Chapter 5

Love walks backward with her mantle on her shoulders

and covereth a multitude of sins.

—Rev. J.M. Gibbon

I had been teaching at the National Arts Institute for a month when I first saw him. Right leg resting on the bar, my arms went up and down and to the side. “Plié, two, three, four. Up, two, three, four. Relevé, two, three, four. What’s going on?” I asked the students, who seemed distracted. I followed their gaze toward the entrance and there stood Ngwendu along with a distinguished-looking man of dark chocolate complexion.

“Plié, two, three, four. Continue without me,” I said, walking toward the visitors.

“Mademoiselle Odys,” the director said, “please excuse the interruption. Our commissaire d’état, Citoyen Bolingo, wanted to meet you.”

Probably in his late thirties, his brown, raw-silk tailored suit with the Maoist-style collar accentuated his shoulders. A discreet smell of aftershave lingered in the air around him. His slightly bowed legs added to his manliness.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“On the contrary.” He let go of my hand and his lips parted into a smile, showing gleaming white teeth. “In fact, the director is one of the many people who raved about your talents. I just wanted to extend my apologies for the mix-up with your contract. Can you stop by my office tomorrow around four?”

“Sure,” I said, already charmed by his baritone voice.

“Are you in trouble?” one of the students asked when I returned to them.

“I don’t think so,” I said but thought that maybe I was. I continued with the class though my mind was focused on the commissaire d’état’s smile and the sound of his voice.

 

* * *

 

Having stayed in the shower too long, I hastily chose a peach suit, appropriate for a business meeting. I examined myself in the mirror and smiled at my reflection before hurrying out.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Odys,” the secretary greeted me. “Citoyen Bolingo is expecting you. I’ll let him know you’re here.” I wondered to myself if this was the secretary who had “lost” my phone messages, though it didn’t sound like the same woman and she didn’t show any hostility toward me.

I heard him tell the secretary over the intercom, “Send her in.”

Meeting me at the door, he shook my hand and invited me to a sitting area on the other side of his large office. “I’ve asked you here because I’d like to get to know you better.”

I wanted to ask him why but decided it might be too bold.

Almost before I could finish that thought he continued, “I admire a determined woman with a sense of adventure. Let’s have a glass of champagne to celebrate your arrival in Kinshasa.” Without giving me a chance to decline or to accept, he pushed a button on his phone. “Please bring a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and some hors d’oeuvres.”

The intensity of his eyes made me lower mine. The fact that he admired a determined woman with a sense of adventure didn’t really explain his desire to get to know me better. I focused on the ceremonial masks and a built-in bookshelf that decorated the walls of his office. The telephone’s ring was timely, as it relieved me of the discomfort of his gaze. He picked up the receiver on the desk, and I shot furtive glances at him. I then got up to take a closer look at the masks. As I admired an oval hand-carved mask of a warrior with contemplative slanted eyes, I sensed his presence behind me.

“That mask is used during a leader’s initiation to a secret society,” he said.

When I turned to face him, I realized how close he was to me. Our eyes met. I looked away and pretended to examine a solid wood mask with carved black and red stripes.

“That one is an ancestor spirit mask.”

The secretary brought in a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, two glasses, mini-sausages, and slices of orange. She placed the tray on the coffee table next to a stack of newspapers and magazines, and filled our glasses before leaving.

“Welcome to Kinshasa.” Citoyen Bolingo raised his flute, keeping his eyes on me as he sipped his champagne. “How was your stay in Dakar?”

“Very pleasant.”

“Did you visit the Slave House?”

“Of course.”

“When I was there, years ago, I was ashamed to be reminded of the role we Africans played in that trade,” he said, taking another sip.

“It was a moving experience.”

“Dakar may be the Paris of Africa,” he said, “but you will soon discover the richness of the culture of Zaire.” He picked up a sausage with a toothpick. “I would like you to put on a production for the maréchal and the diplomatic community. I like the idea of a fusion of modern and traditional techniques. I also think it would be good to give visibility to your work.”

“I need a few months to train the dancers and work on the choreography.”

“Let me know when you think you’ll be ready.” He bit into the sausage and chewed. “The director told me you were born in Haiti. What’s that country like?”

“It’s like Africa in a lot of ways. I guess one could say the black man is atavistic.”

“Man only?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Just teasing,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You sound so academic. I like that.”

The phone rang again. He walked to his desk to answer it. “Tell the maréchal I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

I took that as a cue to leave.

 

* * *

 

On the following day, I went to the institute an hour before my class to speak to the music instructor about composing the music for the production. I found him in front of an instrument made of different-sized wooden bars on a horizontal rack. Hitting the keys with a stick, he created melodies and harmonies. I stood at the threshold of the open door and listened.

“Mbote,” I said when he looked up.

He smiled, rested the sticks next to the instrument. “What can I do for you?”

