The Uttermost Parts of the Earth

by Frederic Hunter

  She looked at him so strangely that he stopped talking. “You do not want me, Monsieur?”

  Kwame realized he was not explaining himself well. “Yes, of course, I want you.” He understood suddenly that he did. “But I also want us to talk.”

  Madame frowned, cocked her head.

  Beholding her, he felt desire climb onto him, onto the loneliness that was choking him. Was it all merely desire for her? Was he fooling himself? No. He really needed some talk. “What have you done today?” he asked. “Tell me about your day.”

  It required several promptings, but eventually she recounted the ordinariness of her day. Kwame told her what he had done, the meeting with Berton. He had not gone to Bomboko Congo, he said; perhaps he would feel less lonely if he had. Then when she and Odejimi were playing mankala, they made him feel that he was nothing, a cipher, a zero.

  “You felt that?” she asked.

  The desire for her was great on him now. He kissed her.

  She cocked her head again and laughed. “Are you sure you do not want me, Monsieur?”

  He blushed. Perhaps she would not notice in the darkness.

  She moved to the section of wall where they had been together in the rain and laid her hand against it. “I remember this place.”

  “A very good place,” he said. Then he asked, “Will you come to my room, Madame? I have some etchings.” He laughed at the little joke that she would not understand. He took her hand, led her to the railing that separated the two balconies, and helped her across it.

  She spent the night with him and he could not get enough of her. Finally about dawn the loneliness drained away. They lay together in his bed, smiling, as the first light crept into the sky.

  NINE

  When he woke in the morning, Kwame lay naked and uncovered on his bed. Madame curled beside him, her back warming his side. Sunlight streamed into the room. Blinking, looking about him, Kwame saw Odejimi sitting on the other bed, watching him. When their eyes met, the doctor smiled. “Well, well,” he said. Kwame felt a foolish grin spread across his face. That foolishness extended so deeply into him that he was not bothered by another man gazing at his nakedness. He did not cover his body with a sheet.

  At the sound of Odejimi’s voice, Madame stirred. She shifted her body, flowing like liquid, curling against Kwame. Then, seeing Odejimi, she sat up. She arched her back and raised her arms above her head. The two men watched her. Finished stretching, she snuggled back against Kwame.

  “Have some breakfast,” Odejimi suggested. He spoke in English, the language of the guys. He opened a pouch, brought out a large pinch of tobacco, stuffed it into his mouth, and then handed pinches to his friends.

  Kwame asked, “What is this shit?”

  “Breakfast of champions,” Odejimi assured them. “Why smoke it when you can eat it?” Kwame and Madame giggled. “Really sets up your day.”

  “Pardon me for asking,” Kwame replied before sticking a pinch into his mouth. “But do I swallow? Or spit it out?”

  Odejimi laughed. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I want it to stay with me. So I chew it well, then swallow.” He took a swig of whiskey and demonstrated his technique. He passed the bottle to Kwame. He duplicated the process and gave the whiskey to Madame Van. “Have some more,” Odejimi suggested. Kwame took the pouch and had more breakfast. He chewed slowly, letting the juice swirl in his mouth. He felt extraordinarily comfortable, his body spent, his mind benignly floating about the room as if detached from his body.

  As his senses hovered, sharp but disconnected from the room, he saw Odejimi stand and shed his clothes. “Ah!” Odejimi enthused. “Family sex!” His arms flowed out from his body, as sinuous as snakes. They lifted Madame from beside Kwame; they carried her to the nearby bed and laid her lightly upon it. Madame giggled. The sound of her voice filled Kwame’s head with tingling bells. Even as Kwame watched the ceiling, he saw Odejimi’s dark chocolate snake arms lift Madame’s dark chocolate knees and spread them. He observed teammate Odejimi stretch upon the dark mattress of Madame. They began to move together in waves. They floated—just as Kwame himself was floating. He watched them float and giggled and shut his eyes.

  Later, when he got up for more breakfast, he saw Odejimi and Madame still levitating, but they were now side by side, both watching the ceiling. He floated over beside Madame and looked down at her and her arms snaked up toward him and he hovered above her and into her, their arms wrapped about each other, his hips moving and then they were all laughing and Odejimi was embracing them both, kissing Madame, licking her face, as Madame and Kwame clung to one another.

