Stringer

by Anjan Sundaram

  I felt overwhelmed by Mossi’s energy, and by the interview preparations as a whole: we had stacks of papers to read, questions to formulate, the story to draft; without resistance, feeling directionless and dazed, I was swept into the process; and I momentarily forgot my situation.

  Mossi said everything had been arranged for our meeting with Satwant Singh. But the office receptionist, a stern Congolese, twirled on her chair and said, “I am not aware of your appointment.” She wore a dress with a picture of the president painted on her stomach. Around the image were inscribed the words “My Husband Is Capable.” She looked at me starkly; I stopped reading her belly. She said, “Wait over there,” as if speaking to a child.

  Mossi and I sat on an old leather sofa between two men holding VIP briefcases who leaned against the back wall, mouths open, exhaling hot air onto curls of peeling wallpaper. On the wall was a picture of Satwant, in gray turban, shaking President Kabila’s hand. Satwant looked elated; the president bored. They stood before the building we waited in, half of which was the “Head Quarters,” according to a sign, for Satwant’s pharmaceutical facility. The other half was his house.

  Satwant stormed in and banged heads with Mossi. He was in black turban and black suit. We banged heads as well—it was the formal Congolese greeting (and because none of us was Congolese, it showed a special intimacy). The secretary glowered.

  The magnate escorted us inside, taking purposeful strides. A brass plate announced his house: “Shantinivas—Abode of Peace.” He shouted for his wife. She appeared, edging forward in a hobble. “Arthritis,” said Satwant. I didn’t know whether to believe him, because a friend had pointed out to me that in Punjab women are still fattened with milk and glorified in poems:

  With silver crescents in their ears

  The two women walk the village path

  Like vermilion-painted elephants

  Graceful and swaying.

  I had begun to feel buoyant. The interview was unfolding perfectly—Satwant was treating us with warmth and sobriety: as important guests, not as common reporters. My respect for Mossi swelled. And I regained some of my curiosity, my previous enthusiasm; again little things amused, offering relief.

  “Please,” said Satwant, indicating a low table adorned with flowers. The wife served coffee and “ordinary cake” (as opposed to cream cake, but she said this cake was “extra ordinary”). Sat-want moved his hand over the hairs of his forearm, delicately, as if feeling their softness. Mossi began expertly, giving the industrialist the stage: “Bird flu, Mr. Singh. Hype or serious issue?”

  “Oh, very serious.” Poker face. Satwant didn’t blink.

  “Is Congo prepared?”

  “No.”

  Mossi and I exchanged an appropriately grim look. We were onto something. And Satwant was talking. I raised my pen and asked, “How bad could this get?”

  “The first cases of human-to-human H5N1 have already been confirmed. It is only a question of time. When the bird flu hits Congo it will cause a catastrophe.”

  “Millions?” I asked.

  “Easily millions.”

  Mossi hummed and noted the word. He underlined it. I created a provisional headline: “Millions at Risk from Bird Flu. Government Unprepared.”

  The interview went so well that we stayed two hours. Mossi read from a list of pandering questions but soon Satwant ignored the script and started on a monologue. He had traveled from India to Uganda and Tanzania before coming to Congo. “This country is Africa’s biggest hope. As a businessman I have never seen an economy with such potential. Only two problems: corruption and bad hygiene. Please write this in your stories. I have factories to make medicines but no one wants to buy. It’s the NGOs. Only American medicines, they say. They don’t want to give Africans jobs. I’m telling you, I used to work at Novartis.”

  It was mentioned that I had recently arrived in the country. Satwant was surprised, then effusive. “You came to find your potential. That’s like me.” He promised to organize a dinner for the three of us; and then he stood. I gathered my things. But Mossi had planned the meeting’s conclusion. “The camera,” he said, gesturing like a surgeon.

  Under Mossi’s direction we moved to the study room. It was floored with green linoleum and decorated with some shelves of books. The industrialist was made to sit behind the glass-topped desk. Mossi adjusted Satwant’s hands on the table. Behind him he positioned the Congolese flag.

