by Mike Resnick
“The Belgian government is demanding reparation.”
“Yeah, I see where that can make it a little more expensive,” admitted Rogers.
XII.
“I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle it,” Boyes said, staring across the desk at Roosevelt, who had just returned to Stanleyville less than an hour ago.
“You were right to summon me, John.”
“So far they haven’t made any threats, but we’re receiving diplomatic communiquès every other day.”
“What’s the gist of them?”
“Reparation, as I mentioned in my note to you.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “They know we don’t have any money,” he answered. “They want something else.”
“Pickering’s head on a platter, I should think,” suggested Boyes.
“They don’t care any more about their soldiers than he did,” said Roosevelt. “Let me see those communiquès.”
Boyes handed over a sheaf of papers, and Roosevelt spent the next few minutes reading through them.
“Well?” asked Boyes when the American had set the papers down.
“I don’t have sufficient information,” answered Roosevelt. “Have they gone to the world press with this?”
“If they have, we won’t know it for months,” said Boyes. “The most recent paper I’ve seen is a ten-week-old copy of the East African Standard.” He paused. “Why would going to the press make a difference?”
“Because if they’ve gone public, then they’re positioning themselves to try to take the Congo back from us, by proving that we can’t protect European nationals.”
“But they weren’t nationals,” said Boyes. “They were soldiers.”
“That just makes our position worse,” replied Roosevelt. “If we can’t protect a group of armed men who know the Congo, how can we protect anyone else?”
“Then what do you want to do about Pickering?” inquired Boyes.
“Where is he now?”
“In the jail at Leopoldville. Charlie Ross brought him in dead drunk, and locked him away.”
“The proper decision,” said Roosevelt, nodding approvingly. “I must remember to commend him for it.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to, Mr. President,” said Boyes. “He’s back in Kenya.”
“Charlie?” said Roosevelt, surprised. “I’d have thought he’d be just about the last one to leave.”
Boyes paused and stared uncomfortably across the desk at Roosevelt.
“Except for Yank Rogers and me, he was.”
“They’re all gone?”
“Yes, sir.” Boyes cleared his throat and continued: “You did your best, sir, but everything’s coming unraveled. Most of them stuck it out for better than two years, but we always knew that sooner or later they’d leave. They’re not bureaucrats and administrators, they’re hunters and adventurers.”
“I know, John,” said Roosevelt, suddenly feeling his years. “And I don’t hold it against them. They helped us more than we had any right to expect.” He paused and sighed deeply. “I had rather hoped we’d have a bureaucracy in place by this time.”
“I know, sir.”
“I wonder if it would have done much good,” Roosevelt mused aloud. He looked across at Boyes. “That trip I just returned from—I wasted my time, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“We needed more teachers,” said Roosevelt. “One man can’t educate them overnight. We needed more teachers, and more money, and more time.”
Boyes shook his head. “You needed a different country, Mr. President.”
“Let’s have no more talk about the inferiority of the African race, John,” said Roosevelt. “I’m not up to it today.”
“I’ve never said they were inferior, Mr. President,” said Boyes, surprised.
“Certainly you have, John—and frequently, too.”
“That’s not so, sir,” insisted Boyes. “No matter what you may think, I have no contempt or hatred for the Africans—which is why I’ve always been able to function in their countries.” He paused. “I understand them—as much as any white man can. They’re not inferior, but they are different. The things that are important to us are of no consequence to them, and the things they care about seem almost meaningless to us—and because of that, you simply can’t turn them into Americans in two short years, or even twenty.”
“We did it in America,” said Roosevelt stubbornly.
“That’s because your blacks were being assimilated into a dominant society that already existed and was in possession of the country,” answered Boyes. “The whites here are just passing through, and the Africans know it, even if the whites don’t. They may have to put up with us temporarily, but we won’t have any lasting effect on their culture.” He paused as Roosevelt considered his words, then continued: “When all is said and done, it’s their country and their continent, and one of these days they’re going to throw us all out. But what follows us won’t look anything like a Western society; it’ll be an African society, shaped by and for the Africans.” He smiled wryly. “I wish them well, but personally I wouldn’t care to be part of it.”
“I’ve said it before, John: You’re a very interesting man,” said Roosevelt, a strange expression on his face. “Please continue.”
“Continue?” repeated Boyes, puzzled.
“Tell me why you wouldn’t care to be part of an African nation based on African principles and beliefs.”
“For the same reason that they have no desire to become Americans or Europeans, once we stop bribing them to pretend otherwise,” answered Boyes. “Their culture is alien to my beliefs.” He paused. “Democracy, and the Christian virtues, and the joys of literature, and a reverence for life, all these things work for you, sir, because you have a deep and abiding belief in them. They won’t work here because the people of the Congo don’t believe in them. They believe in witch doctors, and tribalism, and polygamy, and rituals that seem barbaric to me even after a quarter century of being exposed to them. We couldn’t adapt to their beliefs any more than they can adapt to ours.”
