‘Is it true that in Germany there are glass houses so high they reach the clouds?’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ I said, taking his hand in mine and sitting down on the edge of his bed.
‘And do people live in them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do they get to the top?’
‘They take the lift.’
‘What’s a lift?’
‘A kind of cage. You go inside, press a button with a number next to it, and the cage goes up by itself.’
‘That’s magic … When I’m better, I’ll go to your country and see the glass houses.’
Still smiling, he lay down again and closed his eyes.
Orfane came and told me that the director was waiting for me in his office. I finished my rounds before going.
Bruno had got there before me. He was sprawling on the sofa, his legs crossed and his arms stretched out along the back. The Sudanese colonel saw us without either the captain or Pfer. We told him our stories from the beginning, the ambush outside Mogadishu in Bruno’s case, the attack on the boat in mine, the terrible journey across scrub and desert, the disused fort where Captain Gerima had kept us prisoner, Chief Moussa, Joma the poet-pirate, the transfer of Hans, the final duel that had allowed us to escape, our meeting with Elena Juárez and her refugees. It was a detailed account, and the colonel didn’t interrupt us once: I assumed he was recording our statements on the tape recorder that stood on Pfer’s desk. When we had finished, he asked us to pay attention and went to a map of the region hanging on the wall. With an expandable pointer he pointed to three places, which he surrounded with little blue triangles: the place where Jibreel, the camp’s guide and driver, had found Bruno and me; the place where the shepherd said he had received a visit from pirates with the wounded Hans; the place where we had been kept prisoner by Captain Gerima (based on our description of the outpost and the surrounding landscape). He admitted that he couldn’t understand why the kidnappers had chosen such a bleak, hostile area instead of staying in Somalia where the trade in hostages could be carried on without too many obstacles, although he pointed out that rebels preferred to manoeuvre across borders so that if the worst came to the worst they could fall back on the neighbouring country to avoid being pursued by government forces. Bruno reminded him that we weren’t there to follow a course in military tactics, but to find Hans Makkenroth. The colonel took no notice of his words and continued his presentation. Having finished with the map, he turned to his files. He began by telling us that the authorities had nothing on the so-called Captain Gerima and that no officer who had deserted matched his description.
‘Gerima had definitely been in the army,’ Bruno insisted. ‘He isn’t Sudanese or Somali. He’s Djiboutian and speaks fluent French. He was in the regular army before being sentenced by a court martial for stealing rations and reselling them.’
The officer was exasperated by Bruno’s intervention. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted and saw the Frenchman’s attitude as insubordination and an insult to his authority. He waited for Bruno to be quiet before resuming.
‘As for Chief Moussa, he’s known to the authorities both here and in Somalia. He’s being actively pursued in both countries. Now, with your permission, let’s see if a few faces might point us in the right direction.’ He turned his computer towards us. Photographs of men and teenage boys appeared on the screen. ‘I should make it clear that they aren’t all criminals. The one thing they have in common is that they’ve received gunshot wounds. Hospitals, clinics, dispensaries, all kinds of medical centres without exception are required to inform the police immediately of any admissions of that nature. These people may be shepherds attacked by cattle thieves, lorry drivers intercepted by highwaymen, people hit by stray bullets, people wounded in the course of tribal feuds, but also dealers and bandits arrested during police raids, smugglers, rebels, terrorists and so on. I’d be grateful if you could take a good look at them and tell me if you see any familiar faces.’
We recognised Ewana and a second pirate, the driver of the sidecar motorcycle. Consulting his files, the colonel told us that the two suspects had been admitted to the same rural dispensary on the same night; that the first, whose real name was Babaker Ohid – thirty-one, married, four children, a cattle dealer by profession – had been shot twice, once in the thigh and once in the buttock; and that the second, Hamad Tool – twenty-six, married, two children, a former athletics champion who’d become a scrap merchant – had been shot in the hip. He asked us if we were absolutely certain we recognised them. We hadn’t the slightest doubt, we told him. He switched off his computer, put away his files, asked us another dozen questions, noting down our responses in a register, and dismissed us.
Bruno went off to find his ‘brothers’, and I my patients.
