Chapter 6

Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.

—Shakespeare

What have you been up to?” asked Amba, who had stopped by to visit.

“I had dinner with Citoyen Bolingo the other night.”

“I ran into his wife at the supermarket yesterday,” she said, looking into her pocket-sized mirror.

“He’s married?” I should have known a man in his position had to be, especially an African. “Why didn’t he say so?”

“Maybe it’s because you didn’t ask. Anyway, what difference does it make?” She stretched out her legs as she spoke.

“I can’t date a married man.”

A broad, open smile flashed on her face. “That’s not unusual in our culture—”

“Never mind!” A wave of annoyance covered me, a taste of disappointment lingering in my mouth. I didn’t want to talk about Citoyen Bolingo anymore. “What would you like to drink?”

“Do you have a beer?” Amba asked, then followed me to the kitchen.

I took two bottles of Primus from the refrigerator. “Had I known he was married, I wouldn’t have gone out with him,” I said, suddenly willing to discuss him again.

“There’s nothing wrong with dating a married man,” Amba insisted. She took a seat at the kitchen table and poured her beer into a chilled glass. “Many African men have more than one wife.”

After Amba was gone, I continued to think about Citoyen Bolingo, even though I was aware it was not a good idea to allow him to invade my thoughts as much as he did. When the telephone rang, I didn’t feel like answering it, but its insistent sound prompted me to pick up the receiver.

“How are you?” said the immediately recognizable deep voice.

“Fine.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No.”

“I wanted to know if you’re free this evening.”

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Tomorrow evening?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Give me a call when you have time,” he said and hung up.

 

* * *

 

Unable to reconcile my desire to see Citoyen Bolingo with my scruples, I spent more and more time at the dance studio to keep my mind occupied. One afternoon, I noticed his car in front of the institute. My heart skipping a beat, I considered rushing back inside to avoid him.

“Mademoiselle Odys, Citoyen Bolingo would like to see you. His driver is waiting for you.” I hadn’t noticed that Ngwendu was standing right behind me. “Come with me,” he went on, and I followed him to the black Mercedes-Benz. “This is Miss Odys,” he told the driver, who was leaning on the vehicle.

Grateful for the silence in the car, I closed my eyes and thought about what Citoyen Bolingo could possibly want to tell me. I didn’t realize that the car had actually arrived at his office building until the driver opened the door.

“Citoyen Bolingo is waiting for you,” the secretary said. “Please go right ahead.”

I knocked at the door and waited to be invited in.

As soon as I sat across from him, he asked, “Why are you avoiding me?”

I shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I like to be direct with people and expect the same courtesy. If I have said or done anything inappropriate, you should tell me.”

Turning away from his stare, I said, “I found out that you are married.”

He peered at me with amusement. “Is that what it is?” he asked, quickly changing to a look of innocence and admiration.

I avoided his eyes. “You’re talking about adultery.”

“You’re assuming I want to take you to bed?” he asked with a smile that seemed ironic or maybe sarcastic. I wasn’t sure. “The word adultery doesn’t exist in my language.”

“It does in mine and has a definite meaning to me,” I said, aware of the level of discomfort the conversation had caused.

He held my glare and, after a moment of challenging silence, said that he would drive me back to the institute.

I quickly noticed that he was driving in the opposite direction. “This is not the way to the institute,” I said.

“I know. I want to show you something.”

He drove deep into one of the most deprived areas of Kinshasa. People emerged from muddy alleys. In front of dark cinder-block hovels, women pounded cassava or plantains with mortars. Piles of rotten garbage accumulated on street corners and in vacant lots. Music blasted in the air.

“Do you remember asking me what my purpose in life is? Well, it is to fight poverty and, as you can see, there’s a lot of it here.” He turned the car around, drove back the way we had come, away from the festering shantytown. “I like you,” he said out of the blue.

I cast a curious glance at him. “You don’t even know me.”

“More than you think.”

“What do you know about me?”

He turned onto the street where my car was parked. “I know you’re a tree about to be rooted.”

 

* * *

 

The following day Citoyen Bolingo rang my bell. It was still hard for me to get used to the way people just dropped by without calling, even when they had access to a phone.

“What’s this malimbe doing here?” he asked, frowning.

“The music instructor and I are working on the production.”

“Why don’t you work at the institute?”

“Because there’s no interruption here,” I said, walking toward the instrument. “I’ve been teaching myself to play.”

“Why would you want to do that? Women don’t play the malimbe.”

“Don’t be so traditional!” I picked up the two sticks, hesitantly hit some chords. Pleased with the timid sound that came out, I set my eyes on him invitingly. “Try it.”

He sat on my chair’s armrest, and a streak of sun shone on his forehead, glistening over his dark skin. I became nervous when he covered my hand with his and brought it close to his eyes. My hand grew moist and I removed it.

“How would you like to go dancing tomorrow night?”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on. Tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll pick you up around eleven.”

 

* * *

 

I followed him inside the nightclub, comfortable in the white ankle-length embroidered linen dress that contrasted well with my complexion. Most of the patrons were expatriates, with the exception of a few members of the elite class, since the average Zairian couldn’t afford to frequent this kind of place.

The music ranged from rhythm-and-blues to disco, salsa, reggae, and soukous. We watched couples dance while we sipped champagne. When the slow zouk of Martinique and Guadeloupe filled the room, he took me by the hand and led me to the floor. As our bodies moved closer together, I felt his strong yet gentle grip around my waist, and I rested my head on his shoulder. Then suddenly I imagined the Zairian women looking at me with disapproval and a surge of guilt came over me.