  “Three, two, one,” Mossi said.

  Satwant smiled at the camera and raised his chin. Through the viewfinder, his body looked stiff and tiny, but his head seemed large. I clicked.

  Mossi raised his hands to his head. I sensed disappointment even from Satwant, who looked around senselessly while keeping his arms flat on the table. “Do it again,” Mossi said. “Open your flash.”

  Satwant shook the ruffles from his sleeves. The camera popped like a fused bulb, like a magician’s trick; I took three rapid shots; Satwant kept a stupid grin. He looked dizzy, dazed from the rapid bursts of light in his face. Mossi clapped his hands. “What a picture. What a great picture!”

  And the industrialist smiled, looking pleased.

  I polished off a Coca-Cola while waiting for Corinthian outside Satwant’s office. Mossi said he had to leave—to chase other stories. I watched him turn the corner. This used to be an industrial part of the city—few industries now functioned. The roads were wide, the buildings low and large. Some workers walked by, carrying muddy shovels on their shoulders. A child stooped under the weight of a cement bag. The world—with its drab people and trucks—seemed static in contrast to the charge of the last few hours. I waited inside the gated compound, between the silent office and the menacing city.

  A taxibus swerved onto the road. From a window waved Corinthian’s hand.

  I sat out the afternoon glumly on my bed. As much as I had been motivated in the morning, now, waiting for the heat to pass and for Nana’s meal of the day, I felt captive to inaction. I listened to sounds, scrutinized the room. Everything seemed remote, new; I felt suspicious of my surroundings. Any familiarity I had felt was gone. And I was taken by an urge to clean.

  The room, whose clutter I had learned to ignore, suddenly seemed a mess. The books on the shelf became especially intolerable. I pulled them down. The books were old, of literature and for self-training in computer languages. There were faded magazines of the intellectual variety: Jeune Afrique, Le Monde Diplomatique. I restacked them by size. I moved to the curtains, shaking them of dust. With my hands I picked the carpet clean. And as I uncovered the sheets and stacks of cloth left by Nana (my room was used for storage) I discovered odd items: a large black box I hadn’t known was a speaker, a set of French vinyl albums, a Flemish Bible, and some wigs, sparsely haired. Soon I stood in a cloud of dust and my skin, normally dark, had turned a luminous gray. Nana appeared at the door. “Someone’s here for you.”

  My first thought was that the police had come with good news.

  But Nana giggled.

  Frida was Nana’s niece. She was more forward than Fannie. “I love you very much,” she said, shutting my door. Her blue jeans were short, revealing porous-shaved skin at the bottom of her legs. Her top was fashionable and strappy. Her frizzy hair was pulled back and smothered down with gum. And she would have been a big girl even without her four-inch heels.

  “I’m sorry. I like someone else,” I said.

  “Who? A whitey? In India?” A smile. “But she is there,” she twirled her finger, tinkling her metal bracelets. “And I am here. You need someone here to keep you happy.”

  What is this? The girl was clearly trouble, and more so because she was family. Opening the door, I said, “Wait for me in the living room.” But she stared. I went to fetch Nana.

  Her smile was warm.

  “Ask Frida to leave.”

  Her eyes dipped. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I just want Frida to leave.”

  “But what if she loves you?�
��

  “I don’t care.”

  Her face shrank into a ball. “Ask her to leave yourself.”

  “I did. She’s your family. Do something.” I stood tall over her, and she looked down at the table. Frida was called. I returned to my room, happily remarking its new cleanliness. I peeled off the plastic wrapping from a new soap. I felt inside the pillowcase with my fingers. I lifted the mattress against the wall. One by one, I shook everything on the bed. I don’t know what came over me, but I felt Frida had taken something. I returned to the living room.

  Frida stood by the door. She looked away when I appeared, and she then smirked at the wall. “Nana, Frida took something from my room.”

