Ndumbe stares at me. Before answering, he wants to know if I woke up on the right side of the bed. Of course, he’s going to lie, but he doesn’t want to tell the wrong lie. That’s his forte. He has been getting to work later and later, almost always at the end of the morning. Soon he’ll start missing entire days. He starts to explain, and I just motion him to be quiet. As he returns to his office, I reproach myself for letting my bad mood get the better of me. When it comes to the small everyday things, my state of mind can shift rather quickly. I am not so sensitive when I interrogate the detainees. That goes without saying. But in normal life, I hate to humiliate people. What I just did with Ndumbe is not good. I must say, too, that Inspector Ndumbe, the others, and I make a real team. In our line of work, we don’t much like the bosses who play boss. We let them carry on and they have little to show for it.
I call him back in. “Come in, Ndumbe, sit down,” I say.
My voice has clearly softened, though it does not seem to have the effect I’d intended. Ndumbe sits down on the chair facing me, sullen, his expression somber. “There’s a new development,” he says.
Ndumbe is what we call an elite element. I had put him on the Nikiema case from the beginning. “Listen, Ndumbe, I want to tell you one thing first: you are the best guy here, but you’re starting to feed me bullshit.”
“I’m tired, man.”
I stare at him silently for a while, to make him believe I am just as shocked as I am enraged and infuriated that things could get ugly, and that even if I had superhuman abilities, I would not be able to control myself. Then, apparently overcome with rage, I throw this at him: “You mean you’re poorly paid? You want to be decorated and get promoted, is that it? Is that it, Ndumbe?”
He just looks back at me. I sense he is a little confused. He stammers, “It’s so tough in this country.”
Ndumbe’s problem is simple: he’s recently fallen for a young lady from high society and he’s got to provide for her. He spends lavish weekends on the coast and he needs more and more cash. But I’m supposed to ignore all that. So I spin it differently: “I know, my man, you’re worried about your wife and kids. That’s fine, Ndumbe. But you think I’m well paid? And all the other guys here? We don’t believe in money here. We are in the service of the state. Imagine if we arrest former president Nikiema. This guy’s going to shudder at the sight of you, and you’re going to yell at him. Is that nothing to you? And that’s not even the biggest thing. More than anything you’re going to keep this country from engaging in another civil war. Do you think there is enough money in the state’s coffers to pay for that?”
Glumly, he says, “OK, boss, I got it.”
“Good. So, speaking of the N’Zo Nikiema case, what’s new?”
“We’ve located him.”
For a moment, things are muddled in my mind. Does Ndumbe know that I went to the small house that he himself had pointed out and that I have already seen Nikiema’s corpse? Very naturally, I say, “Located? So, where?”
“In Ewum. A small village on the border.”
I am so utterly relieved that I start making fun of him. “Are you kidding me, Ndumbe? The border? Which border?”
“He is among the refugees coming from Tendi,” Ndumbe continues. “He was disguised as a nurse, but one of my men recognized him.”
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
He replies dryly, in the tone of someone who is taking his revenge: “I come in and you reprimand me, boss. You didn’t let me get a word in.”
“OK. Tell me, man. I want all the details.”
I suddenly sense him swelling with self-importance.
There’s a reason behind it. Since Nikiema fled, the state—that’s to say Pierre Castaneda—has no clue anymore where its head is.
Before going any further, I would like to give some advice to the reader: he will encounter from time to time in this narrative the name of the new president, Mwanke. He should pay no attention to it. We also know almost nothing about him. He was Pierre Castaneda’s private secretary during the colonial period, and now for four months he hasn’t stopped trying on the head of state’s new clothes. He learns fast, though. His words are less bungled, his bovine gaze diminished, and as for the way he carries himself—for a true charismatic leader must display his arrogance—there too he has made noticeable progress. If we stick to the facts that I am reporting here, Mwanke is a secondary character with a grand-sounding title. The military gives him honors, delirious crowds cheer for him, and courtiers pander to him. In short, he is the president. I will therefore call him President Mwanke. That’s the way it’s got to be. Aside from that, he’s a loser and he can go to hell or drop dead with his mouth gaping open. That wouldn’t change anything in our history.
