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  Kwame watched the game and the woman, wondering what the story was about Vandenbroucke. If he had, in fact, taken her to Belgium, she was no village girl. The mankala game ended when Madame Van scooped all remaining seeds from a cup and tossed them idly into a saucer at her end of the board. “Fuck all,” Odejimi muttered in English. Then he complained in French, “This woman is a master at mankala. I dream of beating her and I never do.” Amused at her dominance at mankala, Madame smiled mysteriously, rose from the table, and left the terrace. Both men watched her go.

  “I saw you couldn’t stop watching her,” Odejimi said.

  Kwame laughed, feeling caught out. He had not expected either of them to notice. “Is that why she left?”

  “She’s a woman. She left so we could talk about her.”

  “Was she really married to—What was his name?” Kwame asked.

  “Vandenbroucke. A Belgian adviser. He needed a woman while he was here, asked nuns at a secondary school to find him a companion. They selected her. Lucky Van. He got a looker who was also bright.”

  “He married her?”

  “Paid some cash for her. An African marriage.”

  “He took her to Belgium?”

  “When his tour of duty ended, she wanted to see Europe. He claimed she was his wife and the Belgian government paid the fare.” After a moment Odejimi added, “A way of saying farewell, I think. Something he could do for her at virtually no cost to himself.” Odejimi stared off across the river. “But maybe he intended to live with her. No woman her equal in Belgium would have him.” Odejimi threw up his hands. “But who knows? Van took her to Ghent to meet his family. They were shocked. They never realized he had a woman in the Congo, much less a black one. His mother and sisters refused to be in the same room with her.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He took her back to Brussels, put her in a hotel, and returned to Ghent, apparently to work it out with the family. Then his brother arrived in Brussels to tell her it was over. The family would refuse to receive her if she returned to Ghent. The brother put her on a plane and sent her back. The family paid her fare.”

  “How did she become your woman?”

  Odejimi cocked an eyebrow at Kwame and guffawed. “Stop thinking American, old boy. You sound like a slave owner. She’s not my woman.”

  “She lives in your room.”

  “When she came back here, what was she to do? Return to her father’s village? I invited her to stay with me.”

  “But you didn’t pay cash or goats.”

  “God, no! I’ve got two wives in Nigeria. I play sex with other women and she’s free to have other men. Are you interested?”

  Kwame laughed. “Are you a pimp?”

  “I’m a doctor. Celibacy is not good for your health in the tropics.”

  Madame Van returned to the terrace and resumed her place with the men. Without speaking they gazed across the river. Huge orange clouds moved throughout the sunset sky. They tinted the river’s surface silver, orange, red. Two dugout canoes—pirogues—floated in the still water off the bank below the hotel. In one a man in worn khaki shorts patiently fished. Time after time he threw a circular net into the water and pulled it back on board. In the other pirogue a naked man stood, lathering his dark, well-built body with soap.

  Odejimi stretched and gazed at the man bathing in the pirogue. “Nice movement with the soap, eh, Madame?” He nodded toward the naked African, getting his own back for having lost the mankala game. Madame Van slapped his arm. “Every afternoon Madame comes to watch the fishermen bathe,” Odejimi told Kwame. “This one here: you like him?” Madame Van giggled. “Shall I get him for you?”

  Odejimi was speaking English, as if to taunt her. “Do you speak English, Madame?” Kwame asked. She gazed at him uncertainly. He sensed that his American speech and Odejimi’s high-class British must sound very different to her ear. Again he asked, very slowly, “You speak English, Madame?”

  “Un leetla,” she said, holding her index finger and thumb barely apart.

  “Where did you learn English?” Kwame asked, again slowly.

  “A l’école du couvent.” (At the convent school.)

  “And from me, old boy,” said the doctor.

  And from Mason, Kwame thought. “Did you know Mason, Madame?” he asked in French.

  “Un leetla,” she replied in her English, a tease.

  “Do you know where he’s gone?” Kwame asked in French.

  “He’s disappeared,” Odejiimi explained, continuing in French.