  “That can’t be. Why don’t you check your things properly?”

  “I want you to search her.”

  “It’s not right to accuse people without knowing,” Nana said.

  Frida looked surprised, as if she had just tuned in. “Something happened?” She adjusted her bangles. I said, “Give it to me and I’ll buy you something.” Frida didn’t reply. All the emotions of the robbery returned: the uncertainty, the sense of being violated. But now, in front of me, I had my perpetrator. I bristled uncontrollably.

  “I don’t want to see Frida in this house. Get out,” I said to her. “Get out.”

  Nana clicked her lips. “Who are you?” She addressed me facing the wall. Her voice was filled with loathing. “You are not family.” I went up to her and pointed, close to her face. “I’m going to tell Jose.”

  “Tell.” Nana smirked, and she loosened and tightened the cloth around her waist. “If you want to live in a better house I understand.”

  Who said anything about a better house? And why is Frida smiling? Nana looked icy. I fled to my room, and turned on the radio. There was something about Tony Blair, and about the elections. But I did not listen: I felt helpless. The distress rose sharply, as if it might choke me.

  I hardly ate at dinner though it was my only meal that day. Nana served cow stomach. We usually ate the ribs or thigh. I didn’t know one ate stomach. “It’s a specialty,” she said. I tasted the meat’s fingerlike projections; they tickled my tongue. I chewed on a piece for a full minute. It was disgusting. “I’ll eat something else.” Nana pulled the plate from under my nose, muttering: “Whatever you like, monsieur.”

  I knew I had been rude: I had transgressed the rules by blaming family (the rules of the Donut Society). And this time, unlike with Fannie, the punishment was harsh. I was also riven by doubt: about Frida’s guilt, and about the force of my mad reaction. A trust between Nana and me had been broken. Better house I knew was a threat to have me evicted. I felt sorry, and suddenly scared. Jose too became cold to me—it hurt more; he had taken her side in the battle.

  I called Mossi. The line was heavy with static. He was at a meeting on the other side of town. “What for?” I asked uncertainly.

  “Local stuff. The chairman of a local coalition is changing. Did Mr. Singh call you?”

  “No.” I checked my phone.

  “He’s invited us to a party at the Château Margaux. You should go.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “It’s on the weekend. I have family responsibilities. But you should collect business cards for us.”

  The Château Margaux was a posh restaurant in town. The party was sure to end late; taxis would be difficult—I wasn’t sure. I had really wanted to talk to Mossi about all that had happened—to buy him a drink and spill everything. But he seemed rushed and scattered; and I felt a request for a drink that night would sound too much like a plea.

  I could not bear to stay inside, so I left the house. The stars had surfaced. Warm air swirled over my face. At Victoire the multitudes sat around a white pillar with a hand at its top: a monument dedicated to the proletariat. Physically I felt liberated. The agitation in my mind began to lull. The crowd made me anonymous, unnoticed; the people were busy, animated; they made me feel secure.

  It was odd that I should find myself under this pillar. The father Kabila had erected it after deposing Mobutu: the hand was to show that the people had won, over Mobutu’s corruption, over his destruction. And as with each of Congo’s previous uprisings—for independence, for Lumumba, for Mobutu—the Congolese had hoped this victory would bring improvement, and they had vigorously celebrated the father Kabila’s troops storming Kinshasa in trucks.

  Africa has a history of using geography as symbols: cities are named Freetown, Libreville; arterial roads are called Liberation, Victory; countries are named and renamed as Democratic and Free with each revolution, coup d’état and election. Congo bears these physical scars of its many upheavals, each of which had been seen as a liberation. But, and almost unbelievably, each regime was worse than the previous. Every change worsened life. It created a distrust among the people, and a perverse nostalgia, an idealization of past dictatorships and colonial regimes that, as punishment for poor labor, cut off hands and brutally massacred. This past was not only repressive, it was shameful; so the nostalgia, which gave so much comfort, simultaneously degraded the Congolese self-worth. At times, I felt it had crushed the people.

