Human Love

by Andrei Makine

  Also by Andreï Makine

  Confessions of a Fallen Standard-Bearer

  The Crime of Olga Arbyelina

  Dreams of My Russian Summers

  The Earth and Sky of Jacques Dorme

  A Hero’s Daughter

  Music of a Life

  Once upon the River Love

  Requiem for a Lost Empire

  The Woman Who Waited

  Copyright © 2004, 2011 by Editions du Seuil

  English-language translation copyright © 2008, 2011 by Geoffrey Strachan

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-422-2

  CONTENTS

  Translator’s Note

  A Masked Child

  Aftermath of a Dream

  The Man Who Loved

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  Andrei’ Makine was born and brought up in Russia, but Human Love, like his other novels, was written in French. The action takes place in various parts of the world, including several African countries, Russia, and elsewhere. The author includes in the French text a number of Russian words, which I have retained in this English translation. These include shapka (a fur hat or cap, often with ear flaps), izba (a traditional wooden house built of logs), taiga (the virgin pine forest that spreads across Siberia south of the tundra), kolkhoznik (a member of a collective farm in the USSR), and apparatchik (a member of the party administration, or apparat). Other Russian references include Nevsky Prospekt, the famous street in Saint Petersburg (Leningrad under the Soviet Union), and the battle of Borodino, a pyrrhic victory for Napoleon’s forces as they advanced on Moscow in 1812.

  References to life in Angola under Portuguese colonial rule include contratados (men forced into “contracted” labor) and assimilados (native Angolans granted a degree of civic status). In postindependence Angola the MPLA (Movi-mento Popular de Libertaçao de Angola, or Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola) formed the first government and was opposed by UNITA (Uniäo Nacional para a Independência Total de Angola, or National Union for the Liberation of Angola) for many years. Patrice Lumumba was one of the founders of the Mouvement National Congolais under Belgian rule. He became the prime minister of the newly independent republic of Congo in 1960, opposed the secession of Katanga, and was arrested by his own army and murdered. A number of African cities and towns are named in the text, including Luanda, Dondo, Cabinda, Lucapa, and Mavinga, Angola; Kinshasa, Zaire; Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo; Lusaka, Zambia; Maputo, Mozambique; Mogadishu, Somalia; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; and Conakry, Guinea.

  French political references include the nickname fasionaria for a militant female revolutionary, and the OAS (Organisation Armée Secrète), the French terrorist organization that opposed Algerian independence.

  G. S.

  A Masked Child

  1

  WITHOUT THE LOVE HE FELT FOR THAT WOMAN, life would have been no more than a night without end in the forests of Lunda Norte on the frontier between Angola and Zaire.

  I spent two days in captivity there with a colleague, a Soviet military instructor, and with what we took to be a corpse stretched out on the floor of our prison of dried clay, an African, dressed not in fatigues, like us, but in a dark suit and a white shirt stained brown with blood.

  When under threat, our existence is laid bare and we are shocked by the stark simplicity of what drives it. During the hours of my imprisonment I discovered these crude mechanisms: fear erases our purported psychological complexity, then thirst and hunger drive out fear, and what remains is the staggering banality of death; the mind recoils, but this reaction soon becomes laughable in the face of the discomfort caused by small bodily needs (such as that, for both of us, of urinating in the presence of a corpse), and ultimately what arrives is disgust with oneself, with this little bubble of being that once considered itself precious in its uniqueness but will burst, along with all the other bubbles.

  At nightfall the armed men who had arrested us seized four Zairean peasants, three men and a woman, who were crossing the frontier, bringing food to the “diggers,” as they call the diamond hunters locally. The men were stripped and slaughtered, the woman submitted to their violations with a placidity that lent an almost natural air to the brutality of these couplings. She remained totally silent, not a curse, not a groan. I remember one of the soldiers’ faces: the postcoital nausea, the drowsy aggressiveness of his gaze as he incuriously observed the convulsions of the one who just had taken his place between the Zairean woman’s broad thighs.

  This blasé voyeur now had the urge to manhandle us; it was predictable, carnal fulfilment breeds dissatisfaction. He aimed several kicks at the long corpse of the African. Turning my face away to avoid the flailing boots, I thought I could hear footsteps outside the door, the click of a weapon. The idea of having to die at any minute wrenched a picture out of the darkness as clear as any black-and-white photograph: the dirty rope hobbling my ankles, the grease stains on the soldier’s pants, the unglazed window opening, very low down in the wall, through which I had just been observing the rapists. A woman’s voice, strangely joyful, rang out, cut short by a brief burst from a submachine gun. The soldier rushed outside, leaving each of us to his own remission: the Africans immobility, the instructors cough after taking a dose of spirit from a flask concealed in his combat kit, my own thoughts thrown into confusion between this sudden intimacy with death and the pleasure the men had taken in the Zairean woman’s plump body.

