

  Another cheer.

  “ . . . that they will find Belgian money growing in the fields instead of manioc . . .”

  “He’s really saying that?”

  “He is telling the people that when independence has come their dead relatives will rise from their graves and come back to them, their bodies perfect as they were when young.”

  “You don’t believe what the candidate is promising, do you?”

  “What he is promising is impossible, sir.”

  “So you won’t vote for him?”

  Cleophas glances at Auguste.

  “Yes, sir. I will vote for Mr. Lumumba and the MNC,” he says, almost inaudibly.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” I ask, taken aback. “This man’s obviously a charlatan. Why would you vote for him and his party?”

  I sense Cleophas wants to answer but is afraid of offending me.

  “I would like to know,” I say, modifying my tone, making it less strident, “but only if you want to tell me.”

  Cleophas gathers his nerve.

  “I will vote for the MNC because Mr. Lumumba is the only leader who tells us we do not have to be poor forever, that if we unite as one nation we can use the riches of the Congo for the people of the Congo.”

  From the checkpoint comes a shout. I look over to see two soldiers angrily confronting Stipe. He raises his hands to show he intends no aggression. A soldier pushes him roughly. I start forward.

  “No, James,” Auguste says instantly. “The soldiers are bad men.”

  The soldiers shout at Stipe, waving their arms hysterically. He looks over and signals for me to stay put.

  “Please get in the car, sir,” Cleophas says, “and be ready to drive. I will explain to the soldiers.”

  Before I can say anything he has set off to the checkpoint. Auguste and I watch as he walks submissively towards the soldiers, his hands open, his arms by his sides. He goes up to the surrounded Stipe and starts to intercede for him.

  Auguste and I get into the car. I start the engine. Behind us, the crowd is getting heated, responding to the candidate’s oratory.

  A soldier raises his rifle butt as though about to strike Cleophas. He lowers his head but does not attempt to defend himself. The soldiers gather round and shout at him. They push him forward and back. He endures everything, he says nothing. Stipe remains still. Cleophas starts to plead again for him, whispered intercessions. From time to time the soldiers threaten him into silence, only for him to begin again.

  The candidate’s speech continues to cheers and chanting. Suddenly, the tribesmen rush to surround the car. A warrior with a spear jabs at the headlights as though taunting a chained beast.

  “Go, James,” Auguste says. “We must go.”

  I edge slowly forward towards the checkpoint. The warriors bang the hood and roof and slap the windshield with their hands. I press on the accelerator and slowly increase our speed. When they flock in front of us I put my foot down sharply. The warriors spring out of the way.

  I accelerate to the roadblock. They give chase and throw a few stones, then jeer and laugh at us.

  Cleophas hurries over.

  “The soldiers are good men,” he says. “They are Bamongo people, far from their villages and they are very frightened.”

  “Will they let us go now?” I say.

  Cleophas looks back at the soldiers. One of them nods tersely.

  Auguste calls Stipe to the car, reaching over to open the back door. Behind, the tribesmen seem to be preparing to rush us again.

  “What about you?” I ask Cleophas. “Will you be all right?”

  “I will be all right, sir,” he says. “Thank you.”

  His eyes are muddy, without definition; the irises have a kind of grayish bloom around the edges.

  “Go, James,” Auguste urges me as Stipe jumps in the back.

  The soldiers stand aside. I put my foot down. Auguste waves to Cleophas and we shoot through the checkpoint.

  Something flies in through the open window behind me. I look back to see an arrow impaled in the armrest of the near-side back door an inch or two above Stipe’s knees.

  “Roll up your window,” Stipe shouts.

  More arrows hit us, not from behind, not from the village, but from both sides. Men leap from the elephant grass, hundreds of them. One appears on the road ahead of us and launches a spear. It skims the hood and cracks the windshield. He jumps out of the way as our speed gets up. There is a rifle shot
.

  I turn back to see the soldiers at the roadblock fleeing towards the village under a shower of arrows and spears. Cleophas is nowhere in sight.

  “It’s a Lulua attack,” Stipe says.

  I press my foot to the floor. I wish Inès had been here. I wish she had been here to see the triumph of this her new cause.

  c h a p t e r t w e n t y

  I will write the article they want me to write. It’s a good story, they did not have to work hard to convince me of that. I will write it though I know what it means for Inès and me. I will write it because I know.

