The African Equation (19 page)

‘And what if you had to give death a face? Stop this, Bruno. What kingdom are you talking about? What brotherhood? Are you blind? You don’t have to raise poverty to the rank of prophecy to make the wretched of the earth into the just. You’re talking nonsense, Bruno. I don’t know Africa as well as you do, but what I see with my eyes is irredeemable. And I don’t see any of the things you’re trying to show me … It’s through protest that we lay claim to hope. And these people don’t protest. They flee when they should resist. They quickly gather their kids and their bundles and run blindly. The least sign of a tornado in the distance makes them panic … You want to know what I really think? These people don’t live, they exist, and that’s all.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Monsieur Krausmann. Here, when life loses meaning, it still keeps its substance intact, in other words, that absolute determination that Africans have, never to give up on any single minute of the time that nature grants them.’

‘Even a griot would laugh at your oracle, Bruno. And do you know why? Because it gives him nothing to get his teeth into. When you’re dying of starvation, you don’t give a damn about eulogies and orations because nothing in the eyes of the starving person is worth the illusion of a meal.’

‘We aren’t looking at the same things.’

‘Yes, we are. Except that where you paint a fairy tale, I see a disaster.’

‘Africa is more than the sum of its famines, wars and epidemics.’

‘Then what else is it, in your opinion?’

‘The refusal to—’

‘The refusal to what?’ I cut in. ‘To transcend misfortune, is that it? You can’t turn vomit into a banquet, Bruno. This continent has a serious problem with bad governance, corruption, lack of discipline, lawlessness. Violence is practised here like a priestly vocation. That’s the truth, and there aren’t any others. We’re dealing with a human catastrophe. The people I see here are doomed. As long as they have such irresponsible leaders, they’ll continue to suffer … There’s a rational explanation for bankruptcy. And Africa is bankrupt, my friend. Making it believe the scars on its body are beautiful tattoos is to make it an innocent. Painting an innocent with gold and releasing him into the wild is a recipe for chaos. And chaos is right here, in front of our eyes … Look at them: they’re scared, they’ve lost everything, they’re running without knowing where they’re going, and every day they die of hunger and exhaustion. That’s Africa, Bruno. A foul wound. A mess and a madness. And you don’t gild the image of someone who’s wearing a straitjacket. I’m outraged to hear you praise a scorched land where not even a hint of promise remains. You have to look things in the face and ask yourself the right questions. What’s become of the schools, the training centres, the institutions, the jobs? What’s become of order, justice, democracy, dignity? All I see is flights and raids and rapes, a people without gods or virtues forced out of their homes, at the mercy of thieves and genocidal tyrants, and that’s worse than death.’

‘I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength, Monsieur Krausmann,’ Bruno said, getting to his feet, offended by my diatribe.

‘We aren’t even on the same planet.’

The following morning, the convoy did not leave at the appointed time. A slight sandstorm had blown up, but the real reason for the delay was the young man with the cart. He was on his knees beside his mother, his fist in his mouth. His mother was resting on a mound of sand. Her swarthy complexion had darkened. She seemed to be dying. Dr Juárez, Lotta Pedersen and the two nurses were by her side, with a first-aid box containing a few meagre drugs. Dr Juárez took her blood pressure; the face she made as she put away her stethoscope wasn’t encouraging. The old woman’s breathing was a barely audible hiss. The emergency care she had been given had not woken her. In expectation of a death, the refugees appeared one after the other. A few sympathetic hands came to rest on the shoulders of the young man, who did not even notice. Dr Juárez said something to him in a local dialect. The young man shook his head and bit his fist, no doubt to suppress a sob. When he realised that everyone was hanging on his words, he cleared his throat and declared that for him and his mother the adventure was over. He explained to Dr Orfane that the old woman could no longer bear the jolts of the cart, that the planks of wood had eaten into her flesh and bones, and that there was no point prolonging her ordeal. Dr Juárez tried to persuade him to carry on. She suggested putting a blanket under the old woman’s
body in order to absorb the knocks, while the two nurses offered to take turns pulling the cart. The young man refused categorically. Bruno also intervened. His great, oft-vaunted knowledge of the African factor had led him to think that he could succeed where others had failed. The young man didn’t even listen to him. In fact, he wouldn’t listen to anyone. A family of refugees volunteered to stay with him, but to no avail. He wanted to be alone with his mother and not owe anything to anybody; his torn bundle, his canteen of water and his remaining items of food would be enough for him. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste time because of us.’ After half an hour’s discussion, Dr Juárez gave up, convinced that the young man wouldn’t follow us. After weighing up the pros and cons, the three doctors opted to continue the march without further delay, as the sandstorm looked as if it was likely to get worse.