  I was young, and this abrupt reduction of life to no more than pleasure and death did me good. It is easier to accept your end when you know you are a piece of flesh fighting to attain physical bliss (like the soldiers outside the window), and dying if it loses. “Those black UNITA bastards!” the instructor swore. He took another swig and almost immediately began snoring. I admired this man. He knew the raw truth of life. I was in the process of being initiated into his basic wisdom: we’re not unique, but all alike and interchangeable, pieces of meat, seeking pleasure, suffering, and battling against each other to possess women, money, and power, all of which are more or less the same thing, and one day losers and winners will be joined together in the perfect equality of putrefaction.

  It was not cynicism; I lived these stark truths without really thinking, inhaled them along with the clammy sultriness that oozed over my skin, with the smell of decomposing bodies. The substance of the world was this organic mass, of which we were all a part —- myself, the sleeping instructor, the dead African, the soldiers taking it in turns to ejaculate into the woman’s tormented vagina, the three peasants with their shattered skulls … I felt profoundly at one with this mass of humanity.

  “That great fat slob, Savlmbi. One day hell get his face smashed in … ideological training … for the cadres …
” The instructor was muttering in his sleep, swatting his face repeatedly to drive away the mosquitoes. I began to doze as well, numb with tiredness, content to dissolve into a stew of anonymous bodies.

  The cry that went up outside had nothing impersonal about it. It was appallingly unique in its distress. Someone was being killed. Someone very specific was dying. A woman, that woman, the Zairean woman. I leaped up on my hobbled feet, clung to the narrow rectangle of the window. It was not a particularly cruel sight but eloquent of palpable, precise insanity. A soldier, the big sergeant who had interrogated us the day before, was squatting in front of the Zairean woman, now held on her knees in front of him by two soldiers. He was thrusting his fingers into the woman’s mouth, for all the world as if he were a dentist inspecting this gaping oral cavity. An electric flashlight in the hand of one of the soldiers lit up the sergeant’s face. A scar, a broad asterisk, smoothed by time, gleamed on his cheekbone.

  To avoid tipping over into madness, I tried to invent some explanation, an African rite, an exorcism … one of those mythical superstitions the experts delight in, which might have made sense of this nocturnal dumb show. But only one thing seemed clear: the woman had just died, and I was witnessing a postmortem ceremony. A night sticky with humidity and decaying vegetation, the stinging web of insects, these men clasping her body, their fingers thrusting into her mouth, scraping at her throat…

  The real terror of dying only struck at that moment, a knotty spasm like the awakening of an unknown being that had grown stealthily inside me and was now tearing at my entrails, my brain. The birth of my own cadaver, stuck fast to me, like a double.

  After that nocturnal reprieve I was left with the memory of a paralyzing panic, next a sleepwalkers exhaustion, and then a new alarm provoked by the eruption of voices outside the door, a gunshot in the forest. I crawled along looking for a breach in the rough cast of the wall, woke the instructor, suggested that we should escape (he muttered, “This whole damned jungle here s the prison,” before going back to sleep). Thanks to the Zairean woman’s death, I was picturing the first moments that would follow my own: the soldiers would drag my lifeless body over and throw it down beside that of the African. The instructor might well be shot as he slept, but in any case he was one of that Soviet generation who died in the name of the mother country, of the freedom of fraternal peoples, of proletarian internationalism. On the brink of this last step into the void, I felt I was alone. I should have to escape alone.

  This survival reflex having banished all shame, I approached the corpse. I wanted to search it, extract anything that might be of use to me: money and his papers, if he had contrived to hide them from the soldiers, any object of value with which to bribe a guard, the pen I could already feel in his pocket. A fine fountain pen, a relic of the civilized world. Its smooth, reassuring weight had the effect on me of an amulet…

  “Theres no ink left in it.” The whisper caused the darkness around me to congeal into the density of smoked glass. A few moments later I found I was still holding out the pen, trying to hand it back, like a clumsy and shamefaced thief. “It’s this furnace … the inks all dried up … But if you could memorize an address …”

  I was not surprised to hear him speaking in Russian. At that time, during the 1970s, thousands of Africans spoke it. But when I had recovered my wits, what struck me was the address spelled out by the black man. It was a place close to the Siberian village where I was born, a terrain that had always seemed to me to be the most obscure on earth. The man named it without hesitation, and it was only the fact that his lips were parched with thirst that added a burning, raw breathiness to the sound of the syllables. Definitive, like a last wish.

