The Mission Song

by John le Carré

  I scanned the table. How do you put out name cards for a no-name conference? The Mwangaza was MZEE and had been placed at the centre on the inland side, the seat of honour. Flanking him were his faithful acolyte M. LE SECRETAIRE, and his less faithful M. LE CONSEILLER, alias Tabby, whom Maxie wouldn't trust to tell him the time of day. Across the table from them, their backs to the French windows, sat the Gang of Three, identified by MONSIEUR and initials only: D for DIEUDONNE, F for FRANCO an d H for HONORE AMOUR-JOYEUSE, the Mr Big of Bukavu, better known as Haj. Franco, as eldest, had centre position opposite the Mwangaza.

  With the sides of the oval table thus occupied, it was left to the home team to divide itself between the two ends: at one, MONSIEUR LE COLONEL, whom I assumed to be Maxie, with MONSIEUR PHILIPPE next to him, and at the other Jasper and myself. And I could not help noticing that, whereas Jasper was awarded full honours as MONSIEUR L'AVOCAT, I was dismissed as INTERPRETE.

  And in front of Philip's chair, a brass bell. It rings in my memory now. It had a black wooden handle and was a replica in miniature of the bell that had tyrannised the daily life out of us inmates of the Sanctuary. It had dragged us from our beds, told us when to pray, eat, go to the toilet, the gym, the classroom and the football field, pray again and go back to bed and wrestle with our demons. And as Anton was at pains to explain, it would shortly be sending me scurrying up and down to the boiler room like a human yo-yo:

  “He'll ring it when he's calling a recess, and he'll ring it again when he wants you back at table because he's lonely. But some of us won't be recessing, will we, governor?” he added with a wink. “We'll be down the apples-and-pears in the we-know-where having a quiet listen on the Spider's web.”

  I winked back, grateful for his comradeship. A jeep was pulling up in the courtyard. Quick as an elf he darted through the French windows and was gone, I guessed to take command of his surveillance team. A second plane buzzed overhead and again I missed it. More minutes passed during which my gaze, seemingly of its own volition, abandoned the gaming room and sought respite in the stately grounds beyond the French windows. Which was how I came to observe an immaculate-white gentleman in a Panama hat, fawn trousers, pink shirt, red tie and a tailored navy-blue blazer of the type known to Guards officers as a boating jacket, picking his way along the skyline of the grassy mound before coming to rest at the gazebo, where he posed himself between two pillars in the manner of a British Egyptologist of bygone times, smiling back in the direction from which he had just arrived. And I will say here and now, with that first glimpse of the man, I was conscious of a new presence in my life, which was why I never doubted that I was taking my first covert reading of our freelance Africa consultant and — Maxie's words again — boss of the op, Philip or Philippe, fluent in French, Lingala, but not Swahili, architect of our conference, befriender of the Mwangaza and our delegates.

  Next, a slender, dignified black African man appeared on the skyline. He was bearded and clad in a sober Western suit, and so contemplative in his gait that he put me in mind of Brother Michael processing across the Sanctuary quad in Lent. It required accordingly no great insight on my part to appoint him our Pentecostal pasturalist, the warlord Dieudonne, empowered delegate of the despised Banyamulenge, so beloved of my dear late father.

  He was followed by a second African who could have been designed as his deliberate opposite: a hairless giant in a glittery brown suit of which the jacket was scarcely able to encompass him as he limped along, dragging his left leg after him in ferocious heaves of his torso. Who else could this be then but Franco, our lame warhorse, former Mobutu thug and currently colonel-or-above of the Mai Mai, avowed adversary and occasional ally of the man who had just preceded him?

  And finally, as a kind of lackadaisical concession to the rest of them, enter our third delegate, Haj, the egregious Sorbonne-educated, uncrowned merchant prince of Bukavu: but with such disdain, such foppery, and such determined distance from his fellows, that I was tempted to wonder whether he was having second thoughts about standing in for his father. He was neither skeletal like Dieudonne nor shiny-bald like Franco. He was an urban dandy. His head, close-shaven at the sides, had wavy lines engraved in the stubble. A lacquered forelock protruded from his brow. As to his clothes: well, Hannah's highmindedness might have dulled my appetite for such vanities but, given the tat Mr Anderson had inflicted on me, his choice of suiting brought it rushing to the surface. What I was looking at here was the absolute latest thing in the Zegna summer collection: a three-piece, mushroom-coloured mohair for the man who has everything or wants it, set off by a pair of pointed slime-green Italian crocodile shoes which I would price, if real, at a good two hundred pounds a foot.

