The Catastrophist: A Novel

by Ronan Bennett

  What do they know? Start there. What do they know? Think. Think. Think. The black Citroën. The car that seemed to be following us last night when Roger gave me a lift home. Was that the Sûreté? Were they following us, keeping us under surveillance? If they were they may already know everything. They would know that Inès came to me after Roger dropped me off, that I drove to Harry’s shack the next morning—this morning; ages have passed. They would know that I went to Houthhoofd’s house, that Roger joined me there later with Inès. They would know that Auguste was there as well.

  But they don’t know. A triumph! Yes! They don’t know where Auguste is. So they weren’t following me, at least not all the time. Then why have they arrested me? Think. Think.

  They’re going on a hunch. It has to be that. They know about me and Inès and they know about Inès and Auguste. They are doing what investigators anywhere would do. They are bringing in a known associate of a wanted man for questioning. They have nothing specific against me.

  Confidence starts a slow infiltration into my head. Perhaps this situation is not as impossible as it seems. I can deny everything, including the most compromising fact of all, the thing that started this: I can deny that Inès was ever in my house. There is a blow to my knee. They are all kicking at me now, front and back, and they are spitting. There are gobs in my eyes and nose and chin and hair. It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I can handle this. I’m in the clear. I can deny everything.

  I can deny everything.

  Yes.

  Absolutely everything . . .

  Charles.

  Oh no. Please no.

  Charles.

  Think.

  The houseboy will tell them everything. Why would he not? He has no loyalty to me. I inherited him. He came with the house. Part of the goods and chattels. I kept him on. I tried at least to be a reasonable employer, paying slightly over the going rate, being flexible about his hours, but he rebuffed all my attempts to get any closer. He doesn’t like me. Why would he not tell them about Inès? He is Bakongo, and they are no lovers of Lumumba. He has probably already told them. There was a white woman in the nókó’s bed when I arrived for work this morning. A small white woman who was sick. The nókó told me not to let anyone in to see her except the English doctor.

  They will guess the woman’s identity immediately.

  What does this mean for me?

  Nothing good, nothing good.

  It’s hopeless, it’s useless, hopeless.

  The English doctor.

  It’s getting worse. They will go to Roger. Why did I involve him? Accomplices always betray. How long will Roger’s high principles hold out? Not long. Roger is a law-abiding man, and these people will soon convince him that they are now the law. He may make a protest, he may deliver an indignant lecture, but the protest will be small, the lecture brief, they will be for form’s sake.

  Then he will tell them.

  I can still deny it.

  Why not?

  His word against mine.

  What if they search the house and find something of hers? Is there anything of hers to find? A piece of clothing perhaps. All right, so there’s a piece of woman’s clothing, but that doesn’t mean it belongs to Inès. Or that she left it there last night. They won’t believe me.

  We must be near the prison now. A minute or two away.

  They won’t believe me. I was wrong to start thinking. Why didn’t I stay in my womb of pain and bruises?

  Time is running out. I have to get my story straight.

  I make my decision. I shall deny Inès was ever in the house. I will say I haven’t seen her since—when was the last time? Independence day. I saw her in the Palais de la Nation on independence day. June 30th. On the press benches. Almost five months ago.

  And Auguste?

  I have not seen Auguste either, not for many months. I certainly would not help him, in any way. I can use his theft of Inès from me to give this statement extra weight—I will keep this in reserve. A trump card; I will not play it too soon. As men they will understand. Why would I help the man who cuckolded me?

  What else? I must work through the corollaries of my denials.

  I saw Roger last night but only because I picked up a slight wound in the shooting outside the Ghanaian ambassador’s residence. I have not talked to him since. Whatever he says. Keep it simple.

  My movements this morning?

  Where can I say I have been? I cannot risk giving them the name of a third party. The lie would be too easily exposed.

  I went for a drive.

  I went for a drive to look for “color” for an article. I am a journalist. Yes, a drive around Leo. An observer. A watcher. Collecting details for an article. No. This sounds too much like spying. And if you are a spy you are a Belgian and if you are a Belgian you are a para. Color for a novel. Je suis un homme-plume. Nothing more, nothing more.