We limped along for the rest of the day, choosing subsided areas and river beds in order to avoid being spotted. Despite the poor visibility, the guide Jibreel gave the impression that he knew where he was taking us, which helped us overcome our fatigue. Our progress was slowed by the dizziness of the old people. We were aware of the need to keep going because every delay was a danger. Towards evening, the wind died down and the curtain of dust started to disperse. Dr Juárez chose a bare basin for the night.

Since our altercation, Bruno had been avoiding me. The few times our eyes met, he turned away before I had time to give him a sign. I realised how much I had hurt him and I was sorry I hadn’t kept my opinions to myself.

Two boys and a little girl, who seemed to be from the
same family, approached me as I was laying my sleeping bag on a bed of sand. They were dressed in faded vests that hung down over their grazed knees and threadbare shorts. The older of the two boys, who must have been about eight or nine, wore amulets on his arms that were identical to Joma’s. The little girl and the other boy had puffy faces, rheumy eyes and runny noses. They sat down next to me, in silence. I took a can of food from my rucksack. The older boy shook his head and with his chin indicated the torch sticking out of my pocket.

‘Do you want it?’

He nodded.

I held out the torch. He took it in his calloused hands with their grazed knuckles, looked at it with joy, showed it to his brother and sister. From the way he pressed it to him, I understood that he was asking me if he could keep it. I nodded. The three children let out squeals and ran off immediately, for fear I might change my mind. Subsequently, the younger boy came back to collect the can of food and ran to catch up with the two others without turning round. Dr Juárez, who had witnessed our little game, emerged from the shadows and crouched opposite me, two cups of coffee in her hands.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘On the contrary.’

‘Thanks …’

‘I really must apologise for my behaviour yesterday.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. We’re all a bit on edge, and it’s good to get things off your chest from time to time.’

‘I’m not in the habit of being so impolite.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment.’

‘Sometimes, I can’t believe what I’m becoming. It’s as if
I get a kick out of being unpleasant. But that’s not what I’m like. I’m usually the kind of person who backs off when arguments get too heated. After you left, I behaved very badly towards Bruno. That’s why he’s upset with me.’

‘It’s odd, he has the feeling he was the one who behaved badly towards you. He told me about your little row.’

‘No, it’s my fault. Bruno is a good person. I’m the one who was out of control. I admit I’m finding it harder and harder to see things clearly.’

She offered me a cigarette. I told her I had quit when I left university. She thought I had made the right decision. She herself had tried many times, but after two or three months of abstinence she always ended up having one. She took out a lighter, lit her cigarette, puffed at it insistently. I let her smoke in peace, even enjoyed smelling the intoxicating odour of burnt tobacco.

‘We aren’t too far from the camp now,’ she said.

‘I was starting to despair. I’ve hardly slept since I found out we are in Darfur.’

‘You can sleep soundly tonight. We’re no longer in any danger. The area is more or less secured.’

‘More or less?’

‘I mean that the rebels and bandits have stopped operating in this part of Darfur since the African Union sent military units.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

‘As soon as we get to the camp, we’ll inform the authorities that you’re safe and sound. If all goes well, you’ll be back home in less than a week.’

‘Let’s get to the camp first. This country has made me superstitious.’

She laughed, and her dimples showed, emphasising the fineness of her features.

‘What town are you from, Dr Krausmann?’

‘Frankfurt … You can call me Kurt.’

‘Only if you agree to call me Elena.’

‘All right, Elena. It’s a nice name … Are you from Madrid?’

‘Seville.’

‘I love Seville. I’ve been there several times. It’s a wonderful town, and the people are very welcoming.’

‘I haven’t been back for years. My parents moved to Valencia. They run a little restaurant on the coast … Do you have children?’

‘My wife didn’t want any. Or rather, she was in no hurry. Her work wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Is she also a doctor?’

‘She was in marketing … What about you? Do you have children?’

‘My patients are jealous. They don’t like unfair competition.’

