aggression, and her thin effort to pass it off as in my interests annoys me.
“I would have liked to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what we’re going to do,” I say.
She turns away. I can’t tell whether she is angry or upset or—more wounding—simply bored. I feel the stab of bitter pride in my chest. Is this really it? Are we really coming to an end?
I let out a heavy sigh. “Inès, we’re going to have to sort this out.”
“I don’t think this is the time or the place for that,” she says. “In case you hadn’t noticed there is something important going on—they are arresting Patrice.”
“When can we talk then?”
She shrugs.
I look at her with the whole fetch of our story behind my eyes, but she will not yield, she will not soften. Why is she being like this? She used to love me.
“I have to talk to the people,” she says.
“Why don’t you interview Auguste?” I say, pulling Stipe’s driver forward: he should meet her criteria for an authentic interviewee. “He’s one of the people, and he’s a friend of Lumumba’s to boot. Isn’t that right, Auguste?”
“Correct, James.”
His eyes drop so he can adopt the overly respectful demeanor I have noticed he likes to put on for first meetings with whites.
“Inès is a journalist,” I explain. “She’s sympathetic to Lumumba.”
“It’s a bit more than ‘sympathetic,’ ” she says with some asperity.
“Of course it is.”
“Were you at the demonstration yesterday?” she asks Auguste.
He seems bashful in front of her. He is polite, his words lavishly humble. He tells her about the shootings.
Stipe has seen me and nods for me to meet him at the cordon. I leave Inès with Auguste and push my way through to a soldier standing guard at a lorry. Stipe comes out to greet me.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to the Regina, James,” he says, “but as you can see things have gotten a little out of hand. The Belgians have been rounding up everyone connected with the independence movement they can find. They even arrested Kasavubu this morning. Up until a few days ago they liked to show him off as a ‘good African.’ He’s a bad African now. They all are. I didn’t think Patrice would risk coming back to his own house.”
“He knew they were looking for him, didn’t he?”
“Sure, but Patrice is a family man. He can’t be without his wife and kids.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“Kasavubu’s already at the police station at Avenue Lippers, so my guess is they’ll take him there and then to the Central Prison.”
“Why is it taking so long?”
“The Belgians are worried about the crowd.”
There must be four or five hundred blacks, with more streaming down from the cité every minute. Too many for what looks to me like much less than a full-strength company of soldiers to contain.
“The authorities want to keep temperatures down today,” Stipe says. “Lumumba says he’ll get them to disperse quietly if he can make a speech. The Belgians aren’t crazy about the idea, but I suggested they give it a shot.”
“Why do they listen to you?” I ask mischievously.
He may work in the political office, but it is obvious Stipe is a spy, a conspirator of some sort. Just what is the nature of his power?
“They don’t like it,” Stipe answers with a grin, “but they’re hardly in a position to object. Didn’t you read the file? As we speak, the Belgians are in New York looking for loans to try to keep the place afloat. If they want the Yankee dollar they have to listen to the Yankee advice.”
“What I can’t work out is why the colony is in such trouble, given all the resources.”
“A Marxist like Inès would understand the way the Belgians have developed the Congo,” Stipe says. “It’s the Soviet NEP all over again—rapid industrialization of a primitive rural economy. They’ve had some success, you can’t take that away from them. But taxes are high, the average national income
“I would have liked to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what we’re going to do,” I say.
She turns away. I can’t tell whether she is angry or upset or—more wounding—simply bored. I feel the stab of bitter pride in my chest. Is this really it? Are we really coming to an end?
I let out a heavy sigh. “Inès, we’re going to have to sort this out.”
“I don’t think this is the time or the place for that,” she says. “In case you hadn’t noticed there is something important going on—they are arresting Patrice.”
“When can we talk then?”
She shrugs.
I look at her with the whole fetch of our story behind my eyes, but she will not yield, she will not soften. Why is she being like this? She used to love me.
“I have to talk to the people,” she says.
“Why don’t you interview Auguste?” I say, pulling Stipe’s driver forward: he should meet her criteria for an authentic interviewee. “He’s one of the people, and he’s a friend of Lumumba’s to boot. Isn’t that right, Auguste?”
“Correct, James.”
His eyes drop so he can adopt the overly respectful demeanor I have noticed he likes to put on for first meetings with whites.
“Inès is a journalist,” I explain. “She’s sympathetic to Lumumba.”
“It’s a bit more than ‘sympathetic,’ ” she says with some asperity.
“Of course it is.”
“Were you at the demonstration yesterday?” she asks Auguste.
He seems bashful in front of her. He is polite, his words lavishly humble. He tells her about the shootings.
Stipe has seen me and nods for me to meet him at the cordon. I leave Inès with Auguste and push my way through to a soldier standing guard at a lorry. Stipe comes out to greet me.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to the Regina, James,” he says, “but as you can see things have gotten a little out of hand. The Belgians have been rounding up everyone connected with the independence movement they can find. They even arrested Kasavubu this morning. Up until a few days ago they liked to show him off as a ‘good African.’ He’s a bad African now. They all are. I didn’t think Patrice would risk coming back to his own house.”
“He knew they were looking for him, didn’t he?”
“Sure, but Patrice is a family man. He can’t be without his wife and kids.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“Kasavubu’s already at the police station at Avenue Lippers, so my guess is they’ll take him there and then to the Central Prison.”
“Why is it taking so long?”
“The Belgians are worried about the crowd.”
There must be four or five hundred blacks, with more streaming down from the cité every minute. Too many for what looks to me like much less than a full-strength company of soldiers to contain.
“The authorities want to keep temperatures down today,” Stipe says. “Lumumba says he’ll get them to disperse quietly if he can make a speech. The Belgians aren’t crazy about the idea, but I suggested they give it a shot.”
“Why do they listen to you?” I ask mischievously.
He may work in the political office, but it is obvious Stipe is a spy, a conspirator of some sort. Just what is the nature of his power?
“They don’t like it,” Stipe answers with a grin, “but they’re hardly in a position to object. Didn’t you read the file? As we speak, the Belgians are in New York looking for loans to try to keep the place afloat. If they want the Yankee dollar they have to listen to the Yankee advice.”
“What I can’t work out is why the colony is in such trouble, given all the resources.”
“A Marxist like Inès would understand the way the Belgians have developed the Congo,” Stipe says. “It’s the Soviet NEP all over again—rapid industrialization of a primitive rural economy. They’ve had some success, you can’t take that away from them. But taxes are high, the average national income
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