The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  “You look well, Marie.” Alex used her first name, hoping that it would help break through the crust of ice that seemed to lie between them. “Have you been in touch with Dr. Wheeler? I understand that he’s out of the hospital and back in the States.”

  “I heard the same thing, but I haven’t spoken to Steve myself,” Marie said in her lightly accented English. “In fact, I haven’t been in touch with anyone from Consolidated Mining since our captivity. Have you?”

  This last sentence came out as much an accusation as a question, but Alex elected to take it at face value. He lengthened his stride slightly so that he could catch up to Marie and walk alongside her.

  “Arlene Zimmerman sent me a letter from Johannesburg. She asked for a transfer. Can’t say that I blame her. Charlotte is out of the business altogether. Arlene told me that she was joining some sort of Silicon Valley start-up. Mike Tanner, I understand, is taking a job in the oil fields in Alberta. And Sven is already back in the field with Consolidated. Arlene said that he was looking for rubidium in the south, somewhere near Bukama. The only one Arlene didn’t know anything about was you. The Consolidated people in Kinshasa told me you resigned. Have you moved back here permanently?”

  “I never truly left. This is my home. I went away for school and for a little work experience on top of that, but I never gave up my place in my father’s house.”

  “I can see that. I left home at seventeen, but my mother still keeps my old bedroom pretty much as I left it, right down to the basketball trophies and the algebra books. My daughter’s sleeping in it right now.”

  “How old is your girl?”

  “Anah’s nine. I adopted her in Sudan a couple of years ago. She’s spending the summer with my family in America, but she’ll be here in Kinshasa in time to start school in September. I hope you get a chance to meet her. I think that she would like you.”

  “I’m afraid there aren’t very many mementos from my childhood in my room. We didn’t have very much.”

  “And now?”

  “Things are better now. My father is a good leader. It’s been hard for everyone, of course, since the wars began.” Marie had used the plural and Alex supposed that was fair. The ten-year-old civil war was so complex that it was like a dozen wars laid on top of one another.

  “You all seem pretty capable of defending yourselves,” Alex observed.

  Marie laughed. “You mean Jean-Baptiste and his boys. That was another one of my father’s ideas. I admit I was skeptical at first, but they have proven themselves. We have the genocidaire graves to prove it.”

  “Rwandans?” Alex was surprised by that. “What were they doing this far west?”

  “I don’t know. The ones who came here are all dead. There have been no more.”

  Marie lapsed into silence. Alex had the impression that she felt she had somehow said more than she should have. They walked side by side for another few minutes before the jungle opened up to reveal the town of Busu-Mouli. By the admittedly low standards of Congolese villages, Busu-Mouli seemed a relatively prosperous place. The streets were smooth and free of trash, the houses looked to be in good repair, and there was an unmistakable atmosphere of positive activity. There were no cars or motorcycles in the village. The only transportation of any kind seemed to be the ubiquitous chukudus. These were essentially oversize wooden scooters made by hand. Strips of rubber wrapped around the wheels helped smooth the ride. The chukudus looked primitive, but they were durable and, in the hands of an experienced driver, surprisingly fast. They could also carry a heavy load, and Alex saw stacks of firewood, baskets of cassava, and even three live pigs being carted about the village.

  Chief Tsiolo’s house—Marie’s house—was at the far end of the town’s main street. The walls were straight and the steps that led up to the front porch were new and the roof freshly thatched. A coat of white paint and a couple of flowerpots on the porch made the house look almost like a country cottage. Chief Tsiolo was sitting on the porch. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a blue shirt that he wore unbuttoned, exposing his thin frame and ropy muscles. He watched Alex and Marie approach, but his face remained impassive. Alex climbed the steps up to the porch and extended his hand. Tsiolo rose from his chair to take it. His grip was firm and he had the rough calluses of a man who made his living with his hands. The Chief didn’t speak, but he gestured for them to take a seat at the small table. Alex had hoped that Marie would introduce him to her father, but she seemed to be in no hurry to do so.

  “Chief Tsiolo,” he began, after a brief hesitation, “my name is Alex Baines. I’m with the U.S. Embassy in Kinshasa. I have some information that I believe would be of value to you.”

  Tsiolo said nothing in response. It took a real effort on Alex’s part not to rush to fill the gap. Americans in general were uncomfortable with silence in conversation. Over the years, Alex had gotten used to the slower rhythms of Africa. He was less impatient than he had once been, less impulsive.

  After a minute or two of quiet, during which he seemed to be thinking through the various implications of Alex’s identity, Chief Tsiolo offered his response. “I know who you are. I know why you have come. The answer is no. Can I offer you some palm wine? It’s been cooled in the river.”

  All in all, a very unpromising beginning, Alex decided.

  14

  JUNE 30, 2009

  BUSU-MOULI

  Marie had to admit that she was impressed with how Alex had handled his presentation. He was articulate, engaging, persuasive, and ultimately unsuccessful. Throughout the afternoon’s long discussion, Marie had said little. Her father was Chief even if he was barely literate. Instead, Marie had taken on the role her mother would have played had she been alive, serving palm wine and food to the men as they talked.