  There was no longer any logic to the minutes that went racing by. Everything happened at once. His fevered but amazingly calm eyes shone by the glow of the lighter whose flame I shielded with my hand. I saw his wrists swollen beneath the twists of thick wire that I began to break through, strand by strand. I heard him gasp as the first trickle of water slipped down his throat. We had barely a pint of water left and. thirsty as he was, I thought he was going to swallow it all. He restrained himself (gritting his teeth) and spoke very softly banishing my fear in a few words. In the morning he said, the Cubans would attack and might well set us free. The chances were not great, but one could always hope. In that case the two of us, the instructor and I, could hope to be exchanged for UNITA prisoners … His tone was expressionless, detached, not seeking to influence me. Quite simply, as I would later understand, it offered me the chance to hold on without fear and trembling. Not to freeze at every cry. His words were there to teach me how to die when it was time to die. For a moment I believed I might be able to join him in this haughty indifference in the face of death. And then I managed to snap the last piece of wire on his left wrist, and with his hands free, he took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt. Before the lighter burned my fingers, I had time to see the flesh carved raw, a suppurating crust covered in insects. Outside the door a howl from the Zairean woman rang out once more (later on the African would explain to me what the soldiers were looking for in this woman’s tormented body).

  Why are they taking so long to kill her? The thought that formed in me came unbidden. They should have killed the lot of us. And, most of all, killed the parasites devouring this black man! In the darkness I could hear a piece of cloth being rubbed and smell the acrid tang of spirit: the African was cleansing his wound, the instructor had just passed him the flask. Huddled up against the wall, I felt as if I myself were entirely covered in wounds crawling with death.

  And it was at that moment, heard over the sound of the instructors breathing (he had dozed off once again), that the African’s voice asserted itself, yet more remote than before, not concerned to persuade. He was no longer talking about the likelihood of our being rescued, nor about the Cuban forces advancing from the direction of Lucapa. What he was saying sounded like the murmuring that could be heard from very old men seated beside their izbas in my childhood. They would stare into the distance and speak of beings who no longer existed except in their white heads, heavy with years of war and the camps. Elias (I learned his name) was five or six years older than myself, but his voice had a resonance beyond his own life.

  He spoke of a train traveling through an endless forest in winter. The journey lasted several days and little by little had blended into the life stories of the passengers, who eventually got to know one another like close kin. They shared food, recounted their past lives, stepped out into snow-covered railroad stations and returned carrying great black loaves under their arms. Sometimes the train would come to a halt in the heart of the taiga; Elias would open the door, leap out amid the snowdrifts, and hand down the woman who had brought him on this trip to the end of the world. They could hear the crunch of footsteps, the hiss of the locomotive in the distance … Then silence descended, a constellation glittered above the snow-laden fir trees, the exhalation of the sleeping forest filtered inside their clothes; the woman’s hand in his hand became the only source of life in the icy darkness of the universe …

  He could have promised me a swift rescue by a Cuban commando squad the next morning; or a stoical, heroic end and survival in the memory of others. Or alternatively a painless death and the future bliss of eternal life. But none of this would have liberated me from fear as completely as did his slow, calm narrative.

  The train moved off, he related, and there was a moment of childish anxiety, the fear of not having time to climb on board behind the woman he loved.

  Despite the darkness, his tone of voice betrayed a smile, and incredulously, I sensed a smile on my own lips, too.

  In my memory the address he had asked me to keep in mind would become the one sure refuge, a place to return to after losing everything, and where you know you will be accepted just as you are.

  THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND ME, and the full tragicomedy of the situation is revealed: wanting to avoid the hotel elevator and the jovial crowd
of the ones I refer to as “the fat-cat Africans of the international conference circuit,” I climbed all nine floors of the back stairs on foot. And mistook the exit. Two rooms face onto the roof terrace, mine and the one whose interior I can now see through the large window. I cannot retrace my steps; the emergency exit is blocked, no doubt in the interests of people taking refuge on the rooftops from a fire — so that firemen can pick them up there. And in the room that I can see from the terrace, a man and a woman are already embarking on what shows every sign of leading to a sexual encounter. To get back to my own room, I should have to walk past their open French window and step over several plants in plastic holders … Impossible. I could have done it at the moment when the door slammed: stammered apologies, a rapid dive toward my own room … Now several seconds have elapsed; from being an idiot gone astray on the rooftops, I have turned into a Peeping Tom. The man s fingers are busy between the woman’s shoulder blades, fiddling with the fastenings of her bra. We know how to do so few original things with our own bodies. His hands appear very black on the woman’s milky skin.

  I know them: she is one of the organizers of the “African Life Stories in Literature” symposium to which I have been invited; he is an artist from Kinshasa. The breasts he has finally liberated look like spheres of mozzarella. I crouch behind a planter, waiting for them to switch off the light and for pleasure to make them drowsy. My own terrace is only four or five steps away. But their lights are still on, and their bed faces the French windows: if I reached out with my arm I could almost touch the body of the man lying there, whose genitals the woman has begun to kiss.