I Am Radar

by Reif Larsen

  Radar paused. “I’m sorry,” he said. He took a deep breath and pointed to the line on the map representing Lars’s escape with Raksmey to the Thai border.

  “When they were within a hundred meters of the Thai border crossing, Raksmey stepped on a land mine,” he said. “His left leg was torn apart by the explosion. Part of his face was sheared right off. They heard shots behind them, and so he waved for Lars to go on and leave him. Lars tried to drag Raksmey . . . but finally gave up. Those last thirty feet he had to walk on his own.”

  There was a silence. Radar thought maybe he had gone too far.

  “You’re a very good storyteller,” said Horeb. “You should write this down.”

  “It’s already written down.” Radar pointed to the book.

  “I mean, in your words, like how you said to me,” said Horeb.

  “I’ve only ever written a Little Rule Book for Life.”

  “Like a Koran?”

  “Not quite.”

  “But I’m serious. When I listen to you, I feel your words. You have a gift. When you tell me about this terrible tragedy in Cambodia, it’s like I am there. I am remembering, too.”

  “You remember what?”

  “When I was four, I saw a man shoot my father in Yaoundé.”

  Radar blinked. “Why?” he said.

  “My father owned a factory. The man was a Marxist. I didn’t know any of this at the time . . . I was just a little boy. All I knew was a man came and made my father fall down, and then my father disappeared and never came back. My mother had already gone back to Senegal, so I grew up with my aunt and uncle. And they taught me Islam. I lost my father, but I found my belief.”

  “What happened to the man?”

  “They beat him to death. They beat him. I was too young to tell them to stop.”

  Radar looked up and saw Lars standing next to them. He was holding a yellow tracksuit in his hands.

  “It’s for you. It’s our uniform,” said Lars. His eyes were wet.

  “Thank you,” said Horeb, bowing. “I will wear it well. Live long and prosper.”

  • • •

  RADAR WAS IN THE middle of telling Horeb about Kermin, the great puppet designer who had resurrected Kirkenesferda from the ashes by organizing the fourth bevegelse, in Sarajevo’s library, during the middle of the Balkan war.

  “And Kermin is my father,” he declared proudly.

  “And so why is your father not here?” asked Horeb.

  Radar opened his mouth and then shut it. He was about to try and explain the blackout in New Jersey when the truck slowed and came to a stop.

  The door to the container was unlatched. Professor Funes appeared beneath his parasol.

  “A stop,” he said. “For petrol. And the calls of nature.”

  Radar looked at his watch. They had been driving for almost three hours.

  They hopped down from the container, some more nimbly than others. Radar blinked in the bright sunlight. The truck was parked at a dusty filling station that housed only a single pump. There were four other trucks ahead of them in line, each stacked high with goods—bananas, furniture, PVC piping. The station was in a town that seemed to consist mostly of tin-roofed houses with a couple of mud streets running between them. A large church could be seen rising above the rest of the buildings. Somewhere, a radio was playing rumba.

  Horeb, now wearing the yellow tracksuit, washed his hands and face using a bottle of water and then placed his mat on the ground by a grove of spindly trees. He began to pray.

  When Radar came out of the restroom, Horeb was still praying. Otik and Lars were already clambering back inside Moby-Dikt, but it would still be some time before they would get fuel, since the line of trucks at the pump had not gotten any shorter.

  He did not want to go back inside just yet, so, feeling surprisingly adventurous, Radar ambled down a side street. It was remarkable how even a day in a new place could acclimatize you. Yesterday morning, he would have done no such thing. Yesterday he was a coward who had never been to Africa, who knew only of New Jersey and recumbent bicycles and radio stations. But now? He was an explorer. A man in the world. Dusty streets were the new normal.

  He came across a group of young boys who were kicking around an old soccer ball wrapped with tape. As soon as they saw him, they stopped and stared.

  “Hello,” he called out timidly, suddenly aware of himself as foreign.

  The kids continued to stare. One boy scratched at his balls.

  “Bonjour,” Radar tried. “I am Radar.”

  “They don’t see many mundeles around here,” said Horeb, materializing behind him.

  “Mundeles?”

  “White people,” said Horeb, laughing. “Would you like to play?”

  “Play?” Before Radar could say more, Horeb dived among the children and expertly dribbled the ball around the kids with his feet. Soon, the children began yelling and laughing, trying to get it back. But when Horeb kicked the ball to Radar, the kids stopped again and stared.

  One of the kids pointed, said something to Horeb.

  “They want to know where you come from,” said Horeb.

  “New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?”

  “It’s next to New York.”

  Horeb began to talk to the children.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Children are always so funny. They want to know why you look the way you do. I’m trying to explain to them, but it’s not easy. Why does anyone look the way they do?”

  All at once, everything felt very familiar. He had been here before.

  “Tell them I wasn’t always like this,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Tell them I was born black like them.”

