BUSINESS CLASS

He hated psychological claptrap. Not all the inventions from the north were to be rejected, of course—medicine and science were especially welcome—but the only worthwhile psychology was that used with dreams, taboos and deep-seated forces. As an actor, he had always rejected psychological motivation, all the fuss around Coppola’s directions, to Brando, Hopper or Sheen—each one more drugged and hopeless than the other, in any case. He was interested in phenomena connected with the collective unconscious, and all forms of non-verbal communication; but the individual unconscious left him cold. In Heart of Darkness there is not one single psychological explanation: just facts, actions, consequences. One driving force: inordinate greed. One type of conduct: brutality. One result: hatred. It’s up to the audience to work out what the emotions are, if that’s what they’re after. As director, he would leave it to the actors and actresses to delve into the depths of their souls, but in silence, for God’s sake.

She was in love with a man whose name was The Stake of Death Has Been Planted. She tried to get used to this idea. And she loved it that he explained things to her, that he cared enough to explain things to her. If he spoke to her it meant he loved her.

On the plane he was happy. He wanted to see Paris again, the historical buildings. He never imagined he’d have so many interviews lined up. He stretched out his long legs in his spacious seat; she held his hand between the wide armrests; he would have happily smoked a cigar. They ordered champagne, vodka frappés and truffle canapés. Air France was still Air France, goddamn it. He hardly ever swore, or only as a joke. He even made a point of speaking a more polished French than was necessary, as if he felt responsible for the respectable behaviour of every African in the world. In the business-class cabin of flight AF066 to Paris, in which only a gentle rumbling could be felt at take-off—here, in the luxury of the skies, flying over the northern snow, it was the stewardesses he spoke to. He and Solange had champagne, beauty, and the pleasure of being looked at, recognised, and of being the subject of no end of attention, and of clearly being the most glamorous couple in the plane (538 passengers).

Yes, he wanted to see Paris again, the historical buildings. And he was happy about all the appointments. When he had managed to emigrate, Paris had seemed more familiar to him than his birth country. Cameroon was dysfunctional, but he wasn’t. He recognised everything. The culture, the language; France had been in his blood since childhood: he’d recited Molière and Racine and fallen desperately in love with his French teacher (he didn’t elaborate on this chapter of his life). His whole being was shaped by the idea of structure that characterised the French people, by the structures of the French language. He had seen Paris a thousand times. The sharpness of the avenues, cut sheer between the façades of the buildings, the pavements, the pedestrian crossings, the number of shop windows, the shiny cars, the efficient Métro system: he knew it all. That’s where he came from, where he felt at home, in that smooth, open, sparkling world.

In the beginning, he had managed to rent an apartment thanks to a director who had taken on the lease in his name. Kouhouesso had wanted to become French; his application had been rejected. He only had a temporary visa but he had a Mercedes, one of the beautiful vintage models he loved. He was performing in a Chekhov play in Avignon and had driven all the way down, following the Rhône: his car was dirty and he didn’t want to arrive filthy at the Avignon Festival. He found a garage where they washed cars by hand and had just paid, including the tips, and was doing a final inspection when a guy pulled up and held out his keys: ‘When you’ve finished that one, do mine.’

It was nothing, just one incident. But, as an African, and in general, he decided that France could go to hell, and he became Canadian.

They had just flown over a big chunk of Canada. Through the plane window, they could see the polar icecap, re-formed for winter, passing by below. Canada was a last resort. He said it was his ‘only unhappy love affair’: Canada had made him one of its own, but he wasn’t Canadian.

She waited a while and then said that Paris was her city, that she would love to show him the street in the Charonne neighbourhood where she used to rent a room, the Amandiers Theatre, her friends Daniel and Lætitia, and then, on the way to Lisbon, the Basque Country; it was Christmas, after all, her family was there…He had signalled to the stewardess for some more champagne (with a Parisian accent) and raised his glass to her: ‘Cheers! To Heart of Darkness.’

She made a scene right there, in business class, over the Arctic Circle. For months, all she had heard about was his film, couldn’t he possibly, even for two minutes, show some interest in what she had to say? Or was he congenitally incapable of listening to her?

The glaciers slid past, impassive. There was the tip of Greenland. He apologised. ‘There are doors I need to knock on in Paris, for the film. When I’ve finished, I’ll be less preoccupied.’

She concluded that he was being more sincere than rude. A film—pre-production, the shoot, the editing, post-production, distribution—a year. She would wait.