I sat on a chair across from him, asked if he would like to work on a project with me, then discussed my idea for the performance. “I thought it would be nice if you could compose the music. I like your work.”

“Kitoko, that sounds beautiful.” He picked up the sticks again, hit on the instrument enthusiastically. “My malimbe thinks so too.”

“Your what?”

“Some people call it a xylophone,” he said. “When do we start?”

“I’m not coming to the institute tomorrow. But if you don’t mind, you can stop by my house in the afternoon.”

 

* * *

 

When the doorbell rang, I expected to find the music instructor but instead of his frail figure, Citoyen Bolingo stood before me.

“You look surprised,” he said. “Are you expecting someone?”

“The music instructor is supposed to come by so we can talk about the performance.”

“You didn’t waste any time.”

I smiled awkwardly, leaving him standing there, holding a brown shopping bag.

“May I come in?” he said, reminding me of my manners.

“I’m sorry. Please, do.” I led him into the living room.

“This is for you.” He handed me the shopping bag and looked around. “Your place is cozy.”

I took a seat across from him, stared at the bag, wondering what it might contain.

“Open it,” he suggested. I found a mask of three pointed heads. “That’s a chief mask of the Pende tribe. I noticed you liked African art when you were in my office.”

“This is beautiful!” I placed the mask next to me, and removed a book on the history of Zaire that was in the bag.

“Maybe we can talk about it sometime. How about dinner the day after tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said, as casually as I could.

“I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”

I thought he was a little forward, but didn’t mind. In fact, I liked his direct style.

“Eight thirty is better,” I responded to hide my eagerness.

“I look forward to sharing dinner with you,” he said, walking toward the door.

 

* * *

 

I had been ready for more than fifteen minutes and had been waiting in a frenzy of anticipation when Citoyen Bolingo picked me up at eight thirty. “Ready to go?” he asked, as soon as I opened the door.

“I’m taking you to my favorite Belgian restaurant,” he said, opening the door to the passenger seat of his Mercedes-Benz. “You mind if I listen to the news?”

I didn’t mind, though I would have preferred to talk. I wasn’t the least interested in the local news that I knew was censored and that had no other purpose than to spread the maréchal’s propaganda. He, however, listened attentively as he drove down Boulevard du 30 Juin, Kinshasa’s main avenue, named for the date the country had gained its independence from Belgium.

“Allow me,” he said when I reached for the door’s handle. He got out of the car, walked around to the other side.

The Belgian hostess greeted him with a smile, and he shook her hand. “Your table is ready,” she said, leading us toward the back.

The numerous plants and the grotto made me think of pictures I had seen of the Pygmy jungle. I studied the menu in awe, thinking a meal for two represented the average Zairian’s monthly wage.

“I’ve never had Belgian food before,” I said, unsure of what to order.

“The Belgians are known for their culinary art. Let me order for you.”

“Have you been to Belgium?”

“I studied at the Université catholique de Louvain,” he said, looking up from the menu. “The buttermilk soup with apples is a good appetizer. That’s what I’m having.”

“I’ll try it.”

“I recommend the beef stewed in red wine with pearl onions and mushrooms. You’ll like it.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the expert.”

“I’m having the sautéed rabbit with cherry beer and dried cherries.”

The waitress took our order and returned with a bottle of Saint-Émilion that he tasted, expressing his approval with a nod. She poured the wine and said she would return soon with our first course.

Citoyen Bolingo gazed at me, and I wished the waitress had left a menu so I could hide behind it. I was relieved when she returned with the soup. I realized that I had eaten too quickly; he was only halfway through. I listened to the sound of water from the grotto and finally began to relax.

“What convinced you to come to Africa?” He refilled my glass after the waitress took our bowls away.

“My great-grandmother told me that this is where my soul belongs.”

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Is that so?” He seemed amused. “I see you’re also a storyteller.”

I smiled faintly, disappointed that he didn’t believe me.

The waitress placed the main course on the table. “You should try the rabbit,” he said, placing a piece on my plate. “What did your boyfriend think about your coming to Africa?”

“How did you know I had a boyfriend?”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t.”

I guessed he would have been more than surprised to hear I didn’t have a boyfriend until after I graduated college. “I broke up with him before I left New York.”

“Why?”

“All he’s interested in is making money.”

His laugh surprised me. “Making money is not always a bad thing.”

“There’s more to life than that.”

“Like what?” He watched me think, and when he realized I couldn’t come up with an answer, he went on asking what I wanted out of life.

“I haven’t decided.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Are you sure?”

“What about you? What do you want out of life?”

“To change the destiny of my people.”

“How do you intend to do that?” I held his stare for the first time, wishing to penetrate the world behind his eyes.

“You’ll find out when we get to know each other better. What would you like for dessert?” he asked in a dismissive voice, making me think my question had been indiscreet.