Coming back to Ndumbe’s alleged discovery, it’s important for one simple reason: the fugitive held this country for nearly thirty years. He is thus capable of blackmailing a lot of people. My guys and I have been known to take out judges and journalists. Nikiema risks taking the easy way out with those he trusts. That’s how it is for any ordinary guy: the man has nothing more to lose and he could really sully many reputations if he publishes photos or documents. Names can be leaked to the press. But, believe it or not, there’s no chance it’s really going to get the new authority’s attention. Everyone knows how we’ve managed to maintain certain agitators.
On the other hand, the images of little Kaveena’s murder could cause some serious political damage. People are apt to be cynical and won’t be able to handle watching the reel of this ritual killing. Kaveena, the little six-year-old girl. I saw the video back then. The man who holds the real power today, Secretary of State Pierre Castaneda, appears in every scene. In one shot, he has a bloodstain—little Kaveena’s blood—on his lips and he wipes it off with his fingertips as he laughs like the devil. Don’t ask me what made Castaneda behave like that that day. I have no idea. I’ll merely venture a simple explanation that’s only worth—well—what it’s worth! I’ve met a lot of people like Pierre Castaneda throughout my life. The more these men want to be powerful, the more they secretly want to destroy themselves. It’s an infernal coupling: the desire for power and self-destruction. When you’re around guys like Castaneda or N’Zo Nikiema for a while, you manage to not even be able to hate them anymore. Even when they are cruel and ready to bury anyone alive who happens to pass through their midst, there is always a moment, a brief moment of truth when they pity you. You see very clearly that they are just like little lost children, sucked into the power vacuum just as others are fascinated by death.
I think of all this while Ndumbe is giving me his report. I listen to him distractedly. I notice certain tics he has—in particular a light twitching of the eyebrows—playing off my inexpressiveness. He has seen me work day and night on this investigation. And now that we’ve got the old man, he can sense how utterly unexcited I am.
As Ndumbe speaks, I see N’Zo Nikiema’s corpse again in the small house in Jinkoré. Ndumbe’s self-assurance stupefies me. How can it be that he doesn’t have the slightest doubt? All of a sudden, a strange feeling comes over me. I ask myself, could it be that Ndumbe has been assigned to keep me under surveillance?
Anyway, I was wrong to demand all the details from him. He tries his best not to leave any out. Doing so nonetheless proves distressing to him, and he gets so muddled up that he has to stop himself twice and beg—agitatedly—for my permission to continue his narrative.
For no apparent reason, he insists on talking to me about his informant. “A very clever fellow,” he insists. “I’ve never had one like that.”
“Oh really?” I say, amused.
I notice Ndumbe’s body suddenly stiffen; my ironic tone has given him a jolt. I didn’t mean any harm, though. Could it be that he is feeling guilty about something?
I ask him nicely, “And where did you dig up your ultra-efficient informer?”
“On the street,” he says, his face suddenly lighting up with
a wide smile. “He’s a huckster . . .”
“Oh?”
“Yes, one day, around midday, he was peddling bananas at the intersection between the Petit Lycée and the port, and he asked me if I wanted some. I didn’t, so he leaned over my door and said to me, ‘Mistah, these are bananas from France!’ And then I burst out laughing. So did he. And there you have it; from that day on we were friends, and now . . .”
I think to myself, “Bananas from France. . . . What the fuck. What-the-fuck . . .” I’m having difficulty recognizing Ndumbe. What if he is going mad? The war had left us with our share of cripples and mentally ill. You see them wandering about completely naked through the streets of Maren, filthy and covered with fleas. But this one’s the result of another devastating force, of greater consequence and nearly invisible to the naked eye. Ndumbe, although used to making himself comfortable in my office, now barely lets half of his ass rest on the chair. He stammers a little and avoids my gaze, he clenches his jaw every now and again, and I can see by the way he moves his shoulders that he is wringing his hands nervously.
