Chapter 18

There are times in politics when

you must be on the right side and lose.

—J.K. Galbraith

I was not prepared for what came next. Now that I think about it, I should have known that anyone who puts himself in the maréchal’s path is likely to be attacked. I think up until then I had it in my mind that Bolingo was practically invulnerable, beyond the reach of the leopard’s claws.

“Something has come up,” he said, taking a seat next to me on the sofa. “The maréchal has heard about an underground political party from one of his spies in Belgium and he’s getting nervous.”

The words rang heavily in my head, tightened a knot in my stomach. I studied the lines of worry on Bolingo’s face and the intensity in his eyes. “Are you in danger?”

“Could be. I just need to act quickly and smoothly,” he said without a trace of urgency.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, unable to disguise the worry in my own voice.

“They think the leader is in Belgium. The party members are spreading false information, and that gives me time to get you, my daughter, and her mother out of the country. We talked about a divorce last week,” he added matter-of-factly.

Under other circumstances, I would have been relieved to hear the news that he casually slipped in the conversation. But now, the pressing political situation made it seem banal.

“First,” he continued, “you’re going to have to move out of here. You cannot stay with Amba. In fact, she shouldn’t even know where you are.” Silence filled the room, except for the humming of the ceiling fan. “I thought of taking you to the cottage,” he said after a pause. “But in your condition you should be close to a doctor.”

“I don’t understand why I have to go into hiding,” I finally said.

He paced the floor. “A lot of people know about our relationship. The Secret Service might come looking for you if they can’t find me.”

Silence again. Immersed in thoughts of what to do, it came to mind that my friend Barbara and her family had gone on their annual leave a week earlier and they wouldn’t be back for another three weeks. She had left me the keys to their home to water her plants since her servant was also on vacation. Her place would be ideal. I had met Barbara at a reception at the American ambassador’s residence months earlier. She was from Atlanta and married to a Jewish diplomat from Long Island. We had gotten together a few times, but didn’t see each other frequently because she was kept busy driving her two boys to their activities and socializing with the other American wives from the embassy.

“I can stay at Barbara’s place,” I told Bolingo. “I’m sure she and her husband wouldn’t mind.”

The lines on his forehead softened. “You should call to let them know you’re staying there. Do you have a number for them?”

I told him yes. Thank God Barbara’s husband, at the last minute, had remembered to give me the telephone number at the house they rented in Maine.

“It will only be for a few days, long enough for me to get you on a flight to New York. Now, let’s take care of details. When your servant comes in the morning, tell him you’re going home for a month and that he doesn’t have to show up for work. Give him a month’s pay. You don’t have to say anything to the guards. Let them come to work as usual. I’ll take care of them before I leave the country.”

“When will that be?”

“Michelle and her mother are leaving for Brazzaville in two days. I’m going to Brussels after you leave. As soon as I get there I will see a lawyer about the divorce. Michelle will attend a boarding school there. Her mother wants to stay in Brazzaville. She apparently has some ties there.”

I then remembered Amba had said his wife had a lover in Brazzaville, though at that time I had thought it was unfounded gossip.

“Why do you look worried?” he said. “Everything will be fine. I will meet you in New York for the baby’s birth. As soon as the divorce is final, I want us to get married. We’ll start all over. This time it will be done on your terms.”

“What about your business?” I asked, suddenly concerned about how we would live.

“I’m going to sell it to a Belgian who has been trying to go in with me as a partner. I’ll start another business in Brussels.”

“So you’re giving up politics?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m going to operate from overseas for a while. It’s only going to be a temporary exile,” he said. “I’ll be back here as soon as the party is firmly implanted.”

We talked about how I was going to get to Barbara’s place without raising any suspicions. After Bolingo left and after I had thought of what I was going to say, I dialed the number Barbara’s husband had given me and told them I was getting some work done on the villa and that I preferred to be away from all the dust and paint.

 

* * *

 

As I drove to Marie Madeleine’s house the next morning, the vibrant sounds and the acrid smells had no effect on me. My mind was set on the plan I needed to execute. I parked the car in front of the gate, hoping her mother would be well and that she wouldn’t chase me away.

