by Reif Larsen
When no one filled the silence, she said, in a velvety French accent, “I like men who dress the same. It is why I married a lieutenant.”
“And why did you marry him and not me?” cried a round-faced man with long, sweaty hair.
“Parce que vous êtes une bête sauvage.”
Everyone seemed to think this was very funny.
“Yes, this bête sauvage is Fabien,” said Captain Daneri. “He runs the hotel. Or tries to run the hotel.”
“The hotel runs itself,” said Fabien. “I just complain.”
“Fabien’s family came here just after Lord Stanley, isn’t that right?”
“My great-great-grandfather was Camille Janssen, governor general of the Congo Free State. He was one of the first assholes from Belgium to arrive on African soil. And now I am one of the last Belgian assholes on African soil, at your service.”
“You give yourself too much credit, Fabien,” said the captain.
“It’s a common habit of an asshole.”
“Well, sit, sit,” the captain said to his guests. “Join us. We’re drinking sixty-year-old Courvoisier.”
“The cognac is older than the nation,” noted Fabien.
“Fabien also has a legendary cellar of French wine that would be the envy of any restaurant in Paris,” said Captain Daneri. “What would you like?”
“I’ll try the famous cognac, thank you,” said Lars.
“I will have water,” said Otik.
“Don’t be a fool,” said the captain.
“I will have cognac,” said Otik.
“Me as well,” said Radar.
He had never had cognac before. It had always sounded like a cleaning product to him, something to rid the bathtub of its rings. But if Lars was trying it, then he would, too.
“And some food, if you have any,” said Lars. “We didn’t get a chance to eat.”
“Of course!” said the captain. “Fabien, can we arrange un petit dîner for my guests?”
Fabien snapped at a waiter and gave him a series of rapid instructions in French.
“So tell me, what is with these outfits?” asked the captain, who was wearing his crisp commodore whites. “They make you look like American gangster rappers.”
“It’s not true,” said Yvette. “I think they’re very handsome.”
Daneri held up his hands. “I yield to her opinion on such matters, of course, but I think they are an odd choice to travel in. You are like a women’s volleyball team.”
“Are you really in the theater?” Yvette asked Lars, leaning forward.
Lars blinked. The question hung in the air. Radar braced himself. He wanted to run from the courtyard. Horeb could moto him to some faraway place so he would never have to see these people again. He was tired of not saying what he shouldn’t and guessing what others were thinking of him. He wanted to go back to his little radio station and tend his frequency, free from the burden of face-to-face contact.
“Yes,” said Lars. “We are performers.”
“And what do you perform?” asked Yvette.
It was clear that she expected answers to her questions. Radar could sense in her a lifetime of getting answers.
“We . . .” Lars stopped.
Otik broke the silence.
“We,” he said, gesturing to the three of them, “are the most famous group you have never heard of and will never hear of.”
“Really?” said Yvette. “But I just heard of you.”
“After tonight you will never know us again,” said Otik.
“C’est une prédiction.”
The waiter arrived with a tray of snifter glasses. The cognac that was older than the nation was carefully poured into each, snifted, swirled. The scent of time’s density.
Captain Daneri raised his glass. “To the most famous group we have never heard of and will never hear of again.”
“Hear, hear,” said Fabien, sipping at the Courvoisier. “Eh bien, ça y est.”
“So may I ask how your adoring audience finds you?” asked Yvette.
“They don’t,” said Otik. “We have no audience. This is whole point.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s impossible for me to see one of your shows.”
“Correct.”
“But it’s a pity, isn’t it?”
Lars tapped Otik’s shoulder. “What Otik means is that our shows occur in a very particular time and space. The staging itself is the art form. They aren’t meant to be seen—they’re meant to happen.”
“If you ask me,” said Fabien, “it sounds like a lot of bullshit.”
“Oh, chut, mon chéri. No one asked you,” intoned Yvette. She turned to face Lars. “Pardon me for asking—I have only been to the theater a very few times—but doesn’t a show depend upon the relationship between the actors and the audience? Like a connection. This is the whole reason for the performance, yes?”
“This is one school of philosophy,” said Lars. “That there must be a witness for a performance to exist in the first place. I think for us, the notion of audience is not limited to a group of people sitting in chairs, watching the stage. The universe can also be an observer. The atoms, the quarks, the elemental bonds—all of these can pay witness to the show. There are many ways to alter the course of time.”
“Tu entends ça? Quelles conneries!” said Fabien.
“La mécanique quantique sonne souvent comme des conneries pour les personnes sans instruction,” said Lars.
“You speak French well,” said Yvette.
“You speak English well,” said Lars.
“I learned it from watching Hollywood movies.” She smiled. “Bogart and Bacall are my teachers.”
The waiter returned with three steaming plates of food.
“This is grilled catfish with a local vegetable called tshitekutaku and cassava cakes, which they call fufu,” said Fabien. “I thought you might like an introduction to native cuisine. If you don’t like it, I will have the chef killed instantly.”