“Go on, John,” said Roosevelt, his enthusiasm mounting.
Boyes stared at him curiously. “You’ve got that look about you, Mr. President.”
“What look?”
“The same one I saw that first night we met in the Lado Enclave,” said Boyes.
“How would you describe it?” asked Roosevelt, amused.
“I’d call it the look of a crusader.”
Roosevelt chuckled with delight. “You’re a very perceptive man, John,” he said. “By God, I wish I were a drinking man! I’d celebrate with a drink right now!”
“I’ll be happy to have two drinks, one for each of us, if you’ll tell me what you’re so excited about, Mr. President,” said Boyes.
“I finally understand what I’ve been doing wrong,” said Roosevelt.
“And what is that, sir?” asked Boyes cautiously.
“Everything!” said Roosevelt with a hearty laugh. “Lord knows I’ve had enough discussions on the subject with you and the others, but I’ve always proceeded on the assumption that I was part of the solution. Well, I’m not.” He paused, delighted with his sudden insight. “I’m part of the problem! So are you, John. So are the British and the French and the Portuguese and the Belgians and everyone else who has tried to impose their culture on this continent. That’s what you and Mickey Norton and Charlie Ross and all the others have been telling me, but none of you could properly articulate your position or carry it through to its logical conclusion.” He paused again, barely able to sit still. “Now I finally see what we have to do, John!”
“Are you suggesting we leave?” asked Boyes.
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s not that simple, John. Eventually we’ll have to, but if we leave now, the Belgians will just move back in and nothing will have changed. It’s our duty—our holy mission, if you will—to make sure that doesn’t happen, and that the C
ongo is allowed to develop free from all external influences, including ours.”
“That’s a mighty tall order, sir,” said Boyes. “For instance, what will you do about the missionaries?”
“If they’ve made converts, they’re here at the will of the people, and they’ve become part of the process,” answered Roosevelt after some consideration. “If they haven’t, eventually they’ll give up and go home.”
“All right,” said Boyes. “Then what about—?”
“All in good time, John,” interrupted Roosevelt. “We’ll have to work out thousands of details, but I feel in my bones that after two years of false starts, we’re finally on the proper course.” He paused thoughtfully. “Our first problem is what to do with Billy Pickering.”
“If you’re worried about the Belgians, we can’t give him a trial by jury,” said Boyes. “These people have hated the Belgians for decades. They’ll find him innocent of anything more serious than eliminating vermin, and probably vote him into the Presidency.”
“No, we can’t have a jury trial,” agreed Roosevelt. “But not for the reason you suggest.”
“Oh?”
“We can’t have it because it’s a Western institution, and that’s what we’re going to eradicate—unless and until it evolves naturally.”
“Then do you want to execute him?” asked Boyes. “That might satisfy the Belgians.”
Roosevelt shook his head vigorously. “We’re not in the business of satisfying the Belgians, John.” He paused thoughtfully. “Have Yank Rogers escort him to the nearest border and tell him never to return to the Congo. If the Belgians want him, let them get him.”
Having summarily eliminated the system of justice that he had imposed on the country, Roosevelt spent the remainder of the week eagerly dismantling the rest of the democracy that he had brought to the Congo.
XIII.
Roosevelt was sitting beneath the shade of an ancient baobob tree, composing his weekly letter to Edith. It had been almost three weeks since he had embraced his new vision for the future of the Congo, and he was discussing it enthusiastically, in between queries about Kermit, Quentin, Alice, and the other children.
Boyes sat some distance away, engrossed in Frederick Selous’ latest memoirs, which had been personally inscribed to Roosevelt, whose safari he had arranged some three years earlier.
Suddenly Yank Rogers walked up the broad lawn of the state house and approached Roosevelt.
“What is it, Yank?”
“Company,” he said with a contemptuous expression on his face.
“Oh?”
“Our old pal, Silva,” said Rogers. “You want me to bring him to your office?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s too beautiful a day to go inside, Yank. I’ll talk to him right here.”
Rogers shrugged, walked around to the front of the building, and returned a moment later with Gerard Silva.
“Hello, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet and extending his hand.
“Ambassador Silva,” replied Silva, shaking his hand briefly.
“I wasn’t aware that Belgium had sent an Ambassador to the Congo Free State.”
“My official title is Ambassador-at-Large,” said Silva.
“Well, you seem to have come a long way since you were an Assistant Governor of an unprofitable colony,” said Roosevelt easily.
“And you have come an equally long way since you promised to turn the Congo into a second America,” answered Silva coldly. “All of it downhill.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” said Roosevelt.
There was an uneasy silence.
“I have come to Stanleyville for two reasons, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva at last.
“I was certain that you wouldn’t come all this way without a reason,” replied Roosevelt.
“First, I have come to inquire about the man, Pickering.”
“Mr. Pickering was deported as an undesirable some 19 days ago,” answered Roosevelt promptly.
“Deported?” demanded Silva. “He killed four Belgian soldiers!”
