Pandora in the Congo

by Albert Sanchez Pinol

  I remember it as if it were yesterday. After Marcus explained all that to me he covered his face with both hands, one palm over each eye. I wasn’t at all sure if that gesture meant he wanted to forget everything he had just told me, or the opposite, that he wanted to keep the memories from fleeing. The chains he wore on his wrists squeaked like a child’s swing. Later I would feel ashamed of having jumped up, of crossing the entire length of the long table that separated us, and of the lack of restraint with which I demanded of him, ‘But who was the man? Who was Mr Tecton?’

  Marcus slowly moved his hands from his face. He softly said, with the voice of someone who had just been crying, ‘A Tecton.’

  I wanted, demanded more information. Marcus only added, ‘The first Tecton that saw sunlight. And the least dangerous of all those who set foot in the Congo.’

  EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING WILLIAM went mad with rage. He was unhinged: instinctively, irrationally, he accused the Negroes of Mr Tecton’s disappearance. It didn’t even occur to him that, if they could, they would have been the first to run away. When William threatened them with the revolver, Marcus admitted his guilt. He knew very well what that revolver was capable of.

  ‘It was me. Last night he got away from me.’

  ‘You?’ barked William. ‘Why did you let him go?’

  ‘It was very hot under the canvas. I offered him water and he took advantage and hit me.’

  ‘Idiot!’ William slapped Marcus. ‘Where did he run off to?’

  ‘Into the forest,’ lied Marcus, pointing in some direction.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake us up?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Because I was afraid that William would smack me,’ said Marcus ironically.

  William smacked him again. ‘Well, now you’ve got it on both cheeks.’

  After a little while they returned to their daily tasks.

  ‘One minute,’ I said, interrupting Marcus’s story. ‘They didn’t investigate the escape? Not even to go into the forest where you had pointed?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Let me see if I understand. One fine day a man appears in front of the mine, someone that could have fallen from the moon. William and Richard tie him up inside a tent. At night you help him escape. William and Richard realise and all they do is give you a couple of smacks. They go back to work and forget about the whole episode.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ allowed Marcus, frightened by my interrogation.

  What I had to remember was the Craver brothers’ nature. If I didn’t keep in mind the gold, or the gold fever, their actions in the Congo made no sense. Marcus himself was subject to the pace and logic of the two brothers. I have already mentioned that Marcus was very surprised when I questioned him about the morality of his behaviour and when I pointed out to him the absurdity of some of the Craver brothers’ decisions. His small acts of rebellion – climbing a tree when he shouldn’t, setting free an undervalued prisoner – were as unconscious as they were sporadic. Even still, why didn’t they punish him more harshly? Once again we have to judge the facts from the perverse and narrow mentality of the Cravers. We can assume that they didn’t give any more importance to the escape because it saved them a problem. They were in the deepest depths of the Congo, they concluded that Mr Tecton must be a member of some strange tribe and they went back to their business. Neither William nor Richard wanted to know anything about the intruder. They didn’t want to think about him, because thinking about him seriously implied having to face an unsolvable problem. But ignoring reality, on the other hand, isn’t usually a solution at all.

  Three days after Mr Tecton’s visit, the Negroes again came hurrying out of the mine as if shot from a gun. It was midmorning and Pepe hadn’t been able to keep them from rushing up the ladder. The Craver brothers feared a mass, premeditated breakout. Richard shot into the air and the fugitives hit the ground like a human rug. They shouted, ‘Champagne! Champagne! Champagne!’

  William demanded an explanation from Pepe.

  ‘I couldn’t hold them in,’ was Pepe’s excuse. ‘They all threw themselves at the ladder at once. I would have had to shoot to kill.’

  ‘Don’t they realise they can’t go anywhere? We’re a thousand miles from any civilised place. Without provisions they won’t get anywhere, they’ll be swallowed up by the jungle. Tell them that!’

  ‘They don’t want to go anywhere. They only want to get out of the mine. They say that they hear noises in there.’

