“Ah, you have changed your mind. But I think strong, consistent leadership is what’s needed now.” Leopold tents his fingers thoughtfully. “I have not forgotten the Paris Commune. None of Europe has. I am wary of rebellion, discord. Violence. And here I am with a workforce of two million. My people, like the wretched natives, need work. The Congo provides it.”
“Respectfully, one would hope that Belgium, with so great a workforce, would have more professional managers to provide to the Congo.”
Leopold shakes his head sympathetically. “What to tell their wives when they come back? The climate . . . Truly, Mister Casement, you are an exceptional man that you could spend long years in such a place and present yourself to me so whole. Africa, the Congo in particular, creates perversions of people.”
“And of free trade,” Casement counters, which is a stretch as far as segues go, but a safer topic. Is Leopold having him followed? His mind flickers back to the young man on the pier two nights previous, his rough French, and rougher hands.
“I too admire free trade,” Leopold says, “and that is why I support it.”
“All that is imported into the Congo is rifles and ammunition, used to subdue the local population.”
“No, that is not true.”
“Respectfully, that is true. The rubber workers are not paid.”
“The workers are paid. Although sometimes they incur debts in the course of their employment, so unfortunate—although perhaps, given time with a civilizing influence, the natives will learn to better manage their resources.”
Casement could kill him. He could rise from his stiff little chair, step around the inlaid table, find the monarch’s neck beneath the curtain of beard, and hold tight for as long as it took. Why not? They are alone in the room. He could do it, sacrifice himself to the greater good. But unfortunately for the Congo, Casement is no martyr. And he is not a fanatic, but a diplomat. “You do understand that the poor treatment of the natives will result in sanctions.”
“Mister Casement,” says Leopold, “you must know that the natives of the Belgian Congo are my subjects, and therefore their welfare is my responsibility. My business, if you will.”
“The various anti-slavery societies will intervene.”
“These are the societies that gave me complete control of the region.”
This last statement is true. Maybe Casement can harness public opinion against Leopold and get him out of the Congo. The Foreign Office will probably be in favor and might even back him.
Leopold leans forward. “Do you believe that the British will actually support free trade?”
“I do.”
“As in Ireland?”
Leopold’s intelligence is good.
“Mister Casement, I know of the Irish Famine as it happened right after the one in Belgium. But the one in Ireland, if I recall, in part resulted from manipulated markets. England decided to restore free trade and export great quantities of food just in time to see the Irish starve.”
“I am aware of this,” says Casement, but is not sure how else to follow it up. Leopold sits back in his chair, but Casement can hear his thought as if he’s actually speaking it: “And still you put your faith in England.”
IX
Paris
November 1902
Ward takes the tongs and positions more coal on the fire. His studio is drafty, exacerbated by the high ceilings, which he needs, because he can’t get a sense of a piece unless there’s some air around it. Casement is in Paris, now at the Foreign Office to pick up some funds. His brothers are off in Australia and South Africa and must be working—you don’t go that far to do nothing—but Casement is always sending them, and his sister, money. And then when it’s gone, asking Ward to help him out.
Ward needs to get back to his sculpting. Casement will be showing up in the next hour to initiate the slow march to inebriation. Casement likes this piece, a witch doctor, but is an unreliable critic. He likes everything.
Ward has got the figure up on its right foot, balanced on the ball, with his left arm extended up over his head holding an idol. The pose is extreme and François, the model, has protested vigorously. François has said that no black man stands like this—even the savage African. And Ward had agreed—he’d never seen any man in such a pose. He’d been inspired at the ballet. If a ballerina could do this without falling over, a bronze statue could pull it off as well.
Right now, Rodin is all the rage. Sarita adores Rodin, something about his ability to create tension in bronze. Of course, this bothers Ward. She never says anything quite so articulate about his work. So how does one create tension in bronze? Take a witch doctor and stand him on one toe like a ballerina.
Now he’s being hard on himself. Dupuy had dropped in to see his progress, and had very nice things to say about the savage beauty, the glorious male physique. Et cetera. This same man had shuddered, physically repulsed by François who, in his usual way, was smoking a bad cigar, squatted on his bare heels by the door. Ward should make a statue of that. François would hold the pose just fine, wouldn’t complain of feeling ridiculous. But The Witchdoctor is going to be a good statue, might actually win something. So what if it doesn’t have the frenetic emotion of Rodin? Is that Ward’s fault? Rodin is, after all, sculpting literary greats like Balzac, while he, Ward, is in the business of animating demented Juju priests.
He steps back. The musculature is really good, and that’s his knowledge after all—the body. And the African. He’s not sure how to depict angst because he’s not particularly susceptible, nor even interested. And people like his work—important people—and An Aruwimi Type, that first head, had received a Mention Honorable at the Salon. Ward has, apparently, made it. Although sometimes, and this is the true insecurity, he feels that he has entered into the Ward family business: taxidermy. As he resurrects this witch doctor from the drawings and memories of the long-dead past, he feels that there is something stuffed about him, this dancing Bangala, as if—beneath the surface—one would find straw and wood shavings and oakum, as if the noble bronze would be tainted with the whiff of formaldehyde.