In the evening, Elena offered to show me a quiet spot a few hundred metres to the east of the camp. We went there on foot. The sun hadn’t yet set, and our shadows were long on the ground. It wasn’t very hot. There was a cool breeze in the air. Elena untied her hair, and shook it so that it spread over her shoulders. She took my hand in hers and we walked side by side like lovers. She told me about an old school friend of hers, but I wasn’t listening. Her voice was enough for me. It cradled my silence. Soon, the camp was merely a shimmering patch behind us. Coming to an area where the ground fell away abruptly, we stopped at the edge of the precipice. Below, at the bottom of a vast basin, shaggy shrubs grew alongside wild grasses and plants besieged by midges. The vegetation was green and luxuriant, hard to imagine in this part of the desert. A spring-like aroma filled the air, which was alive with the chirping of insects. Elena photographed me from several angles, then sat down cross-legged and invited me to do the same.
‘The other day,’ she said, ‘I saw a group of antelopes grazing down there, with their young. It was magical.’
‘It’s a real haven of peace,’ I admitted.
‘I often come here to unwind. I put a hat on in order not to get sunburnt, have a flask full of cold water close at hand, and stay here for hours waiting for the antelopes to return. I’ve also seen a jackal. It had gone to ground down there. When it saw me looking at it, it stared at me suspiciously. I got the impression it could see right through me.’
‘It might have attacked you.’
‘I don’t think so. Jackals are secretive, cowardly animals, who never take risks. If they aren’t sure they’ll succeed, they give up. Wild dogs, on the other hand, don’t need to feel threatened to attack. An old night watchman discovered that to his detriment. He got lost in the dark and we found him torn to pieces not far from the camp.’
‘Doesn’t anything nice ever happen here?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t you think this is a beautiful place, Kurt?’
I wanted to tell her that she was very beautiful, but didn’t dare. She took my chin between her pretty fingers, and looked deep into my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest. Elena noticed. She moved her face closer to mine and searched for my lips, but her kiss was cut short by the laughter of two little children who had just jumped up out of the undergrowth below us. They climbed the embankment as fast as they could, stopped to make fun of us, miming languorous hugs and kisses, and ran off towards the camp, laughing triumphantly.
‘Where did they spring from?’ I said.
Elena now also laughed fondly at the antics of the two kids. ‘In Africa,’ she said, ‘even if God turns his head modestly away when two people are ready to make love, you can be surethere’s always a little boy watching somewhere.’
A week had passed since the visit from the delegation. I had moved in with Elena. By day, I took care of my patients. In the evening, Elena and I wandered around the outskirts of the camp and only came back when night had fallen. Every now and again, Bruno would join us with one or two of his mythical ‘brothers’. As far as the Frenchman was concerned, every African was a novel. But it was he, Bruno, who wrote it. Thus it was that he introduced us to Bong
o, a teenage boy who had walked three thousand kilometres, without a guide and without a penny in his pocket, to see the sea. He had left his village in Nigeria in order to get to Europe. A people smuggler had promised to take him there in return for his mother’s jewellery, but had abandoned him in the Ténéré. The boy had wandered for months and months in the desert, somehow getting by, until he had come upon the camp by chance. The day after we were introduced to him, he disappeared. He had stolen some provisions from the kitchen, a bag and some walking shoes, and had set off in search of the sea. Bruno had no doubt in his mind: sooner or later the young man would realise his dream. It was written all over his face that nothing would stop him.
One evening, Bruno came running into the canteen in a state of great excitement. He demanded silence, stretched his arms out wide in a melodramatic gesture, and with a lump in his throat declaimed:
I am a man of flesh like you
And I have spilt blood
As if pouring wine
Into the cup of infamy
I have dreams like yours
Forbidden dreams
That I keep within me
For fear they will die in the air
I am the sum of your crimes
The funeral urn of your prayers
The soul expelled from your body
The twin brother you reject
I am merely an old mirror
A mirror cut to your disproportions
In which you hope one day to see
Yourself big even though you are small
He gave a reverential bow, then rose to his full height to savour the applause, of which there was a little. ‘Black Moon, by Joma Baba-Sy,’ he said, advancing through the middle of the room, where a dozen of us were having dinner.