Bolingo stared at me with a puzzled expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t be dancing so close to you,” I said, smiling hesitantly.

He pulled me close to him again, a triumphant smile on his face. “Don’t be silly.”

I offered no resistance and was willing to let myself go, at least until the music was over. A feeling of oblivion allowed me to let down my guard.

When we reached the villa, he kept the motor running and offered me his hand. “How about lunch in the countryside tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty.”

Lying in bed that night, I thought about his intriguing eyes and his confident stride and realized there was a forceful calm about him that I found very attractive. In my dream that night, an oversized face of an already big Mambo Lolotte appeared. I heard her say, “Your godmother’s prayers have been heard. It’s up to you now.” When I woke up I felt her presence in the room, and recalled the icon of Ezili Fréda holding her bleeding heart, pierced with an arrow. I turned on the radio and fell back to sleep. I dreamed no more that night.

 

* * *

 

The next day as we headed to the countryside, I admired the imposing mountains and lush greenery. “It’s a shame that people here are so poor when the land is so rich,” I commented.

“The problem is that people are allowing the maréchal to get away with too much.” He took his eyes off the road to glance at me. “In the two decades he’s been president, he has done nothing for the population. You probably think I’m a hypocrite because I represent the government that I criticize. But I can do more for my people in the position that I’m in.”

Music came from a large hut in the middle of nowhere. The car slowed and came to a complete stop in front of a white and red billboard advertising Restaurant Papa Dyabanza. The owner smiled broadly when he saw Bolingo and beckoned the waitress to take our order. Slowly, she walked away swaying her hips.

“She looks Haitian,” I said. “In fact, a lot of people here remind me of Haitians.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bolingo replied. “Many Bantus were taken to the New World. My paternal ancestor was a Kiswali broker who made a fortune in the slave trade. He brought people in from the interior to sell to Portuguese buyers.”

“Really?” I exclaimed, stunned that he carried the blood of a slave trader.

“It was such a shameful commerce. But I don’t think he knew he was committing a crime against humanity. At least that’s what I like to believe.”

“Were you born in Kinshasa?” I asked, relieved that he thought the trade was an abomination.

“I was born on the Angola border. My father was also a merchant, whose business suffered after the government closed the Benguela railroad to keep the communists out of Zaire.”

“I’m surprised you’re not a businessman like your Kiswali ancestor and your father.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m the head of a fruit-exporting business managed by one of my uncles.”

“How did you become interested in politics?”

“Mon Dieu, you sound like a journalist!”

“Am I prying?”

“Not at all. It’s no secret. When I was growing up, I watched my father collaborate with Patrice Lumumba to help form regional organizations to secure our freedom from Belgium. Now that you know everything about me, how would you like to see my private retreat? It’s only a few kilometers away.”

“Everything?”

“Everything you need to know for now.” Bolingo handed a bill to the waitress, told her to keep the change. He smiled at me, and I returned his smile. “Is that a yes?”

“Why not?” I said, surprised by my decision.

 

* * *

 

We left the main street and turned onto a rutted road where a burgundy cottage stood, hidden behind trees that I couldn’t identify. From a nearby bush garden I could smell wild flowers.

“I come here to rest and be alone. An old couple from my native village keeps an eye on it for me,” Bolingo said, opening a window. “They live down the road.”

We sat in an open hut in the backyard. “Does your wife come here?”

He avoided a direct answer. “You’re my first guest.”

I held his stare, then looked away.

“Come here.”

I moved to the bamboo seat next to him, and he rested his head on my lap.

I patted his hair, hesitantly at first. “You need a haircut.”

“I was supposed to have one this morning but didn’t get around to it. Want to do it? I have my trimmer in the car,” he said, sitting up.

He came back with a black leather kit and a towel. Threatening clouds covered the sun, and it suddenly grew darker. “What would happen if I mess up your hair?”

“You would cause me shame.”

Unable to control my unsteady fingers, I put down the trimmer and combed his hair instead, thinking about the job I’d agreed to do, fully aware that I didn’t know anything about cutting hair.

“How about giving me that haircut?” he said in a serious voice.

I imagined putting an irreparable dent in the middle of his head. Still, I picked up the trimmer in a decisive gesture, then changed my mind. “I think you should let your barber do it,” I said, removing the towel and putting the trimmer down.

“Mama Nzari,” he said, turning to look at me with a mischievous smile, “I was only kidding. Did you actually believe I was going to let you mess up my hair? He pulled me close to him, wrapped his arms around my waist, and looked into my eyes. His lips touched mine. I kissed him back with a force that shamelessly drew my desire out of its scrupulous nest. I closed my eyes, savored the chills that traveled through my veins, and responded to the galvanized sensation with passion and abandon.

He carried me to the master bedroom, kissed me again. His hands slowly explored my body. As he undressed me, his touch made me quiver. Our bodies intertwined. Chills and warmth filled me. I welcomed him, moved to his rhythm, letting out moans of delight until the slow pleasure escalated into the sublime explosion of sexual gratification.

Resting on top of him, I listened to the thudding of his heart.

“Why did you call me Mama Nzari?”

“Nzari means river. When I was a young child,” he said, “I used to fear being swallowed by the river, yet another part of me was insanely drawn to it. I was like a doomed sailor who had heard a mermaid’s song.” He stroked my back as he spoke. “Whenever people wanted to find me they would go to the river. My mother used to tell me that one day Mama Nzari would take me away from this life to an unknown world under the river.”