  ‘Pepe!’ William reproached him. ‘What do they say they hear?’

  ‘Noises.’

  William was so furious that the insults didn’t make it out of his mouth.

  ‘I’ve heard them too,’ Pepe said in his defence.

  ‘Damn you!’ shouted William. ‘What kind of noises?’

  ‘Noises.’

  ‘Stay here!’ ordered William. ‘Since you couldn’t keep them from abandoning their work, at least make sure they don’t go any further.’

  William and Richard entered the anthill armed with rifles and revolvers. Marcus went with them. They didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Just the same old cave, with scraped walls. Marcus hadn’t been in there since the night with Mr Tecton, and in that time the underground bubble had expanded considerably. There were also more tunnels.

  ‘I don’t see anything here,’ said Richard.

  ‘Of course not!’ cried out William. ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘Pepe said something about noises,’ added Marcus.

  ‘Well, I don’t hear anything either,’ said Richard.

  ‘Shut up!’ said William. ‘Both of you shut up!’

  And they all three listened very carefully. Marcus was the first to break the silence. ‘I hear noises.’

  ‘Well, I don’t hear anything,’ insisted Richard.

  ‘Would you mind shutting your bloody traps?’ said William.

  Yes, you could hear something. A whispering. It stopped. And then they heard it again. It was a fragile voice that could only make sad vowel sounds. It seemed like it came from very far away, or maybe very close by; they weren’t at all sure. Within that enclosed atmosphere the sound bounced and was absorbed. It was like hearing a radio hidden under a mattress.

  ‘It must be the Negroes outside, singing,’ said Richard.

  But Marcus knew very well that the voice wasn’t coming from outside the mine. The idea of lighting a match and bringing it close to the holes was his. He looked inside the tunnels, sheltering himself in the weak light. With each new match he leaned over another hole, then another, and another. But the only thing he saw was infinite darkness.

  At the height of his knees there was a perfectly round hole. It couldn’t have been larger than the mouth of a cannon. He knelt down.

  ‘What are you looking for in such a small hole, Marcus?’ Richard laughed. ‘Mice?’

  ‘Now I understand!’ said William. ‘It must be field mice. When they fight they can make more noise than a herd of pigs. We’ll put some mousetraps down there so the monkeys don’t get scared.’

  The Craver brothers laughed. Mice fighting. That’s all. Marcus’s match went out. He lit another without moving from that tunnel, so low that he had to get on his knees. He stuck the arm that held the match and his head through the hole. Half his body was inside the tunnel. He lit another match. The sudden flare of its combustion blinded him for a second. He blinked.

  ‘Oh my God!’ shouted Marcus, jumping back. ‘My God! My God! My God!’

  NINE

  THERE IS AN EPISODE in classical history in which Marc Antony offers Caesar a royal crown. But he refuses it and the people applaud his gesture. Actually, Caesar was dying to get that crown. It was all a strategy to learn the plebeian opinion without risking anything. That day, at Norton’s office, I saw a similar scene. Because Norton was one of those men that, either out of prudence or strategy, only spoke about his convictions when he knew what the convictions of the people he was dealing with were
.

  He liked the next few chapters much better. This time he turned the pages and nodded his head. I could even hear him accompany his reading with some good, good, yes, yes, good, good. He stopped. He had reached the paragraph where the Tecton appeared. He inhaled. He read a bit more and he said, ‘Hopelessly insane, isn’t he? One of those lunatics that need a whole asylum just for them.’

  ‘Crazy?’ I said. And after a long hesitation, ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. Marcus is not a lunatic. I hate to admit it, but I have to say I believe in him. And even though it seems like a lie,’ I confessed, ‘I also believe his story.’

  ‘Bravo!’ said Norton all of a sudden. He banged his fist on the table, spilling water from a glass. ‘I knew it! I knew you’d agree with me!’