  Alex, she understood, had not been fooled by this little charade. He looked to her for reactions as much as to her father. In fact, he looked at her often. Almost unconsciously, Marie found herself straightening her back and smoothing her hair. She caught herself doing it and scowled slightly.

  Alex made his points, and he made them well. They were the same points she had made to herself in her own internal dialogue on the risks and rewards of the course she had charted for her village. Work with the mining company and you at least get something. Oppose the company and you risk coming away with less than nothing.

  Alex had illustrated his argument with examples from Botswana and South Africa, where genuine partnerships between local communities and multinational corporations had worked out to everyone’s benefit. He spoke confidently, but without the typical American bravado that too often risked crossing over into arrogance. At the same time, there was something profoundly sad about this American, even if Marie couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

  In the face of Alex’s presentation, Chief Tsiolo was unmovable.

  “You seem like a reasonable young man,” he said. “You are at least polite to your elders. Too many of your generation cannot be bothered. They won’t take the time to pay their respects to an old man. But you have come to me with a proposal that I can never accept. You would have me abandon my home, sell our future—the future of my people—for a truckload of promises and thirty pieces of silver. I am all too aware of what the promises of Consolidated Mining are worth. The Luba people do not need to rely on Consolidated’s generosity to benefit from the wealth that lies beneath our feet. We do not need their permission.”

  “I understand that, Chief,” Alex replied. “But you should know that there are powerful players, some foreign and some Congolese, that have fixed their sights on the copper that they can find in your mountains. This gives you the leverage you need to negotiate a fair deal. If you reject this, others will make the decision for you, and these others will have no particular interest in protecting either the Luba heritage or the Luba people.”

  “We will take our chances. We are not complet
ely defenseless.” Tsiolo gestured to Marie, who refilled Alex’s glass of palm wine from the jug on the table.

  “Do you mean Jean-Baptiste and his militia? I don’t think they play in the same league as our mutual friends from Consolidated Mining.”

  “Maybe not. But we have more at stake. Never underestimate a man who is defending his home.”

  “Sound advice.”

  “We are a warrior people. The Luba empire once extended as far as the shores of Lake Tanganyika. Failure to resist would dishonor my ancestors.”

  “Respectfully, Chief. That’s not entirely true.” Alex spoke slowly, seeming to choose his words with care. “The Luba were—and are—great warriors. But the empire was built on trade and commerce, not conquest. Your greatest kings, Ilungu Sungu and Kumwimbe Ngombe, expanded their reach to the north and east by trading salt and copper and gold. They were never afraid to fight, but they knew that was rarely the best way to defend their interests.”

  “You know our history,” Chief Tsiolo acknowledged, somewhat grudgingly. “Do you know your own? Do you know what you Europeans have done to my country and my people?”

  “Yes.” Alex looked at Marie and then turned to lock eyes with her father. There was something in his expression, a powerful emotion that she could not quite interpret. It seemed somehow both very sad and very far away. “I know this all too well. I will not forget, and I know that you cannot. I love this beautiful country and I have enormous respect for the Luba people. I understand your fears about Consolidated Mining. In truth, I share them. I cannot tell you that I trust the mining company or that you should. All I can do is promise that I will do absolutely everything in my power to make sure that the company abides by the terms of whatever agreement you reach. That is all I can offer. It has to be enough.”

  There was a long pause as Chief Tsiolo considered what Alex had said, and Marie thought for a moment that her father might be softening. Then the Chief shook his head, almost as though he were trying to shake the doubt from his mind.

  “I believe we have reached the end of our official discussions. I have heard you out as courtesy dictates and you have my answer. Now I hope that you will join us for dinner and spend the night in my house as my guest.”

  Marie looked sharply at her father. She knew him too well to believe he didn’t have a reason for doing this, but it was hard to fathom what that might be. The American diplomat seemed a genuinely decent man, but he was on the other side. There was no room in Marie’s world or her father’s to accommodate that kind of choice.

  “What about my pilot?” Alex asked.

  “Do not worry,” Tsiolo responded. “He will be well looked after.”

  “I would be pleased to accept your invitation.”

  “We have several hours before dinner,” Tsiolo observed. “Marie, why don’t you show our guest around the village. Show him the mine and the smelter. Let him see what we have accomplished on our own and how little we need the guiding hand of his mining friends.”

  Marie bowed her head slightly. “Of course, Father.”

  • • •

  Marie gave Alex almost the same tour that Katanga had given her when she had arrived home. They started with the mine, and she indulged Alex’s probing questions about the technical details of mining operations. She was proud of her mine and she enjoyed showing it off. From the top of the bluff where she had set up the drilling equipment, they had a sweeping view of the valley. The valley floor was green and vibrant and the whitewashed houses in the village stood out in sharp relief. The neatly square cultivated fields of maize, yams, and barley contrasted with the sprawling green chaos of the forest.

  “If Consolidated has its way,” Marie said, “all of this will be buried under the rubble tailings from the mine.”

