The Catastrophist: A Novel

by Ronan Bennett

  “Yes—yes, I’m still here. I’ve thought of something.”

  I give him the address of Houthhoofd’s house on Eugene Henry.

  “And Roger,” I add, “it’s probably a good idea not to let anyone see that you have a passenger.”

  He says he understands. He will put Inès in the back seat and cover her with a blanket.

  On my way out I run into Stipe talking to two U.N. officials on the concourse. He seems different, cooler towards me, as though he knows something. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that of course he doesn’t know, that he’s often like this when he’s “working,” that it’s only my nervous imagination. But even when he asks about my foot there is a hardness in his tone. Just a scratch, I say, smiling too much. Nothing to worry about. As the officials move off I spot someone coming towards us.

  “Isn’t that Dr. Joe from Paris?” I say, eager for an opportunity to divert him.

  Stipe’s face darkens and he signals to Dr. Joe to wait a moment. The bizarre little man stops and tries to look inconspicuous.

  “One of your shadier friends,” I say lightly.

  “Just someone who’s here to do a job,” he says.

  “What job would that be?”

  Stipe looks at me with small, hard eyes.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to fuck me, James, would you?”

  “What?” I say, shocked by the question and the tone.

  He stares at me.

  “It’s just that there are rumors,” he continues.

  “What rumors?”

  “Certain MNC sympathizers and people who have been under surveillance have dropped out of sight. They’ve left their houses, their jobs. Other people have been overheard on the phones taking care what they say, obviously talking in code. Something’s going on.”

  “You’ll tip me off, won’t you, whatever it is?” I josh matily. “You know I don’t like to miss out on stories. It makes the paper think I’m not doing my job.”

  He looks at me like a parent who suspects his child of lying, but—short of a full confession—cannot prove it. I know all I have to do is keep my mouth shut, but part of me is desperate to confess.

  “I know as a matter of principle you don’t like to get involved,” he says. “This isn’t the time to change the habit of a lifetime.”

  “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”

  “Have I?”

  “Very much,” I say, struggling to maintain my act.

  His mouth tightens. “I hope so,” he says. “I really do. I won’t bullshit you. Inès is in a lot of trouble.”

  I don’t have to act. I can feel the blood drain from my face. I am like a drunk fighting to keep upright, concentrating on keeping the contents of my stomach where they are.

  “If she comes to you—”

  “I’d be the last person she’d come to,” I put in quickly.

  Perhaps too quickly. He stares at me bleakly.

  “If she comes to you,” he repeats slowly, “you can do her a big favor.”

  “What would that be?” I ask.

  “You can tell me where she is.”

  “Why would that be doing her a favor?”

  “Because I’d try to keep her alive.”

  I let out a nervous little laugh.

  “This is all suddenly terribly melodramatic,” I say as lightly as I can.

  He glares at me.

  “You find the idea of Inès ending up in a torture cell in the Central Prison amusing?”

  “Would they do that to a foreign journalist? Would they torture a white woman?”

  Stipe snorts, amazed by my naïveté. He looks me up and down.

  “You really don’t know where Inès is? You’re telling me the truth?”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Call me if she tries to get in touch. I can help her. I can help you too, because if she drags you into this you’re going to need help.”

  He nods to Dr. Joe, who scuttles over. The little man’s chin is coarse with blond-brown stubble. There is an odor about him like bad eggs. He avoids looking me in the eye.

  “Let’s have a drink soon,” Stipe says.

  He and Dr. Joe leave together. I follow after them. The rain has stopped. I watch as they walk past my Mercedes to their own car.

  I am trembling as I get in behind the wheel. I do not immediately start the engine. I sit and think about Stipe’s offer of help. Was he being truthful with me? Would he help Inès? And if he did, what would be the price? The total price? Surrendering Auguste might be a down payment only. He might want more from Inès and she would give nothing. I see Stipe’s Chevrolet make a right turn, heading down to Boulevard Albert I. I think about driving after him, stopping him and confessing everything. I watch as the car stops at the bottom of the street, indicates left, waits for a space, pulls out and disappears.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Auguste.