“Thank you,” said Lars. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“We don’t do things softly in this country,” said Fabien. “It is either the best or the worst. There is no in-between.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Radar. “It looks wonderful. Please don’t kill the cook.”
“May I ask how many of these shows you have done so far?” said Yvette as the plates were served.
“Since 1944, there have been four,” said Lars. “This will be the fifth.”
“Oh la! It is a true event!” She clapped her hands. “And I suppose you can’t tell me where you plan on performing?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Lars, taking a bite of his food. “If the show was expected by its viewers, this would change the nature of the performance, you see.”
“I do see.” She smiled. “Can you at least give me the title? That can’t hurt, can it? I promise I won’t tell. Will you tell, Fabien?”
Fabien made a fart sound with his mouth.
“This is delicious, by the way,” said Radar.
“Good. I’m glad you like it,” said Fabien. “I will spare the chef. This time only.”
Lars was chewing his fufu thoughtfully.
“It’s called The Conference of the Birds,” he said finally.
This was news to Radar.
“Like Attar’s poem,” said Professor Funes, who had not said a word all evening.
“You know it?” said Lars.
“I’m familiar.”
“Professor Funes is familiar with most things,” said Captain Daneri.
“Well, do tell,” said Yvette. “What is it?”
Funes sipped at his cognac. He tilted his head, as if recalling a distant memory, and then began to speak in his peculiar, high-pitched lilt. “Mantiq al-Tayr
was written by Farid ud-Din Attar in 1177. Attar himself was not a Sufi . . . but one could say he was heavily influenced by the non-dualistic transient spiritualism of Sufism, and this is reflected in his poem.”
“Non-dualistic transitory—what is this?” said Fabien.
The professor recoiled at the question.
“You don’t know how much your query pains me,” he said wearily. “I am trying to deliver you the part, when every atom in my being strains to deliver you the whole.”
“Chut, Fabien, don’t distract him,” said Yvette. “Tell us about the poem, Professor. The poem—we want to hear about the poem.”
Funes cleared his throat. “I assume you want me to summarize . . . I have learned that this is what most people mean when they say they want to hear of something. Or do you want me to recite the poem itself? It’s over forty-five hundred lines long with both prologue and epilogue.”
“Correct, Professor,” said Daneri. “A summary is in order.”
“I would love to hear him recite it,” said Lars. “I haven’t heard it aloud before.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” growled Daneri. He turned to the little man, whose impossibly pale skin had become flushed and blotchy. “Professor, there will be time to recite it later. For now, a précis; the night is still young.”
The professor nodded, coughed into his hand, and began to speak stiffly, as if from a memorized script: “The poem begins with a conference of the birds. They are kingless. The hoopoe stands up and says to those congregated, ‘We are not kingless; we do have a king. He is Simurgh. They found one of his feathers in China, and from the majesty of this single feather, rumors have spread throughout the land of his utter magnificence.’ The birds are enchanted . . . They want to see their king. But the hoopoe warns them that the path to the Simurgh is fraught with great peril and many dangers. And so, hearing this, the birds begin to come up with excuses for why they can’t go on the journey. The nightingale says she is in love with the rose and cannot go; the parrot says his beauty has caused him to be caged; the falcon says he already has a master; the duck says he cannot be far from water . . . and so on. These are the excuses of life. To each of the doubters, the hoopoe delivers a story, slowly convincing them through his tales that to not find Simurgh would be to live a life without meaning . . . to exist without existence. And so, reluctantly, the birds agree to seek out their king.”
“It sounds to me as if the hoopoe is their king,” said Fabien. “He’s the one giving orders.”
“The hoopoe gives no orders . . . The hoopoe is the storyteller. He shows them the way by describing those who have denied themselves spiritual fulfillment, those who have lusted after fame, wealth, bodily delights. But he gives no orders . . . The hoopoe is the poet, the guide.”
“What is a king but a rotten man with a good story?”
“Go on,” said Yvette. “Don’t listen to Fabien. He’s still mad I didn’t marry him.”
The professor, looking quite annoyed, gathered himself and again took up the script: “On their way to see their king, the birds pass through seven valleys, each presenting a series of challenges to the flock. First they must pass through the Valley of the Quest, where they see, for the first time, the impossibility of the task laid out before them. Some birds turn back here, others die from fright, but most press on. From there, they enter the Valley of Love, where they confront the dangers of passion. More birds burn up, seethe with lust, or fall under the trance of beauty. Then they enter the Valley of Understanding, where they realize the limits of worldly comprehension—that knowledge is nothing but stones in the palm.”
“But do you agree?” said Fabien.
“With what?” said the professor curtly.
“That knowledge is stones in the palm.”
“I’m recounting the poem for our guests. It’s not for me to comment on the truth of its content. Were I to spend my life commenting on the world that I see, I would never see the world.”
“I would just think you would have an issue with such a characterization given your—”
“Fabien, arrêtez-vous! Personne n’aime un trouble-fête.”