In these moments, when he feels lost and unsure, he remembers Jameson. Art is a gentleman’s pursuit, he’d said. And Ward, insecure at the time, had demoted his life’s passion to a hobby, like tying flies or scissoring silhouettes from card stock. And now that he’s a gentleman, the art is no longer a hobby but a pursuit. He’s chasing it and it’s dodging his best shots, slipping out of sight, or vaporizing when he feels as if he might have it in his grasp.
Casement shows up and Ward, who had resolved to work another hour and let Casement read his book, immediately caves. They reach the café and Ward opens the door. There’s a suitable table by the window and as they sit, the first of the rain blows in, a horizontal handful of drops that tap against the pane.
“How was Italy?” asks Ward.
“Like a dream.”
“And you’re going back there?”
“I’ll have a couple of weeks in Sicily before I head to Lisbon and then—”
“Ah!” Ward groans. “I’d do anything to go with you.”
“It’s not the same, Ward. The Congo is quite changed.”
“As are we.” The waiter comes to the table and Ward orders two brandies.
“How was the Argentine?”
“I was there for almost six months, you know, being Sanford’s marionette. I learned a little Spanish. And the countryside is spectacular. I got some good watercolors of the mountains.” He had been altered by this last trip but every word Ward hopes to bring to the conversation—beauty, grandeur—is so overused as to have no currency. He’d felt lonely for the first time in years and it was a lovely sensation, like a long bath after weeks spent hiking in the jungle. “I went with some Indians up the mountain and no one had anything to say to me, and I had nothing to say to them.”
“I find that
hard to believe.”
“That is because I save up my conversation all year to spend on you. Usually, it’s just me making shadow puppets for children. Or listening to Sarita talk about moving to England and moving back and moving to the country, telling everyone where they need to be and what they need to do. She should have been a general.”
“Really?”
“She’s a right Napoleon. Only Napoleon had his Waterloo and Sarita has never lost a battle in her life.”
Brandies in hand, they drink a silent toast to this wife of his.
“Tell me about your illness,” says Casement.
“Tell me about yours,” Ward responds.
“Which one?” Casement smiles. “I have become arthritic and my back seizes up. The doctor seems most concerned about the intestinal thing, which he calls a ‘loosening of the lower bowels.’”
“If you can just get your back into some sort of agreement with your backside, you’ll be all right.”
“Very funny, Ward. And how are you?”
“I had a touch of fever in Argentina.” Ward shrugs. “Wasn’t my first fever and chances are it won’t be my last.”
“Sarita said you were down for months and that it was rheumatic, possibly causing heart damage.”
“You could say that. Or you could just say that we’re getting older and this, unfortunately, is what age looks like.” Ward rakes his fingers comically through his thinning hair.
Casement is considering applying for a position in Lisbon. He is worried that he won’t survive another appointment in the Congo. The situation has gotten worse. Casement tells Ward of the practice of cutting hands, how even children can be found maimed in this way.
“Awful stuff,” says Ward. “When you finish your report, I’m sure the government will step in.”
Casement’s Congo has no beauty, no grandeur. Casement’s Congo has nothing but disfigured children and starving women and flyblown corpses. Casement goes on, his eyes flickering and his head twitching.
“Be careful that you don’t get in trouble.”
“Me?” There’s Casement’s indulgent smile. “Remember, Ward, I’m the responsible one.”
“It just sounds like you’re getting on the wrong side of some very powerful people.” They take a moment’s quiet, where they both upend their glasses. Casement must be struggling to find his levity. He takes a couple of deep breaths, signaling a conscious change of mood.
“Is this your favorite café?”
“It’s all right,” says Ward, “about midway between the apartment and my studio. And it’s a bit more colorful than my other watering hole, has a reputation for attracting artists and writers and, as of late, Irish radicals.”
“Then it’s a good place for me,” says Casement.
“Not really. You must know about Maude Gonne. And if you don’t know her, then you’ll have heard of the husband.”
“John MacBride?”
“Then you do know him?”
“Not personally, but we were both recently in South Africa.”
“Very funny, Casement.” MacBride is a treasonous lunatic who sided with the Boers and managed to raise up an entire regiment of anarchists: the Irish Transvaal Brigade. He’s also the subject of a lot of local gossip.
“MacBride is not technically Irish,” says Casement, his eyes smiling.
“MacBride not Irish—because he’s a British subject?” asks Ward.
“MacBride is actually a citizen of the Orange Free State, not a British subject at all. He changed his citizenship.”
“Are you saying he’s African? Don’t split hairs, Casement. We all know that he changed his citizenship to avoid being tried as a traitor. He did it to avoid hanging.”
“That’s very likely,” says Casement. “But, Ward, the Boer War was a messy thing. No one comes out of that unsullied.”