  There is an answering murmur from the trunk. I turn on the engine and put the car in gear.

  I close the gates behind us and—leaving Auguste locked in the trunk, which gives me a malicious little thrill—walk to the back of the house where the windows of the washroom are not shuttered. I lift a stone from the garden, check to make sure I am unobserved, then break the glass.

  I am coming out the front door when I hear a car pull up in the street. I hurry to reopen the gates and let Roger through. Together we help Inès into the house. The fever has broken but she is exhausted. We take her to the main bedroom and set her in a chair while I prepare the bed in which Madeleine and I have spent many afternoons and nights.

  “Auguste?” Inès says in a whisper.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Auguste’s safe. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  I ask Roger if he thinks they were followed.

  “Not as far as I could tell,” he says, looking around the room. “Rather nice place.”

  “It belongs to Bernard Houthhoofd,” I say.

  Roger raises an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll never think to come here. Houthhoofd’s in Katanga and there’s only one other person who uses the house.”

  “What if he shows up?”

  “She won’t. I’ll make certain of it.”

  I leave Roger to tend to Inès and go to the Mercedes. Auguste stretches and rubs his shoulder when I let him out of the trunk. I give him the suitcase and I take the typewriter. As we enter the house he asks about Inès.

  “She’s in there,” I say sourly as Roger comes out of the bedroom.

  Auguste goes to her.

  Roger, a little embarrassed in a situation the like of which I feel certain he has never encountered before, says matter-of-factly, “By the way, I hope you don’t mind, but I let the houseboy go for the day. He kept on about having to cut the grass, but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to have him around, what with the military and so forth.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Well, I think I should be on my way,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I’m playing tennis with one of the U.N. chaps. American. Terribly decent fellow. Might have dinner at the Zoo if we can get in.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

  “Think nothing of it,” he says quickly, as though to stave off an embarrassing display on my part.

  He checks his bag and pats his pockets for his keys.

  “I didn’t have a vote, of course,” he says on his way out, “but if I had, I would never have voted for Lumumba. Not likely. Rather too headstrong for my tastes. But the point is he won the election and I know we’re all supposed to be grateful to this Mobutu chap for restoring order, but there is actually a principle here.”

  “Yes, indeed,” I say, though I am not too clear about what principle Roger has in mind.

  “Dictators always arrive with excuses,” he continues. “Mussolini had his and so did Hitler and so did Franco. But the fact is one shouldn’t have any truck with them. It’s quite wrong.”

  �
��Yes,” I say.

  I find myself absurdly moved by Roger’s simple precepts, particularly because there are risks he does not seem aware of. I give him a brief version of what Stipe told me in the Regina. He is blasé.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’m a personal friend of the ambassador. If they try any monkey business with me they’ll soon find out who they’re dealing with. Same goes for you. You’re a British citizen.”

  His insouciance is infectious. I feel suddenly as though a great weight has been lifted. Confidence sweeps over me. I can see Stipe’s threats in perspective. We will come through this. I extend my hand and when he puts his in mine I squeeze it with emotion, grateful not just for his practical help but for the lift he has given my spirits. None of this seems to register with him. He appears utterly oblivious both of the gratitude and the feeling behind my gesture. He says only that he has left some more chloroquine for Inès on the bedside table. I go out to open the gate for him. He gives me a polite little nod as he drives off for his tennis game and his aperitif and his dinner. When he is gone I feel as though I have lost a trusted friend.

  I walk to the bedroom door. Inside I see Auguste on his knees by the side of the bed. He holds Inès’s hand in his and whispers to her. She makes little sounds in response. He strokes her brow and I can stand it no more.