  ‘Marcus isn’t lying. I’m not an expert interrogator, but I judge his story from another point of view.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m a professional in stories. And this story’s sutures are perfect. There are many angles, and each one confirms the others. Marcus is too inept to make up such a sophisticated story. Actually, I don’t think there is anyone sick enough to make up such a twisted plot. Don’t you agree?’

  I paused and warned Norton, ‘On the other hand, the Craver brothers are still the same characters. I don’t plan on watering that aspect down.’

  ‘And I’m not asking you to compromise,’ said Norton. ‘I’m just glad that the Cravers’ evil has faded into the background a little. That makes Marcus’s stance more elegant and, as a result, easier to defend.’

  There was something that Norton hadn’t quite understood. He no longer referred to the writing as a sworn declaration in extenso. He was talking as if the work had a life beyond the legal realm. I asked him, ‘Do you think that my work contributes to Marcus’s legal defence? Do you see any hopeful signs in it?’

  ‘It is an extraordinary story, as I told you. Only a pedigreed writer could raise it to the level it deserves.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s hope, then, that you are worthy of it. You do your job and write, Mr Thomson, write. A good book needs to come out of this. But I’ll decide on the legal strategy.’

  I didn’t quite understand, but that wasn’t my problem. I stuck to what was.

  ‘I want you to know that this book is going to take time. The story is getting more and more dense. And since I only have an hour every fifteen days to interview Garvey, the writing could take forever. Before, I had more time with Marcus,’ I explained, ‘but for a while now he’s been getting visits from someone else. He says that it is the only friend he has left in the world. Do you know anything about that?’

  Norton made a noncommittal gesture. That didn’t interest him. He pulled himself back, his hands at the back of his neck. Then he moved five fingers in the air as if he were unscrewing a bulb.

  ‘Can we deny him some friendly company? It wouldn’t be humane. A prisoner’s diet is made up of potatoes and chickpeas, meat once every three weeks. If these visits give him some spiritual nourishment, the book will benefit.’ And then he immediately returned to my reply. ‘Yes, I know, we don’t have time, but legal proceedings are subject to a thousand imponderables. I trust some procedural triviality will give us the time we need so badly.’

  He had said all that while continuing to read the last few pages I had written. He looked at the ceiling.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he thought aloud. ‘At this point in the story she should have already appeared.’

  ‘She? Who are you talking about?’ I asked.

  Norton was about to answer me, but just then we heard a distant noise. It was the hoarse shouting of a crowd, reminiscent of the tumult of a big shipwreck. The noise grew and grew. When we opened the window the noise entered the office like a living creature.

  A human flood filled the entire avenue. People were singing patriotic songs and marching towards Trafalgar Square. Next to us, on the façade, the window of an office adjacent to Norton’s flat opened. An office worker was observing the human mass as we were, leaning on the windowsill. Norton asked him what was going on.

  ‘You really don’t know?’ The man was very close, but he had to shout to make himself heard. ‘The war’s broken out!’

  ‘What war?’ I asked.

  A million lungs lifted in patriotic song. They resonated so loudly that Norton’s neighbour brought a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘I asked,’ I said, also shouting and making a trumpet with my hands, ‘who are we at war with?’

  The man opened his arms. ‘Everybody’s at war with everybody else! Right now all of Europe is at war!’

  Norton went into his office. He made a few solitary dance steps; he was euphoric. I closed the window to keep out the shouting and said, ‘I didn’t know you were so patriotic.’

  ‘You should be happy too.’

  I didn’t agree at all. ‘In my opinion wars aren’t led by patriotism, but rather by the desire for lucre and the rapacious instinct.’

  ‘You are and always will be an antisocial type,’ commiserated Norton, smiling. ‘But I wasn’t talking about high politics, I was thinking of the Garvey case.’

  ‘Now I’m definitely not following you,’ I said with resignation.

  ‘Didn’t you say you didn’t have enough time to write the book? Starting now you’ll have all the time in the world. This war is the procedural triviality that we needed.’

