Read Online The Catastrophist: A Novel by Ronan Bennett - Free Book Online
Authors: Ronan Bennett
Tags: Fiction
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progressivement.
“The
Déclaration Gouvernementale
isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. They’re preparing to pull out as we speak.”
“Is the country ready for independence?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
“I arrived yesterday.”
“Even so, have you seen anything resembling a black professional class so far?”
I make a small laugh in acknowledgment of his point. Five minutes in Léopoldville was all it took to see how and by whom the day-to-day affairs of the colony were managed.
“There isn’t a single black soldier above the rank of sergeant,” Stipe says. “There isn’t a single civil servant above junior clerk grade, there isn’t a single black doctor, or engineer, or banker. Rumor has it there’s one lawyer—the journalists are taking bets on who finds him first. The point is: who’s going to run the country when the Belgians go?”
“Does that mean you’re against independence?”
The officer comes over to the car and returns the papers to Stipe.
“There are gangs of thugs everywhere,” the officer announces gravely. “I can arrange an escort if you want.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Stipe replies cheerily, putting the engine in drive.
“You are armed?”
“Absolutely.”
I hadn’t thought about the possibility that Stipe would be carrying a gun. In our present surroundings the knowledge is reassuring, but it also raises questions about the man, who he is and what he does.
The officer waves to the soldiers at the barrier and gives Stipe a stiff salute. Stipe seems to accept it as his due. I look at him. I look at the fat vein in his forehead and the long, curved lashes over his soft brown eyes. In the distance there is the dull crash of another mortar bomb. As we proceed through the checkpoint, as the officer holds his salute, as the soldiers scuttle to swing the barrier aside and clear our way into the cité, I see again what I saw in Houthhoofd’s garden earlier in the day, the authority, the confidence, the self-belief. Even when I remind myself that this is no more than a dark corner of a colonial city most people have never heard of, I cannot help the way my thoughts run. I cannot help but think about power, about authenticity, and the uselessness of being a writer.
c h a p t e r e i g h t
Sewage runs in the open channels of the cité’s narrow and unpaved streets. The low, crude, cube housing is arranged in small, densely packed, alley-scarred blocks. There is little lighting in this squalid labyrinth. There are no other cars, there is no one to be seen.
“You didn’t tell me where you stand on independence,” I remind Stipe.
“My government has always had a sympathetic interest in the decolonization of Africa. The U.S. is one of the few Western nations with no selfish strategic or economic interests in the Congo.”
“There are American companies here though, aren’t there?” I say.
He is beginning to sound a little disingenuous, even to me.
“Sure, but our economic interests are relatively minor. Mobil Oil is one of the biggest U.S. corporations operating here. They have a $12 million investment in service stations, but when you compare that to a total Western investment of four to five billion, you couldn’t say Mobil is one of the Congo’s big players.”
“What about you personally, how do you feel about independence?”
“Perhaps I’m making large assumptions here, James,” he says, “but I’m no more of a
believer
than you are. If I believe in anything, it’s government as management—good management. Balanced budget, fiscal probity, low taxes, proper defense preparedness—that’s my philosophy, such as it is. I’d be happy with an independent Congo as long as it were stable and well run. I’d be happy with a continuation of the present setup, as long as you could prove to me that it would be stable and well run. But what I think is irrelevant. The fact is the Belgians are going in six months and
“The
Déclaration Gouvernementale
isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. They’re preparing to pull out as we speak.”
“Is the country ready for independence?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
“I arrived yesterday.”
“Even so, have you seen anything resembling a black professional class so far?”
I make a small laugh in acknowledgment of his point. Five minutes in Léopoldville was all it took to see how and by whom the day-to-day affairs of the colony were managed.
“There isn’t a single black soldier above the rank of sergeant,” Stipe says. “There isn’t a single civil servant above junior clerk grade, there isn’t a single black doctor, or engineer, or banker. Rumor has it there’s one lawyer—the journalists are taking bets on who finds him first. The point is: who’s going to run the country when the Belgians go?”
“Does that mean you’re against independence?”
The officer comes over to the car and returns the papers to Stipe.
“There are gangs of thugs everywhere,” the officer announces gravely. “I can arrange an escort if you want.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Stipe replies cheerily, putting the engine in drive.
“You are armed?”
“Absolutely.”
I hadn’t thought about the possibility that Stipe would be carrying a gun. In our present surroundings the knowledge is reassuring, but it also raises questions about the man, who he is and what he does.
The officer waves to the soldiers at the barrier and gives Stipe a stiff salute. Stipe seems to accept it as his due. I look at him. I look at the fat vein in his forehead and the long, curved lashes over his soft brown eyes. In the distance there is the dull crash of another mortar bomb. As we proceed through the checkpoint, as the officer holds his salute, as the soldiers scuttle to swing the barrier aside and clear our way into the cité, I see again what I saw in Houthhoofd’s garden earlier in the day, the authority, the confidence, the self-belief. Even when I remind myself that this is no more than a dark corner of a colonial city most people have never heard of, I cannot help the way my thoughts run. I cannot help but think about power, about authenticity, and the uselessness of being a writer.
c h a p t e r e i g h t
Sewage runs in the open channels of the cité’s narrow and unpaved streets. The low, crude, cube housing is arranged in small, densely packed, alley-scarred blocks. There is little lighting in this squalid labyrinth. There are no other cars, there is no one to be seen.
“You didn’t tell me where you stand on independence,” I remind Stipe.
“My government has always had a sympathetic interest in the decolonization of Africa. The U.S. is one of the few Western nations with no selfish strategic or economic interests in the Congo.”
“There are American companies here though, aren’t there?” I say.
He is beginning to sound a little disingenuous, even to me.
“Sure, but our economic interests are relatively minor. Mobil Oil is one of the biggest U.S. corporations operating here. They have a $12 million investment in service stations, but when you compare that to a total Western investment of four to five billion, you couldn’t say Mobil is one of the Congo’s big players.”
“What about you personally, how do you feel about independence?”
“Perhaps I’m making large assumptions here, James,” he says, “but I’m no more of a
believer
than you are. If I believe in anything, it’s government as management—good management. Balanced budget, fiscal probity, low taxes, proper defense preparedness—that’s my philosophy, such as it is. I’d be happy with an independent Congo as long as it were stable and well run. I’d be happy with a continuation of the present setup, as long as you could prove to me that it would be stable and well run. But what I think is irrelevant. The fact is the Belgians are going in six months and
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