  And I know now, if I didn't fully know it at the time, that what I was witnessing on the grassy mound was the closing moments of a guided tour in which Philip was showing off to his wards the facilities of the house, including the bugged suite where they could let their hair down between sessions, and the bugged grounds where they were free to enjoy that extra bit of privacy so essential to your full and frank exchange of views.

  At Philip's behest the three delegates peer obediently out to sea, then at the cemetery. And as Haj turns with them, his Zegna suit jacket swings open to reveal a mustard silk lining and a flash of steel caught by the sunlight. What can it be? I wonder. A knife blade? A cellphone, and if so, should I warn Maxie? — unless, of course, I could borrow it and, in a surreptitious moment, call Hannah. And somebody, I suspect Philip again, must have made a joke at this point, perhaps a bawdy one, because they all four break out in laughter that rolls down the lawn and through the French windows of the gaming room, which are wide open on account of the heat. But this does not impress me as much as it should, life having taught me from an early age that Congolese people, who are sticklers for courtesy, don't always laugh at things for the right reasons, especially if they're Mai Mai or equivalent.

  When the party has recovered from its mirth, it proceeds to the top of the ornamental stone staircase where, under Philip's lavish coaxing, Franco the lame giant slings an arm around the neck of the frail Dieudonne and, avowed adversaries though they may be, adopts him as his walking stick, but with such amiable spontaneity that my heart fills with optimism for the successful outcome of our venture. And it is in this manner that they commence their laborious descent, Philip tripping ahead of the bonded couple, and Haj trailing after them. And I remember how the northern sky above them was ice-blue, and how the enlaced Mai Mai warlord and his skinny prop were chaperoned down the hill by a cloud of small birds who high-jumped as they flew along. And how as Haj entered shadow, the mystery of his inside jacket pocket was resolved. He was the proud owner of a fleet of Parker pens.

  What happened next was one of those cock-ups without which no self-respecting conference is complete. There was to be this greeting line. Anton had explained it to us in advance. Philip would march in with his Gang of Three from the garden side, Maxie would sweep in simultaneously from the house side with the Mwangaza's entourage, thus effecting the great historic coming-together of the parties to our conference. The rest of us would line up and either have our hands shaken or not, depending on the whim of our guests at the time.

  Whereas what we got was a damp squib. Maybe Maxie and his party were that bit slow completing their own tour of the premises, or Philip and the delegates that bit premature. Maybe old Franco, with Dieudonne's bony frame to help him, was faster-footed than they'd given him credit for. The effect was the same: Philip and party swept in, bringing with them the sweet smells of my African childhood, but the only people on hand to greet them were one top interpreter with his minority languages missing, one French provincial notary, and big Benny with his ponytail — except that as soon as Benny spotted what was happening, he was out of the door to find Anton double quick.

  At any other conference, I would have taken matters over at this point, because top interpreters must always be prepared to act as diplomats when called upon and I
have done so on many an occasion. But this was Philip's op. And Philip's eyes, which were highly compelling inside the creaseless cushions of his fleshy countenance, summed up the situation in a trice. His two forefingers lifted in simultaneous delight, he emitted a cry of ah, parfait, vous voila! and whisked off his Panama hat to me, thereby revealing a head of vigorous white hair, waved and flicked into little horns above each ear.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he declared in finest Parisian French. “I am Philippe, agricultural consultant and indomitable friend of the Congo. And you are, sir?” The perfectly groomed white head tilted towards me as if it had only the one good ear.