  Stipe and Houthhoofd do not get down to business straight away. First there are long cool drinks on the verandah during which there is an account of our escape from the village. Houthhoofd reacts with a shrug. What can you expect? There will be worse to come unless strong measures are taken. But the government in Brussels has a weak stomach; it’s up to the colons themselves to bring order out of the looming havoc.

  Afterwards, Houthhoofd takes us on a brief tour of the estate. I don’t know that I’ve seen anywhere in the world as beautiful. It is early evening and the sky is red and gold. The views are long and calming. I can imagine an early morning climb to one of the huge boulders on the hills overlooking the valleys where the thorn trees and baobabs rise out of the yellow grass of the savannah. There I might spend the whole day alone, my thoughts going nowhere, the scenery for balm. Noises in this place come softly, unwilling to disturb or clutter. In such a setting I might be free of Inès.

  Houthhoofd shows me copper clearings where the mineral is so dense in the ground trees cannot grow, and he tells me that Africa is a poor continent with a handful of extravagantly rich areas. Katanga, the size of Britain, is one of the richest. The richest. The mines of the Union Minière and Forminière provide the world with eight percent of its copper, sixty percent of its uranium, seventy-three percent of its cobalt, eighty percent of its industrial diamonds. Katanga has gold, silver, tin, zinc, manganese, columbium, cadmium, tungsten, tantalum; its supplies will never be exhausted.

  At dinner Houthhoofd asks rhetorically, “Can we trust these riches to a man like Patrice Lumumba?”

  Stipe is unusually silent; he lets the Belgians make the running—is he feeling guilty about turning on his old friend?—in tandem with the man I have been brought to meet: Victor Nendaka. Nendaka is one of Lumumba’s closest aides, vice chairman of the party. He made a name for himself when he forced the Belgians to release Lumumba by telling them he would not bring the MNC delegation to Brussels for the roundtable conference without his leader. I know him. I met him in Auguste’s house in the cité, the night I first saw Lumumba. He struck me then as a man of limitless insincerity. He is sleek and self-satisfied and has a specious charm. I have always thought he would make a good pimp. He owns a bar, a travel agency and an insurance company.

  I am only half listening. I have already made my decision. I am in any case distracted by another of the guests. Madeleine is here. She is having an affair with Houthhoofd, it is obvious from the extent of their discretion, from the care with which they avoid each other’s eyes.

  She sits opposite me. Something strange is going on in my head. It is to do with sex. With Inès I enjoyed a sexual life I had not thought possible. Inès’s physical preferences are direct. She is not prudish, but I cannot really say she is adventurous. Not like Margaret, who loved to be surprised, demanded it. With Inès, there was very little foreplay—she was easily aroused—and she liked it best with me on top and she wanted that I get there quickly. The variations didn’t hold much for her. To begin with, I did not think her simple tastes could sustain my interest. But they did. I found sex with her profoundly, deeply satisfying—moving. I never knew I could feel so good afterwards. I remember looking forward every night to going to bed. Waiting for her to finish what she was doing, telling her to hurry up, sometimes saying all right that’s enough and taking her by the wrist. I suppose one reason I loved it so much was because I seemed to be pleasing her so much. (A terrifying thought strikes me: am I overestimating how much I pleased her? Am I deluding myself, typical man? Perhaps her disillusion with me is no more than the disillusion of the bored sexual partner? If I pleased her so much, would she be so distant? Perhaps, like Bovary, I took her happiness for granted; and perhaps, like Emma, she found happiness elsewhere. I fight down the thought, it makes me sick in my stomach.) I loved it with her. I needed it. I could say that it was more important emotionally than physically—and it is true my emotions were sparked by our intimacy, then soothed and calmed. I could say this and claim for myself a kind of sensitivity. But the truth is I relished her, the squeeze and the smell and the wrap and the fit of her. When I was jammed inside her and could hear her hard breath, could feel her heart pound and the quiver in her leg. Then my body was alight, all my senses. The pleasure of it, the pleasure . . .

  It is not until tonight that I realize how much I have missed this part of my life. Since arriving in the Congo, I have almost forgotten about women. I cannot remember the last time Inès and I made love.

  The sight of Madeleine arouses me. As Houthhoofd speaks I am entertaining fantasies of fucking his mistress. I let the red wine seep into my imagination, staining it, dirtying it. Her thick blonde-silver hair is tied back as usual, showing off her long, slim neck and little ears. I want to bite them and whisper things to her.

