Stringer

by Anjan Sundaram

  “Oh no,” said Bobby, leaning over the captain’s desk. “In a week your barge will be too heavy to cross the sandbars. Don’t give me this nonsense. In two days we leave.” The captain huffed. Smoke rose from his pipe in black streams. And he absentmindedly started to play with a glass paperweight in the shape of a hippo.

  With so little time until the departure the excitement rapidly built. And I felt a sort of release from the house and the city. In town I found a missionary library of old books and spent a full afternoon studying maps. I no longer skimmed over the names of obscure towns: I looked these up in the encyclopedia, imagining the colonial boats docking at these places, bringing gifts and threats of war. The library had detailed nineteenth-century reports in geography journals, of the conferences that carved up Africa between European states, and of King Leopold’s lucrative and genocidal rubber trade. I came home with notes tucked under my arm and visions of a primitive landscape. I felt a precipitous thrill while packing my bags. And I finally informed Nana of my departure, giving her a tin of milk powder bought at the Indian shop, saying it should last until my return.

  The house was changing as well: I first noticed it in the food. Every evening Nana pounded chili, adding extra spice to shield us from the soporific heat. She banged at the pestle, looking worn and unhappy. Bébé Rhéma’s nose was still running—the clinic visits had not completed the cure. Among the other changes, Corinthian had taken over the running of the boutique business, but he was faring no better. The clients still promised to pay their debts as soon as they “touched some money.” And Jose had briefly stopped watching the news, preferring wrestling, which the Congolese called catch. He would sit, engrossed, intently watching Texas beat Spiderman; he would lean forward and sideways with the men on-screen. He never appeared as unemployed as in those moments. One day I said, “You know it’s fake.”

  He looked taken aback. “Fake? This is a serious sport.”

  Texas slammed Spiderman. “Didn’t you see? Texas didn’t actually hit him. It’s made-up.”

  He grunted. “If you’re so smart, do you know who’s going to win then?”

  I sat a few moments to watch with him. We talked about the news: Jose agreed there had been nothing worthwhile of late. After the conference the reports had slowed to a trickle. Even Richard Bentley’s byline had disappeared from the papers. I had heard he was in England, on holiday. I wondered who might be living at his place, enjoying his five-star bed and shower; then, in my room, I noticed the smell. It first came as the briefest of whiffs. Suddenly it was strong. But the corridor had only its usual dampness—the smell of the mold inside the walls. The rug felt clean. Under the bed I found feathery dirt. I ruffled Jose’s old books, raising the dust. It was too dark to see outside, but the knocks from Nana’s pestle were steady.

  “What is it?” she called back.

  She arrived with her hands dripping and a pepper seed on her cheek. “A smell? It must be your clothes.” She looked unfazed, not moving, and straight at me; I detected a touch of sadness in her expression; I thought perhaps she had again fought with Jose. The smell was steady now. It grew faint when I moved to the corners of the room. The source seemed near the wardrobe. I followed the trail, sniffing at the air, higher and higher and climbing the bookshelf’s metal frame. Leaning precariously, I pulled at an old bedcover bundled on the wardrobe’s top—a hole had been carved through its middle. Shreds of cotton puffed up and settled, revealing a decomposing rat with gelatinous worms running through its body. The fur had been eaten.

  12

  I received a message from Goldman Sachs. It came from New York, from a mathematician I had interviewed with several months before leaving for Congo. The markets were doing well, he said. The bank still wanted to hire. I had forgotten about this job. It reminded me of some of the other messages I had received from America—mostly from friends—that I had skimmed over, filed away and forgotten. My curiosity now piqued, I looked them up; and I began to read with care—noting the dates, and how they had been written, and if I had written before, what I had said. Some were simple keep-in-touch exercises, carrying the tone of Christmas wishes. A friend had been in Bangkok, and seen the bar girls do tricks with their vaginas; someone had sent a mass e-mail from St. Tropez. But most messages were more serious. Sam had gotten a new job at a trading firm. James was moving to Chicago to be closer to his girlfriend. Sarah had bought an apartment at an exceptionally low interest rate. People were taking professional exams, making investments, saving for the future, falling in love. It was the eve of my departure. Was I nervous? Of course. But I imagined the story I would find in Équateur.