He again asked for our attention and declared in a mocking tone, ‘My dear friends, I am leaving you. I am leaving you to your struggles, your suffering, your miseries. I’m going. I leave you courage, sacrifice, the nobility of grand causes … Yes, I yield them to you graciously. And if you wish, I bequeath you my virtues for they no longer make my soul tremble. As far as I’m concerned, the odyssey ends tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll be back with my fat partner and we’ll reinvent the world under a mosquito net …’
A few people laughed indulgently. Bruno came over to the table I was sharing with Elena, Lotta and Orfane, grabbed a free chair and sat down astride it, between the gynaecologist and the virologist. His bulging, joyful eyes rolled like white-hot marbles.
‘I’ve just come from Monsieur Pfer’s office. Guess who I had on the phone? None other than the French ambassador! He told me officially that my case had been examined with the greatest care and that I no longer had anything to worry about. I’m going to be given a new passport and an entry visa to Djibouti. Tomorrow, I’m flying to Khartoum on the freighter aircraft. The pilot has received instructions.’
‘Congratulations,’ Lotta said.
‘I’ve already told my partner the good news. She was so happy we cried like kids. My beard is still wet with my tears.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m going to miss you, Monsieur Krausmann.’
My throat was too tight to utter a sound.
He nodded his head and addressed the others. ‘And you too.’
‘You’re a likeable person, Bruno,’ Lotta said. ‘A bit scatterbrained, but very likeable.’
‘It’s the African sun that’s melted my brain. Which is all to the good. The less you think, the more chance you have of making old bones … Oh my God, how happy I am! I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight, and tomorrow will take for ever to arrive. I can already see myself at home, in my scruffy but comfortable little room … If you ever happen to be passing through Djibouti, come and see me. No need to tell me you’re coming. There’s no protocol in our house. Just go to the souk, ask after Bruno the African – that’s what they call me – and any kid will bring you to me. You won’t even have to ring the doorbell, because we don’t have one. You open the door and you’re immediately at home … Isn’t that so, Kurt?’
I merely nodded.
‘You will come?’
‘I don’t think so, Bruno, I don’t think so.’
‘You know what a marabout once told me? The man who sees Africa only once in his life will die blind in one eye.’
After dinner, Bruno took me to one side behind the canteen. ‘If you’d like me to stay a few more days,’ he said, ‘it’s no problem.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. The soldiers might come back and ask for more information.’
‘They’ve already recorded our statements. No, you go. There’s nothing more for you here. Go back to your nearest and dearest. They’ve already missed you long enough.’
‘Monsieur Pfer told me the camp has received several donations and that another plane is due next week. I could come to an arrangement with the pilot.’
‘That wouldn’t be a good idea, Bruno.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
He gave me a big hug and rushed off into the darkness.
The freighter aircraft landed at ten in the morning in a flurry of dust and noise. A monster of zinc and combustion, it trundled to the end of the waste ground, made a U-turn and bounced its way back to the camp. Some twenty men were waiting to unload the hundreds of boxes and crates fastened in its hold.
As far as I was concerned, the plane had come to rob me of my friend.
Bruno had put on a satin robe and had got Lotta to carefully trim his beard. His crew-cut hair shone and he had kohl on his eyelids. He gave me a broad smile and opened his arms to me.
‘How do I look?’
‘Apart from your bald patch, very handsome.’
He smoothed his hair. ‘Baudelaire said that when imperfection looks good, it becomes a charming accessory.’
Bruno embraced Pfer, then Lotta, whose behind he pinched in passing. He had to stand on tiptoe to hug Orfane, then, holding back a sob, he clasped Elena to him. When he got to me, he cracked and big tears rolled down his cheeks. We looked at each other for a moment, as if mesmerised, then threw ourselves in each other’s arms. We stood like that for a while in silence.
‘Don’t forget what I said, Kurt. The man who sees Africa only once in his life will die blind in one eye.’
‘I won’t forget.’
He nodded, picked up a big bag filled with gifts and walked towards the plane. The pilot pointed to the hold and invited him to get on board. Bruno turned one last time and waved farewell. Once the unloading was finished, the door of the hold closed and the winged monster, in a din of propellers, moved onto the runway. We followed it from a distance, waving our arms. Bruno appeared at a window and blew us kisses until the dust enveloped the plane as it set off to conquer the sky.