  “What happens with the waste rock from your own mining activities?” Alex asked. “Won’t those present the same challenge?”

  “Not at all. We’re doing what’s called slope mining, following the natural path of the richest veins of ore deep into the mountain. It’s a lot of work, particularly without machines, but it produces minimal tailings. What Consolidated wants to do is to cut the mountains in half, feast on the innards, and dump what’s left into the river. It’s easier and cheaper than slope mining and infinitely more destructive. It maximizes Consolidated’s profits, but this valley won’t be habitable for hundreds of years after they’re through with it. And you’re going to help them do it, Alex.” It was only after she said it that Marie realized she had called him by his first name.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Marie. I really do. In truth, I’m still hoping to find a way that everyone can win. I don’t work for Consolidated Mining. It’s an American company, but I work for the American people. They’re not the same thing. I’m pretty sure the people I work for would like to see this work out so that Busu-Mouli and Consolidated can help each other.”

  “That’s just not going to happen.”

  “Look, you’ve done amazing things here, all of it without power and modern tools. Isn’t it possible that with a little financing and technical help from Consolidated, you could benefit from increased production and the mining company could turn a fair profit as well?”

  “It’s not only possible, it’s optimal,” Marie said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  “Well why not?”

  “Because Consolidated has already rejected that deal. It’s exactly what I had proposed when I discussed this site with Jack Karic and his overboss, that jackal Henri Saillard. Saillard accepted the deal, led me on for a while, and then had Karic tell me that it was all off only a few days before the exploration trip that Manamakimba and the Hammer of God cut a little short.”

  “You told Saillard that there was copper here? That’s how they know about this deposit?”

  Marie bit the inside of her cheek to keep her lips from trembling, but there was no disguising the sadness in her eyes. “Yes, I did. You can say this is all my fault if you want. I thought we needed help. I thought it would be too hard. That we couldn’t do it on our own. I underestimated my father and my people. I won’t do that again. I suggest you don’t make the same mistake.”

  “How long has Saillard known about this place?”

  “More than six months now.”

  “Six months? Jesus, we just heard about this a few days ago. And Saillard told us that it was a brand-new find.”

  “Well, then he’s been playing you for a fool too.” Marie shook her head in disgust. “Let’s go,” she said, looking for a way to change the subject. “I’ll show you the smelter.”

  The smelter was hot and busy. About twenty villagers were hard at work, carrying the raw ore, tending the fires, and pouring molten copper into the steel molds. As the villagers gained experience, they had grown more efficient and Marie was proud of just how far they had come in a very short time.

  “Were you trying to improve the ventilation in here?” Alex asked, pointing to the bullet holes on the south side of the building.

  “We had a little incident the other night. Some genocidaires thought they could shut us down. They’re dead now, so I guess they were wrong. The holes aren’t in anything structural so there’s no rush to fix them. We’ll get around to it eventually, but there’s still a lot to do.”

  “This is a pretty impressive setup,” Alex observed, looking around the crowded room. “What are they working on?”

  Three men were bent over one of the few actual machines in the enormous open room with a box of tools at their feet.

  “That’s the rock crusher. It does the job, but it’s somewhat fragile. Our mechanics have to break it down at least once a day.”

  Alex walked over to the machine. The men had taken the machine apart and were in the process of rebuilding it. They smiled at Marie, nodded dismissively toward Alex, and continued working. Alex watched them for a few minute
s.

  To Marie, it seemed pretty clear what the problem was. The metal shaft that held the repurposed boat propellers in place was warped. It was a chronic problem that the village’s best mechanics had not yet been able to fix.

  “Have you given any thought to using something other than propellers to crush the ore?” Alex finally asked in Lingala.

  None of the men responded to Alex. The older man looked at Marie for some kind of signal.

  “It’s all right, Mputu. He’s a friend . . . I think,” she added after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Mputu is our chief mechanic,” Marie explained. “These boys are his apprentices and his sons.

  “This is Mr. Baines,” she continued, gesturing at Alex as though there were someone else she might have been speaking of. Mputu had known everyone else in the room his or their entire lives. “He’s a guest of my father’s.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Alex said. “And thank you for letting me watch you work. I admire good engineering. I’m an amateur mechanic of sorts myself.”

  Mputu nodded but said nothing.

  “This is a beautiful machine you’ve built, but I wonder if the crusher could benefit from a stronger piece of steel on the business end. The blades of the propeller are trying to cut the rock rather than smash it. It looks to me like they’re bending from the force of the cuts and this is putting too much pressure on the driveshaft. It might make sense to try the gears from the . . .” He paused and looked at Marie. “What’s the Lingala word for transmission?” he asked in English.

  “It’s transmission.” Despite herself, Marie laughed.

  “The gears from the transmission are heavier and flatter than the propellers,” Alex continued, “and they should grind the ore into smaller pieces. It would also put less stress on the shaft. It might mean fewer repairs.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence. Then the older man nodded thoughtfully. “You know, that’s an idea,” he said. He looked at Marie, who nodded. “We’ll try it out and see if it helps.”