“Well, the English are less sullied,” Ward says with conviction. “And remember whose side you’re on. Stand with the winners. Who would you rather be, Napoleon or the Duke of the Wellington?”
“I would have to say the Duke of Wellington.”
“Who was English.”
“Actually, he was Irish.”
“But his troops were English.”
“The significant troops in that engagement were Irish too.”
“Well, I’m English,” says Ward. “And I’m ordering another round.”
Casement is in his room at the Ward’s Paris house. Due to limited space, he’s sure he’s replaced someone or something, but Sarita manages to keep that hidden, skilled in all manner of politeness. He holds the letter from his publisher, which states, “I think I ought to say at once that I do not look forward to a remunerative sale.” It is a rejection. Fisher Unwin doesn’t see how political Irish poems, travel pieces mostly about Africa but some of Italy, and deeply personal work that skirts love can possibly fit in one work. Of course, he is right.
Casement has not mentioned this to Ward as Ward would be sympathetic and that would be too much humiliation to bear. He should burn this letter, and he looks over at the beckoning coal fire, but can’t seem to do it. He’ll fold the paper back into its envelope and when he reopens it, maybe it will have changed its mind. There’s a tapping at the door and, when he turns, he sees little Herbie at the threshold of his room.
“Hello, Herbie,” says Casement. “How long were you standing there?”
“A very long time.”
“Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I just did.”
“Do you want to come in?”
Herbie takes the invitation and walks purposely over to Casement and, as is his habit, crawls into his lap. Herbie is four years old, a golden creature like his father, but more temperamentally like his mother.
“Mummy says I can’t ask you why you’re not married.”
“Why not?”
“She says it’s rude.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t think so.” As Herbie ponders this, he picks up Casement’s hand and begins trying to bend back his nails, one at a time. “I know you have a dog. But you can’t bring him here because he’s sick.”
“Not exactly sick.” John is in Lisbon, not allowed into England or Ireland because of strict quarantine rules. Casement will have to pick him up on his way back to Africa.
Sarita passes the door and, seeing Herbie, returns. “Herbie, I told you not to bother your uncle Roddie.”
“He’s not bothering me.”
“You’re too kind to the children. And Herbie will talk your ear off.”
“Now that would be strange,” says Casement, a stage whisper for Herbie.
“Herbie,” says Sarita, “Anna’s looking for you. It’s time for your bath.”
Herbie gives Casement a droll look, unimpressed by the need for ablutions. “I’d rather—”
“Not of interest, Herbie. Come on.”
Herbie slides down over Casement’s knees like a blanket slipping from a couch. He sits momentarily collapsed against Casement’s shins before he collects himself. And then, one slow foot in front of the other, he makes his way to the door.
“Say good night,” says Sarita.
Herbie is considering this. Instead, he says, “Uncle Roddie, why don’t you have a family?”
“I—”
“Not your sister. Your own family.”
“Uncle Roddie does have a family.” Sarita draws her back straight. “He has us. We’re his family.”
This answer is short of satisfactory, as is made clear by the child’s expression. Herbie makes his leave, wishing Casement a good night, but Sarita lingers by the door. Together, Casement and Sarita enjoy some polite, truthful silence. In other corners of the house, the girls can be heard arguing and Charlie yelling at them to shut up. And then Ward saying that they
should all be in bed. “Roddie,” she says, now addressing him. “You need to take a break. I know you’re headed back to the Congo but you really should consider alternatives. You’re not a young man anymore and you have to think about your health. You don’t look well.”
“I must go back, one last time.”
“Herbert said that you’re taking statements from the natives and compiling a report?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s not your responsibility to save these people.”
“It is the right thing to do.”
Sarita holds up her hand. “The right thing to do is to value your life. To hold your well-being in such low regard could well be suicide. And remember, suicide is a sin.” Although Sarita seems to believe in nothing but common sense.
“It could be martyrdom,” he says, playing.
“Saint Roger? Spare me.”
“It’s better in Irish.”
“What would that be?”
“Saint Ruairí.”
“It’s still ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. And all this nonsense about Ireland—”
“What nonsense about Ireland?”
“Fine, Roddie. Go save the Congo. That will take care of everything because you’ll be too dead to create more trouble.”
Casement studies Sarita.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She raises her eyebrows a few quick times. “An outburst, no doubt in bad taste. But heavens, Roddie, some times these excesses of good taste become a sort of bad taste. Herbert and I have become so . . .” She’s waving her hand around as if to grab the right word.
“Wealthy?”
“Boring.”
“You and Herbert are hardly boring.”
“Kind of you to say. And I suppose Herbert is an artist. And what am I? The wife of an artist?”
“You are having forward-thinking thoughts, Sarita.”
“Perhaps. Why not? But I’m no suffragette. Who cares about politics?”
“You’re a very exciting lady raising her children in a foreign country.”
“True,” she says, “but when you’re not from anywhere in particular, you’re not exactly foreign. Or you’re always foreign.”
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