  “What’s that?” Stella asked, looking at my screen.

  “Some job.”

  “In New York? Do you think they would take me?”

  I grimaced.

  “Today you leave me double the usual,” he said, tapping the table with his fingers.

  A terrible stink followed me out of the house. I was glad to leave. Before the sun had risen I made my way down Victoire with a large bag on my back, looking like a camel burdened by its hump. I took a last look at Victoire, and felt there was nothing I would miss: not my room in the house or the street with its moving crowd; I would not miss those broken pavements with protruding iron rods. If it hadn’t been for that robbery, I thought, I would have long ago been gone. But I felt sad for the family. I told Nana before leaving that as soon as I earned something I would make a wire transfer to the family. If I was successful on my trip, I said to her, we would no longer have to worry about money.

  I also spared a thought for Mossi, though I found it difficult to dwell on him. The moment in his room still seemed too close. I remembered his helpless gestures, the pity he had evoked.

  As I waited for the taxi Anderson sauntered up, arms swinging. “Monsieur Journaliste, you’re leaving? Without telling us?” A Renault stopped at the curb. “Too bad,” Anderson said, smiling. “We will miss you at the riots.” He opened the sedan’s door and showed me to my seat, as a valet might. It felt odd that he was the only person who came to see me off; he touched my shoulder, and I was moved by the gesture. He slammed the door, saluting me. “Safe journey.” The driver scolded Anderson for not being gentle with the car, and then asked me to pay double price. “Your bag is using an extra seat.”

  “Normally we would put the bag on top.”

  “But there is no top.”

  I can see. “Why should I pay extra because you’re missing a top? Why don’t you have a top, chauffeur?”

  The Maghrebis had burned the hood in Paris. Thankfully too, the driver added cheerfully, for he had gotten the car at half price. Containers full of these burned vehicles were coming to Congo from France, the driver said, and there was big demand. It felt a bit like riding in a convertible.

  The port was busy. It was a day of departure, and moving was always a busy affair—the various and superfluous levels of bureaucracy were present: to check papers, apply stamps, extort money. Bobby had been keeping a watch on the loading of the barge and he called out just as it was being finished. I bought a piece of coconut from a vendor carrying a plate over her head. I sucked at the white flesh. At the gates a group of men were slumped in wheelchairs. As soon as they saw passengers arrive they started to propel themselves forward, whipping the wheels with powerful arms. Handicaps with legs pushed the others, running. The band moved in a howl, talking quickly to each other. The attendant at the gate took his time to inspect my ticket but wheeled the metal door open in time. The handicaps eyed me from the road; some of them laughed and they talked with the attendant in a friendly manner. To either side stalls sold CDs, travel adapters, umbrellas for the rainy season, and colored textiles and tobacco from Brazzaville. I was later informed that the handicaps monopolized imports from and exports to our neighbor city; by a colonial law they still paid discounted rates on the boats, and the city both loathed them and relied on their service.

  Our departure was surprisingly quick. T
he crew hauled in the ropes, twisting them around the post. The barge floated freely. At the port, a plastic wind vane in the shape of a bird circled its mast rapidly. People stood under the silent cranes and hooks, watching us with concern, holding checkered handkerchiefs, swatting away the flies and mosquitoes. I didn’t have anyone to wave to. I saw the building on the Boulevard where I had tried to interview a minister; it stood tall among the row of crumbling high-rises. At that moment, leaning beside Bobby at a railing on the rear end of the barge, my back toward our direction of motion, I felt an attachment to the city; and I began to fear our unknown passage. The water swiftly slipped beneath me, dark and yielding. Small waves rose and chuckled. Bobby wiped his face, stroking his cheeks. The engine choked and came alive with a firm rumble. The captain blew his whistle, signaling the early departure. Kinshasa drew distance. The barge slowly shifted, like a mass of land separating from the earth.