  The jeep judders as though passing over a ramp. We are arrived. I cannot stop myself from trembling. We come to a halt. I hear the sound of a heavy gate closing behind us. The soldiers’ boots hit the concrete. At least I have got my story straight. It has the advantage of being a simple series of denials; it has the disadvantage of being untrue.

  The soldiers grab me and haul me out of the jeep.

  We are in some kind of courtyard. To one side is the perimeter wall and main gate, to the other a low gray concrete block. Three men in shabby uniforms lounge by the block’s entrance, a rust-colored steel door. They regard me with little more than mild interest, though they cannot have seen many white men in here. I may even be the first. Then I remember that Smail has been arrested. He may still be here.

  The captain shoves me from behind and the soldiers frog-march me towards the block. One of the shabby guards unlocks the steel door. He shares a joke with his friends as I pass inside.

  I have the impression the captain may be insane. In the dark tunnels below the prison he screams and laughs hysterically. I do not think he is putting on an act. The two soldiers who have continued with us are quiet now and I notice they avoid his eyes. He jabbers sometimes, as though to himself, rapid, disconnected speech.

  At the end of a long, gloomy passage, we come to a barred gate beside which a man in drab and dirty civilian clothes sits at a desk. Before him is a large book, like a hotel register. The captain pushes me forward and I flop against the gate. The two soldiers pull me roughly up and push me back against the wall. The captain commands the man in civilian clothes to open up. There is an exchange in Lingala. I understand enough to know that the civilian is asking for the prisoner’s details—name, age, nationality, suspected offense. The captain shouts angrily. The civilian insists. He also seems to want the captain’s signature. This the captain refuses to give and he starts to rant. The civilian, in a reasonable tone, tries to interrupt, but nothing can stop the captain. He goes on and on.

  I use the distraction to review my story. Deny everything. Inès did not come to the house. I have not seen Auguste. I don’t know where he is hiding.

  There is a flaw. There is a terrible flaw in my calculations.

  Auguste and Inès are at Houthhoofd’s house. What if Madeleine should go there tonight? What if she brings another lover to the bed in which Inès and Auguste now lie? My plan had been to divert her, but now I cannot. She will want to go to the house. She will call me and when she can’t get me she will call another. She will open the door and realize immediately something is wrong. Her senses are sharp. She knows smells. She will smell another presence, she will smell a woman, she will smell the malaria. She will sniff out the macaque. She might confront them. She may even be armed. Madeleine often carries a gun. She knows how to use it.

  Everything is lost. I was right. This is hopeless. I should never have brought Auguste to Houthhoofd’s house. What was I thinking of? I thought I was being clever but I’ve led myself into a trap.

  The captain continues his rant. The civilian remains impassive and unimpressed.

 
; I drop my head. I bend over and put my hands on my knees to rest. I feel depression and despair close on me. My legs are weak. My head is dizzy. And then—with the sudden blinding clarity of religious revelation—I understand that I am protected. They can do nothing to me. I feel the despair lift in an instant. I have more protection than any ambassador, any editor, friend or politician, can provide. My knowledge is my protection. I don’t have to undergo torture, I don’t have to die. I don’t even have to be here. I can tell them what I know. Why should I help Auguste? I hate him. There are times when I could have killed him myself. I ask myself could I live with the knowledge that I had betrayed Auguste? I picture myself in London, in my flat, ten years from now, twenty. Would I sleep at night? Would I be tormented by feelings of guilt? Would I look inside myself and see only blackness and weakness and selfishness and hate? And I know the answer. Inwardly I’m already apologizing to Inès. It’s not difficult. I have let so many people down over the years that I carry my apologies with me always. Still, part of me means it this time. I am sorry, Inès, for all that I’ve done, for all that I am about to do.

  The captain, still by the desk with the civilian, looks over at me and shouts something, a command, a threat. The soldiers haul me up and shove me back against the wall. I must stand, not slouch, the captain commands. I ignore him. I am not afraid. I must talk to Stipe. Telling the captain will guarantee me nothing. I shout out that I want to talk to Mark Stipe at the American embassy. I shout out two telephone numbers and repeat the name—Mark Stipe, Mark Stipe.

