the car he says, “I’m sorry, James.”
He holds up his silly card in explanation.
“We are fourteen million in the Congo. One hundred and twenty have the
carte d’immatriculation
.”
“I had no idea,” I tell him.
The proud member of the Association of the African Middle Classes beams a broad smile at me.
“I wish one day to be a writer like you, James,” he says.
“I thought you were going to be a lawyer.”
“No, now I want to be a writer.”
“What for? There’s no money in it.”
It is one of those flip responses you make without thinking to someone you are at best not taking seriously and at worst patronizing. He gives me a wounded look.
“The money is not important and Mr. Stipe pays me very well,” he says.
“Why do you want to be a writer?” I ask, chastened and cheapened.
“So I can look upon things calmly and show that I am wise.”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “That’s very important, of course.”
“Do you have an office, James?”
“A sort of an office.”
“And six secretaries?”
“No secretaries at all, I’m afraid.”
He looks momentarily downhearted.
“It’s not important,” he says, grinning brightly. “I will bring you three secretaries from my law office.”
“Why am I getting the feeling you’re not being serious?”
“I am always serious,” he replies, still grinning.
“Not with me you’re not.”
“I am as serious with you, James, as you are with me.”
He holds the grin fixed on his face. My response is to feel offended, until I see the truth of what he is saying. We walk on.
Up on the boulevard something is happening for us to look upon.
c h a p t e r t w e l v e
There are two crowds. The whites, fewer but more confident, have gathered in small knots on the grass verge on the northern side of the road. They seem in good humor, like theater-goers about to resume their seats for the second act of a play they have enjoyed so far. By contrast, there is an ominous neutrality about the blacks. They are massed in front of the golf course on the cité side of the boulevard facing Lumumba’s house, from which they are separated by a line of soldiers with rifles at the ready and bayonets fixed. Two golfers stroll nonchalantly up the fairway, their black caddies in tow.
Flitting between the crowds is the busy figure of Inès. I also spot Smail, and Grant, the British journalist, as well as a number of other reporters. Unlike them, Inès does not have a notebook. She never does. Her refusal to carry one—she insists they set up barriers between her and the people of the story—is only one of several idiosyncrasies I would have thought a handicap in her profession. There is also her chronic lack of punctuality, her wayward sense of direction, her forgetfulness—to say nothing of her unabashed partisanship. But of course, as I know well, Inès is an unusual journalist. She hates government palaces and ministerial offices and the hotels and bars and restaurants frequented by journalists and their sources. She is never interested in interviewing the big people—the ambassadors, the ministers and generals—and rarely bothers to go to press conferences (“all they ever say is lies”). What she covets is not contacts with the high-placed and the respect of her colleagues (“more interested in their careers than in what is going on around them”), but the friendship of ordinary people; she will hang around the stall of a market vendor for hours, listening to talk of everyday things; she will eat and drink beer in the homes of day laborers and street sweepers; she will sleep on their floors when it is too late to get home. She pours her love into these people and their causes, a river that will not be dammed.
I go up to her.
“Hello,” I say.
“Oh, hello,” she says quickly and with no indication that she is pleased to see me.
“You’d already gone when I woke up.”
“You needed to sleep.”
Not waking me had been a calculated
He holds up his silly card in explanation.
“We are fourteen million in the Congo. One hundred and twenty have the
carte d’immatriculation
.”
“I had no idea,” I tell him.
The proud member of the Association of the African Middle Classes beams a broad smile at me.
“I wish one day to be a writer like you, James,” he says.
“I thought you were going to be a lawyer.”
“No, now I want to be a writer.”
“What for? There’s no money in it.”
It is one of those flip responses you make without thinking to someone you are at best not taking seriously and at worst patronizing. He gives me a wounded look.
“The money is not important and Mr. Stipe pays me very well,” he says.
“Why do you want to be a writer?” I ask, chastened and cheapened.
“So I can look upon things calmly and show that I am wise.”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “That’s very important, of course.”
“Do you have an office, James?”
“A sort of an office.”
“And six secretaries?”
“No secretaries at all, I’m afraid.”
He looks momentarily downhearted.
“It’s not important,” he says, grinning brightly. “I will bring you three secretaries from my law office.”
“Why am I getting the feeling you’re not being serious?”
“I am always serious,” he replies, still grinning.
“Not with me you’re not.”
“I am as serious with you, James, as you are with me.”
He holds the grin fixed on his face. My response is to feel offended, until I see the truth of what he is saying. We walk on.
Up on the boulevard something is happening for us to look upon.
c h a p t e r t w e l v e
There are two crowds. The whites, fewer but more confident, have gathered in small knots on the grass verge on the northern side of the road. They seem in good humor, like theater-goers about to resume their seats for the second act of a play they have enjoyed so far. By contrast, there is an ominous neutrality about the blacks. They are massed in front of the golf course on the cité side of the boulevard facing Lumumba’s house, from which they are separated by a line of soldiers with rifles at the ready and bayonets fixed. Two golfers stroll nonchalantly up the fairway, their black caddies in tow.
Flitting between the crowds is the busy figure of Inès. I also spot Smail, and Grant, the British journalist, as well as a number of other reporters. Unlike them, Inès does not have a notebook. She never does. Her refusal to carry one—she insists they set up barriers between her and the people of the story—is only one of several idiosyncrasies I would have thought a handicap in her profession. There is also her chronic lack of punctuality, her wayward sense of direction, her forgetfulness—to say nothing of her unabashed partisanship. But of course, as I know well, Inès is an unusual journalist. She hates government palaces and ministerial offices and the hotels and bars and restaurants frequented by journalists and their sources. She is never interested in interviewing the big people—the ambassadors, the ministers and generals—and rarely bothers to go to press conferences (“all they ever say is lies”). What she covets is not contacts with the high-placed and the respect of her colleagues (“more interested in their careers than in what is going on around them”), but the friendship of ordinary people; she will hang around the stall of a market vendor for hours, listening to talk of everyday things; she will eat and drink beer in the homes of day laborers and street sweepers; she will sleep on their floors when it is too late to get home. She pours her love into these people and their causes, a river that will not be dammed.
I go up to her.
“Hello,” I say.
“Oh, hello,” she says quickly and with no indication that she is pleased to see me.
“You’d already gone when I woke up.”
“You needed to sleep.”
Not waking me had been a calculated
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