  PART II

  HALF EMERGENCES

  13

  A sequence of wooden kiosks had been erected on the barge. Most were stuffed with supplies. A few were empty. The kiosks were near the center of the deck, where in a long pile running the barge’s length, goods were covered in thick nets. Around this pile were groups of people: passengers tending to their affairs. Some had come with food, others with rings of rope that tied together plastic canisters, called bidons. Boxes of imported whiskey were guarded by vigilant agents wearing distribution company logos on their shirts. The goods traveled to be exchanged for rural produce: palm oil, roots, meat, banana wine and beer. A narrow corridor on the deck was not covered by cargo, and on this stretch of planks we walked. The wood was painted white and led at the back to lavatories and quarters for the crew: huts that seemed little larger than pig cages. Sacks that crew members stepped over littered the doorways, and toothbrushes in metal cups lined windowsills. Between the cabins were strung clotheslines from which identical overalls, torn in the same places—along the arms, over the chest, at the groin—flapped like pennants, dripping water in a pool that grew sideways with the gentle sway of the barge. Bobby and I were among the more privileged travelers: our quarters lay in a wooden kiosk. Its splintered planks gave us a roof but on the sides it was open to the world, and at night, the dark. Under this Bobby had set up our tent.

  The barge’s pipes were dry. Carrying my toothbrush I scoured the boat, trying the taps at the stern, near the crew quarters and even in the captain’s office. But they only squeaked. Eventually I moved to a side, where the barge sloped slightly, and I scooped from the river with a mug. The water was translucent; twigs and winged insects floated. Everything in the water looked old. Brushing my teeth, I stood at the barge’s rear end, watching the river, as a remarkable scene unfolded over the water and along its edge.

  We were quite far from the city already, and the houses onshore had thinned, giving way to green and brown bamboo and patches of red earth. Along the water villagers soaped their bodies and scrubbed clothes. The trees moved by slowly. And from ahead of the barge rows of pirogues set off with heavy loads and strong-armed rowers pushing against the riverbank with oars. The long, black pirogues were carried downriver and alongside our vessel; and the men frantically rowed, now coming at us from all sides, from the far horizon of the river and along its length, shooting out of the jungle like arrows. The barge was soon surrounded and the crew gathered at the bow, watching anxiously. All at once the rowers flung thick black ropes, like snakes, from their pirogues. A bell was rung fiercely near the captain’s quarters and the crew members poured out of their rooms. Ropes flew through the air in high arcs and lashed at the barge, wriggling on the deck, slipping away, falling into the water; they were flung again with more fury. The crewmen thrust forward, pulling the ropes with venous arms; they screamed at the rowers. The pirogues fought the flow of the river, approaching and falling away. Our motor’s pitch heightened. The canoes were laden with heaps; they bobbed and rolled in the river, threatening to capsize in the swirling currents. The men heaved their oars and restored balance, rowing faster and more desperately until the pirogues drew closer, rose on a wave and dipped, and moved within our wake. Here the river was calmer. The crew tied the ropes to posts and the pirogues flowed steadily, without effort. The rowers drew their oars, dripping, out of the water; they breathed heavily. And by evening we tugged a collection of crafts like balloons wanting to drift away on the river.

  At once the pirogues unloaded. And there was even less space. In the morning Bobby and I climbed out of the tent and found our faces against bags of dried fish. It had been a night of noise and movement. The paths on the deck had narrowed. We squeezed between the crates and reached the rear end of the barge, the designated bathroom area, where we pissed off the edge. It didn’t feel awkward, or public—the barge was almost an exclusively male environment, and this permitted a level of both immodesty and squalor.

  The pirogues were commercial vessels from the villages; and I realized that the scene I had witnessed was the attaching of the city with the jungle. The two quickly integrated. Men walked to and from the pirogues, over the ropes, carrying bottles, nets and livestock. They became for us a source of fresh food, and they relieved the traders of their city stocks. Negotiations sometimes lasted until the morning.

  Most pirogues concluded their commerce and left by afternoon. I saw them detach from the barge and drift downriver toward their settlements. In the evening the traders, having few customers left, relaxed by their stalls to reggae and rumba. A pair of drums was used intermittently. The night ambience on the barge was of charcoal-stove fires and radio sets. What beer was available was shared, and when I was feeling social I would buy a couple of bottles, and drink a half.

  There was no repose on the barge. Traders lay about the deck, limbs spread over their wares—one had to navigate them. A few stood out, attracting crowds. One sold coiled springs, toys that slunk from hand to hand. A man in a fishnet vest, for a little money, imitated animal sounds—hoopoes, chimps, forest buffalo.