  “He’s dangerous,” Houthhoofd is saying. “He’s the most dangerous man on the African continent today.”

  I suppose I should say something to make it look as if I am interested. I keep a lazy, insolent eye on Madeleine as I remind Stipe that he has many times sung Lumumba’s praises. An outstanding man, was his earlier verdict.

  Stipe shrugs. “I tried to keep Patrice on the straight and narrow, so did Bernard, so did everyone else, but Patrice is headstrong.”

  “He’s unstable,” Houthhoofd interjects. “I think he may be mentally ill.”

  “He uses dope,” Stipe tells me.

  I look skeptical.

  “It’s true, James,” Stipe continues matter-of-factly, without any special emphasis, sure of his case. “I’ve seen him in his office smoking weed with his cronies and a couple of pretty secretaries hanging around, who, incidentally, he’s balling. In a country of swordsmen, our boy is a veritable D’Artagnan.”

  “I have nothing against a black government if it’s a government led by responsible men,” Houthhoofd says.

  “Do you have a particular responsible man in mind?” I ask without interest.

  I am thinking about kissing Madeleine. She has stayed out of the conversation, she has barely looked in my direction, but I know she is aware of my gaze. I lean back in my chair, drain my glass and stretch my legs out straight under the table, crossing my ankles. A houseboy refills my glass.

  “In Leo there is Kasavubu,” Houthhoofd continues. “He used to be a firebrand, very anti-Belgian, and he’s an introverted and solitary man, but he’s become more stable recently. In Katanga there is Tshombe. He’s not quite as stable—in fact he’s a playboy and a gambler—but he knows enough to listen to good advice from businesspeople.”

  In the boldness of my reverie I summon up the image of Madeleine as she stood before me at the Regina’s poolside, dressed in her black swimsuit. I remember the heavy breasts and the little ridge of weight on her belly. I remember her nervousness when she tried to pick me up. Why didn’t I go along with it? We might even have gone up to her room then and there. I could have pushed her against the wall and pulled down her top and licked her nipples. I could have pushed her knees apart and pressed my cock against her. I could have turned her round and slapped her palms against the wall and pulled her back and tugged the swimsuit over her arse. Why didn’t I do it? What did I deny myself for? For Inès? For the nothing she gives me, for the pain she inflicts? Fuck you, Inès. I’m going to fuck Madeleine, I am going to fuck her. As soon as I get the chance.

  “Lumumba is taking money from the Soviets.”<
br />
  The conversation has been rolling on. I haven’t really heard any of it. I look over vaguely at the present speaker. It is Nendaka.

  He says again, “Lumumba is taking money from the Soviets.It’s intolerable.”

  I look at the fat bar owner. I can’t think of anything to say. I’m not interested. I’m interested only in Madeleine. I am quite drunk. To Nendaka and Houthhoofd and Stipe my lack of reaction seems to cause some consternation. They exchange glances. I’m giving the impression of a man not easily impressed.

  “Is that so surprising?” I say at last.

  I look across at Madeleine. Stipe starts to say something about how Lumumba has flirted with the Soviets, like he’s flirted with everyone else. But taking Red gold at this point is a big statement about the direction he’s taking the MNC and about his plans for the Congo post-independence.

  I put my foot on the bar of Madeleine’s chair. I move my leg and press against her calf. She looks suddenly up. I hold her gaze.

  “We have copies of the financial records—lodgments, transfers, withdrawals,” Houthhoofd is saying.

  I press. Madeleine raises her glass and takes a shallow sip. Slowly she licks her lower lip, puts the glass down, gives me a look, then turns to the others. Nendaka is announcing that he is going to lead a breakaway faction of the MNC. He says he will split the party in two.

  I nod my understanding, thinking of Madeleine with her palms against the wall, her swimsuit snagged around her ankles.

  Houthhoofd is summing up. The MNC will soon be split. Business won’t accept the party’s program. The officers of the Force Publique won’t accept it. The black soldiers won’t accept it. Katanga won’t accept it. Patrice Lumumba, Houthhoofd concludes with satisfaction, is finished.

  Over the brandies Houthhoofd stares at me, wordless and cold. I don’t care. I feel like the young lion eyeing the old. Madeleine sits as far away from me as possible and fusses about her lover. Stipe tries to cover up with small talk. He’s not good at it.