Her eyes came back to me, shining like jewels. I let her sip her coffee and puff on her cigarette before asking her if her patients were excessively possessive. She considered my question, seemed to guess what I meant by ‘excessively possessive’, lifted a ravishing eyebrow, but didn’t have time to answer. One of the nurses arrived, looking embarrassed. He didn’t need to say what had brought him. Elena had understood. Once again, duty called, and our conversation was interrupted just as it was getting interesting. She gave me a little wave and stood up. I offered to assist her, but she advised me to get some
rest: the last stage, she said, was often the roughest. Her hand brushed against my shoulder. I almost put my cheek against it. Out of pure reflex. That didn’t escape her. She hastened to follow the nurse. I contented myself with watching her walk away.

I couldn’t get to sleep after that. And not because of the danger.

We reached the Red Cross camp at nightfall, completely exhausted and in a very sorry state. The old people collapsed as soon as they were through the gate, and had to be picked up. The women and children staggered in the dust, mere scraps of flesh wrapped in rags, their mouths drooping with hunger and thirst. We had lost two more of the group on the way and taken turns pulling the sickest. Male nurses came running to meet us. Stretchers were unfolded. Nobody in the camp had been expecting so many people to arrive. Nothing had been prepared for them. Elena tried to see that things were done in the right order, but she soon ran out of energy and had to step aside. A tall, lanky man joined us in the main yard. He was the director of the centre. In his sixties, with stooped shoulders and a large nose, he was a full head taller than any of us. In marked contrast to his affable, gentle manner, his stentorian voice rang out like a whip. He began by issuing instructions to his staff, told the stretcher-bearers to take care of the old people and children first, ordered hot meals and two tents to be got ready, then, once the families had been dispatched and calm restored, he turned to Elena and her team, who, no longer able to stand, had sat down on the ground, their heads bowed and their
arms around their knees. Bruno and I didn’t know if we should go straight to the two tents or wait where we were for our fate to be decided. The director hadn’t taken any particular notice of us. To be honest, there was nothing to distinguish us from the other refugees. Filthy, with our legs as thin as wading birds’ and our downcast expressions, we looked like two scarecrows dumped in a field. The director crouched by Elena, patted her on the wrist in support and helped her to her feet. While Elena, Lotta and Orfane were delivering their report in the director’s office, the two nurses took their leave of us and headed to a wing of the camp. Slowly, the bustle of the families settling into the tents died down and gave way to the hum of a generator. The camp was lit by floodlights as well as a number of anaemic-looking street lamps. You could see the rows of tents around the administrative block, a water tank mounted on metal scaffolding, a second block with lighted windows that looked like an infirmary, a third block with a chimney on top – presumably the kitchens – a glazed hut at the entrance to the camp which served as a guard post, and, somewhat further back, a huge canvas shed with a red cross on it. There was a car park on the south side of the camp, where two ambulances and two Land Rovers stood beneath corrugated-iron canopies. It was like being in a military fort, and nothing like the refugee camps you usually saw on television. No crowds, no rioting, no campfires, no disturbances. Everything seemed scrupulously laid out.

A few minutes later, Lotta Pedersen came to fetch us. She led us to the director’s office, a prefab equipped with cupboards, a computer, padded chairs and shelves filled with medical books and pamphlets, registers, numbered
files arranged in chronological order, hard-cover encyclopedias and a neat pile of paperwork. Elena was sitting slouched on an old sprung sofa, a glass of water in her hand. She looked exhausted, her dimpled face was drawn and her eyelids were drooping. Orfane was perched on the arm of the sofa, his hands crossed over his knee. Having by now been informed who we were, the director received us with great respect, offered us a small carafe of filtered water and waited while we drank. He told us his name was Christophe Pfer, that he was Belgian and that he had been working for the Red Cross for seventeen years. He had the scars to show for it – one on his chin, a souvenir from the war in the Balkans, and a bad knee, the result of an ambush in a forest in El Salvador. He was a genial man – a wise man, too, after two decades spent dealing at close quarters with human stupidity and the problems it caused all over the world. With his curly grey hair, thick moustache and nonchalant demeanour, he reminded me of Lee Marvin in
Cat Ballou
. Like anyone with a radio or access to the internet, he knew about the kidnapping of two Germans by pirates off the coast of Somalia, but had never expected to be welcoming one of them on his own premises. He informed me that the international press was still talking about our kidnapping and that a large-scale search had been launched to find us. I asked him if there was any news of Hans Makkenroth. He had none. Actually, he had difficulty believing it was really me, because he too found it strange that the kidnappers had chosen Sudan instead of Somalia in which to barter our release. Bruno asked if giant posters with his face on them had been displayed on the front of every town hall in France, provoking marches on the Champs-Élysées demanding his release. Pfer had to
admit that nobody knew about his disappearance. Bruno pretended to be shocked, before pointing out that he was no common tourist, but an African in every fibre of his being, that his misadventure was strictly an African affair and that it had absolutely nothing to do with the Western media. Then, aware of the bewilderment he had caused, he made a whole series of self-mocking gestures as if to make up for it. Pfer scratched behind his ear: since humour was inappropriate in these painful circumstances, he must have been wondering if this Frenchman was entirely of sound mind. Nevertheless, he promised to contact our respective embassies as soon as radio contact was established and advised us to have a good bath and a hot meal and go to bed. Bruno asked permission to join ‘his African brothers’ in the tent. He was subtly staking a kind of claim by his request. I winked at him, just to let him know that I understood him and approved. He turned on his heel like a soldier and headed for the tents.