  The traders, I noticed, were poor city men. It showed in the way they ate cassava dough from their palms; their shirts were soiled from wiping their mouths and faces; their slippers were broken. They drank from filthy mugs. The pirogue men, although poorer, appeared less neglected, less outcast. So, it seemed that, like on sixteenth-century ships with their crews of slaves and prisoners, Kinshasa had sent on our barge its lowest elements as emissaries to the provinces.

  The barge advanced northward, making a breeze against the rolling humidity. And soon even villages were rare: I was startled at how quickly we had left all signs of human development. Passing us was a constant level of jungle, without variation in the kind of tree—buttressed, stout, covered in woody creepers—or in the deep shade of green, the cauliflower-like crowns. The sound of the barge was a steady drone. All this created a distinct tension.

  And it was Bobby who, briskly humming the tune to Kuch kuch hota hai, addressed this unease.

  Flies covered the crates in clusters, unnaturally still, and rising as a slow cloud; fellow passengers, seeking shelter from the sun behind the cargo, were taken by surprise, exposed as Bobby moved the crates; their hands claimed the bags he shifted. But Bobby made new stacks with the cargo and the flies returned, followed by the shade-seeking crouching men. Room was made around one crate. Two others became chairs. And to pass the time on the slow-moving barge Bobby suggested we play checkers. He had brought a board and counters.

  We took our seats. Bobby was clearly in form: from the start his counters flew across the red and black squares. But it had been years since I had played. I took long pauses. Bobby picked impatiently at the splinters on the crate. “You’re not in the game of the century, man. Don’t worry so much about losing.”

  By the second or third day word had spread and people gathered around us to watch. Dames had been one of Mobutu’s favorite games, Bobby told me. The market invaded our cramped space: men smoked over us; monkeys hung from wooden crucifixes; blocks of hip
po fat and meat lay on straw mats, heated by the sun, attracting insects. Chickens ran loose, flustered by sniffing pigs, flapping their wings above their heads and clambering, half flying, over men’s feet. Cages were pushed out of the way; the pigs panicked, shoving their noses at the ground and chasing the fowl for the length of their leashes. But Bobby and I played on, immersed, and this was how we spent the time until one morning when we heard a shot.

  There was the jolt, and the fright, but the emotions seemed somehow unsurprising—one couldn’t help but feel that we had been waiting for something to happen; that there could not have been more eventless days. The strain had begun to feel unnatural, too full.

  A ragged soldier was at fault. His uniform was typical, scavenged from enemies: the shirt came from Kabila’s guard, his hat from an invading Angolan army and his pants, a darker green, belonged to eastern rebels; the pants were folded up at the bottom, revealing a hairless shin. I had seen him prancing about the deck in rubber flip-flops, inseparable from his Kalashnikov—tied to his arm with rope so no one could steal it. For the entire previous day he had walked about the deck like this, swinging his arm, the weapon unusable and its bayonet oscillating dangerously. This was the gun that had been fired.

  In the clearing where the crowd had separated we saw him at the barge edge. Beside him was the captain—still in short white pants, and looking through binoculars. The barge had drifted relatively close to the land, and the captain seemed to point at the monkeys clambering over the branches. But the soldier shot uselessly. The fire from his Kalashnikov raised spikes of dirt on the riverbank, and the branches showed no movement. The animals were gone. The captain cursed openly. The soldier puckered his lips and made an obscene sucking noise.

  Calm returned to the deck, but in a heightened way. The barge had been unsettled and made alert by the shooting. The soldier stayed on the deck with his gun. And people withdrew: some slunk into the hull; a few crawled along the ropes to the pirogues. Bobby carefully moved our board to the kiosk, where it was quieter, and we continued where we had broken off: with my counters frenziedly fleeing. He joked about how fast I was running, but his voice had hardened, and he looked over his shoulder. The stress seemed to find expression in his movements. The forest was unbroken, a stretch of drifting green. Soon my pieces were cornered. I was three strokes from annihilation when I played a lively combination, breaking a portion of his defense and stalling his conquest. “You’re just delaying the end,” he said.