by Reif Larsen
It was Horeb. Oh, Horeb! Savior of men!
“This way,” said Horeb, parting the crowd. “Follow me.” He yelled something, and the masses began to complain, chastising Horeb for taking their prize. With arms outstretched, he guided Radar to a side street, where his moto awaited.
“Thank you,” said Radar. “I didn’t know what to say to them.”
“There’s not much fruit in Congo, so when people see it on the tree, they want to pick it,” said Horeb. “Of course if they grew their own fruit, they would have plenty to eat, but conditions make this difficult. We’ve been taught to make do however we can. It’s Article Fifteen.”
“Article Fifteen?” Radar grimaced. Now that he was safe in the back of the moto, he could feel the full expanse of his headache. A vast, throbbing tundra. He thought he might be sick.
“A gift from Mobutu,” said Horeb, wheeling around the bike. “Article Fifteen is an amendment to our constitution. But it doesn’t exist on any paper, only in the mind of the citizen.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to Article Fifteen, it’s okay to steal a little to get ahead. Not too much, but a little. Because if you do not, you see, your neighbor will. Article Fifteen says that a little corruption is not only expected—it is necessary to survive. Even when Mobutu died, Article Fifteen lived on.”
“Do you steal?”
“Stealing is the twenty-third sin in the eyes of God. The thief shall have his hand cut off.”
Radar was too tired to point out that Horeb had not answered his question. He settled back into the cart and closed his eyes. He felt exposed and naked without his hat.
“I hope they haven’t left,” he said.
“You think they would leave without you, my friend? You are one of them.”
They arrived at the docks to find a flurry of activity, a stark contrast to the evening before. One of the old gantry cranes was creaking and straining as it lifted Moby-Dikt from the hull of the boat. The harbormaster was standing next to Otik and Lars on the docks, watching the crane’s progress. Occasionally he would lift his arms and gesticulate, as if giving directions, though no one paid him much attention.
Radar got out of the moto and hurried over to them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“As you can see, you aren’t,” said Lars. “Things move very slowly in this town. We had to pay our friend here another bribe. ‘Des frais de déchargement,’ he claimed. Apparently the first bribe did not cover this fee.”
The harbormaster waved his arms. The crane stopped, then started again, belching out thick black smoke.
Captain Daneri emerged on the gangplank of the ship. Next to him was Professor Funes, shaded by a great white parasol. They were deep in conversation, speaking rapidly in Spanish. As they approached, Daneri saw Radar and smiled.
“Our little bird returns! My boy, I heard all about it.”
Radar felt himself turning crimson. “Where’s Ivan?” he asked quickly.
“Mr. Kovalyov has not been seen this morning. He’ll surface. We leave this afternoon, and he does not miss a departure. He, like me, lives to depart.”
After some negotiation, it was decided that Moby-Dikt would be loaded onto the bed of the tractor-trailer, and the container of books would be bolted on top of this. It was a precarious arrangement, made all the more precarious by the age of the truck. Professor Funes hadn’t been kidding. The Mitsubishi looked as if she had been resuscitated from a scrapyard. Many of her parts were in the process of falling off. Yet, like the rest of the country, she endured: when the driver started her engine, there was only the briefest of stutters before she woke up and revved to life. Evidently, she was using the good petrol.
“We must go,” said the professor. “It’s nine hours to the launch on a good day.”
With tears in his eyes, Daneri hugged each of them long and slow, as if he were memorizing the weight of their bodies.
“You’re going places where I’ve never been,” he murmured. “I admire you. I admire your course. May we meet again. An honor. Ustedes son mis héroes.”
Radar watched as he strode up the ramp.
“If you get lost,” the captain called, “you can always follow the water back to the sea.” He kissed his fist and then he was gone.
“I like that man,” said Otik.
“I thought you hated him,” said Radar.
Otik shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
There was only room in the truck cab for Professor Funes, his driver, and one more, but Otik and Lars opted to ride in Moby-Dikt and continue with their repairs. Time, it seemed, was now of the essence. Radar had just decided that he would join them in the back—not so much to help in the preparations as to sleep off his hangover—when Horeb approached them.
“Pardon me,” he said. “But I would like to come with you.”
“What?” said Otik, startled. “With us like how?”
Horeb bowed. “I would like to be your guide.”
Otik exchanged a look with Lars. “Our guide? Who says we need a guide?” he said.
“Last night, you said I was your hoopoe.”
“Last night we are saying lots of things. Last night was last night. Just because you give us ride to hotel doesn’t mean you are suddenly—”
Lars put a hand on Otik’s shoulder.
“Do you know the river?” he asked Horeb.
Horeb shook his head. “I went to university in Kinshasa, but I’ve never been past there.”
“So how would you guide us if you don’t know anything?” said Otik.
“I cannot guide you on the river, but I can be your voice. I speak French. I speak Kikongo, Lingala, Kele, and Swahili. And Arabic. And a little Portuguese, too. And I know how to deal with the Congolese mind. The river can be dangerous, not only for the currents but also because of the people who live on it. Some of the villages do not like new faces. This is where I can help you.”