Orfane offered to take care of me for the night. He invited me to his airy, restful quarters, a cabin complete with air conditioning, two padded benches, a small desk, a fitted wardrobe and a narrow but shiny tiled bathroom. I almost fell over backwards when I looked in the mirror above the washbasin. After what I had been through physically and morally, I had been expecting it, except that instead of a castaway, I discovered a shipwreck. I looked like a zombie, with my wild beard, dirty, dishevelled hair, dusty eyes, furrowed cheeks and skin the colour of papier mâché. My shirt was nothing but a filthy rag and my crumpled trousers resembled a floor cloth. I supposed I must smell like a dead rat. Orfane pointed to a bar of Aleppo soap and a bottle of shampoo on a stainless-steel
stand next to the shower head. I quickly undressed and got in the shower. While I washed, my host switched on a mini stereo. The Afro-American music that started up made me quiver from head to foot. It had been so long since I had listened to anything other than coarse insults and moaning. In the old days, I hadn’t been able to start my car without switching on the radio or the CD player. Now I realised how much I had missed music and how its absence had impoverished me. A stream of pure air rushed into my lungs. I had the feeling I could hear my soul being rebuilt. My heart was pounding so hard I feared a heart attack. My whole being demanded music, demanded it as a hymn to life. The foamy water flowing over my body reconciled me with myself. As the voice of the singer filled me with intoxication, I rubbed and soaped myself aggressively to expel the dirt from my flesh and from my mind. The water at my feet was almost black with it.

Orfane threw me a dressing gown and suggested I take the bench near the window. A waxed cardboard tray was waiting for me on the bedside table: steaming hot soup, a plate of salad, white bread and a slice of smoked fish. I threw myself greedily on the food. Orfane took a can of beer from a mini refrigerator, handed it to me and went into the bathroom to wash. When he came out again, wrapped in a thick white loincloth, he went to fetch a bottle of soda from the fridge and opened it with his thumb.

‘Would you like another beer?’

‘No, thanks … Is that your wife?’ I asked, pointing to the photograph of a black woman on the desk, next to another photo in which three black men were posing with a white man.

He gave a broad smile. ‘That’s my mother when she was thirty.’

I looked at the photograph in its wooden frame. The woman appeared lost in thought. There was something graceful and proud about her. Bruno had told me that Africans worshipped their mothers, convinced that no prayer would be granted without Mama’s blessing.

‘She’s very beautiful,’ I said.

‘Of course, my father was the village chief.’

He drank from the bottle, put it down on the bedside table and lowered the volume a little on the stereo.

‘Nina Simone, “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” … That’s my sedative. That and Marvin Gaye. When Marvin sings, the black clouds dissolve and summer floods my thoughts …’

‘I like him,’ I said. ‘He’s magical.’

‘Isn’t he?’

The bench creaked beneath his athletic body. He reached out his arm and picked up the photo of the four men. There was something very tender in that movement of the hand. He showed me the photo. The men were standing in a crowded, smoky bar. One of the black men, a stocky man in a docker’s cap and a coat that was too big for him, was visibly delighted to be having his photograph taken with the other three.