  Madame Van absorbed this news, surprised, upset. She gazed again at Kwame and slowly shook her head.

  His skin began prickling again. Kwame thought it might be wise to leave Madame and the doctor to mankala. Odejimi was already laying the board for another game. “A bientôt,” Kwame said. “I need to write some letters.”

  But as he settled down to write Judkins, it proved difficult to shake Madame Van from his head. Even so, he reported that Kent Mason was not in Mbandaka; that he had not been seen in more than two weeks; that the center film truck and Mason’s laptop were missing; that items of Mason’s clothing were being sold in the market. He listed the people he had talked to and noted that he was doing what he could to get the center ready to open.

  The letter finished, he rose to examine himself in the bathroom mirror. He decided he was better looking than Odejimi, not as tall, but younger, fitter.

  Madame Van made him realize how much he missed Livie. He put Van out of his mind and wrote his law student. Well, not entirely out of his mind. He did not mention her in the letter.

  When he went to bed, he lay awake wondering: Had Vandenbroucke really taken his Congolese woman to Europe, outraged his family, then left her on her own? Had she really wanted to see Belgium? Maybe. Probably he would never know.

  FIVE

  Late the afternoon of the following day, his sixth in the Equateur, Kwame paced the library, wondering if he were stuck in Mbandaka. How could he leave the next day when the attaché plane arrived? Hadn’t he better try to telephone Judkins to inform him that Mason had disappeared? He realized that he would be instructed to remain where he was until another officer could replace him. Shit! Fuck! Well, it might not be for too long. If the ambassador truly intended that every officer have a stint in the bush, someone else could probably be sent to Mbandaka in a couple of days.

  As he paced, a tan Mercedes parked before the house that was to become the Centre Culturel Américain. Kwame watched the driver leave the car and stride up the steps of the entry: a stocky white man of medium height who wore shorts and the rimless glasses of a businessman, but had a deep tan, strong legs, and big hands that worked in the open with plants. He approached the building with an air of ownership.

  Anatole hurried to the entrance and opened the door, his head lowered with deference. “’Jour, M’sieur,” he muttered. The man entered the building. He surveyed the stacks of books on tables still pushed against the walls. He inspected Kwame with an expression that asked: What’s a black man doing here?

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” Kwame greeted the visitor.

  “You’re the new American?” the man asked, speaking French. The visitor was Jean-Luc Berton, the center’s landlord. “I’ve been out of town,” he explained as he and Kwame shook hands. “Someone told me a new American had arrived.” Berton did not smile. He inspected Kwame and surveyed the room as if something smelled bad. Kwame sensed that Berton had come, not to meet him, but to measure him, and that he did not pass muster.

  “Are you assisting M. Mason? That’s the talk around town.”

  “I was to be here a week. Leaving tomorrow. Do you know what’s happened to Mason?”

  “Has something happened to him?” Berton asked.

  “He’s disappeared.”

  The two men examined one another. “I only met the fellow once or twice. I have an interest in a rubber plantation on the road to Bikoro,” the Belgian explained. “It is very difficult to keep any
concern running these days, but we try.”

  “I’m very anxious about Mason,” Kwame remarked.

  “Maybe he’s chasing girls in the bush.” Berton said nothing more about Mason. He looked about the room. “I take it this is to be the library.” Berton’s tone of voice turned cynical. “Mbandaka’s American library.” Kwame gave a modest gesture toward the stacks of books. “The latest outpost of the American empire.” The planter’s tone dripped sarcasm. Kwame did not know how to respond. “The great globe-girdling empire.” Kwame tried to smile. “Before we know it, there may be an American air base here.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not here?” Berton asked. “Don’t you want to protect your friend, our president?” Berton surveyed the furniture and books. “Is this a CIA operation?” Kwame cocked his head, surprised at this question. “You can trust me with a confidence,” Berton told him, suddenly smiling. “Since you are in my building, we are coconspirators.”

  “I’m here to dispense information,” Kwame replied. “Not gather it.”