  I go to the kitchen and fix myself a gin. It is only just after three, but I suddenly feel exhausted. I remember that I did not go to bed last night. I have not eaten all day. I will go home. I will have a shower, then call Madeleine. I will suggest she come to my house instead of meeting here as we usually do. She will agree to that. I have never allowed her into my house before. She will be curious; perhaps she will think the invitation presages some new development in our relationship. In any case she will come.

  I hear a noise behind me. It is Auguste.

  “You’ll have to be as quiet as possible here,” I say. “There are a few tins of stuff in the cupboards and there are beers in the fridge. I wouldn’t turn on the lights. It might attract unwelcome attention. Better just to get an early night. I’ll be back tomorrow evening to pick you up. What time should I get here?”

  “Before eight,” he says. “The plane will be at the airport at nine.”

  I down the last of the drink.

  “I ran into Stipe at the Regina,” I say.

  Auguste’s face betrays no reaction.

  “He seems to have lost his sense of humor,” I continue. “He was very serious.”

  “Stipe was always very serious.”

  “I used to find him more ironic.”

  “I think you may have misread him, James. When things were going his way Stipe could afford to pretend he didn’t take anything too seriously. But the moment things went against him and his interests, the real man showed himself. Don’t feel bad that you misunderstood this. So did I.”

  I rinse the glass and leave it on the draining board.

  “He has been plotting to assassinate Patrice,” Auguste says.

  I laugh. “I think that’s going a little too far—even for the new Stipe.”

  “No distance is too far for the Americans in this. They have brought a scientist to Léopoldville. He is a poisoner.”

  I laugh again. This is sounding like an overblown Jacobean revenge tragedy.

  “They call him Dr. Joe,” Auguste continues, “but his name is Gottlieb. His mission is to kill Patrice with a special poison.”

  At the mention of Dr. Joe I straighten up.

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “The Americans are not the only spies in Léopoldville.”

  It’s too absurd. But I don’t laugh. I think of the ridiculous-looking little man scuttling about with Stipe. I know Stipe wants Lumumba off the scene for good. But would he go that far? A shiver runs down my spine. The sense of well-being brought on by Roger’s words drains away. Stipe’s threats ring in my ears and again I find myself thinking about going to him.

  I take a last look at Inès. She rests more easily now. She gives me a wan smile when I sit on the bed.

  “The plane tomorrow night is the last chance to get out of here,” she says in a small voice.

  “I know,” I say.

  “We’re depending on you. If you don’t come to pick us up, we have no chance.”

  “Does that mean you’re definitely going to Stanleyville as well?”

  She does not say anything.

  “I’ll come,” I say when I know what the answer is. “You can depend on me.”

  There is so much more to say, and nothing to say at all.

  Pulling up at my house, I beep on the horn before remembering Roger has sent Charles home. As I get out of the car to open the gates, two ANC jeeps come roaring up the road. I stop to watch them pass. But they don’t pass. Instead they screech to a halt and a squad of soldiers, led by a captain, jump out and surround me. The captain is a stocky man with wide-spaced eyes and a flat face. His teeth are individual, discolored stumps. They have been filed and filled with gold. He asks if I am James Gillespie. I say, rather haughtily, as though it’s none of their business, that I am. He says that I am to come with them to the Central Prison for questioning. Thinking of Roger’s example, I demand to see his warrant. The captain’s reaction is immediate but at the same time unhurried, almost languid. He simply turns to the soldier next to him, takes his rifle and casually smashes the butt into the side of my head. What I feel first is not pain, but nausea, an overwhelming desire to vomit. It’s a new experience for me—nausea not from the stomach but from the head. As I retch, I try to bend forward but the world is no longer ordered the way I know it to be. Sky and earth are moving, they are intent on changing places. The horizon jumps up to my face, then careers away again. My legs are giving way, I am sliding down. Blinking, I look up at the massed brains of the gray-white clouds above. They swirl around and I am sick again. I splutter and choke as the vomit settles back in my throat. It is not easy to breathe. The captain stoops over me. My eyes are not working as they should. He is in vision for a second, sways away, comes back into view. My head spins.