  The captain screams at me to be quiet.

  I take a breath and go on. I want to talk to Mark Stipe at the American embassy. He is a friend of Mobutu. He is a friend of mine. He will want to know I am here and he will want to talk to me. I have important information for Mark Stipe. Only for Mark Stipe.

  The captain strides over to me. He slaps me hard across the mouth, grabs my hair and bangs my head against the wall. With his other hand he pins me by the throat and screams into my face. I am fascinated by his teeth. I understand nothing of what he is saying.

  He turns quickly and marches back to the desk. The civilian says something, the captain sweeps the register from the desk to the floor and glares at him. The civilian slowly pulls open a drawer and removes a bunch of keys. He pushes back his chair—careful to show he is in no great hurry—and gets up to open the gate. The captain says something sarcastic, then beckons his soldiers.

  We pass into a corridor with solid cell doors on either side. Is Smail here? The place smells fecal. There are stains on the concrete walls. At the far end, on the left-hand side, is an open door. They push me forward. I have never in my life been locked up. I do not want to go inside.

  “I want to speak to Mark Stipe,” I say quickly, doing my best to keep my voice intact. “Together we can help you. We can help you find Auguste.”

  All this succeeds in doing is to provoke more screams from the captain, and his screams set off someone else’s. The whole place erupts. The mad howling from the cells sends shivers down my spine.

  I must not admit that I know where Auguste is, for then the captain would decide to beat it out of me. I must tantalize him. I must make him understand that he will only get what he wants in the presence of Stipe.

  “Look,” I say as we near the open cell, “I know you want to find Auguste and I want to help you, but I have to talk to Stipe.”

  For the first time the captain does not respond with screams and threats. We are at the cell’s threshold. I glance inside. I must at all costs prevent the door from closing behind me.

  “Look,” I say reasonably, sensing headway, “there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, but if you bring Stipe here I’m sure we can clear it up in no time and then we can all go home.”

  Still no screaming. Even the howling from the cells has subsided. There is complete silence. The captain looks at me with his wide-spaced eyes. His mouth hangs open slightly, like a punch-drunk boxer. Then he starts to chuckle. It is not a pleasant sound.

  He says in French, “You lied to the American. Stipe is not your friend anymore.”

  “You’re wrong. Stipe is my friend, my very good friend. He will want to know that I am here. He will want to come to see me.”

  The captain’s chuckle lengthens into a weird, thin laugh. The two soldiers glance at each other. They want to be out of here.

  The captain says, “Stipe already knows you are here, and he doesn’t want to see you.”

  He puts a hand square on my chest and shoves me inside. The door bangs shut and I am alone in the pitch black.

  I put out my hands. I bump into a wall. I turn, put my palms and back flat against the concrete and slide to rest on my hunkers. There is the smell of urine. I can see nothing. I might easily be sitting in a puddle of piss. I put a hand down. The floor seems dry. The smell is revolting. Then I realize I am the source. I pinch the inside of my trouser leg and tug away the material. The skin feels prickly and irritated. I need to see. Perhaps there is a light. Gingerly I get up—pain is taking hold everywhere, in my legs, my sides, my chest, my stomach, my head—and like a blind man I run my hands over the four walls. There is no switch I can find. I slide to the floor again.

  Stipe. Was the captain lying? Surely he was. I think of all the times Stipe and I spent together. We shared so much. From the very start he showed the solid marks of friendship. We talked about books and writers and irony and women. He told me about Rita, his college sweetheart. He told me about Rita, the wife who no longer loves him. I told him about Inès and her childlessness. We shared meals and drinks. We went places together. He gave me material and I wrote articles. Last night he saved my life. We were friends. We are friends.

