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Authors: Patrick Woodhead
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right?’
Louis fell silent as he followed the direction of Fabrice’s gaze. Four Chinese men were pushing their way through the noise and commotion of the club towards their table. They had the same military bearing as the MONUC forces but these men were squatter, with jet black hair cropped so short the skin was visible underneath. Three of them were shunting couples out of the way on the dance floor, clearing a path for the man at the back. Only his silhouette was visible as he approached, but then the dance-floor lights turned full circle, washing his face with a searing white beam. He was much thinner than the others; his face long and gaunt, with hair receding from the crown of his head. As he came closer, they saw he walked with sharp, jerking movements as if his joints were fractionally too tight.
The three other men stood in a semi-circle in front of Fabrice’s table, arms tightly folded across their chests. They all wore loose-fitting khaki jackets as if they had recently returned from a safari. They were armed and none too concerned about concealing it. A low stool was drawn up and the thinner man gingerly sat down, perching himself on the edge of the seat and crossing his legs. The movement was as slow as it was effete. The man’s lips pursed as he finally raised his eyes.
‘Give it to me,’ he said, rocking his body in time with the words. His eyes were a pale shade of grey, almost translucent in the dimly lit club. They moved slowly, the watery pupils only just reaching up to Fabrice before sinking back down to the floor.
Fabrice beamed his wide smile.
‘What do you want? Drugs? Girls?’ he said, leaning back in the sofa seat and draping his arms over the backrest. ‘You want girls, right?’
The man recoiled slightly.
‘Do not play games. Give back what you took.’
Fabrice smiled like a naughty schoolboy and shrugged several times. The Chinese man seemed to try to restrain himself, then jerked open the breast pocket of his jacket and slid the contents across the table. Three images fanned out in front of them.
‘The handler.’
Fabrice and Louis leaned forward to see a picture of a man lying face down by the side of the lake, the entire back of his skull caved in. The rocks and water surrounding him were tinged pink from blood and his right arm was twisted unnaturally behind his back.
‘Sailing accident?’ Fabrice asked facetiously, his forehead creasing as if in concern. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I heard the lake can be dangerous this time of year.’ Then he leaned forward, peering over the tops of his sunglasses as his eyes suddenly drained of humour. ‘You guys really should be more careful. Remember – you’re in Africa now.’
At first, the man in front of them didn’t react. Then he rocked forward again, hissing the words through clamped lips.
‘You have no idea who you are dealing with,’ he said. ‘This is your last chance.’ One of his men unfolded his arms, his right hand slipping inside the folds of his jacket.
‘Wait, wait,’ Fabrice called out, holding his palms up. ‘You haven’t heard my story yet.’ He took off his sunglasses, pointing with them towards the assembled men, then cleared his throat theatrically. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love this.
‘So, when all the Chinese miners came to the Congo a few years ago, aside from all the machinery and bulldozers, do you know what they brought with them?’ Fabrice paused, waiting for suggestions, but the man in front only listened. ‘Condoms! That’s what they brought with them! Hundreds and thousands of condoms in their little silver wrappers. Can you imagine it? Rubbers everywhere. They must have been thinking that you boys would be pumping every Congolese girl from here to Lubumbashi.’ Fabrice clapped his hands loudly together in rhythm, the noise cutting above the music. He smiled wider, so that the two gold fillings at the back of his mouth caught in the light. ‘And we thought you guys were just
Louis fell silent as he followed the direction of Fabrice’s gaze. Four Chinese men were pushing their way through the noise and commotion of the club towards their table. They had the same military bearing as the MONUC forces but these men were squatter, with jet black hair cropped so short the skin was visible underneath. Three of them were shunting couples out of the way on the dance floor, clearing a path for the man at the back. Only his silhouette was visible as he approached, but then the dance-floor lights turned full circle, washing his face with a searing white beam. He was much thinner than the others; his face long and gaunt, with hair receding from the crown of his head. As he came closer, they saw he walked with sharp, jerking movements as if his joints were fractionally too tight.
The three other men stood in a semi-circle in front of Fabrice’s table, arms tightly folded across their chests. They all wore loose-fitting khaki jackets as if they had recently returned from a safari. They were armed and none too concerned about concealing it. A low stool was drawn up and the thinner man gingerly sat down, perching himself on the edge of the seat and crossing his legs. The movement was as slow as it was effete. The man’s lips pursed as he finally raised his eyes.
‘Give it to me,’ he said, rocking his body in time with the words. His eyes were a pale shade of grey, almost translucent in the dimly lit club. They moved slowly, the watery pupils only just reaching up to Fabrice before sinking back down to the floor.
Fabrice beamed his wide smile.
‘What do you want? Drugs? Girls?’ he said, leaning back in the sofa seat and draping his arms over the backrest. ‘You want girls, right?’
The man recoiled slightly.
‘Do not play games. Give back what you took.’
Fabrice smiled like a naughty schoolboy and shrugged several times. The Chinese man seemed to try to restrain himself, then jerked open the breast pocket of his jacket and slid the contents across the table. Three images fanned out in front of them.
‘The handler.’
Fabrice and Louis leaned forward to see a picture of a man lying face down by the side of the lake, the entire back of his skull caved in. The rocks and water surrounding him were tinged pink from blood and his right arm was twisted unnaturally behind his back.
‘Sailing accident?’ Fabrice asked facetiously, his forehead creasing as if in concern. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I heard the lake can be dangerous this time of year.’ Then he leaned forward, peering over the tops of his sunglasses as his eyes suddenly drained of humour. ‘You guys really should be more careful. Remember – you’re in Africa now.’
At first, the man in front of them didn’t react. Then he rocked forward again, hissing the words through clamped lips.
‘You have no idea who you are dealing with,’ he said. ‘This is your last chance.’ One of his men unfolded his arms, his right hand slipping inside the folds of his jacket.
‘Wait, wait,’ Fabrice called out, holding his palms up. ‘You haven’t heard my story yet.’ He took off his sunglasses, pointing with them towards the assembled men, then cleared his throat theatrically. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love this.
‘So, when all the Chinese miners came to the Congo a few years ago, aside from all the machinery and bulldozers, do you know what they brought with them?’ Fabrice paused, waiting for suggestions, but the man in front only listened. ‘Condoms! That’s what they brought with them! Hundreds and thousands of condoms in their little silver wrappers. Can you imagine it? Rubbers everywhere. They must have been thinking that you boys would be pumping every Congolese girl from here to Lubumbashi.’ Fabrice clapped his hands loudly together in rhythm, the noise cutting above the music. He smiled wider, so that the two gold fillings at the back of his mouth caught in the light. ‘And we thought you guys were just
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