level is low, expansion is lagging behind population growth, and the Belgians just don’t have the capital for more investment—and the situation’s getting worse because with all the political uncertainty the banks and investors are taking their money out.”
“How bad is it—in a nutshell?”
“In a nutshell bad, real bad. The Congo Central Bank can’t meet its obligations so the Belgians have agreed to guarantee its operations but only on condition that the colony’s gold and dollar reserves go to the vaults of the National Bank in Brussels. But these loans . . . it’s crazy. You don’t meet current and past deficits by raising long-term loans—it’s like mortgaging your house to pay last month’s grocery bills.”
“Not that crazy,” I say. “When they hand over the country presumably they’ll be handing over the debts as well.”
“Absolutely right. Patrice doesn’t know it yet, but the day he walks into the prime minister’s office to take a look at the books he’s going to see that not only is the country broke, but he owes Brussels over two billion francs. That’s one hell of a tab to pick up, isn’t it? Who says Belgians don’t have a sense of humor?”
“I don’t suppose he’ll be picking up the profits.”
Stipe lets out a short, sarcastic laugh.
“Say you’re Bernard Houthhoofd, or any other big shareholder in the Union Minière or the Société Général,” he begins, “and you have a piece of the twelve-billion-franc investment in Katanga alone. Your copper industry is the second biggest in Africa. Last year your mines produce three hundred thousand tons of copper at $100 a ton which you sell on the world market for $250. Are you going to allow some jumped-up local politician to take away your business? Are you hell!”
From the black crowd come sudden shouts of
Patrice, Patrice!
Their gaze is fixed on the balcony, where Lumumba, flanked by a Belgian officer, stands, his hands resting on the concrete balustrade.
“Who’s the soldier?” I ask Stipe.
“That’s Lieutenant-General Emile Janssens. I told you about him. He’s the commander of the Force Publique.”
Janssens has the barrel-chested aggression of the middle-aged soldier who prides himself on his continuing hardness and regards scornfully the widening hams and girths of his pampered civilian peers; he looks like the kind of man who takes cold showers and throws medicine balls on the beach.
“Janssens is tough,” Stipe says, “a real disciplinarian.”
There are a few isolated jeers and catcalls from the whites.
“What do you think of Lumumba,” I ask, “as a politician?”
“Outstanding,” Stipe replies without hesitation. “Really. As a politician and as a man. Here’s a guy, very little formal education, nothing more than a dirty
macaque,
everything stacked against him. And by pure effort of will, by refusing to be put down, he transforms himself into a figure of genuine power. He has charisma, oratory, real moral authority. His only flaw is that he can be a little impetuous sometimes, but he’s still only thirty-five years old. With the right help, the right advice, Patrice could shape up to be one of Africa’s great leaders.”
“That’s what Inès says.”
“So we agree on something,” he says brightly; then, more seriously: “How are things with you two this morning? Any better?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, putting a comradely hand on my back. “Do you want some Yankee advice?”
“Is there a price tag?”
“This is for free,” he says with a grin. His teeth are small and even and white. The lips go far back over the gums. “Is Inès the woman you really want? I mean is this the one?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t give up. Don’t be discouraged. Do whatever you have to do—even if there’s another man.”
“Do what you have to do, even if there’s another man? What does that mean?”
“Kill him, of course.” He laughs. “Is there another
“How bad is it—in a nutshell?”
“In a nutshell bad, real bad. The Congo Central Bank can’t meet its obligations so the Belgians have agreed to guarantee its operations but only on condition that the colony’s gold and dollar reserves go to the vaults of the National Bank in Brussels. But these loans . . . it’s crazy. You don’t meet current and past deficits by raising long-term loans—it’s like mortgaging your house to pay last month’s grocery bills.”
“Not that crazy,” I say. “When they hand over the country presumably they’ll be handing over the debts as well.”
“Absolutely right. Patrice doesn’t know it yet, but the day he walks into the prime minister’s office to take a look at the books he’s going to see that not only is the country broke, but he owes Brussels over two billion francs. That’s one hell of a tab to pick up, isn’t it? Who says Belgians don’t have a sense of humor?”
“I don’t suppose he’ll be picking up the profits.”
Stipe lets out a short, sarcastic laugh.
“Say you’re Bernard Houthhoofd, or any other big shareholder in the Union Minière or the Société Général,” he begins, “and you have a piece of the twelve-billion-franc investment in Katanga alone. Your copper industry is the second biggest in Africa. Last year your mines produce three hundred thousand tons of copper at $100 a ton which you sell on the world market for $250. Are you going to allow some jumped-up local politician to take away your business? Are you hell!”
From the black crowd come sudden shouts of
Patrice, Patrice!
Their gaze is fixed on the balcony, where Lumumba, flanked by a Belgian officer, stands, his hands resting on the concrete balustrade.
“Who’s the soldier?” I ask Stipe.
“That’s Lieutenant-General Emile Janssens. I told you about him. He’s the commander of the Force Publique.”
Janssens has the barrel-chested aggression of the middle-aged soldier who prides himself on his continuing hardness and regards scornfully the widening hams and girths of his pampered civilian peers; he looks like the kind of man who takes cold showers and throws medicine balls on the beach.
“Janssens is tough,” Stipe says, “a real disciplinarian.”
There are a few isolated jeers and catcalls from the whites.
“What do you think of Lumumba,” I ask, “as a politician?”
“Outstanding,” Stipe replies without hesitation. “Really. As a politician and as a man. Here’s a guy, very little formal education, nothing more than a dirty
macaque,
everything stacked against him. And by pure effort of will, by refusing to be put down, he transforms himself into a figure of genuine power. He has charisma, oratory, real moral authority. His only flaw is that he can be a little impetuous sometimes, but he’s still only thirty-five years old. With the right help, the right advice, Patrice could shape up to be one of Africa’s great leaders.”
“That’s what Inès says.”
“So we agree on something,” he says brightly; then, more seriously: “How are things with you two this morning? Any better?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, putting a comradely hand on my back. “Do you want some Yankee advice?”
“Is there a price tag?”
“This is for free,” he says with a grin. His teeth are small and even and white. The lips go far back over the gums. “Is Inès the woman you really want? I mean is this the one?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t give up. Don’t be discouraged. Do whatever you have to do—even if there’s another man.”
“Do what you have to do, even if there’s another man? What does that mean?”
“Kill him, of course.” He laughs. “Is there another
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