  “My name is Sinclair, sir,” I responded with equal alacrity, also in French. “My languages are French, English and Swahili.” Philip's darting eyes inclined towards Jasper, and I was quick to take the hint. “And allow me to present Monsieur Jasper Albin, our specialist lawyer from Besançon,” I went on. And for additional effect: “And may I, on behalf of all of us here, extend our very warmest greetings to our distinguished African delegates?”

  My spontaneous eloquence had consequences I had not foreseen, and neither, I suspect, had Philip. Old Franco had elbowed aside Dieudonne, his human walking stick, and was grasping both my hands in his. And I suppose that to your average unthinking European he would have been just another enormous African man in a glittery suit grappling with our Western ways. But not to Salvo the secret child. To Salvo he was our Mission's self-appointed and rascally protector, known to the Brethren and servants alike as Beau-Visage, lone marauder, father of numberless children, who would pad into our red-brick Mission house at nightfall with the magic of the forest in his eyes and an archaic Belgian rifle in his hand, and a case of beer and a freshly killed buck sticking out of his game-bag, having trekked twenty miles to warn us of impending danger. And, come the dawn, would be found seated on the threshold, smiling in his sleep with his rifle across his knees. And the same afternoon, down at the town market square, pressing his grisly souvenirs on the luckless safari tourists: an amputated gorilla's paw or the dried and eyeless head of an impala.

  “Bwana Sinclair,” announced this venerable gentleman, holding up a clenched fist for silence. “I am Franco, a high officer of Mai Mai. My community is an authentic force created by our ancestors to defend our sacred country. When I was a child, Rwandan scum invaded our village and set fire to our crops and hacked three of our cows to pieces in their hatred. Our mother led us into the forest to hide. When we returned, they had hamstrung my father and two brothers and hacked them to pieces also.” He jabbed a curved thumb at Dieudonne behind him. “When my mother was dying, Banyamulenge cockroaches refused to let her pass on her way to hospital. For sixteen hours she lay dying at the roadside before my eyes. Therefore I am not the friend of foreigners and invaders.” A huge breath, followed by a huge sigh. “Under the Constitution, the Mai Mai is officially joined to the army of Kinshasa. But this joining is of an artificial nature. Kinshasa gives my general a fine uniform but no pay for his soldiers. They give him high rank, but no weapons. Therefore my general's spirits have counselled him to listen to the words of this Mwangaza. And since I respect my general and am guided by the same spirits, and since you have promised us good money and good weapons, I am here to do my general's bidding.”

  Fired by such powerful sentiments, I had actually opened my mouth to render them into French when I was stopped dead in my tracks by another meaningful glance from Philip. Did Franco hear my heart beating? Did Dieudonne, standing behind him? Did the popinjay Haj? All three were staring at me expectantly, as if encouraging me to render Franco's eloquent speech. But thanks to Philip the truth had dawned on me in the nick of time. Overwhelmed by the solemnity of the occasion, old Franco had lapsed into his native Bembe, a language I did not possess above the waterline.

  Yet to believe his face Philip knew nothing of this. He was chuckling merrily, twigging the old man for his mistake. Haj behind him had exploded in hyena-like derision. But Franco himself, nothing daunted, launched upon a laborious repetition of his speech in Swahili. And he was still doing this, and I was still nodding my appreciation of his oratory, when to my intense relief the door to the interior of the house was banged open by Benny to admit a breathless Maxie and his three guests, with the Mwangaza at their centre.

  • • •

  The floor has not swallowed me up, nobody has pointed the finger and denounced me. Somehow we are gathered at the gaming table and I am rendering Philip's words of welcome into Swahili. The Swahili is freeing me, which it always does. Some how I have survived the handshakes and introductions, and everyone is in his appointed place except Jasper who, having been presented to the Mwangaza and his advisors, has been escorted from the room by Benny, I presume for the greater safety of his professional conscience. Philip's speech is jocular and brief and his pauses fall where I would wish them.

