The Uttermost Parts of the Earth Page 12

  “This husband does not need alcohol,” Madame Van observed. “With this child he is already drunk.”

  Moulaert asked Madame Van to find clothes for Marike to wear when she was not in school. After their shopping expedition, Van reported that Marike knew the season she was born, but not the year. Van estimated that she was fifteen, plenty old enough by the standards of her people to begin a life of pleasing a man. Odejimi shook his head. “Moulaert’s broken the cardinal rule of erotic quests. He’s fallen in love.”

  At first Marike behaved with schoolgirl modesty. But the greater her success in bewitching Moulaert the bolder became her curiosity about the men from whom he quarantined her. The more determined became her resolve to attract their notice.

  Sometimes in the mornings, after showering, Marike would emerge onto Moulaert’s balcony. She would gaze at the river. Wearing a cloth about her hips, she would towel the tight coils on her head. Kwame and Odejimi would be having coffee and rolls on the terrace. Marike would nod to them. She would display her smooth, chocolatey skin and show her taut and firmly rounded breasts. Having a weakness for breasts, Odejimi would mutter, “I’ll take the pair.”

  When Moulaert caught Marike on the balcony—she would go there while he was showering—he would scold her: “Get in here! We’re late for school!” When she did not obey, he would shout: “You hear me!” Ten minutes later she would walk modestly across the terrace, her eyes lowered, nunlike and virginal in her school uniform, Our Lady of Education.

  ONE MORNING at the center, Kwame set up Mason’s laptop to examine it. He had decided that he must learn more about the man. The hard disk held folders labeled USIS Kinshasa, USIS Mbandaka, and USIS Quebec, the post where Mason had served before coming to Zaire. A folder labeled Pers. Corresp. caught Kwame’s eye. He opened it and found a folder labeled Dad. In the folder he found files of letters. Kwame remembered that Mason’s father had inscribed one of his books, something about “superior men remake the world.” He wondered what kind of letter Mason wrote to his father.

  He accessed the most recent one. It started simply: “Dad, you miserable dude.” Could this be Mason’s father?

  The body of the letter stated: “Mbandaka’s a jewel of a place—at least it will be when I finish with it. It’s a shit-hole town where a guy with a sense of humor as big as his sense of adventure can really make his mark. I’m gonna build a surfing resort here. How many American multibillionaires would like to Windsurf the Congo River? Supremo adventure, right? Steph was probably right to pass, the bitch. I wish I had my gear here to see if it’s as great as I think it will be.

  “Not much to do just now. I’ve chased some tail. There’s a white woman here who offers delights whenever her husband leaves town. And plenty of African girls so eager to ride in a white man’s truck that it’s hard to keep them clothed.

  “I’ve gotten to know the local governor. He’s stoked about having an American to try ideas on. He’d heard of Harvard so I told him I went there. I’m over at the ‘Residence,’ as they call it, several times a week. My French is getting meilleur. The more Guv trusts me, the more I’ll accomplish here. I feel like Gordon, Teddy Roosevelt, and Henderson the Rain King all rolled into one.”

  The letter made Kwame laugh. Could this be the same “Dad” who inscribed the book. No. “Dad” might be Mason’s pal-father. More likely he was a surfer-mentor who enjoyed kidding Mason about remaking the earth. Or just a buddy. Who was Steph, “the bitch”? His wife? Kwame hoped Mason turned up. He’d like to meet a guy who saw Mbandaka as the site of a surfing resort.

  Kwame poured himself a splash of whiskey—he never drank more than a splash—and settled down before the laptop. Mason’s letters proved amusing. He read some of the letters to Dad, then investigated the folder called Steph. What might Mason write to her? Accounts of “tail chase”? The folder contained some twenty letters. After the early letters was the word “Sent.” After the others: “Not sent.” Kwame read the earliest letter that had been sent. It started:

  “Oh, Fabbbbbbulous Steph!

  “Jeeeeezusss! It’s miserable hard here without you. Come to your fucking senses and get out here! Before I end up like fucking Kurtz.