  All three of them stayed in bed together that day, eating tobacco, drinking whiskey, and laughing, the two men sharing the woman repeatedly, each man showing off for the other his amazing staying power.

  Late in the afternoon a very insistent Dr. Odejimi drove both Kwame and Madame Van to the hospital. “Only a formality,” the doctor said. “But I insist on it.” He took samples of their blood and reported two days later that, as expected, they were clean.

  LATER IN the week Kwame sat in his office, staring at the street outside, sipping whiskey and smoking Odejimi’s hemp. He thought about the Nigerian. He seemed happy to share Madame Van; he even offered to have her spend nights with Kwame. Odejimi offered Madame to cement the friendship between them. They could be pals because she was mutually their toy.

  Their relationship was not competitive. They were teammates now, pals. With a language that excluded her. Eventually they would vie with one another for dominance, for the position of starting quarterback on Team Van.

  In that inevitable competition Kwame assured himself that he would command the inside track. Why? Because Van interested him as a person. For Odejimi she was merely a toy, amusement, diversion. Just as he and Mme Berton were merely play for one another. While the Nigerian took Van for granted, her beauty and mystery truly fascinated Kwame. He would beat out Odejimi by probing behind Van’s beauty and mystery as soon as an opportunity offered.

  THE NEXT day at the post office Kwame ran into the British missionary doctor he had met at the mission station he had visited outside of town. The doctor’s child had been ill. “Is your daughter better?” he asked.

  The missionary glanced at Kwame with a look of pure anguish and shook his head. “We lost her,” he said.

  “Oh, god!” Kwame exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” The missionary nodded and offered a stiff-upper-lip smile. “If there’s anything I can do,” Kwame said, his voice trailing off. The doctor nodded again and hurried off.

  The child’s death devastated Kwame. He spent the rest of the day and most of the following one sitting on his balcony, staring at the river. He thought about the missionary and his child and the cruelty of this country.

  KWAME READIED the center for business. Every day young men and a few women waited outside the building, seeking jobs. Since Kwame’s assignment was temporary, he did not want to hire Zairean assistants or hold an opening celebration. This was not a matter of indolence—or not entirely that. Those tasks, those pleasures, he felt, rightfully belonged to the officer permanently assigned to Mbandaka.

  But because he wanted townspeople to enjoy the resource the center represented, he began to hold evening video shows in the front yard. He erected a video projector on the steps of the center and projected images onto a translucent screen. He put Madame Van in charge of a CD player that provided music before and after the videos. He invited guests: Odejimi, the Badekas and other teachers from the Bomboko Congo school, Moulaert and Marike, Tombolo and members of the Afrique staff and, since he wanted good relations with his landlord, he also included the Bertons. Most guests brought their own chairs. The center had only a few to offer and Kwame saw that those went first to Madame Van, Odejimi, and the Badekas.

  Anatole’s two wives and children attended. Having seen Mbandaka, the tata’s bush wife, now pregnant, refused to return to her village. Anatole moved about the property, keeping order among the
young people; they watched the images from both sides of the translucent screen and danced joyously to Madame Van’s music.

  After the first of these fêtes—Madame Van referred to them by no other name—the Badekas, Madame Van, and Odejimi took Kwame to a Zairean club where they danced to the music of a local combo. It was a place, Kwame thought, where the blonde, slim, very white Livie could only be a tourist. But he blended in; he was almost an African.

  When the Badekas and the doctor left at midnight, Odejimi bestowed an elaborate wink on Kwame. The Nigerian now made no objection to Madame Van spending some of her nights with Kwame. This arrangement was never actually discussed. They both found themselves stuck in Mbandaka. Madame Van made Mbandaka easier to endure. Their sharing her was as simple as that.

  Leaving the nightclub, Kwame and Madame Van drove to a place overlooking the river and watched it flow in the moonlight. Stars surrounded the moon. Suddenly one of them shot across the sky. Madame laughed elatedly. “A spinning star,” she exclaimed, using the French expression. She asked: “How do you call them in English?”

