Read Online Stringer by Anjan Sundaram - Free Book Online

stores. Chairs and coatracks spilled onto the driving areas. I passed photography studios, paper boutiques, and rows and rows of dark houses. It took me two hours to reach the police station. I arrived tired and thirsty.
    I had imagined the station as a place of authority, like the ministries, or the presidential palace. But it was a simple oblong compound, guarded by a single sentry. Inside the gates was a long tree-lined courtyard. To each side cadres trained and played football. At the far building I was made to register at a desk and then ushered into a waiting area—a cramped room with a few chairs and a mass of silent people who stared. I felt guilty at once.
    I was made to wait like the others, without privilege. An hour or so later my name was called. A policeman led me to a room that was airy but bleak: the windows had no curtains, the hanging bulb was without shade and the table’s only chair was positioned across from the officer—like in an interrogation cell. The officer wore square gold spectacles that accentuated his sunken cheeks. His navy-blue uniform was regular, thin at the waist and swollen at the limbs. He smiled sinisterly. A white page gracedthe table. He drew columns on it with a ruler and abruptly began: “Dead or alive?” His tone was irreverent, even for such a question.
    He asked for my parents’ names, dates of birth and nationalities. He sneezed. A soiled handkerchief appeared from his pocket and ran over his hands. He asked where my parents worked, which school they went to and if they were Catholic or Protestant. “Hindu?” It seemed unacceptable. “Fetish?” he asked. I said no. He wrote “Other.”
    He said, “Spectacles?”
    â€œYes, both of them.”
    â€œNo, no. Versace? Armani?”
    He pulled out a pair (Nina Ricci) and positioned them on his head—he now wore two pairs. Adjusting himself in his seat he asked where I lived, where I had lived and the names of all the countries I had visited before Congo. He sneezed again. The page was spotted with droplets. With his handkerchief he held his nose; his finger probed inside his nostril. For two minutes he cleaned it. Then he asked what I had studied, and where, how I spoke French, for whom I was working. “No one?” He said suspiciously: “What are you doing here?”
    He squinted at me and slowly returned to his paper. But there was an error in the spelling of “journalist.” He sighed. With the ruler he crossed out the word and from his cupboard lifted two small bottles that were shaken spiritedly; the erroneous word was smudged with white paint. He blew over the page at an angle. We waited for it to dry. Then he wrote again, slowly, in clean schoolboy cursive, pen rolling over the paper. He sneezed. The wet handkerchief appeared. He brushed the page and wiped his pen. My patience wearing, I interrupted the ceremony.
    â€œMonsieur Officer. I’m in a hurry, please—those robbers were on the Boulevard two hours ago. If you move quickly you could still find my money!”
    He looked bemused. “But there’s a process to be followed.”
    I stood. “What process? Have you ever caught anyone?”
    He huffed. A framed photograph was produced from his drawer. Against a red Peugeot leaned four Congolese men, wearing sleeveless jackets, shades and pointed leather shoes. They looked like criminals, but this was the elite unit. “Team Cobra,” the officer said. “The country’s best.” He held the photograph in front of his chest like a winner’s plaque.
    â€œAnd what did they recover?”
    â€œThe red car!”
    For a moment I considered it. And then, after a little discussion, I discovered the catch: their search could take days, weeks, even months; and all the while I would be paying. “Only business expenses,” said the policeman, sensing my apprehension. “Cobra will be working for you