  “Where is Auguste Kilundu?” he demands.

  I hear him clearly. My ears are working at least.

  “Where is Kilundu?”

  I try to speak, but nothing comes. I am not sure what I want to say. To tell him I don’t know where Auguste is or that I do. I concentrate on getting some words out. The effort causes a wave of nausea to rise. I shut my eyes. The next thing I feel is a blow to my stomach and suddenly my lungs are airless. I let out a groan and gasp to breathe. I feel a sharp pain in my temple. Someone may have kicked me in the head, but I cannot be sure. Panic grips me. I am thinking about brain damage and ruptured internal organs. I am worried they will go too far, that they will kill me before I get to the Central Prison. I want to shout out that I will tell them everything.

  I feel myself being dragged to my feet. I think I may have pissed myself. The captain is laughing through his filed, peg teeth.

  c h a p t e r s i x

  I lie curled up, the side of my face pressed against the oily, ribbed metal of the jeep’s floor. The captain, sitting with his feet at the small of my back, bellows and screams and every now and then he jabs a rifle butt into my side or kicks at me. The kicks are not hard. His boots are restricted by lack of space. I keep my eyes shut and pretend not to hear or feel. All I want is blackness. I want to embrace numbness, to fold into nothing. I want to trust in others. The ambassador. My editor. Alan. Stipe. Grant. George the U.N. press officer. Roger. Anyone. They will do things. I cannot do anything. I do not want to do anything. I just want to lie here wrapped in the cocoon of my pain. I do not want anything to change. If they change they will get worse. Better not to think. I do not even want to try to get my fear under control. The effort is too much. Easier just to give way, to let things take their course, to be led—even if it’s to the torture chamber. To think is only to create in the present the terror of what is to c
ome.

  The captain leans forward and puts his mouth to my ear. He screams so loudly I cannot hear the words. He straightens up again, muttering something to his men in a tone of disgust, and—almost as an afterthought—slaps my ear with his open hand. He pulls up my left hand and yanks the watch from my wrist. Someone else is going through my pockets. The captain spits at me and I feel the tickle of his phlegm sliding down my neck. He kicks my arse. The blow causes my legs an involuntary jerk, and I feel the wetness. I have pissed myself.

  The embarrassment of this. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want this to be happening. Let me go, please, it’s nothing to do with me. If you call Stipe he will explain everything. He will tell you that I’m not a Lumumbist. I’m not on their side, I’m not on anyone’s side. I see all sides. My craft demands it. I am against things, yes, I admit that. The things of intolerance and illiberalism. I am against dogma and certainty and ideology and all the things that close our options. I am against. I am not for. I am for nothing. I can’t be. Je suis un homme-plume. I live for words, my life is in words. You must understand. Only words, and words cannot be for because they have already described everything. They know too much, they know where everything leads. They undercut, they expose, they stand apart, they refuse to be drawn in. They are not involved and I am not involved. Not in anything. Je suis un homme-plume.

  The captain kicks me in the head.

  It’s useless. I know it. My justifications will not work. I must think. If I am to survive I must force myself to think.

  The jeep jolts sharply. My head bangs on the metal. At least the nausea is subsiding. My senses are making an unsteady return. I run my swollen tongue over my teeth. I think they are all there. But there is blood, thick and salty and sweet tasting. I find the source, a gash on my lower lip and I suck at the blood. I suck hard because the hot liquid is me; I am taking myself in, I am reassuring myself, loving myself, reminding myself of me. I am real. My blood makes me real and worth preserving. I must think. I must work out a version of events to give them. The journey to the Central Prison will take fifteen to twenty minutes. Once I am in the interrogation cell there will be no time to concoct a story. I must come up with one now. Something plausible. I must use these precious, shuddering minutes.