All of a sudden, I get up, determined to risk all I’ve got. Nobody knows the workings of this house better than I. Standing near Ndumbe, hands in my pockets, I say to him, “Everything you’re telling me is false, isn’t it?”
Instead of responding, he throws his head back and stares up at the ceiling, immobile. His eyes seem lost deep inside of him and I can sense how miserable he is. But I need to know. “We don’t have much time. You have to tell me the truth.”
“No one knows where N’Zo Nikiema is.”
“And this business about Ewum?”
“Not true, boss. You’ve got to leave.”
I watch him silently for a moment, then say to him, “You were supposed to eliminate me. You didn’t. You know the price! Get yourself out of here.”
“Oh, I . . .” he says casually.
“You’re afraid of losing that beautiful chick, huh? The love of your life. . . . Yeah, right! I know her well. She works it at our place, too, the slut. She’s gonna waste you! And believe me, her finger won’t even tremble when she pulls the trigger! What’s wrong with you, Ndumbe?”
That really wakes him up. He shakes his head slowly, like someone who has just come to understand—at last—a whole slew of things.
“You saved my life, man,” I remind him. “Here’s a little dough. Split tonight, take your family. In the meantime, don’t panic. We stay at the office and we work. It’s just business as usual.”
Ndumbe, almost affectionately, blurts out, “We’re first-rate at that: business as usual.”
“But some do waver on occasion. . . . Right?”
He smiles. I pat his left shoulder, and he does the same to my right shoulder. That means we won’t see each other again.
A ceremony of brief and ambiguous goodbyes—as is required in our line of work.
In the middle of the night, I slip past the tall grass around the house. I hear some noises and assume they are snakes sneaking through the red and black rocks since all the land around Jinkoré is infested with them. I see some shadows under the faint light of the moon. Some stray dogs. They are used to rotting corpses because of the war. They must have been prowling for hours around this block of concrete. One of them growls at me with obvious hostility.
I look around me one last time before turning the key in the lock. There is not a soul within a mile or two of the house. The door creaks a little as I open it. And as soon as it’s ajar, a fetid odor hits my nose. During the two days of my absence, N’Zo Nikiema’s body has begun to decompose. I hesitate to go in. I am afraid it will make me sick. I feel my tongue stuck to my mouth and a little taste of quinine at my throat. The small house is quiet and plunged into total darkness. It would be dangerous to switch on my flashlight. I grope around in the darkness, trusting my vague memory of the previous time I was here. I know that N’Zo Nikiema’s corpse is on the couch to the right. I try to avoid it and after about twenty steps find myself in the center of the room. I make it there somehow. I manage to hold my breath for a few seconds to find the door to the little studio, where the stench is slightly less virulent. I pull the door shut and stretch out on an old mat.
The solitude does not scare me. I feel that it’s safer here than anywhere else in the city. In a way, it’s like a new life awaits me.
On waking up the next morning, I am surprised to realize that I had a pretty peaceful sleep. I had brought a small radio and some food. It didn’t take long to discover that N’Zo Nikiema had thought of everything. I want to press the button on the radio. For years, this has been the first thing I’ve done when I wake up. I don’t listen to the radio to find out what’s happened. I listen to it to find out how the happenings have been distorted. But this morning, I want to remain outside of the world and indulge my sense of solitude, the way you’d scratch an old itch. The idea that I’m just floating in empty space is pleasant. I am nobody and am aware of nothing. I’m lying here in the studio of an unknown artist. I only know that her name is Mumbi Awele. Maybe she will come here one of these days? That would surprise me. I am intrigued by her relationship with Nikiema. I may need to eliminate her. If I realize that she is a danger to me, I will have no choice.
Even though you breathe a little better in the studio, the smell of the paint is still mixed in with that of the cadaver. I refuse to look at my watch but it must be almost noon. In spite of this, the daylight hardly enters the room. I suppose I am a little afraid to get up and confront some hideous spectacle. I imagine pink repulsive maggots squirming all around N’Zo Nikiema. They must be all over his body. In his ears and along his eyelids. In his mouth. Everywhere.
I straighten up a little. Unable to get off my mat quickly, I sit still for a few minutes, my head on my knees and my arms around my legs.
