Read Online The Catastrophist: A Novel by Ronan Bennett - Free Book Online Page B

help you.”
    The suggestion catches me by surprise.
    “Why?”
    “The sooner the settlers know what’s going on, the longer they’ll have to get used to the idea.”
    “No, I meant why me?”
    “What can I say? You get a feeling about someone.”
    He shrugs and puts out his hands in an open gesture to acknowledge the plain fact of our instinctive liking for each other.
    “I have the documentation,” he continues, “all the facts, all the figures.”
    Someone pushes aside the hanging bedcover.
    I see a tall, thin bespectacled young man with a head that seems too small for his wide shoulders. He is wearing light gray trousers and an open-necked, short-sleeved white shirt. He has a scraggy goatee beard, his arms are long and rangy. I recognize Patrice Lumumba from the newspaper photographs. He looks over at Stipe, then at me. He holds my gaze for a moment, no expression on his face. He is joined by two other men.
    “Mark, my friend.”
    Stipe goes over and shakes hands warmly with Lumumba.
    “Patrice, how are you?”
    “It has not been a good day. So many are dead.”
    “We have to get you out,” Stipe says, “get you somewhere safe. Brazzaville first, then maybe Accra.”
    Lumumba considers for a moment. He says, “Is it right for the leader to run and leave his followers to their fate?”
    “Is it right for the leader to allow his enemies to put him in jail? The movement will fall apart without you.”
    Lumumba says nothing. His gaze reaches me.
    Stipe says, “Patrice, this is James Gillespie. I think you know his friend—Inès Sabiani.”
    “Of course we know Inès,” Lumumba says, his voice becoming suddenly animated. He takes my hand in both of his. “Inès is a good friend to our people and to the cause of the Congo. She is your woman?”
    I hear myself say yes quickly and with emphasis, and I see Stipe look at me. I am not used to describing Inès in this way—
my woman
—and the words do something to give me hope, as if their vehemence alone makes the statement true. Stipe drops his gaze for a moment. He knows what is going on in my head and he cares.
    Stipe introduces me to the two men with Lumumba—Nendaka and Mungul. They are senior MNC officials. The first is dressed as a more prosperous version of Auguste, with smart shiny well-tailored clothes. His smile is too broad, his handshake too ingratiating to be trustworthy. Mungul is sober, serious and although polite I get the feeling he does not welcome the presence of these strange white men.
    Stipe says to me, “I have some things to discuss with Patrice. I won’t be long.”
    The four men disappear into the other room.
    I sit back down on the bench and check my watch. It is after one. I close my eyes. I become aware of someone standing at my shoulder. Auguste grins at me.
    “This man is my brother,” Auguste says in English, pointing to one of the young men sitting on the bed frame.
    “What about the other one?” I ask.
    “He is my brother also.”
    I smile at the other brother. Auguste grimaces obsequiously.
    “You speak English very well,” I say.
    “Ad graecas litteras totum animum impuli.”
    “And Latin.”
    “Knowledge is essential,” he says as though revealing a hidden truth. “For the same reason that Erasmus learned Greek, I have learned English.”
    I nod, trying my best to match his seriousness.
    “English is the language of the new Romans,” he adds confusingly.
    “The new Romans?”
    “The Americans.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “I will go to America to study,” he says.
    “What will you study?”
    “Psychology, psychiatry, pedagogy, physics . . .”
    “That’s quite a lot of subjects to study, and they all begin with
p.
”
    “Yes,” he says seriously. “Do you have friends in America?”
    “Some.”
    “You can give me their addresses?”
    I pause. “I don’t have my address book with me now. I’ll look up some names for you later and give them to Stipe.”
    “Thank you,
nókó
,” he says