I was pleased for Bruno, but sad to see him go. Our friendship had been sealed in pain and would never end. Neither distance nor time could lessen it. I knew that wherever I went, whatever my life held in store, whatever my future joys and sorrows, the indelible trace of those weeks full of sadness and fear shared with my inimitable French companion would always remain in a corner of my heart, a corner as sacred as a forbidden city. I would remember Bruno as a remarkable man, a good, sensitive man even when he was play-acting, always helpful and generous, closer to the poor than many a saint or prophet, and happy to be alive despite so many setbacks and so much ingratitude. I didn’t know what he would represent for me in the future, but he had initiated me into the simplest of gestures, giving them a meaning, a strength, and a richness that was worth all the possessions in the world, and into a simple beauty, such as the beauty of fraternal signs that strangers send each other when they emerge from a tragedy or when they spontaneously rally round to deal with human disaster. Would I miss him? Yes, in several ways. For me, he would be Joma’s ‘twin’, except that I wouldn’t reject him. Wherever I went, I was convinced that he would be lurking in my shadow like a star in the darkness, and I would catch myself smiling ev
ery time a noise, a light, a piece of music reminded me of Africa, where a world was aspiring to fade away so that another could wake to the song of children.
Bruno had barely been gone five days and already it seemed to me that I had dreamt him. Passing the tent where he had chosen to wait, among ‘his’ people, for his situation to be sorted out – he had refused the cabin that Pfer had allocated him – I thought I heard his African laugh, the laugh that started with a guttural contraction before dissolving into a series of Homeric yelps. Bruno laughed about everything, his misfortunes as well as his achievements … What a strange character! Resentment had never dented his indestructible faith in human beings. He saw in their stupidity only a terrible immaturity that did them more harm than they themselves caused. At night, unable to sleep, I tried to find ways into his mind, to understand how it worked, but whatever key I tried, every attempt failed. What secret had he discovered on this continent? What philosophy had he acquired during his years of wandering? Whatever it was, he had taken it away with him. Would I ever see him again? I didn’t think so. I would go back to my rich man’s bubble and die blind in one eye, just as he had prophesied … If there was a moral in life, it could be summed up like this: we are nothing but our memories! One morning, we are there; one evening, we are no longer there. The only mark we leave behind us is a memory that slowly fades until it is shamelessly consigned to oblivion. What would I have left of Bruno? What would I have left of Hans? All the things I couldn’t hold on to: a tone of voice, a fleeting smile, situations distorted by the prism of years, absences that were like hangovers. Now that they were no longer around, I realised how insubstantial any truth was in this capricious world … And what of later? … Later, we come full circle, start again from the beginning and once more learn to live with what we no longer possess. Since nature abhors a vacuum, we create new reference points for ourselves. Out of pure selfishness … Elena knew our relationship had no future, and so did I. That didn’t stop us from taking advantage of the moment … I had made friends among the refugees: Malik, the boy who had asked for my torch, and who came to see me regularly and made sure he never left empty-handed; Bidan, an amazing contortionist who could get his entire body into a box barely large enough for a puppy; old Hadji, who could read the future in the sand and spent all day long sucking on his pipe; Forha, the one-armed man who could put his clothes on faster than a sailor getting ready for combat; and the unstoppable Uncle Mambo, who was a bit of a mythomaniac and was absolutely convinced that Neil Armstrong had never set foot on the moon … But the temporary is like a crazy moneylender who demands his due when he feels like it. And what I feared finally caught up with me. The previous day, three workers had fallen from scaffolding and been seriously injured. I spent the night assisting the surgeon who operated on them. In the morning, hearing the staccato buzzing of a helicopter, I assumed the men were being evacuated to a better-equipped hospital and buried my head under the pillow. I was wrong. The helicopter was for me … It was the Sudanese colonel in person who came and asked me to get dressed and follow him. From his crestfallen look, I understood. I had to cling to the handle of the door to stay upright. ‘No, don’t tell me that …’ I stammered. He looked at me without saying anything. There are silences that speak louder than words. I collapsed on my bed and struggled with all my might to keep a modicum of dignity. ‘They’re waiting for us, sir,’ the colonel said. I got dressed and followed him …
The African Equation Page 23