  I understand. It’s the same as it was with Auguste. Stipe is a generous friend. He is in his own way a needy man. He is strong, he is powerful, he knows what he wants, but he needs to be liked. He gives—perhaps with a little ostentation, but generously—and he asks nothing in return except the loyalty due to a good friend. First Auguste betrayed him. Then me. Of course he is bitter, of course he is angry. Only a few hours ago in the Regina he told me he could help me if I told him first. I did not tell him. I fucked him. Now he is fucking me.

  I stretch out on the floor. I don’t care what I am lying on. I don’t know what might crawl over me. I don’t care about anything.

  c h a p t e r s e v e n

  I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know how. The floor is hard and every part of my body aches and my mind has never known such confusion and fear. Still I slept. I do not know for how long. I have no idea of the time. When they arrested me it was not yet four. Half an hour, three quarters at most to get to the cell. I may only have been asleep for minutes. It might not yet be even five o’clock. Roger might still be playing tennis with the U.N. man. Madeleine might be in her bath, preparing for an evening with a lover. I laugh at the thought of her finding a macaque in the bed she uses. She will not like that at all.

  Inès. Oh Inès, how did it get to this? I veer between love and hate for you. I wish I could be free of you. But no one has ever provoked in me what you have provoked. You discovered me, and then you didn’t want me anymore. This happens. It’s nothing unusual. It’s everyday stuff. I think I could have coped if only you’d dealt with it better. If you’d said to me one morning, tenderly, as though it mattered to you that you were going to hurt me, if you’d put out your hand and touched my face and said to me that things had changed, that your feelings had changed, that you were sorry . . . But there was none of that. There was no kindness, there was no consideration. Just impatience, and coldness and disregard. And I know I made it harder for you by demanding reassurances. But I think I deserved better. Not because I was good or blameless or . . . I cannot think of what else I can say I was or wasn’t. I can only say I deserved better for the simple reason that I loved you and was bewildered and sad. Love has responsibilities. The last of these—the most arduous perhaps—applies to the end of love, wh
en the spurned love has a right to demand help, and this responsibility you ignored. You went off for your higher things without regard for me.

  I can’t help myself now. I have to tell them what I know. It’s not revenge. At least I don’t think so. It might have been earlier, when I thought Stipe would come here, but not now. Now it’s a question of survival. And I’m sorry. I really am. I can hear the howling again. Oh Inès. Come to me, hold me.

  The door swings open. I think I must have been sleeping again but I cannot be sure. I cannot remember closing my eyes, or opening them. I remember no dreams.

  The light from the corridor is not strong, but still I blink. I put my hand in a peak over my eyes. I hear a voice. It is not the captain’s. It is quieter, more educated, but it is still peremptory.

  “Get up.”

  I do as I am told.

  “Where is Auguste Kilundu?”

  “I have no idea,” I reply at once.

  I don’t know why I say this. Perhaps simply because I’ve been saying it since they came to arrest me and it’s embedded in my head, or because I’ve made a swift calculation about the likely benefits to me of telling them at this point.

  “Come.”

  Movement is not easy. During the night—if it was the night—my body has tightened. At each step part of me rebels.

  “Come,” the voice snaps. “Get a move on.”

  “I need water,” I say.

  My visitor says nothing.

  Keeping my eyes down, I limp into the corridor. Once there, someone grabs me by the arm and marches me down to the barred gate. I wince with the pain and stiffness. It means nothing to my escort of course. I chance a look. There are three of them, all in civilian dress. They have the look of policemen, bored and well watered and fed. As we emerge from the cells area one of them goes to the desk. The same man is still on duty. He doesn’t bother to look at me. The policeman signs in the register, turns and signals to his two companions and we move on. We turn right into another passage. We come to a staircase. We go up. We go through a door into a short passage. We go through another door. We come out into the blinding daylight. I shade my eyes with my free hand. They half lead me, half drag me across the courtyard towards another building, another door. The light sears. It goes into the back of my brain and burns. I blink, I screw up my eyes. I see the silhouettes of what I think are armed guards standing before the new door. As we approach I begin to make out small details, a little relief, some color. One of the policemen opens the door. I am pushed forward. I glimpse the guards as we pass. One of them seems to be white. I pass within a few inches of him. He is definitely white.