  “Okay. I shouldnta wrote that. Two fuckings in two sentences.

  “As for Zaire? Different kind of sentence.

  “Why’d I ever sign on for duty in any fucking place assigned? I could strangle the bastard that changed my assignment from Rabat to Congo. Depraved sadist.

  “Sweet Steph. I haven’t known how to write you. Or what to write. I feel like we were driving down the highway of life in a Porsche convertible that suddenly went off a bridge. You got out somehow and I landed in a chasm. Jeeeezusss, Baby! How can we get back into the Porsche together?

  “I’ve been in Zaire two weeks now. I’m being sent to a pisshole called Mbandaka. State wants an American there, but not one of its precious FSOs so fuck me. It’s midnight. I leave in six hours. Better cut this short.

  “Have I lost you? Can’t believe it. This has got to be a nightmare. Yes, it happened fast. But we were so close. We found such joy just being together. I’ve gotta believe that somehow this is going to be reversed. You can’t pull out without giving this more of a chance.

  “Shit! Gotta go. I’m getting horny writing this. More soon.”

  Kwame read over some of the letters to Steph that had not been sent. An entirely different person had written them. It was as if Mason were talking to himself in a manner he could not trust himself to use with her. No mask. No profanity. No affectation. One of them said: “Steph, my love, you let me feel the outpush of care, love, and sharing that goes into giving to a wife and a family. You made me realize how much capacity for love there is inside of me, and for loyalty and sharing and willingness to work to make my loved ones happy.”

  Kwame wondered, what’s going on here? Who was Mason anyway? The incredible shitslinger who wrote to Dad and photographed and maybe even had teenage Congolese tail? The sad/exuberant guy who sent letters to Steph? Or the guy whose loss produced such gentle love-speak? Why hadn’t he sent those letters to Steph? Was he afraid to let her see that side of him? Or afraid to acknowledge it to himself?

  Mason’s shy words astonished Kwame. Mason could write as if stripping his soul naked before a woman. Having such thoughts and being able to set them down! What a capacity! Kwame had never expressed to Livie feelings that the shy Mason put into words. Mason could express them, but then what? Was he embarrassed to send them?

  Kwame could not help feeling the exhilaration of a gossip who has stumbled on a trove of juicy information. And he knew Mason better, that consummate shitslinger! How adroitly he fashioned letters for the expectations of his readers! He could be a Windsurfer buff, tail-chaser extraordinaire. Or a sharer of deepest thoughts. Being able to write such thoughts! This capacity astonished Kwame. He had never expressed such feelings to Livie.

  WORKING IN his office about midafternoon, Kwame heard a vehicle pull up outside the building. A car door slammed. When he went to the window, he saw M. Berton leaving the Peugeot. Kwame hid the whiskey and the glass that usually sat on his desk. He grabbed the breath mints he kept in a drawer and popped several into his mouth. He left the office to welcome his landlord. After they shook hands, Kwame backed away and kept a hand over his mouth.

  Berton glanced about, noticing changes to his building. “A lot of work yet to do,” Kwame observed in French.

  Berton declared, “We need to talk. In private.”

  Kwame showed Berton to his office, feeling apprehensive. “Your wife came by to discuss a Nigerian novel I lent her,” he said.

  “She told me.”

  “I’m not sure the novel was quite her thing.”

  “She gets bored in this town.” Kwame cleared a chair for Berton and shut the door so that Anatole would not stand in the doorway watching them. “She would like to spend her life at fashion shows.”

  “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer you,” Kwa
me said. “I could send the tata to the restaurant for beer.”

  Berton waved his hand no. “I have something to tell you,” he said. He paused for such a long moment that Kwame felt uncomfortable. He examined Kwame, his eyes narrowing. “I have wondered if I should tell you. And decided yes. Can you hold what I say in confidence?”

  Kwame said nothing. It was his turn to measure his visitor. “I can’t agree without knowing what it is,” he said at last. “But I think you can trust my discretion.”

  Berton finally said, “I am one of the few people in Mban who knows what happened to your friend Mason. I’ve made inquiries since we last spoke.”

