Chapter 8
Oh, that the tongue would quiet stay,
And let the hand its power display.
A boaster and a liar are much about the same thing.
Little bantams are great at crowing.
—Charles Haddon Spurgeon
I read the note from Bolingo urging me to call. After staring at the phone for a moment, I picked up the receiver and dialed his number slowly in order to give myself time to change my mind. As soon as he recognized my voice, he said he wanted to take me to his country home that afternoon. Lying in the bathtub, I envisioned our naked bodies exploring, discovering. The anticipation of being in my lover’s arms translated into longing, eagerness, and fear.
The sounds of crickets filled the cottage. Their shrill chirping sounds reminded me of the joyous cries piercing through the dancers’ throats in front of the SOZACOM building, as they executed movements with the same vitality their ancestors did centuries ago.
* * *
“What’s behind the maréchal’s authenticity?”
“It represents his eccentricity,” Bolingo said, stretching out his arms above his head. A white sheet covered him from the waist down.
“Some of my students go a full day with nothing in their stomachs, but they still dance and smile.”
He moved closer to me and rested his head on a hand. “Hopefully, one day they’ll be hungry enough to conquer their fear of the maréchal.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you working for this corrupt government.”
He wrapped his arms around my naked body. “What are your plans for the Easter vacation?”
“Why?”
“I’d like you to come with me to Paris.”
“I would love to,” I said, recalling my last trip there, when Mom lectured at the Sorbonne about her book on Haiti. The prospect of spending time with Bolingo became increasingly exciting, and I looked forward to spending entire nights in his arms.
* * *
The taxi stopped in front of the Georges V. Located in the 8th arrondissement, close to the Champs-Élysées, it was nothing like the three-star hotel in the Latin Quarter where I had stayed with my family. Seventeenth-century tapestries and sculptures decorated the lobby; long-stemmed flowers filled Oriental vases. My feet sank into the plush carpet as we made our way to our suite on the sixth floor. I pulled a cord, and the pastel blue drapes uncovered a view of the Eiffel Tower under a misty sky.
Bolingo took off his abacost. Lying in bed in his underwear, he made phone calls while I unpacked and hung up our clothes. “What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked.
“I’m going to meet Antoine, Pépé’s friend,” I replied.
“I have a meeting with members of my party.”
“What party?”
“Come here.” He patted a place next to him on the bed, inviting me to sit down. “I once told you I wanted to change the destiny of my people.”
“You never told me how.”
“I’m an opposition leader,” he said, then took a deep breath. “I’m going to meet with members of the party I represent. To avoid suspicion, we meet on neutral ground.”
I stared at him, at a loss for words.
“My people deserve a better future,” he added, folding his hands under his head.
Political parties, other than the maréchal’s, were banned in Zaire. But stronger than the fear I felt for his life was my desire to know how I compared to his wife. “Does she know about it?” I asked and immediately realized I was being irrational.
“You mean my wife?”
“Why do you have to call her ‘my wife’? Doesn’t she have a name?” I said, expecting an explosion.
“Okay. I won’t call her my wife.”
The calm in his voice annoyed me. “You just did,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest. “Sometimes I would rather pretend she doesn’t exist.”
He curled his upper lip. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked, holding my stare. “You might as well get used to the idea. She does exist. Neither you nor I can ignore it.”
There was a gnawing feeling in my heart. I sucked in my breath, slowly letting out the air. I suddenly felt as though the room was suffocating me. “I’m going for a walk,” I announced, heading out of the suite. Turning toward him I said, “I may not want to get used to the idea.”
He ignored my comment. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“No idea.”
He reached for the remote control on the night table. “I’ll meet you here at about eight o’clock for dinner.”
* * *
I walked aimlessly on the Champs-Élysées, obsessed with the notion of changing my own destiny. Trying not to dwell on the life that was mine, I admired clothes draped on smiling mannequins. I picked up a copy of Jeune Afrique magazine from a newsstand and ordered mint tea at a sidewalk café.Tourists strolled by, many of whom were American teenagers on school trips who rushed into stores to buy souvenirs. Others posed for pictures.
* * *
The elevator door in Antoine’s apartment building, with its diamond shapes that opened and closed like an accordion, reminded me of the window gate over the fire escape in my Manhattan apartment. Inside the tiny elevator that could only fit three, I focused on the moving metal ropes.