“That was hearsay evidence, Mr. Silva,” responded Roosevelt. “We could find no eyewitnesses to confirm it.”
“Pickering himself admitted it!”
“That was why he was deported,” said Roosevelt. “Though there was insufficient evidence to convict him, we felt that there was every possibility that he was telling the truth. This made him an undesirable alien, and he was escorted to the border and told never to return.”
“You let him go!”
“We deported him.”
“This is totally unacceptable.”
“We are a free and independent nation, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, a hint of anger in his high-pitched voice. “Are you presuming to tell us how to run our internal affairs?”
“I am telling you that this action is totally unacceptable to the government of Belgium,” said Silva harshly.
“Then should Mr. Pickering ever confess to committing a murder within the borders of Belgium, I am sure that your government will deal with it in a manner that is more acceptable to you.” Roosevelt paused, as Boyes tried not to laugh aloud. “You had a second reason for coming to Stanleyville, I believe?”
Silva nodded. “Yes, I have, Mr. Roosevelt. I bring an offer from my government.”
“The same government that is furious with me for deporting Mr. Pickering?” said Roosevelt. “Well, by all means, let me hear it.”
“Your experiment has been a dismal failure, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in each word he uttered. “Your treasury is bankrupt, your railroads and highways will never be completed, your bridges and canals do not exist. You have failed to hold the national election that was promised to the international community. Even the small handful of men who accompanied you at the onset of this disastrous misadventure have deserted you.” Silva paused and smiled. “You must admit that you are in an unenviable position, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Silva.”
“The government of Belgium is willing to put our differences behind us.”
“How considerate of them,” remarked Roosevelt dryly.
“If you will publicly request our assistance,” continued Silva, “we would be willing to once again assume the responsibility of governing the Congo.” He smiled again. “You really have no choice, Mr. Roosevelt. With every day that passes, the Congo retreats further and further into insolvency and barbarism.”
Roosevelt laughed harshly. “Your government has a truly remarkable sense of humor, Mr. Silva.”
“Are you rejecting our offer?”
“Of course I am,” said Roosevelt. “And you’re lucky I don’t pick you up by the scruff of the neck and throw you clear back to Brussels.”
“Need I point out that should my government decide that the Congo’s vital interests require our presence, you have no standing army that can prevent our doing what must be done?”
Roosevelt glanced at his wristwatch. “Mr. Silva,” he said, “I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds to say good-bye and take your leave of us. If you’re still here at that time, I’m going to have Mr. Boyes escort you to the nearest form of transportation available and point you toward Belgium.”
“That is your final word?” demanded Silva, his face flushing beneath his deep tan.
“My final word is for King Albert,” said Roosevelt heatedly. “But since I am a Christian and a gentleman, I can’t utter it. Now get out of my sight.”
Silva glared at him, then turned on his heel and left.
Roosevelt turned to Boyes, who was still sitting in his chair, book in hand. “You heard?” he asked.
“Every word of it.” Boyes paused and smiled. “I wish he’d have stayed another forty seconds.” He got to his feet and approached Roosevelt. “What do you plan to do about the Belgians?”
“We certainly can’t allow them back into the country, that much is clear,” said Roos
evelt.
“How do you propose to stop them?”
Roosevelt lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “There’s only one way, John.”
“Raise an army?”
Roosevelt smiled and shook his head. “What would we pay them with?” He paused. “Besides, we don’t want a war. We just want to make sure that the Congo is allowed to develop in its own way, free from all outside influences.”
“What do you plan to do?” asked Boyes.
“I’m going to return to America and run for the Presidency again,” announced Roosevelt. “Bill Taft is a fat fool, and I made a mistake by turning the country over to him. I’ll run on a platform of making the Congo a United States Protectorate. That ought to make the Belgians think twice before trying to march in here again!” He nodded his head vigorously. “That’s what I’ll have to do, if these people are ever to develop their own culture in their own way.” His eyes reflected his eagerness. “In fact, I’ll leave this afternoon! I’ll take Yank with me; I’m sure I can find a place for him in Washington.”
“You realize what will happen if you lose?” said Boyes. “The Belgians will march in here five minutes later.”
“Then there’s no time to waste, is there?” said Roosevelt. “You’re welcome to come along, John.”
Boyes shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. President, but there’s still a few shillings to be made here in Africa.” He paused. “I’ll stay in Stanleyville until you return, or until I hear that you’ve lost the election.”
“A little more optimism, John,” said Roosevelt with a grin. “The word ‘lose’ is not in our lexicon.”
Boyes stared at him for a long moment. “You mean it, don’t you?” he said at last, as the fact of it finally hit home. “You’re really going to run for the Presidency again.”
“Of course I mean it.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of challenges?” asked Boyes.
“Do you ever get tired of breathing?” replied Roosevelt, his face aglow as he considered the future and began enumerating the obstacles he faced. “First the election, then Protectorate status for the Congo, and then we’ll see just what direction its social evolution takes.” He paused. “This is a wonderful experiment we’re embarking upon, John.”