  Horeb raised his eyebrows.

  “Tell them.” He knew it was impossible, but he had talked to these children before. He had seen these same expressions of wonder. He had stood under this same sun.

  Horeb dutifully translated.

  “They want to know what happened to change you into a mundele.”

  “Tell them . . .” He was trying to remember what he said the first time. “Tell them it was a machine. Tell them it was electricity.”

  Horeb shook his head. “These are children. They will believe you. Some of them have never seen a mundele before.”

  “I’m not lying,” said Radar. “It’s the truth. It was a machine.”

  Horeb studied Radar’s face.

  “Tell them,” said Radar. He needed the children to understand, just as they had understood the first time. “Tell them I went to Norway, in the north, where there’s snow, and a machine changed me. Tell them it also made me very sick. I got seizures. This leg grew weak. Tell them this is why I can’t play soccer very well.”

  Horeb took a step toward him. The sun was hot overhead, and Radar felt his head begin to spin, but he did not look away. The feeling of déjà vu receded. Everything was new again. He could feel the sun, and Horeb was coming closer. In his previous life, this would have been the time when he would have had a seizure and the children could have seen for themselves what the machine had done to him, but now he did not seize. He stayed awake, staring into Horeb’s eyes, and he knew then that he would never seize again. He knew he had been cured. Cured by his father’s electromagnetic pulse.

  Horeb brought his head very close to Radar’s until their foreheads were touching.

  “Enna lillah wa enna elaihe Rajioun,” he whispered. “Jazaka Allahu Khairan.”

  “It’s the truth,” said Radar. “It’s the truth.”

  Horeb put his hand against the soft part of Radar’s neck and then turned and began to speak. The children listened and stared.

  “They want to know why you changed.”

  “Tell them it wasn’t my choice,” said Rad
ar. “But I’m the same person I was before. Tell them I’m like them. Tell them this never changes.”

  Horeb nodded. He spoke. He spoke for a while. When he was done speaking, a silence settled over them, until Radar limped over and kicked the ball and the children whooped with delight and easily took it away from him. Horeb swept in and recaptured the ball, and soon it was the two of them in their yellow tracksuits against all of the children. Horeb would keep the ball, pass to Radar, who would lose it, and the children would pass it around before Horeb would win it back again. The simplest of games, but enacted here, it was a pure and untouchable act that superseded all else. Language, color, time, place—none of it mattered when the ball was moving.

  “Ahoy! We’re leaving!” Lars shouted from the filling station.

  Horeb clapped his hands and said something to the children. They came crowding around Radar, touching him, hugging him.

  “Mundele ndom, mundele ndom,” they cried.

  “What does that mean?” Radar asked.

  “It means ‘the white black man.’”

  “Is that good?”

  “You tell me.” Horeb laughed.

  9

  It was early evening by the time they reached Kinshasa, though Radar never saw the great city, for they did not stop. He only heard the shouts and the sounds of traffic, the crowds, the cries of anger, the brief caress of laughter, bursts of music from open windows, and the endless chorus of honking. At some point they heard the telltale screech and crash of an accident, followed by screams. For Radar, it was completely and solely an aural city. A city of the imagination.

  “It’s easy to forget your soul in Kinshasa,” said Horeb as they passed through. “I was there to study. I made my brain larger, but sometimes I didn’t remember my heart.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Linguistics. International relations. Religious studies. I wanted to be a translator and interpreter for the UN. But I couldn’t focus on my work. I was going in too many directions. I lost my way. So I ended up leaving after two years.” He looked down. “You must think I’m stupid to throw away an opportunity like that.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid,” said Radar.

  “I’ve never been able to finish what I start. It’s my curse. I always try to remind myself that when Muhammad started preaching, no one believed him—no one but his wife. Nothing came easy for him. He had to earn it . . . with patience. With patience and wisdom and belief.”

  They listened to the mutter of a moto approaching and passing their truck.

  “When people live too close together, you see the best and worst side of them,” said Horeb. “You step over human waste in the street, but you are also given food by strangers. You see people robbed by guns, but you also see young men helping old women carry their bags. Sometimes you see the good and evil in the same afternoon. Everyone understands how difficult it is to live like this. It can make you hard, like a nut, but it also leaves you open for hope, for the words of a prophet—whether this is Jesus, Muhammad, or even”—he gave a little laugh—“one of our presidential candidates. Every nut has a soft inside.”

  “Is that true? I feel like I’ve met nuts with no insides.”

  Horeb smiled. “We need a great leader. We need a young Nelson Mandela in Congo, who can bring the people together. This country has so much. It can be the most prosperous country in all of Africa. It can be a symbol of cooperation. But this leader must not lead because he is seduced by power. He must lead because his only option is to lead, because the world demands him to lead.”