  For my audience I have selected a litre bottle of Perrier water twenty inches in front of me, eye contact in the early minutes of a session being your interpreter's deathtrap. You catch an eye, a spark of complicity flies, and the next thing you know, you're in that person's pocket for the duration. The most I permit myself, therefore, is a few furtive brushstrokes of my lowered gaze, in the course of which the Mwangaza remains a hypnotic, birdlike shadow perched between his two attendants: to one side of him, the pocked and formidable Tabizi, former Shiite and now Christian convert, clad head to toe in shades of designer charcoal; and to the other his glossy no-name acolyte and political advisor, whom I secretly christen the Dolphin on account of his hairlessness and the all-weather smile which, like the bootlace-thin pigtail sprouting from the nape of his shaven neck, seems to operate in detachment of its owner. Maxie sports a regimental-type tie. My orders are to render nothing into English for him unless he signals for it.

  A word here regarding the psychology of your multi-linguist. People who put on another European language, it is frequently observed, put on another personality with it. An Englishman breaking into German speaks more loudly. His mouth changes shape, his vocal cords open up, he abandons self-irony in favour of dominance. An Englishwoman dropping into French will soften herself and puff out her lips for pertness, while her male counterpart will veer towards the pompous. I expect I do the same. But your African languages do not impart these fine distinctions. They're functional and they're robust, even when the language of choice is colonial French. They're peasant languages made for straight talk and good shouting in argument, which Congolese people do a lot of. Subtleties and evasion are achieved less by verbal gymnastics than by a change of topic or, if you want to play safe, a proverb. Sometimes I'll be aware, as I hop from one language to another, that I have shifted my voice to the back of my throat to achieve the extra breath and husky tone required. Or I have a feeling, for instance when I am speaking Kinyarwanda, that I'm juggling a hot stone between my teeth. But the larger truth is, from the moment I settle into my chair, I become what I render.

  Philip has ended his speech of welcome. Seconds later, so have I. He sits down and rewards himself with a sip of water from his glass. I take a sip from mine, not because I'm thirsty, but because I'm relating to him. I steal another look at the mountainous Franco and his neighbour the emaciated Dieudonne. Franco boasts a single scar running from the top of the forehead to the end of the nose. Are his arms and legs similarly marked as part of the initiation ritual that protects him from flying bullets? Dieudonne's brow is high and smooth as a girl's, and his dreamy gaze seems fixed on the hills he has left behind. The dandy Haj, lounging on Franco's other side, appears wilfully unaware of either of them.

  • • •

  “Good morning, my friends! Are your eyes all turned towards me?”

  He is so small, Salvo. Why is it that so many men of small stature have more courage than men of size? Small as Cromwell Our Chief of Men was small, pushing out double the energy per cubic inch of everyone around him. Light cotton jacket, washable, as becomes your travellin
g evangelist. Halo of grizzled hair the same length all round: a black Albert Einstein without the moustache. And at the throat where the tie should go, the gold coin that Hannah has told me about, big as a fifty-pence piece:

  It is his slave collar, Salvo. It tells us he is not for sale. He has been bought already, so bad luck. He belongs to the people of all Kivu, and here is the coin that purchased him. He is a slave to the Middle Path!

  Yes, all our eyes are turned to you, Mwangaza. My own eyes also. I no longer need take refuge in my Perrier bottle while I wait for him to speak. Our three delegates, having afforded our Enlightener the African courtesy of not staring at him, are now staring at him for all they're worth. Who is he? Which spirits guide him, what magic does he practise? Will he scold us? Will he frighten us, pardon us, make us laugh, make us rich, make us dance and embrace and tell each other all we feel? Or will he scorn us and make us unhappy and guilty and self-accusing, which is what we Congolese, and we half-Congolese, are threatened with all the time? — Congo the laughing stock of Africa, raped, plundered, screwed up, bankrupt, corrupt, murderous, duped and derided, renowned by every country on the continent for its incompetence, corruption and anarchy.

  We are waiting for the rhythm of him, the arousal, but he keeps us waiting: waiting for our mouths to go dry and our groins to shrivel up — or that at least is what the secret child is waiting for, owing to the fact that our great Redeemer bears an unearthly likeness to our Mission's pulpit orator Pere Andre. Like Andre, he must glower at each member of his congregation in turn, first at Franco, then Dieudonne, then Haj and finally at me, one long glower for each of us, with the difference that I feel not just his eyes on me, but his hands as well, if only in my hyperactive memory.