  The two men studied one another. “I would very much like to know what happened,” Kwame acknowledged. “So would my government. May I report what you tell me?”

  Berton considered this request. “Of course,” he finally replied. “But as a confidential matter.”

  Kwame nodded. Berton did not speak for such a long time that Kwame again asked, “Are you sure I cannot have the tata—” Again Berton waved his hand.

  “Your friend Mason cultivated contacts at the Residence,” the planter began. “He ingratiated himself with the governor. Gave him books, videos, recordings.” Berton paused for Kwame’s reaction to this information.

  Kwame shrugged. “All part of the job,” he said. “I haven’t got around to calling on the governor, but I should.”

  “He also gave the governor advice,” Berton continued.

  “What kind of advice?”

  “All kinds. Including unwanted advice.”

  Kwame wondered how much of what Berton said was true—even though Mason himself had boasted about cultivating such contacts.

  “Mason had opinions about everything,” Berton continued. “He also possessed that very American quality of assuming that all his opinions were valuable.”

  Kwame forced himself to smile. “That’s not a quality peculiar to Americans, Monsieur.” He was not liking this interview, but he determined to keep it light. “Although, of course, we thank you for the compliment.”

  Berton did not return the smile. “Some people at the Residence thought he aspired to be a Conseiller du Gouverneur. The governor himself thought so.”

  The idea seemed preposterous. Kwame made no reply.

  “In short,” Berton said, “Mason made a nuisance of himself. The problem was how to get rid of him.”

  “Is he alive?” Kwame asked.

  “I am told he left here alive.”

  “Who are your sources?”

  “They are well-placed. Reliable. At the Residence.”

  “Why not send him back to Kinshasa?”

  “Ah! You Americans are so direct.” Berton smiled. “No one knew what his support was in Kin. Or how determined the Americans were to keep him in Mban. Disappearance was much simpler.”

  Kwame nodded. “What happened to him?”

  “He was invited to the Residence one night when the governor was away. The next day the army flew him to Lisala. I understand he went overland from there to Bangui.” Bangui was the capital of the Central African Republic, several hundred miles to the north. “When he crossed the border, he received a small bit of money. He was told that if he ever returned to the Equateur, he would not leave alive.”

  The two men sat in silence. Kwame wished he could have a smoke of Mason’s tobacco. And a splash of Odejimi’s whiskey. Pleased to see him unnerved, Berton watched him with placid hostility.

  Finally he added, “I tell you this because you say you’ve come to help these people build their country. You are less arrogant than Mason, thank God. We have a common interest. And we are both Europeans.”

  “No one would mistake me for a European, M. Berton.”

  “Only Zaireans,” Berton replied. “We do not want them thinking that the way to handle Europeans is to make them disappear.”

  Kwame smiled tightly and gave his visitor a nod.

  “Mason’s fate should make something clear to you,” Berton said. “In building their country these people do not want your help. They do not want Americans exploiting their resources. Or their women. Yes, they have made a mess of their independence. But it was not without a great deal of help from America. They want that help to stop.”

  “HE THINKS you’ve slept with his wife,” Odejimi said. Kwame had told the Nigerian about his meeting with Berton. “He’s playing with your head.”

  “Have you been to Bangui?”

  “No. And neither has Mason. If someone actually took him there, the first thing he’d do is contact the American Embassy. Your people would know where he is. Berton is leading you astray.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s warning you off his wife. He’s warned me. But when the cat is away, the mice dance. Madame Berton likes to dance.” Odejimi grinned and poured whiskey into both their glasses. They were sitting on the Afrique terrace wondering when Madame Van would join them.

  “Did Mason ‘cultivate’ the Residence?” Kwame asked.

  “He went over there once or twice. But how could he offer advice? He hardly spoke French.”

  The doctor kept glancing at the portal through which Madame Van would appear. “That damn woman,” he said. “She knows she’s more interesting if she keeps us waiting.” Kwame wondered what, if anything, she had told Odejimi about their being together.

  “So Berton’s story is not what happened to Mason?”

