MYRIAM HAS TAKEN over our room at the Hotel Memling. She bought flowers and a vase to put them in. She got her hands on two folk-art paintings that so-called painters were selling off in front of the hotel. A pastiche of Tintin, The Adventures of Claude in the Congo, and an awkward but touching baobab tree casting its benevolent shadow over a stunted child, protecting it from the murderous sun. On the bed, she set out tropical clothing made of linen, and several cotton shirts of remarkable quality.
“Try them on?”
I didn’t want to. I’ve never cared about clothes. A pair of jeans and some wrinkled shirts suit me fine. And I don’t like looking at myself; I don’t like myself physically. “Go ahead.” At first I wouldn’t cooperate. This kind of dress-up was ridiculous. Then I put on a pair of white écru pants whose fabric was like a caress against my legs, and a loose, ochre-coloured shirt that floated like a fine delicate veil around my body. The cloth was light and soft. I ventured a look in the mirror. I wasn’t so ugly, after all. I was even a little elegant, and I rejoiced in that elegance. Myriam was offering me another image of myself, the one she wanted to see, perhaps. I should have always dressed like that. She laughed. I smiled at my own awkward words. “You see, it’s simple.” At that moment I knew I loved her, not for the pleasure of being dressed by her, but for the man she suspected was inside me, the one she was inventing. If she dies or leaves me, I’ll continue dressing this way, because it suits me and makes me less ugly.
The telephone rang. It was Joseph, and it was urgent. He was nervous and worried. I met him in the lobby. He led me outside where we were immediately mobbed by vendors selling Tintin paintings, Marlboros and matches, and cards for mobile phones. The air was heavy, you could feel the storm that would soon break and drive these people toward the nearest makeshift shelter. Six or seven of them surrounded us as we were trying to walk. Joseph pulled out a pistol and fired into the air. I was more frightened than the vendors. They were used to gunshots, and they retreated quietly.
“You’re armed!”
“You should be too,” he told me as if I was the dimmest idiot on earth. “One of the child soldiers, Josué, his parents just got kidnapped by Kabanga’s men. They’re holding them hostage in Bunia. They won’t release them unless the kid gives himself up.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Here, in Kinshasa.”
“Can you find him?”
“I think so.”
I wanted to go back to Myriam, go back in time fifteen minutes, to that moment when I felt the joy of being a woman’s creation.
She was sleeping deeply, taking long, peaceful breaths. She hugged a pillow in her arms like a child. I lay down close to her and kissed the back of her neck. “I’m sleeping,” she muttered. At least that’s what I understood. “I love you,” I answered. I said it, and she heard me. Now I could concentrate on my work. But maybe I lied, because the sound of those three words has made me dream ever since.