  “We say a shooting star.”

  “In the village,” she said. “we call such stars ‘a child.’ Each star that races across the sky carries a child to its mother. Some woman is very happy tonight. She will become the mother of a star-child.”

  Madame Van watched the night like a schoolgirl, looking for more shooting stars. She spoke the proverb of her people. “A spinning star brings some woman happiness.” Kwame watched her, touched her cheek. When she turned to look at him, he pulled her toward him. He kissed her tenderly. They made love on the front seat of the van. Toward dawn they returned to the hotel and slept wrapped about one another.

  AT THE nightclub Kwame complained to the Badekas that he was under-occupied. They suggested that he teach more classes at the secondary school. “Teach modern history,” Badeka urged. “Or geography. Tell about America, South Africa, West Africa.” The music began again, loud and pulsating. Dancers crowded the floor.

  “What about curriculum?” Kwame asked. “What about books?”

  “Come dance with me?” Madame Van whispered, close to Kwame’s ear. He held up a finger to say he was coming, but gave his attention to the Badekas. Madame went off to dance with Odejimi.

  “Books?” Badeka asked with a laugh. “We have no books, except ones that are out of date. And very few of those.”

  “We understood that schools in American inner cities do not use books,” Mme Badeka teased. “We assume this is the latest method. We are imitating it.“

  Early the next week Kwame sought out the Badekas, bringing beer and peanuts, and asked about teaching at Bomboko Congo. Madame Badeka, who now insisted that he call her Théa, brought glasses to the table outside their bungalow and announced that Kwame must teach African literature to the students.

  “What about history?” Kwame asked. “Or world affairs?”

  “Too controversial,” Badeka informed him. “Do you suppose ‘Our Friend’ ”—meaning Mobutu—“and his people want students to learn about Western politics: fair elections, an independent judiciary, the right to express ideas freely? It’s dangerous enough that you encourage the students to think for themselves.”

  Kwame shelled peanuts for his hosts, tossing the nuts into a bowl and the husks into a cardboard box on the ground.

  “Teach literature as history,” Théa urged. “The Equateur has seen unbelievable change in the past century.”

  “Tradition used to be everything,” Badeka said. “Now it is nothing. Before every African was anchored to a community and knew his place in it. Now the person who seeks to advance himself is the one who succeeds.”

  “Do tatas still remember the times of gathering wild rubber?” Kwame asked.

  “Let’s find out,” suggested Théa.

  “So you agree?” said Badeka. “You’ll teach for us?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think this is more important than the work you do at the center,” Théa declared. “Prepare the students for change. There is more change coming.”

  ON THE Afrique terrace Kwame told his friends about the classes. He wanted students to ask questions, he said, to challenge received truth. “Get different clothes,” Madame suggested. “You look foreign.”

  “I am talking about their minds,” Kwame said, a little miffed, “and you are talking couture?”

  “If you do not dress so American—”

  “I dress American?” Kwame asked, surprised at this charge.

  The others nodded.

  “If you dress Zairean,” Madame Van suggested, “you won’t be so terrifying.”

  “Terrifying?” Kwame was offended.

  “Students might even ask you questions,” Odejimi teased.

  “But they will never challenge you,” said Moulaert. “Forget about that.”

  “I want them to challenge me,” Kwame insisted. “Why won’t they?”

  “The fart of a rich man never smells,” observed Odejimi. Kwame frowned. The others laughed. “You are the American,” the Nigerian explained, “rich in money, in property, in experience. Your shit doesn’t smell.”

  Madame Van took Kwame shopping. The selection was limited and the quality of the merchandise inferior, but she selected two long-sleeved shirts for him, a belt, sandals, and a pair of khaki trousers. These Kwame rejected. They fit badly over his behind and through his crotch. But to please Madame Van he bought them. He would wear them only when he taught.

  KWAME’S LETTER thrilled Livie. “Have those words been inside you for months,” she asked, “and you’ve never let them out? Maybe it’s not so bad, once in a while, for us to be apart.”

