Chapter 7

A man’s Conscience, and his Judgement is the same thing;

and as the Judgement, so also the Conscience may be erroneous.

—Thomas Hobbes

Rather than bringing the pleasure I’d anticipated, the content of the letter from Pépé tied a knot in the pit of my stomach and made me reconsider the precarious nature of my relationship with Bolingo. Exhausted and demoralized, I was restless for hours until I finally came to terms with the fact that Pépé’s feelings were the product of values that I didn’t want to be reminded of. The words from a single sentence repeated over and over in my head: What can you expect from a married man?

I tried to write her back and, after drafting several versions that I tore up for being too abrupt, I finally came up with one that I thought was appropriate, though still quite brief.

 

Dear Pépé,

You asked me what I expect from a married man. I’ll try to answer you as honestly as I can. I’m sure it will sound as ambiguous to you as it does to me: I don’t care if he’s married. I’m letting life take its course, and I’m ready to accept the consequences, even if that makes me immoral.

 

Take care,

Iris

 

Having shared my thoughts on paper, I felt relieved. But as the sun set that day, I felt tormented again and decided to visit Amba. On that overcast, humid, and heavy evening, we sat on her porch, discussing my relationship with Bolingo.

“The point is, you two are not dancing to the same tune,” she said, putting ice cubes in two glasses. “As far as you’re concerned, you should have him to yourself.” She poured whiskey into one of the glasses. The bottle was probably a gift from the general because only the wealthy could afford expensive imported drinks.

“I don’t want to be a mistress,” I said, fanning myself with a newspaper while hoping for rain.

“You may not want to be, but you are.”

“What will my family think?”

Amba sucked her teeth. “How are they going to know if they’re not here? You think my family in Bandacar knows what I’m up to? Just keep Bolingo at bay when they come to visit.” It suddenly began to pour. “A woman like you can scare men away,” she told me, then went inside for a moment to close the windows. “You may be in love, but you don’t have the financial dependency that makes men think a woman will always be there.”

The phone rang and Amba left to answer it, returning a minute later. “The general’s going to give me money. I’ll be right back,” she said.

“Don’t you feel uncomfortable taking money from him?”

“I’m a television journalist. People expect me to look good. You think I can do that on my lousy salary?”

She made up her face, changed her wrapper for a dressier one, replaced her T-shirt with a matching top, put on dressy shoes, and picked up an umbrella from behind the door.

“I’ll be back in less than an hour,” she said, walking out into the rain.

Watching the stillness of the night, I dozed off until Amba’s footsteps woke me from a light sleep.

“Nsango nini? What’s happening?” she asked.

“Nsango té.”

She changed back into the same wrapper and T-shirt she had on before she left. As she counted a handful of new bills, her face became increasingly devoid of expression.

“Don’t you want a family?” I asked.

“Of course I do. But until I meet the man who will take me for his wife, life must go on.” She lit a cigarette. “There are two types of women,” she said, and blew smoke in the air. “The independent one wants freedom and is concerned with building a career; she’s the mistress type. The life of the other is built around her husband and her children. She accepts whatever her husband does as long as he comes back and pays the bills. I can play each role separately. But you want to be both at once.” Amba shrugged and opened the bottle of whiskey.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Absolutely not. It just makes you frustrated,” she said as she sipped from her glass.

I wanted to believe Amba’s argument made sense, but I knew I was in a relationship that would be condemned at home. “I don’t think I will renew my contract with the institute.”

“What are you running from?”

I didn’t answer. I was absorbed by that feeling that kept coming back. A feeling that I felt, for the very first time, that day of the fight in the school cafeteria. I felt it in Dr. Connelly’s office and again when Wanda attacked me for having white parents. When I returned to Haiti for Hagathe’s funeral, it would sometimes grab hold of me. I was determined not to dwell on it this time, but to try to understand and even give it a name. I think it was a combination of fear, rejection, anger, sorrow, callousness, and pity. It was also the need to find a sense of self and belonging.

“I hate being different,” I said.

“Your difference is your charm, ma chère.”

She went inside and returned with a can of sardines and a loaf of bread that she placed on the table. As we ate in silence, I continued to think about Bolingo and my attraction to him and decided that it was the self-confidence and pride that his presence exuded. Something about him commanded respect and enveloped him in a mystery that stimulated my curiosity. He also possessed the traits that in the past had attracted me to other men; leadership qualities: dedication and determination. Yet, I was annoyed with myself that I found him irresistible. Drunk with whiskey and thoughts of Bolingo, I finally fell asleep on the mattress Amba had placed on the floor for me.

 

* * *

 

On my way home the next morning, I drove by the imposing SOZACOM building on Boulevard du 30 Juin. Floating high above was the yellow, green, and red flag, with a black hand holding a torch. In front of the building, musicians and dancers performed their daily celebration to give thanks to God for their leader, whose voice rang out from loudspeakers throughout the country, as he launched a daily reminder to those who considered opposition.

“Mama bo?”

“Moko!”

“Papa bo?”

“Moko!”

“Molikili bo?”

“Moko!”

“Parti bo?”

“Moko!”

How many mothers? How many fathers? How many nations? How many political parties? To those questions, Zairians enthusiastically answered, “Only one!” Blinded with fanaticism and fatalism, they confirmed the slogan, even though they lacked the means to feed, clothe, educate, and shelter their families. Intoxicated with daily propaganda, they were oblivious to the corruption, brutality, greed, illiteracy, and fear that imprisoned their lives.