  “No.”

  “What did happen to him? You must know.”

  Odejimi raised his whiskey glass to his lips and held it there. He looked out across the river at the huge clouds turning from orange to red. He finally said, “Honestly, old boy. I don’t know.”

  As soon as Berton had left the center, Kwame wrote a report of the conversation for Kinshasa. Concluding the memo he felt he should offer some assessments of its revelations, but did not know what to write. His hunch was that Mason had gone to see Stephanie wherever she was and had not bothered to tell anyone. But Kwame did not want to reveal that he knew anything about her.

  “Is there anyone at the Residence I could check out Berton’s story with?” Kwame asked.

  “No. You aren’t here long enough yet to confirm rumors.”

  “Kinshasa will want to know I’ve done some checking.”

  “You Americans!” Odejimi sighed tiredly. “Why tell Kinshasa? It’s bullshit. Why try to check it? You may never learn what happened to Mason. Is that so hard to accept?”

  Madame Van appeared on the terrace. Odejimi gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re here!” the doctor greeted her. “This chap is almost as boring as Moulaert.” Madame Van moved to their table without looking at Kwame. As she and the doctor began their game of mankala, he felt shut out as if he meant no more to them than did Moulaert.

  THAT EVENING the sense of isolation he felt at the mankala game deepened. Perhaps work would assuage it, he thought. At the center he opened Mason’s laptop. He scanned the relevant files and found only one report of a meeting with the governor. At it Mason distributed books and pamphlets and offered English lessons. That was all. Since an ambitious young officer would certainly report—probably even exaggerate—his contacts with the governor, there seemed little to justify Berton’s tale.

  Kwame began to edit the report he’d drafted earlier during the day. The hell with it! he thought. He shut the laptop. This was like a curse. He had not felt this lonely since his first days in Mbandaka.

  Write to Livie. Maybe that would help. But as he started, all he could think was: “Why are we writing these letters? We aren’t going to marry. I know this even if I won’t admit it.”

  Shit! He stared at the paper. Beginning again he would be blunt. “I am sitting in this office at night,” he wrote, “missing you. God, I’ve never felt so lonely. I miss our sex. I miss touching you, your warmth in the night. I miss your fragrance, your taste, your voice. I miss my being wound about you.” Reading it over, he thought, what crap! He sounded horny.
But the problem was loneliness, the feeling that no one in the entire continent of Africa, maybe no one in the entire world, knew or cared that he existed. He wanted to withdraw what he’d written. But he would send it. Maybe Livie would like getting it wrong, thinking him horny for her in Mbandaka when he was really crazy lonely.

  He gave it up, left the center. When he trudged across town, the sentinelles sitting before stores ignored him. The dogs that sometimes menaced him did not move. He walked along the empty road beside the river. He passed through the deserted reception of the hotel. As he entered his room, the loneliness felt like weight on his back. He paced, went out onto the balcony overlooking the river. By now his isolation seemed almost impossible to bear. He stared for long minutes at the river.

  Finally a light illuminated the adjoining balcony. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he climbed over the railing onto that balcony. He went to the glass door and knocked on it. After a moment Madame Van opened the door and peeked out. “Ah, Madame, bonsoir,” said Kwame, greatly relieved to see another human being. “Come out and talk to me. Please. I need someone to talk to.” Madame regarded him uncertainly. At this hour of the evening a man did not knock on a woman’s door to talk. “Ask Odejimi to join us. We can tell each other stories.”

  Van smiled at him quizzically. “The doctor was called to the hospital.”

  “You come then.” He reached out his hand for her. She moved uncertainly onto the porch. Kwame took her hand and led her to the balcony railing. They stood, looking at the river. “Are there village stories about the river at night?” he asked. “There must be.”

  Yes, there were many, she said: stories, folktales. She regarded him curiously and quoted some proverbs.

  “Do people get lonely in the villages?” Kwame asked. He tried to explain what he meant by lonely. “I know they get lonely in towns. That’s how I feel.” He went on, “It’s not wanting a woman. It’s—”