‘That’s my father, the white man’s Joe Messina, that’s Robert White, and that one’s Eddie Willis … There’s an incredible story behind this photo.’ He put it back down on the edge of the desk. ‘It was my father who taught me about music. He was the village chief, like I said, and very spoilt. He always asked for records for his birthday, and he
celebrated his birthday every time a hit song came out. He loved black American music. Our house almost collapsed under the weight of all the records: Otis Redding, Louis Armstrong, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Abbey Lincoln … We had to move whole boxes of them to see where to put our feet. It drove my mother crazy. My father was the only one who knew his way around. He knew exactly where to find such and such a track. My father had a particular weakness for the Funk Brothers. One morning, he left his rosewood throne, his ostrich feather headdress and his sceptre cut from a baobab tree and disappeared. We thought he’d been kidnapped or murdered, but we never found his body or any trace of him. He’d vanished into thin air, just like that.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘One evening, three years later, he came back to the village. Without warning … He’d gone to the United States, on a “pilgrimage” to Detroit. He’d crossed whole countries with no money and no papers, done whatever pitiful little jobs he could find to pay for a train or bus ticket, worked for months in ports waiting for the right boat and the right moment, and managed to stow away as far as Detroit. And why did he do all that? To be photographed with his idols, Joe Messina, Robert White and Eddie Willis. Just to be in a photo with those three guys. No more, no less. The next day, with his trophy in the bag, he set off on the return journey.’

‘You’re exaggerating …’

‘I swear it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ he laughed, raising his right hand. ‘My father used to say: “Nations can’t survive without myths and young people can’t bloom without idols.” When those two
points of reference are missing, things are a mess. African rulers refuse to admit that. That’s why they’re sending their people back into the Stone Age.’

I refrained from hazarding the slightest opinion on that subject.

‘Would you mind if I took everything off?’ he asked. ‘It’s hot, and I like to sleep naked.’

‘Put the air conditioning on.’

‘The electricity is supplied by a generator. It’s strictly rationed, and is switched off at ten o’clock, in other words, in the next fifteen minutes.’

Without waiting for my permission, he took off his loincloth, and his ebony body made a sharp contrast with the white sheets.

‘What’s your favourite kind of music, Dr Krausmann?’

‘Classical, obviously.’

‘I suspected as much. Of course, that’s quite natural for a descendant of Beethoven … I like everything. From Mozart to Alpha Blondy. I don’t discriminate on grounds of race or morality. It was when man detected a sound and a rhythm in noise that he discovered himself. And that made him superior to the other creatures. I love musicians. I love singers, from sopranos to choirboys, from baritones to rappers. Do you see, Dr Krausmann? Music is the only talent that God envies men.’

‘I agree with you, Dr Orfane.’

He increased the volume of the stereo and closed his eyes. ‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘My mother died years ago,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. And your father?’

‘Do you mind turning off the light?’

‘Of course not. What about the music?’

‘No, leave it on, please.’

‘You’re lucky. The stereo’s connected to a car battery. Generator or not, at Orfane’s place, it’s always party time.’

‘Good night, Dr Orfane.’

‘Good night, Dr Krausmann. I put a pair of trousers, a shirt and clean underwear out for you on the chair. We’re pretty much the same size, so they should fit you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You have quite a few boils and your complexion’s a bit off. We’ll have to take a look at all that tomorrow morning.’

He switched off the light.

Despite my tiredness and the softness of the sheets, I couldn’t get to sleep. My brain was whirring. I wasn’t thinking about anything specific, but every image, however vague, kept me in suspense as it spread through the maze of my insomnia. I thought of the most absurd things, only dismissing those connected with the ordeal I had been through. I had no desire to twist the knife in the wound. I didn’t have the strength. I wanted to fall into a sleep so deep that I would achieve oblivion. But my twisted muscles prevented me from unwinding. I lay on my right side, my left side, on my back, on my stomach, my head under the pillow, on my forearm, but it was impossible to get to sleep. I imagined myself at home, in my scented bed; the absence of Jessica stoked my obsessions. I thought about Frankfurt, my surgery, my patients. There was no way to loosen the hold my anxieties had over me. In desperation, I stared up at the ceiling and listened to the
damp, bloodless night ponder its nostalgia in the shelter of darkness. Orfane started snoring and muttering in his sleep. I got out of bed, went outside and sat down on the steps of the cabin. There was a big golden moon in the middle of the sky, so close that you could clearly see the outlines of its craters. Some shadowy figures were moving about near the tents. I felt like a beer but didn’t dare go and look for one in the fridge. The sickly-sweet breath of the desert blew on my naked torso. I sat there until my eyes began to blur with dizziness. I groped my way back to my bed in the dark. I think I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.