Ultimately, I must say it is not as hard as I thought it would be. I mean, I thought life in this small place with a decaying body would be unbearable. And the first five days were not easy. Actually, they were awful. Within the house itself, I could not venture too far from the studio. I felt that I was trapped in the false bottom of a huge box. I thought of leaving on several occasions. But I had to find a way to make it to the border to take refuge with our neighbors to the south. It was doable. But I had to wait until things calmed down.
First I got some bad news: Ndumbe’s sudden death. He was shot down by unknown aggressors while exiting a swanky nightclub. The police are calling it a crime of passion. Absolute lies. I can guess what happened. Ndumbe had gotten careless about this woman. I had warned him. May he rest in peace.
The news of my disappearance has increased tension in the country. Even Pierre Castaneda is flipping out. All day long the radio plays military music and songs of resistance against colonial intrusion. People are talking about an attack by mercenaries who had been driven back from I don’t know which front. The opposition has just issued a call for unity around President Mwanke. This isn’t surprising. Almost all his top men are eating out of Castaneda’s hand. His Lil Boys—that’s how Castaneda refers to his child soldiers, who were the reason he won the war—have been marching for two days to their base to shout out their bloody oaths. In short, they’re mobilizing for battle. Probably a little too much excitement for one person. I could have felt flattered but there is nothing amusing about this. Fortunately, some young radio presenters come on and deflate the tension a little bit with their biting humor. And I am one of their favorite targets. They were asked to broadcast a description of me on the airwaves but they are using this opportunity to drive me up the wall. I didn’t know I had protruding ears and a triangular face. “Small. Clear skin. Forget about his famous striped hat; he’s probably thrown that in the trash. But if you see a kind of dwarf with shifty eyes and an incredible skull marked by long pink and black features, don’t be stupid, guys. Don’t get all like, ‘Is it you sir, Colonel Asante Kroma, I wanna surrender you to the police to win the million at stake.’ For God’s sak
e, don’t be stupid, just bring him down then and there without warning and get rich! Millionaire rich, I’m tellin’ you!” They also say that there are photos of me and of N’Zo Nikiema posted at every street corner and in all public spaces.
This is the most vulgar piece of news. Pierre Castaneda has always taken good care of his image. I’ve known him a long time. Even his small everyday gestures show that he comes from another world, and in that world of conquerors, he deserves fear and respect. How can I explain this impression he gives of always putting on a show? To be at the same time himself and someone else, amongst us and elsewhere? A few years ago I saw a documentary about the small town of Clermont-Ferrand under German occupation. Well, they had these Nazi officers who showed exquisite courtesy, they gave up their places for women and elders in the trams, and unlike the French, who were under their boot, they were eager to present themselves as punctual to work, not too talkative, methodical and efficient. I think that Castaneda has, like the colonial administrators before him, the typical mentality of an occupier, conscious of showing a superiority of race and nation to the people he subjugates.
I must also say that this man, more than anyone else, really needs a moral alibi.
One can judge by the facts here.
At once the owner of a mining company—Cogemin—and a minister without portfolio, Pierre Castaneda covertly runs this supposedly independent country. It is really quite embarrassing. In the embassies of Western countries and abroad, they think that he’s preventing an outbreak of blind and routine tribal cruelty in the land of the Negroes. But actually, he is the lesser of two evils. These people would be shocked to discover the true Pierre Castaneda, the one I’ve worked for over the years. . . . Or do they just pretend not to know?
Moreover, this image of a man with goodwill, firm but fair and rational, impresses the lower classes. I’ve often received reports of what is said about Castaneda in the poor neighborhoods of Maren and in the hinterlands: “Fine, he’s a white guy, a foreigner, but with him at least there’s no corruption. The Whites don’t know about that and everybody follows the rules, they only know their work, no one dares to arrive at whatever hour they please with stories of my wife’s given birth, my grandfather died last night and I gotta go to the village chief. No, it’s not like that at all. I believe that with this white guy we can really achieve sustainable development that will last. We just have to wait a little, that’s all.”
Kaveena Page 2