  Norton was right, as always. The Ministry of Defence swelled out of proportion. As a result, the other ministries saw their staff and budget reduced. The fact that the Ministry of Justice was the most affected is a perfect symbol of what a war means. Norton, who was a genius at creating legal obstacles, wrote dozens, hundreds of instances on Marcus’s behalf. I think that in the first year of the war more resources fell on the judge in charge of the Garvey case than bombs on Belgium. The majority were technical objections. Norton didn’t have even the slightest hope of winning any of them, but he knew perfectly well that the lack of staff would slow things down and that the trial date would get pushed back. I said it already: Norton was a genius. Most geniuses are geniuses because of the way they manage their natural talents. He was one because of the way he took advantage of the world’s defects.

  Marcus had fallen flat on his back in surprise. The voice could no longer be heard. Now they only heard the noise of a body being dragged. Then another silence. And later they could hear breathing mixed with groans. William and Richard aimed at the hole with their guns. Marcus, panic-stricken, ran to hide behind Richard’s legs.

  Something white emerged. The first thing they saw was the crown of a skull. William and Richard took aim. Probably the only reason they didn’t shoot was curiosity. Could a body fit in there, through such a narrow opening? It was like seeing a snake come out of an egg. The arms and legs slithered through the hole as if they were made of rubber. And finally the body fell to the ground with a sound like mashed potatoes being dumped on a plate.

  It was a woman. She wore a tunic similar to Mr Tecton’s, but her features were much younger, much softer. She lay on the ground and was as surprised as the three men. Her hair was in woolly plaits and fell from the nape of her neck. ‘What big round eyes,’ thought Marcus. Because they were literally round and, unlike Mr Tecton’s, weren’t sunk into the surrounding flesh. Richard brought an oil lamp close to her and the artificial light made her pupils narrow. The rest of the ocular sphere was a honey-coloured sea, like liquid amber. But the most peculiar thing about her eyes was not their feline shape. The most peculiar thing was that they showed no fear of the rifles.

  Marcus watched as the woman moved her shoulders. Richard asked, ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘She put her bones out of joint to get through the hole,’ said William. ‘Now she’s putting them back in place.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘And you call yourself a soldier? In the Boy Scouts they taught us that if you can squeeze your head through a hole, you can squeeze your whole body.’

  �
��Oh, shut up!’ spat out Richard. ‘You want to give me lessons on human anatomy?’

  ‘Human?’ questioned William, making a slight movement with the tip of the rifle. ‘Take her clothes off, Marcus.’

  ‘Who, me?’ said Marcus.

  ‘Yes, you. The old man didn’t have any hidden weapons. But you never know.’

  ‘I’m unarmed!’ protested Marcus.

  ‘Exactly,’ said William cynically. ‘We’ll cover you.’

  Marcus had a lot of reservations. But it was a direct order from William. And it was just a woman. Why should he be afraid? He asked himself that question and he realised that he wasn’t afraid, he was just ashamed. Finally he decided to go ahead. He did it half stooped and with one hand open in front of him as a sign of peace, as if to say: I don’t want to hurt you. She was seated, and kept her back against the wall and her knees against her chest. Yet she seemed more inquisitive than frightened. It was hard to understand; she was surrounded by such different beings, who were armed, and she wasn’t afraid.

  When Marcus got a little bit closer, always leading with his conciliatory hand, she intercepted it with her own. She wasn’t trying to stop him. She was just greeting him. Their fingers intertwined like two hands praying. It would have been a union of two perfect pieces if not for the fact she had six fingers. But there was more, much more: the woman’s hand was incredibly warm. Fever? No. Marcus knew that the woman wasn’t sick, that was just how she was. Marcus received that warm charge and he understood that she belonged to another world.

  Richard needed Marcus’s attention. He didn’t hear him. He was too wrapped up in her, in that unexpected warmth. William had to shout his name. For Marcus it was as if someone had broken the glass of a shop window with a hammer blow and, finally, he turned his head. William again insisted, ‘Take her clothes off.’