Funes smiled, slightly. “Soon you’ll be nothing but a memory,” he said to Fabien.
“The poem, Professor, please. What happens in the poem?” ordered Yvette.
He continued, briskly now: “From here the birds, greatly diminished already, pass through the Valley of Independence and Detachment, where they realize the smallness of all things . . . then the Valley of Unity, where they realize the sameness of all things . . . then the Valley of Astonishment and Bewilderment, where they confront the true glory of God’s creation. And finally, the Valley of Poverty and Nothingness, where they realize that for all that they have realized, they realize nothing . . . They themselves are nothing. Along the way, many birds perish in any number of ways: they are eaten, frozen, drowned, starved, maimed . . . They die of hunger, heat, madness, and thirst. Of the thousands and thousands that began the journey, only thirty birds make it past the Valley of Nothingness. They step out of this valley, beaten and exhausted, their spirits drained, and they step into the realm of the Simurgh. They are desperate to finally lay eyes upon their king, whom they have traveled so far too see . . . but instead they meet only the Simurgh’s herald, who tells them to wait by a lake. This is almost too much to bear for the exhausted birds. They wail and complain, but wait they must, and as they wait, filled with self-pity and contempt for this Simurgh who makes them wait, they stare into the lake. And in this lake they see their reflections: thirty birds, thirty reflections. And then they realize: the Simurgh is them. Si-murgh in Persian means ‘thirty birds’ . . . Their divine leader is within them.”
“It’s beautiful,” whispered Yvette.
“Africa must find its Simurgh,” a voice said.
The table turned as one. Horeb was standing only a few feet away. In the candlelight, dressed in his tunic, he resembled a prophet. The sight was startling.
“Casse toi, bicot!” growled Fabien.
“He’s with us,” said Lars.
“You know him?”
“He’s our hoopoe,” said Lars.
“I am their hoopoe, monsieur,” said Horeb. He looked as if he would say more, but then he bowed slightly and receded back into the shadows.
“Well, I think it’s a lovely story and will make a perfect play,” said Yvette. She raised her glass. “To the thirty birds.”
The glasses came together. Clinked, receded. Above them, the night remained.
“What do you think of all this?” Yvette said.
Radar realized she was speaking to him.
“Me?”
“Yes, are you the silent member of the troupe? Harpo to your two brothers? He was always my favorite Marx Brother.” She crossed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks and somehow was all the more lovely for doing so.
“Well, I . . .” he stammered.
“What I want to know,” the captain interrupted, “is why puppets? We had a puppet theater in Buenos Aires, and I’ll tell you, it made me deathly afraid as a child. I think they enjoyed frightening children. They had a wolf puppet that gave me nightmares for years. I’ve seen real wolves, and none was as frightening as the wolf puppet.”
Radar felt Lars staring at him.
“Do you know how we might get our container on the next train to Kinshasa?” said Lars. His voice had grown hard.
Daneri sensed his intrusion. He held up his hands.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m just a simple man of the sea.”
“There hasn’t been a train to Kinshasa in ten years,” said Fabien. “There are small trees growing between the tracks now. The locomotive is stopped somewhere between here and Songololo. Trains require maintenance, oversight, money. We don’t have any of that here.”
“So then
how do we get our cargo to Kinshasa?” asked Lars.
“By truck. Like everyone else. The road’s pretty good except where the rains have washed it away.”
Lars considered this. “And who do we talk to about renting a truck?”
“I’m going that way,” said Professor Funes.
Daneri snapped his fingers. He pointed at Radar. “Remember I told you about my friend who orders the books? It’s him. He’s the keeper of the great library.”
“If we can fit both containers on the bed of the lorry, I’ll take you,” said the professor.
“You will?” Lars’s eyes brightened. “That would be amazing.”
“But no guarantees,” said the professor. “The Mitsubishi has seen better days.”
“Haven’t we all?” said Fabien.
“Of course,” said Lars. Then, to Funes: “We’re grateful for whatever you can provide.”
The professor dabbed a handkerchief against his lips. “I have a small barge just north of Kinshasa. I load up there and then head up the river. But I can drop you in the city or wherever you’d like.”
Lars and Otik looked at each other.
“We’ll go upriver with you as far as you can take us and then figure out the rest,” said Lars.
“But you don’t know how far I’m going,” said the professor.
“Wherever you’re going, we’re going farther.”
“Oh, a clue!” shouted Yvette. “I love clues!”
“I’m leaving first thing tomorrow,” said Funes. “Or as soon as I can get those fools to unload the books off your boat.”
“Good luck with that,” Daneri chuckled. “Work seems to be optional around here.”
“It’s frowned upon,” said Fabien. “If the sun still comes up whether I work or not, then why make the effort?”
Daneri turned to Radar. “Africa,” he said, “will make you lose your mind.”
“Mon chéri, you cannot blame this on Africa,” said Yvette. “A man will always lose his mind, no matter where he is.”