  The nostalgia was public. In Kinshasa it was the “correct” attitude to have, especially before the foreigner: Congolese would readily sink into cloying soliloquies about Mobutu and Lumumba and the Belgians. The abuses, on the other hand, were only awkwardly acknowledged, and usually with sullenness, humiliation, self-pity. So the two were kept separate: the disgrace in one consciousness was not allowed to taint the ideal in the other. And this is what crushed society: this constant need to switch between two worlds, the impulse to deny what had happened.

  The distrust was a private phenomenon. I saw it in Nana’s reflexive defense of Frida. The Congolese confined themselves to their Donut Societies and evaded the capricious, lawless world. For this world had possibility: it had a future. The Congolese, having learned to distrust the future, retreated to their families and clans.

  The society that resulted seemed intellectually stagnant, half emerged from its history and only reluctantly moving forward. Only around Anderson, so far, had I got an idea of the Congolese potential. In his dissidence and rebellion he seemed to have a notion, a conviction, of how the future ought to be. But he was in a minority.

  Congo’s history is particularly repressive. And dictators can be hard to shake off. I grew up in a dictatorship—in Dubai—and I recognized in the Congolese elements from my own society: a certain acquiescence, a cloistering within small ambitions, of business and family hierarchy; a paucity of confidence in oneself, and an utter belief in the power of one man.

  It startles me how steadfastly I believed, growing up, that our dictator was just, good and wise. I was never told anything to the contrary. The media only carried good news. I did not know that the slick British newsreaders could be censored; I did not know that the opposition had needles stuck in their noses. Out of fear my parents did not speak. My father, in the middle of conversations, would press his finger to his lips. But because the dictator gave my parents jobs, they chose to live in that society.

  Congo, I sensed, was a victim of the dictator’s myth. It is what I had experienced as a child: the indoctrination that holds up the dictator as a savior, a sage, as all-powerful. Until recently this myth usually invoked God, a divine right to power. These days dictators have less need for mysticism: they use the tools of liberty—elections, business, schools, art, the media. The successful dictator creates at once a terror of his presence and a fear of his loss. But his myth, which can so profoundly shape society and is indeed shaped by society, is as destructive as it is powerful.

  The father Kabila ruled for only four years before he was killed. His reign did little to improve Congo’s condition. He began by professing his Marxist intentions, promising to restore to his people their riches. But he ended up spending most of the rule fighting off Rwanda, which had installed him as president. He attempted some economic reforms. But he had inhe
rited a country so profoundly wrecked by Mobutu that it would take years to undo the damage. The father Kabila was an idealist: he had spent thirty years in the bush writing Marxist speeches. Heightening the sense of urgency, Rwanda invaded Congo again in 1998. Impatient, but able to achieve little, the longtime guerrilla fighter became confused, irrational and depressed. He lost his grip on the country and the economy. His allies defected. Inflation and corruption mounted. The story goes—and perhaps its truth is less important than its symbolism—that the father Kabila was assassinated with his hand in a bowl of diamonds, in the act of corruption. So the leader who once symbolized hope for this country was insulted even in death, the most sacred of life events to his people.

  I have not lived through a dictator’s fall but the Congolese tell me it is like malaria that ravages the body. It pierces the nation’s consciousness. And the people, at the end of such upheaval—many times over in Congo’s case—can be left quite broken, empty of belief.

  The Congolese now mock Kabila’s monuments, one senses, from bitterness; for by the same token they mock themselves, and their raucous cheers for Kabila’s rebellion. The pillar under which I sat had, after all, come to commemorate not a victory but regret.

  Something darted against my leg: a lizard with a black tail snaked through the sand. I bought a boiled egg from a boy loitering nearby. The shell peeled easily. I scattered the little pieces on the ground, and in the evening light they took on an unearthly gleam.