  Livie said that she missed Kwame terribly. She could not wait to see him at Christmas. As for their time together in Paris, Kwame looked forward to it eagerly. If it sometimes seemed improbable that they would marry, he still intended to go through with it.

  KWAME DID not write Kinshasa about his waning attempts to discover what had happened to Mason. That no longer seemed to matter. Kinshasa now had more concerns than the whereabouts of Kent Mason. By the middle of November eastern Zaire had begun to collapse. Kwame and Odejimi tried to follow what was occurring in the region of the Lakes. Despite nightly radio reports of African news from London and Brussels, however, they found it difficult to keep track of events so far away. It seemed that Zaire’s dictator, Mobutu, was in no hurry to cleanse the Goma refugee camps, where Odejimi had served, of the Hutu génocidaires terrorizing them. In fact, Mobutu had teamed Hutu militants fired by a passion to kill Tutsis with Zairean troops more skilled at looting than at warfare. These troops had now expelled Tutsis long resident in Masisi, west of Goma.

  On other fronts, however, Tutsis put up surprising resistance led by the very Tutsi troops of the Rwandan Patriotic Front that had pushed the Hutu refugees into Zaire.

  This much Kwame and his friends had been able to follow in Mbandaka. But eastern Zaire seemed even more remote than America. So when Kwame learned that Pilar Cota, the cultural officer who was his boss, was to visit Mbandaka and brief him on the region, he was relieved. He and his friends would learn what was going on. Pilar was hitching a ride to Mbandaka in the embassy plane. She would spend three hours in the town before flying on to Kisangani.

  KWAME WAS waiting at the airport when the plane arrived. He had come straight from teaching early classes at Bomboko Congo and was wearing a Zairean outfit Madame Van had chosen for him. Pilar scrambled from the plane, looking harassed, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She strode toward the terminal, Kelly the pilot close behind her. Kwame went to greet them. As he neared the pair, Pilar turned back to Kelly and yelled, “Where the hell’s our guy? Do the phones work in this place?”

  “Your guy’s right here,” Kwame said.

  Pilar glanced at him, then examined him carefully. “My god, it’s you!” she said. “You could pass for a goddamn Zairean.” Kwame smiled at this. Pilar stopped walking. “You’re not going
to take offense at that, are you?” she asked. “I got enough problems without being called ‘insensitive.’”

  Kwame dropped Kelly at the military camp and escorted Pilar to the center. After a bathroom stop she inspected the building, her boots sounding on the cement slab floor with a hollowness that made Kwame aware of the silence, the emptiness. The air was dead. The rooms smelled close; they had been locked up since late the previous afternoon. “It looks great,” Pilar said at last. “But where are the people? Why aren’t they here?”

  Kwame reminded her of his memos.

  “It oughta be open,” she said.

  “Okay,” Kwame replied. “I’ll hire a library assistant and have it open by the end of the week.”

  “Good. We’re a can-do outfit.” Pilar examined the center again and asked, “You don’t have anything to drink here, do you?”

  In the office Kwame poured her some whiskey and apologized for having no ice. Pilar took a hefty swallow and began to pace. “Looks like we may commit US troops in eastern Zaire,” she said, giving him a situation report. “This stuff is secret, by the way.”

  Kwame nodded.

  “The idea scares us guys in Kinshasa fucking shitless.”

  “Does Washington know that?”

  “The White House feels guilty that we stood by and let 800,000 people be massacred in Rwanda. It’s a hellish problem. Clinton sees TV coverage of starving kids in the refugee camps. He knows it’s good politics to save them.” She shrugged. “But bad politics to lose American kids doing it. Or getting stuck in Africa. The Canadians are willing to carry most of the burden if we support them with troops.”

  Kwame watched Pilar move: three paces in one direction, three paces in the other. And always the cigarette.

  “We say: ‘We’re with you the whole way, Mr. President, but you must understand that there are Hutu thugs in those camps. The starving kids aren’t refugees; they’re hostages. You can’t get food to them until something’s done about the thugs.’ ” She paused. “So the idea is, fine. We’ll limit our mission. We’ll secure the airport in Goma and let somebody else deliver the food.”