The apartment was spacious and tastefully decorated with antique furniture. Antoine was wearing a navy-blue cardigan and gray cotton pants. His light brown eyes projected kindness, and his square jaw suggested a determined character. Pleased with the wooden Bantu sculpture I brought as a gift, he immediately found a place for it on a bookshelf.
“So, Monsieur Lemont, my sister told me you’re a journalist.”
“Yes, I work for a television station. But please, call me Antoine,” he answered and settled on the sofa.
“How did you meet Pépé?” I asked, just for the sake of conversation.
“I was a guest speaker at Northwestern University, and I met her through a mutual friend who teaches journalism there. Do you miss Haiti? Your sister constantly talks about her country.”
“I grew up in Westchester, in New York.”
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“Actually, we’re half sisters.”
“Would you be my guest for dinner tonight? Your sister wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t invite you.”
“I’d love to, but I’m here with someone.”
“No problem. I’m inviting the two of you to my favorite African restaurant.”
“I have to check with him. But it couldn’t be tonight.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“I’ll call to confirm.”
* * *
Six o’clock. I didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet, so I took the métro to the Latin Quarter and browsed in bookstores. A man’s angry voice shrieked on the platform of the Maubert-Mutualité station. His dirty hair was dreaded unfashionably, and his unkempt beard looked like black pepper grains on his charcoal skin.
“We’re not welcome here,” he ranted in accented French. “When you come to our country, we let you have the best of everything, even the best of our women. But when we come here, you treat us like dirt!” The man, who sounded African, roared and scratched his filthy head.
He and the Haitian woman in the New York subway, victims of loneliness and hostility, had crossed the line of reason in their quest for a better life. New soil could indeed be detrimental to the survival of a transplanted tree, but would life have been better at home?
* * *
I returned to our hotel room and looked through the issue of Jeune Afrique and thought about my earlier conversation with Bolingo. I didn’t understand how he hoped to reconcile his official position with his aspiration to change Zairian society.
A soft knock interrupted the silence. “Delivery for madame,” Bolingo said, handing me a dozen red roses. I hugged and thanked him for the beautiful bouquet and quickly requested some plausible explanation of how he planned to achieve his political objectives.
“It’s a simple plan,” he said. “I’m here to negotiate funds for students and will do the same in other European countries and in the United States.” He sat on the sofa, legs stretched out. “My goal is to educate abroad as many students as possible. Hopefully, the exposure to democracy will rub off. Once they’ve learned about democracy, they will want to challenge the maréchal’s hegemony.”
“You actually think those students will return home, considering how bad things are there?” I asked.
“Of course some of them will stay abroad. But no matter how bad things are at home, many will miss their country and will want to go back.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered as if making a love confession: “Enlighten the people generally, and tyranny and oppression of body and mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day.”
“You’re brilliant!”
“Thank you, but it’s not original, and I can’t remember who said it.”
“You’re still brilliant.”
“I’m trying to remember who I quoted,” I said a little while later, as we stepped inside the elevator on our way to dinner. “I remember now! It was Thomas Jefferson.”
Decorated in gray and gold, the restaurant in the hotel’s lobby had a view of the courtyard and garden. The tables were covered with exquisite tablecloths and set with fine silverware. I studied the menu and looked forward to another extraordinary dining experience.
“We belong together,” Bolingo said, patting my hand soothingly. “I need you by my side.”
A driver from the Zaire Embassy drove us to Quai André Citroën to meet the head of Le Haut Conseil de la Francophonie, whose mission was to integrate France into the cultural, economic, scientific, and technical development of French-speaking countries. We left the office after a discussion on professional training and funding higher education for Zairians. Bolingo had asked the driver not to wait for us, so we caught a taxi on Quai de Grenelle that took us to a café on avenue de Montparnasse. We walked to the back where members of the MDZ, Movement Démocratique Zaïrois, his underground party, waited. They stood to greet Bolingo, who introduced me as a good friend of the party.
“Citoyen Bolingo,” greeted Ngandu, who was a history professor at a Belgian university, “these are the two men I’ve told you about.”
“Gentlemen, thank you for your hard work,” Bolingo said, adding too much sugar to his tea, as usual. “Ngandu has told me about your enthusiasm and dedication.”
“It is a pleasure for us to finally meet you,” said one of the men, who was an accountant. “We will do our best to contribute to MDZ. Do you think it would help to recruit journalists to write about the maréchal’s policies and practices?”