  “But you keep your eyes open, eh? For the CIA?”

  Kwame laughed. “Let’s give CIA more credit than that.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Berton. “CIA does not hire blacks?”

  The man was beginning to irritate Kwame. “I’m in Zaire to lecture about African literature.”

  “A perfect cover,” suggested Berton. “Especially since there is no African literature. And Mason’s cover? That would be chasing girls, eh? Although he has no affection for them.”

  “No affection for them?”

  “He humiliated them.” Kwame wondered if this were merely Berton’s manner of expressing dislike. Or was there more to it than that? The planter continued, “You think Mason’s come to harm, don’t you?”

  “In this quiet place?” Kwame asked. “Why would I think that?”

  “Because your culture is full of violence. People are gunned down in American streets every day. Isn’t that so?”

  “Has something happened to Mason, M. Berton?”

  “If I were to guess I’d say he offended someone. Perhaps soldiers killed him.” The planter broke away and stuck his head into a couple of the other rooms. “But maybe he’s dead of malaria or SIDA. Those are the killers here. We hope not, of course.” He moved to the front door and stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, M. Johnson.”

  Watching the Mercedes drive off, Kwame wondered how Mason had antagonized Berton. Or did the man feel a generalized hostility to Americans and their dominance in the world? He must make sure, Kwame thought, that people in Mbandaka understood he was trying to benefit the town.

  KWAME WENT to the post office, hoping to telephone Kinshasa. The operator was doubtful that the call would go through. Kwame pestered him to keep trying. After two hours he reached Warren Judkins. He explained that Mason had disappeared. Judkins could not immediately absorb this news. Kwame restated it several ways. “This is extraordinary,” Judkins said. He instructed Kwame to remain in Mbandaka until he himself could fly up to take stock of the situation. The plane for the next day would be canceled.

  ON THE terrace of the hotel at the close of the day Kwame joined Odejimi and Madame Van. “It looks like I’m here for a while,” he told them, using French.

  “Good news!” enthused Odejimi. “At the end of the world a new face is always welcome.” Madame Van regarded him in her mysterious way. Was she pleased?

  That possibility warmed Kwame. “Until Mason returns,” he said. “Or we find out what happened to him.”

  “Maybe you can learn to play mankala,” the doctor suggested.

  “I don’t imagine I’ll be here that long,” Kwame said.

  Odejimi and Madame Van continued their match, the doctor cursing to himself, the woman smiling quietly as she won successive games. The doctor again drank whiskey. Kwame brought beer for himself and Madame. He glanced at two army officers drinking with La Petite and Tombolo. What might they know about Mason? He gazed off across the river at the far horizon. He felt the African sense of time encompass him. Or was it timelessness? Clouds drifted across the sky. The river gentled along its freight of water hyacinths.

  “M. Berton came to inspect me this afternoon,” Kwame said.

  “Charming fellow, isn’t he?” commented the doctor.

  “Is it that he doesn’t like Americans?” Kwame asked. “Or just Mason?”

  Neither of the others spoke, playing their game.

  “Did you know Mason more than ‘un leetla,’ Madame?” Kwame asked.

  She smiled enigmatically. Kwame returned the smile, as if to encourage a response—and because it was a pleasure to behold her. Before she could speak, Odejimi said, “Berton certainly did not like Mason.”

  “Mme Berton and Mason, friends,” offered Madame Van.

  “All very platonic, I’m sure,” remarked Odejimi. He laughed in a way that suggested otherwise. “Mme Berton needs someone to talk to. Monsieur is often away. Mason comes to town; he’s a white man. Madame cultivates him. They talk about books. Berton supposes they become lovers because he cannot imagine what a man does with a woman besides fuck her.”

  “I understand your husband took you to Europe,” Kwame said, addressing Madame Van. She did not reply. “Did you like Europe?”

  Madame smiled enigmatically.

  “No!” Odejimi exclaimed. “Madame did not like Europe!”