Marie Madeleine’s sister Huguette opened the gate. Marie Madeleine was in her wheelchair; even though it was hot, she had on a sweater. The sound of Franco’s gentle and melodic voice came out of an old boom box that stood on a stool next to her. She didn’t seem to mind the static. I remembered, at that moment, that I never did go with her and Ana to ladies’ night, as she had proposed that afternoon at the Intercontinental Hotel bar. Hair braided neatly in cornrows, she looked much better than she had when I visited her in the hospital.

“Mama nangai,” she said, “I was just thinking about you.”

“How are you?”

She shrugged. “I’m here.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Her mental state got so bad she had to be hospitalized.”

The children came running into the living room, and Marie Madeleine told them to go play outside. She lowered the music and smiled faintly.

“Ozali malamu?” she asked in a soft voice.

I told her I was fine and moved to the edge of my seat, closer to her. “I need your help. I have to find a way to leave the villa with my luggage without stirring the guard’s suspicion. I can’t give any details now.”

She pushed the stop button on the boom box and seemed to go into deep thought. “Huguette’s probably in the kitchen. Can you get her?” she finally said.

 

* * *

 

I drove with Huguette to Ana’s house, also in the Matongué district, famous for its nightclubs. It hadn’t rained in a few days so the roads were dusty, and the humidity high.

“Hey!” Ana cried when she noticed me walking behind Huguette.

This was the first time I had gone to her house, and also the first time I saw her without makeup. Huguette told her that Marie Madeleine wanted to see her and that it was important. She didn’t bother to change the old wrapper and stained T-shirt she was wearing. “Let’s go,” she said, dragging her slippers to the backseat of my car.

Once Marie Madeleine explained the situation, Ana agreed to help. “I need to go home and change,” she said. “I can’t go to Iris’s neighborhood looking like this.”

“Don’t bother,” Marie Madeleine told her. “Huguette, show her where my clothes are.” She turned to Ana again. “We don’t have the same shoe size, but you can fit into my sister’s.”

Minutes later, Ana showed up in the living room with her face made up with too much eye shadow. Ironically, the outfit she had chosen was the same one Marie Madeleine had worn on the day I’d met her on the plane. Marie Madeleine then told her sister to bring the two suitcases she used when she traveled to Lomé to buy merchandise. We agreed that I would go home and that Ana and Huguette would follow minutes later with the empty suitcases.

“Did anybody come looking for me?” I asked the guard, who was dozing off under the almond tree.

“No one came,” he said, opening his sleepy eyes.

“I’m expecting two citoyennes who want to show me the merchandise they brought back from Lomé.”

“They probably stopped at a nganda for a beer or two before coming over,” he snickered.

I glanced at the empty beer bottles under his chair, wondering how much help he would be if someone tried to break in. I sat on the veranda and waited.

Twenty minutes later, Ana’s beat-up Renault stopped in front of the villa. The guard didn’t offer to help. Both women pretended to struggle under the weight of suitcases that were in fact empty.

“Hey, papa!” I heard Ana say. “You just go on and sleep off the beer you’ve been drinking. We’ll manage.”

The guard just sat there in silence. While Huguette and Ana ate the noodle casserole I had made the night before, I packed some of my most valuable belongings—among them, Hagathe’s picture. I also took a few pieces of the baby’s layette.

Huguette and Ana didn’t have to pretend this time. The suitcases were quite full and heavy. When the guard noticed me with the women, he hurried to carry the loads to Ana’s car.

“Citoyen,” I said, looking into his reddish eyes, “if Citoyen Bolingo comes by, tell him to let himself in. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

I sat in the driver’s seat, looking into the rearview mirror to make sure Ana’s car was behind mine. The sun peeped through clouds with a false promise. I turned onto a street perpendicular to mine, stopped the car so Ana and Huguette could transfer the two suitcases to my car. Fifteen minutes later, Bolingo met me in front of Barbara’s place. He took the suitcases inside the high-rise apartment building the American Embassy owned on Boulevard du 30 Juin.