  “Maybe this leader is a she,” said Lars without looking up from his work. It was the first thing he had said since giving Horeb the tracksuit. Radar realized he had been listening the entire time, and that what had passed between him and Horeb had in fact passed between them all.

  • • •

  THEIR DESTINATION was a small fishing port called Mikala. The truck rumbled down a dirt track, and when they finally stopped and the doors to Moby-Dikt were thrown open, they saw that they were once again on the banks of the great river, though 450 kilometers upstream. The same river but never the same river. The water still as glass and at least three kilometers wide.

  Lashed to the docks were perhaps thirty small barges, all in varying states of rust and decay. The beach nearby was covered with small fishermen’s pirogues—canoes dug out from tree trunks. The fishermen had splayed their nets across the beach to dry. A single, ancient gantry crane rose above the docks.

  As soon as they jumped down from the container, they were immediately surrounded by a crowd. People were pushing and jostling one another to get close, but not too close. Radar noticed that, unlike the scene that morning in front of the Hôtel Metropole, no one was trying to sell them anything. Instead, everyone was staring at Professor Funes, who stood beneath his parasol a short distance away, talking to his driver.

  Indeed, as Radar watched, the crowd began to shift toward Funes. The driver immediately brandished a club and blew on a whistle. The crowd halted. The driver started to speak, waving the club above his head. Radar noticed that almost everyone in the crowd was holding a small package. Then a young man broke from the crowd and extended his package to Funes with one hand, his other hand holding the elbow of the outstretched arm. A hush fell over everyone. Radar thought the driver might hit the man with his club, but Funes stepped forward, folded up his parasol, and took the package. He lifted it to his forehead and made a little bow. Funes said a few words to the man in the man’s language. The man clasped his hands together and bowed back, beaming. The crowd held its breath and then, with an exclamation, everyone began to push forward. The driver blew his whistle, but no one was listening anymore. Another man held out his package, and again Funes repeated the ritual of receiving the gift and touching the package to his forehead. Packages were being extended from all directions. Funes calmly took each one, repeating his gesture of thanks. The crowd now stretched back off the docks and up into the village. More were coming down from the hills. Everyone was carrying a package.

  “What’s going on?” Radar asked.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Lars.

  “He’s the Tatayababuku,” Horeb said quietly, without taking his eyes from Funes.

  “The what?”

  “The father of books. The Tatayababuku is a sorcerer who knows all things. They think his books give him power. So they give him gifts for his library. They think he will protect them.”

  “Those are books?” said Radar. “How do you know all this?”

  “Everyone knows about the Tatayababuku. His magic is powerful.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?” said Otik, a note of suspicion in his voice.

  “Better to see for yourself,” Horeb said with a smile.

  They watched as Professor Funes received the books. Each book was wrapped in newspaper or brown wrapping paper. More and more people came down to the waterside, and the pile beside him began to grow. The driver managed to keep the crowd mostly at bay, until one woman threw herself at Funes’s feet. She was sobbing. In her arms she was holding a small child, whom she offered up to Funes. The crowd immediately grew uneasy.

  “Her child is sick,” said Horeb. “She’s asking him to heal the child.”

  For the first time, Funes looked uncomfortable. He cautiously touched the child’s head and then murmured to the mother. She was led away, weeping but smiling.

  “They don’t actually believe the books are magic, do they?” said Radar. “How can they?”

  Horeb pointed at the crowd. “They must believe in something. I think Americans believe in much stranger things, yes? Guns? Plastic surgery?”

  “That might be true,” said Radar. “But who told them this? Who told them the books were magic? Did he say this? Who started giving him books?”

  “How does anything begin?” said Horeb
. “Did Islam begin with Muhammad’s first revelation or when his wife became his first believer? You should ask the Tatayababuku about who started this.”

  The sun began to set over the river. The water turned gold and red and then silver, forming a perfect mirror to the sky.

  When there were no more books to be given, Funes raised his right hand above his head and silenced the throng. He produced a small book from his pocket. After a moment’s pause, he began to read in his curious high-pitched voice. A poem in French.

  “It’s Baudelaire,” whispered Lars after a moment. “He’s reading Baudelaire.”

  “He’s not reading,” said Horeb. “He knows it by heart.”

  Indeed, the book was only a prop. The professor was speaking from memory. The crowd listened intently. When the poem was finished, the professor bowed again, then began walking toward the water, his driver following closely. The crowd shuffled forward. Funes walked onto one of the barges, all the way to the end, and, with everyone watching, ceremoniously ripped out one of the pages from the small book from which he had just read, held the page aloft, and then tossed it into the river. The page fluttered, somersaulted, came to rest on the surface of the water. There was a silence, and then someone from the crowd let out a trilling ululation. A cheer rose up. And now Radar and the others were surrounded by people singing, clapping, dancing.

  “What just happened?” Radar asked.

  “He released the good spirits into the river,” said Horeb. “The bad spirits remain in the books.”