“We don’t have money, if this is what you want,” snapped Otik.
“I don’t want money. Allah will provide. I want to help with your show. I’m an actor.”
“You’re an actor?” said Lars.
“Yes. A very good actor. I’ve been on television.”
“The show has no actors,” said Otik.
“Do you have carpentry skills?” asked Lars.
“I have many carpentry skills.”
“Can you play the drum?”
“I grew up playing the drum. I learned how to speak on the drum.”
“Please, let us confer,” said Lars. He gestured for Radar and Otik to join him in conference. Radar was surprised to be included in the quorum and even more surprised when Lars turned to him first.
“What do you think?”
“Me?” said Radar. “I don’t know. He sounds like he’s telling the truth. I like him. But I don’t think I’m a good judge, perhaps. I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“Otik, what’re we looking for?”
“I told you: this is not how we choose our members,” said Otik. “We don’t even know him. I don’t believe he doesn’t want money. Everyone wants money.”
“How do we choose our members? We didn’t know Radar.”
“Yes, and I lodged formal complaint, if you remember. No offense.” He nodded at Radar.
“None taken.”
“We have certain standards to uphold,” said Otik. “We cannot keep watering group. What about our philosophy? What about Brecht? Artaud?”
“Let’s not fool ourselves,” said Lars. “A happening is not about what we think before. A happening is about the happen.”
“Okay, yes, you always say that, but you forget we have planned for ten years to—”
“To what?” said Lars.
Otik was silent.
&n
bsp; “This is now,” said Lars.
“I know this is now. You don’t need to tell me this is now.”
“Do we have another tracksuit?” asked Lars.
Otik sighed. “We have another one. There is Thorgen’s old suit.”
“Radar? What do you think?”
“I say . . . yes. Why not?”
“If we take him, he becomes exactly like us,” said Lars. “There’s no hierarchy here.”
Radar laughed.
“What?”
“I’m just not so sure that’s true,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Lars, looking shocked.
“I mean it’s you two, then me,” he said. “It’s not a bad thing, but we’re not all equal here.”
Otik grabbed him by the shoulders. “Hey. Hey!”
“What?”
“Burazeru, you must understand. Trust is the most precious. This is why I cannot just say yes to anyone. To be one of us, you must be ready absolutely to die. Whole team has died before. But we said, ‘Okay we do it again.’ Lars lost everyone, but he said, ‘Okay, I do it again. I believe in this.’ Before, I didn’t know if you are ready to die. Now I know.”
“Okay,” said Radar.
“You are like us.”
“Okay.”
Lars smiled. “So? Otik?”
“I don’t trust him,” said Otik.
“Why?”
“He is not telling us everything. Why does he suddenly want to come on trip? Suddenly he is actor, suddenly he is very interested in everything we do.”
“You heard him—”
“Yes, I heard him, blah blah blah,” he said. “And I also do admit, we need two more hands.”
“So?”
“Okay. Okay,” Otik sighed. “But let me lodge formal request to clarify recruitment process.”
“Formal request duly noted.”
“Because one of these days we are going to invite real maniac and I will be very upset.”
“You want to be the only maniac?” Radar asked.
“I hate you.”
“I hate you, too,” said Radar, smiling.
The three of them approached Horeb.
Lars cleared his throat. “You will not be our guide.”
Horeb nodded, looking defeated.
“We can’t pay you anything, either,” he said.
“I told you. I don’t want money,” said Horeb.
“I know. That’s why we’d like to invite you to be the fourth member of our troupe.”
Horeb’s eyes lit up. “Really? Not joking?”
“Really. Welcome to Kirkenesferda.”
He bowed. “I am very honored.”
“Radar will catch you up on what we do during the drive.”
It was time to go. Horeb ran to his moto and picked out a small bag and his prayer mat. Radar looked around for Ivan, but there was still no sign of him. He wrote a quick note and went over to the chief mate.
“Please give this to Ivan,” he said. “Tell him ‘Thank you, from Radar.’”
Akaki nodded.
“Tell him I will never forget him or his songs.”
“Yes,” said Akaki. “I tell him.”
Radar was not convinced he would, but there was nothing more to do except pile into Moby-Dikt. He looked in vain one last time for his friend, and then the doors were latched and closed. The truck shifted into gear and they bade farewell to the dream of Matadi.
• • •
FOR THE FIRST HOUR of the drive, Radar descended into a swarthy melancholy, no doubt encouraged by the liquor still lingering in his body. He would never see Ivan again. He had betrayed Ana Cristina. He had abandoned his mother. And for what? He glanced around their little hovel. Otik and Lars had settled down to their respective workstations. Horeb had carved out a space for himself among several great spools of wire and was reading from a book. He had been a part of the team for less than an hour, and already he appeared as if he belonged, in a way that Radar had never managed.
Radar closed his eyes and tried to sleep but could not. One of the generators had been fired up to provide them with electricity, and though a little exhaust fan whirred away in the corner, the room quickly became stuffy and uncomfortably hot.