  Now a white man in a safari hat joined the group. He set a bottle of Primus and a glass on the table and pulled up a chair. He was the man Kwame had seen fleetingly his first morning at the hotel. The man was stocky and bearded with an upturned nose in which the nostrils were predominant. His nose and pinkish complexion made Africans whisper that he resembled a pig. Removing his hat, he revealed russet hair and a face covered with freckles.

  “Salut,” Odejimi said in greeting. He pointed at Kwame and gave his name, then told Kwame, “Say hello to School Inspector Moulaert. From faraway Flanders.”

  “Johannes Moulaert,” said the man. “Johnny around here.” Kwame and Moulaert shook hands. Moulaert grabbed Odejimi’s bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink. “Since you’re a newcomer,” he said, addressing Kwame in French with a guttural Flemish accent, “let me warn you that La Petite is not worth paying for. You’ll have more fun with your hand.”

  “How long have you been here?” Kwame asked.

  “Not long enough.” He poured himself some beer and drank a long swallow. “I’m on an erotic quest,” he explained. “That, of course, would be news to my wife and two sons.” He chuckled at his naughtiness. “They suppose I am here for the money, which is better than in Belgium. And that I have some noble feeling about wanting to help the world.” The Fleming grinned at this deception and pulled from the breast pocket of his tunic a leather pouch. He opened it, withdrew a color photograph, and handed it to Kwame. It showed a tall, slender, almost breastless girl with blue-black skin. She wore a thin strand of leather about her waist—that was all—and seemed totally unconscious of her nakedness.

  “If you see her wandering about,” Odejimi said, “grab her for our friend.”

  “What will you do with her?” Kwame asked Moulaert.

  “Worship her,” he replied.

  “With that white worm of yours,” cried Odejimi, laughing. “It looks like death, but you’ll make it stand, eh?”

  “Everyone worships in his own way,” answered Moulaert with a grin.

  Kwame returned the photo to Moulaert. He gazed at it fondly. As he rubbed his thumb across the picture, Madame Van watched him with contempt.

  THE NEXT morning, resigned to be in Mbandaka for a while, Kwame visited the Bomboko Congo School, the town’s only secondary school with instruction in French. The school’s director, a Zairean named Joseph Badeka, did not at first believe that Kwame was American, not with both black skin and decent French. “Every American I have known has white skin and struggles with French,” the man said. Once convinced of Kwame�
��s nationality, he embraced him.

  Badeka had served at Bomboko Congo since the days immediately following independence. “A terrible time,” he said. “One day I will tell you about it.” He introduced Kwame to his wife, Théa, also a teacher. Originally Senegalese, she had met Badeka in Europe when they both studied there in the middle sixties. Together they took Kwame to the house where they lived on the school grounds. While they drank Orangina beneath a pergola behind the house, Kwame discovered that the Badekas knew little about the cultural center. Apparently Mason had not contacted school officials. Kwame told them about the center and his hope that it could make a contribution to education in Mbandaka. Feeling comfortable with fellow teachers, he explained his interest in African literature, mentioned his dissertation, which he assured them was, like most dissertations, very boring, and insisted that more and more American students were learning about Africa by reading African writers. The Badekas were charmed.

  “We have a great deal in common, Monsieur,” Mme Badeka said. “I teach African literature myself. Students in one class are reading Camara Laye’s L’Enfant noir.”

  “One of my favorite books,” Kwame said. “It gave me a sense of the African soul!” He enthused about some of his favorite passages. “I love the vignette about his schoolboy awakening to girls. To—” He focused his memory. “To Fanta. Wasn’t that her name?”

  Mme Badeka grinned with pleasure. “Yes,” she said. “Fanta.”

  “He just reports the behavior and explains nothing. And how his mother—that strong, lovely woman!—cries when he goes off to France.”

  “My mother cried when I went off,” Mme Badeka remembered. “Of course, she wanted the opportunity for me. But she knew that she would lose me, that I would come back changed.”

  “Actually,” Badeka said, “she married me and did not go back at all.”

  “I’m about to teach that class,” Mme Badeka said. “Would you join us?”