“Good idea,” Bolingo responded. “France, Belgium, and the United States think his dictatorial rule means stability for commerce.” He paused and sipped his tea. “We need to exercise caution with the foreign authorities. The maréchal has corrupted many of them with his wealth.”
“The negative publicity about the maréchal will help us gain international support,” Ngandu added.
“We also need to think of a national strategy to demystify the maréchal and elaborate on our program for social and economic development. This must be done thoughtfully. It will take time. We shouldn’t be too eager.”
Ngandu spoke again after a pause: “I gave them the party’s charter.”
“We’re happy with your leadership,” said the accountant, “but we think you can operate better in exile.”
The other man, a lab technician, spoke for the first time. “Being so close to the maréchal would make you an easy target if he finds out about the party.”
Up until then, all I felt was admiration for Bolingo’s courage to achieve a greater mission in life. But fear seized me as I envisioned the leopard’s claws attacking him.
“I appreciate your concerns,” Bolingo said, and looked at me for the first time since we sat down. “I’ve thought about that. Working close to the maréchal makes me better equipped to fight him. Besides, when you enter politics at this level in a country like ours, you must expect your life to be in danger.” Bolingo smiled courageously and took a pad and a pen from his briefcase. “Let’s work on a plan to get our message to student organizations and to other compatriots living in Europe. Our immediate goal is to implant the party throughout Europe, then in the major provinces in Zaire, and finally in Kinshasa. We will eventually fight for an elected government, a free press, and a fair system of justice. I’m looking at each of you here, each putting your expertise to the service of foreign nations, and I’m thinking that men of your caliber should be helping at home.”
He picked up his pen, and they continued with their plan to destabilize the maréchal’s government. It was difficult for me to concentrate on what they were saying because I couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen to Bolingo.
* * *
The next evening in the restaurant we waited for Antoine while listening to African musicians. A European man in a blue African robe stood out. The sounds coming from his saxophone were as passionate as Manu Dibango’s. It seemed that many of the patrons had lived in Africa. I overheard some of them revel in nostalgia as they exhibited their knowledge of its “exotic” culture.
Leaning close to him, I asked Bolingo, “Why did you tell me about your underground party?”
“If you’re going to share my life, you need to know who I am.” He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips.
Antoine soon arrived and Bolingo stood to introduce himself. As the evening progressed, they talked about the general state of African politics. Antoine predicted that democracy would eventually prevail, even though some leaders were too attached to power.
I listened to them absentmindedly, watching the dancers on the floor and moving my shoulders to the beat of the music.
“Dance with her,” Bolingo encouraged Antoine, who had now stopped talking and was bobbing his head as well.
Heated by the music, the liquor, and the spicy food, we joined the couples on the dance floor. When we came back to the table, Bolingo said to Antoine, “Iris talks about Pépé a lot.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her that when I see her tomorrow. I’m catching an early flight to Chicago.”
* * *
It was two o’clock in the morning when we returned to the hotel. Bolingo stood at the door as I looked up from the bathtub. Smiling at me, he got on his knees, stroked between my thighs, and fondled my breasts. He parted my lips with his, before leading my wet body to the king-size bed.
“Je t’adore,” I whispered, head resting on his chest, wishing to capture the moment. But memory often fades in clouds. Then again, it can emerge unexpectedly in idle moments, making one prisoner of the past.
On the following day, alone in the hotel suite while Bolingo was at a business lunch, I enjoyed the smoked salmon I ordered from room service while listening to Edith Piaf on the radio sing, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” encouraging me to sink into the melancholy. By the time I got to the shrimp and haricots vert with crushed almonds, the lyrics had another effect on me. I realized that I needed to balance the values between the two cultures.
That evening we went to la Comédie-Française. After laughing at Harpagon’s scheme to make money and keep people away from it in Molière’s L’Avare, Bolingo and I took a taxi to rue Mouffetard. As we strolled among the crowd in the narrow medieval streets, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, a light drizzle suddenly turned into heavy rain.
Back in the hotel, Bolingo took off his wet clothes and dried his hair. When I came out of the shower, he was on the phone.
“How’s Michelle? Give her my love . . . Yes, I’m tired . . . We’ll discuss it when I get home . . .”
I slipped under the covers.
“I wonder if it’s going to rain again tomorrow,” Bolingo said after hanging up minutes later.
I pretended to be asleep.
“You’re sleeping already?”
He turned a switch, and darkness flooded the room.