Otik’s motion sickness returned, and he began the now familiar routine of quietly puking into a bucket. Lars and Radar had grown so accustomed to this that they did not bat an eye, but Horeb grew concerned. He went over to the electric kettle and busied himself brewing some tea from several small bags of spices he produced from his knapsack.
“Here,” he said, presenting a mug to Otik. “For the stomach.”
Otik eyed the mixture skeptically but took the mug and gruffly mumbled a word of acknowledgment.
Horeb came over to Radar with a second mug of the tea.
“Thank you,” said Radar, accepting the offering.
“How do you feel, my friend?” said Horeb.
“I’ve been better. I’ve also been worse.” Radar sipped the tea. It was bitter and peppery, but it reminded him of Charlene and home. “What is this?”
“Búku oela. A pan-African tea. I made it up myself. One could say it is post-traditional. Rooibos from South Africa, grains of paradise from Nigeria, calumba from Mozambique, ginger from Morocco. It heals the body and brings peace to the soul.”
Radar wished he could hear his mother give her olfactory report on the tea. He wondered if she would be able to smell all those countries.
“How did you learn to make it?”
“If I’m being honest with you . . . the Internet,” he said, smiling. “The Internet will save Africa.”
Horeb glanced over in Lars’s direction. He leaned in close.
“I’m very honored to be part of your team,” he said quietly. “But I’m not really sure I understand what your team does. Can you explain this to me, please?”
Radar was baffled about why Lars had nominated him to be purveyor of information, particularly because he was the newest member and least qualified to describe what the group did. He barely understood it himself.
“I can try. But I can’t promise it will make sense,” he said, sitting up. He took another sip of the tea. He already felt better. The post-traditionalism was working.
As soon as Radar started talking, however, he found he had a lot to say. Much more than he thought he knew. At first he was worried that the history he was relating was not quite right—that he was leaving out critical details or shifting dates or mispronouncing names. He kept waiting for Lars or Otik to intervene and take over the role of storyteller. When they did not, he began to gain confidence, and there came a point at which he was no longer worried about whether he was getting it right or not. The story had become his. The story had become more than itself.
Fig. 5.5. Selected diagrams (1–5)
From Røed-Larsen, P., Spesielle Partikler
Using the book his mother had given him as a springboard, he pointed to the diagrams as he told Horeb the history of the group, beginning with the labor camp for teachers in Kirkenes during World War II. The pictures, in their realness, in their little bordered truth, gave him courage.
“They were kept in two camps,” he said, pointing at the map of Kirkenes. “Here and here. This was where the idea for the group formed, in the breaks between heavy labor. The science teachers got together and began talking about science, and war, and theater, and they found they had a lot in common. When they were not working, there was nothing to do but talk. And out on the edge of the world like that, ideas can become big things. Ideas can become bigger than reality. And that’s why they went through with it. It was also desperately cold that winter. You can see the average temperature was minus twenty. The mind slows to a crawl when it’s that cold outside. But they knew it would one day be spring a
gain. That one day the war must end.”
He waited for Lars to tell him he was full of crap. That he was making all of this up. But Lars stayed quiet, and so he went on. He described the creation of the Bjørnens Hule in the middle of the wilderness, pointed to the map of grass-roofed huts revolving around the Wardenclyffe tower.
“Do you know what a Wardenclyffe tower is?” Radar asked.
Horeb shook his head.
“Nikola Tesla invented it. He was a Serb . . . one of my people. My father used to go on and on about him. Tesla came up with an idea that all electricity could be free . . .” And so on. He talked about the experiments with electricity and nuclear physics, the preparations for the elusive performance on Poselok Island that was only discovered by two Russian fishermen many years later. He described the look of amazement on the fishermen’s faces. He recounted the Gåselandet show, destroyed by the massive Tsar Bomba, and the mysterious films of the exploding theater wagon that surfaced and were played at various underground parties to psychedelic soundtracks. He described the films even though he had never seen the films, even though he had seen only a series of stills in the book. But maybe this was enough. Maybe telling a story of the event was more powerful than witnessing it yourself.
“This was their theater wagon,” he said. He talked about the symbolism of the wagon at length, what it represented, its history in Europe first as a religious beacon, then as a satellite of safety against the state, then as a vessel of narrative transmigration. He did not know he knew all of this. He did not know he knew the term “narrative transmigration,” but out it came with all the rest.
Horeb didn’t ask a single question. He kept nodding and saying, “Yes, I see. Yes, I see,” though Radar didn’t know if, in fact, he actually did see or whether he was just playing along. When Radar got to the performance in Cambodia, he paused and looked over at Lars. But Lars was deeply ensconced in his work with the puppets. If he was listening in, he did not show it. So Radar narrated the tragedy of that night in Anlong Veng as if he had been there himself. He described Siri, Lars’s mother, the beauty of a woman who was so gifted and so strong, surrounded by all these men. She was a mother, a craftswoman, a visionary, a beacon of optimism in even the darkest of times. He began to feel his eyes growing misty. He described the sight of the wagon burning, the feeling of watching all that work go up in smoke. He pointed to the map of the killings. The sound of gunshots. Siri on the ground, looking at her husband, their hands reaching out to touch fleetingly before the life left them both.