Congo Inc. Read online

  During the day, the kids ran around the market, alone or in groups. They were recognizable by their looks, the kind you don’t mess with. Frailty was inconceivable, to the point where the little ones created an ironclad arrogance in an attempt to build a wall around themselves. Or else they had the look of infinite sadness because—as the Kinshasans said—they were living na kati ya système ya lifelo.3 They had remarkable physiques. Their lives of insecurity had dried up their muscles, making them as hard and gnarled as rope. There were no chubby children among them. They lived from day to day, clinging by tooth and nail to life and the asphalt.

  Isookanga had been impressed by the determination of a girl like Shasha la Jactance. On the first day, she introduced him to everyone and demanded that no one bother him again.

  “But Shasha,” Modogo said, “that guy is fully grown already. If he stays with us, we’ll lose our credibility as street kids.”

  “That’s true, Yaya, adults will think we need them to survive.”

  “Look at him,” Omari Double-Blade intervened. “Who would take him for a child?”

  “Trésor, you’re talking nonsense. And you, Modogo, be quiet!” Shasha cut them short.

  “Jesus fucks me! Jesus fucks me!”4 the little upstart ventured, annoyed.

  Like many of his pals, Modogo distrusted adults and knew the reason why. They were a totally conventional breed; they had no imagination. They lived in a narrow-minded world without any horizon, Modogo thought. To redirect his life, he himself had, once and for all, opted for the movies and DVDs. When he was younger, Modogo had thought life was monotonous and singularly lacking in excitement. School every day, homework, was a drag; the only thing that could rouse any thrills in him were horror movies. When he had still lived at home, he could spend whole afternoons on end having a great time watching Scream 1, 2, and 3 in a continuous loop. Friedkin’s The Exorcist was one of his favorites, because he felt just as misunderstood as the little girl in the story. Everyone had joined forces against her for no reason. While other kids played, he made himself nice and scared. To further enhance the sensation, he would view the films in their original English-language version so that he understood nothing, making the scenes even more perplexing. He loved listening to the American actors run their dialogues with a probing or cruelly hateful look.

  It had taken the boy some time to memorize the most important diatribes. His pronunciation left something to be desired, but he packed them with all the meaning as he interpreted it and managed to toss off the phrases in a funereal voice that seemed to come directly from beyond the grave. In doing so, he had especially succeeded in terrifying his family, beginning with his mother. One day when she sent him to run an errand, as he took the money his face suddenly turned sullen, although not really on purpose, and he spat like a cat, “Ou waaïï you?”5

  He was the first one to be taken aback by it. His poor mother stared at him wide-eyed but said nothing. On another occasion, it was his father who witnessed the phenomenon. “Yo waa nnexx!”6 he threatened when they asked him a question on the future imperfect that he found too difficult to answer.

  After a while his parents began to wonder what to do, and for the zealous Christians they were, each slightly thorny matter was bound to find its solution in the church. That’s where they took Modogo. One Wednesday night the pastor received them after the evening service, preceding Thursday and Friday services. The deacons and deaconesses all wanted to be present to observe this child who was probably an unadulterated product of the satanic world. What came out of his mouth was neither Latin nor the speech of any Pentecostal language, nor did it sound like any idiom a simple Christian could understand.

  They placed Modogo in the center of the room where everyone had gathered. Prayers rang out on all sides and hands were stretched out above the child’s head. The pastor ordered every demon to depart and, above all, not to return again. He conjured up the wall of Jericho, which would come crashing down on them and break their bones if they so much as appeared to be staying in the neighborhood. He concluded with the affirmation that his victory was as sure as the crossing of the Red Sea, which, he reminded them all, had not been accomplished by swimming across. Modogo found it all very entertaining. He was in seventh heaven. Hands clasped, eyes closed, he was savoring the moment. But right after the pastor’s “Amen” they heard a hollow “Oo mag hhöd!”7 come out of the boy’s mouth.

  It was an outrage. People tried for weeks to break the spell of the young incubus. No result. At home, destitution and insecurity had chosen to take refuge and—the pastor avowed—Modogo’s activities were primarily responsible for that. The little boy’s life had become untenable. One day he got on a bus in Selembao, where he lived, and didn’t get off until the final stop: the Great Market.

  That was several months ago. When he was still living at home with his parents, he had thought he was the only kid like that. Arriving where he was now, he came to understand that he was sorely mistaken: countless child witches were haunting the Kinshasans. Becoming a street kid was never a choice. Many had lost their parents, one after the other, and left to their own devices had ended up in the center of the city, where part of the progeny of the millions of victims of the Congo war could also be found.

  Among these young drifters was Omari Double-Blade, the former child soldier. He had come to Kinshasa as baggage of a warlord and, following a vague political compromise, was integrated in the national army. One day he’d had enough of the military and left his group of men. La Jactance found him sitting on a low wall and picked him up. The child still represented danger, but Shasha understood that he simply needed to be constantly reassured, and would be as long as he was told that everything was all right.

  There were girls living in this microcosm, too, like Shasha la Jactance. And for them there was no other choice but to offer their bodies for a few dollars, or for nothing at all when several went at it in full force. The end of the day was when the girls got ready, made themselves look beautiful—braiding hair, straightening it with some ammonia potion, soap, and a bit of sulfuric acid, no doubt. They’d lend each other clothes, they’d wear something new, they’d rail at each other over nothing at all.

  When night came, the market was empty of merchants. Darkness fell like a curtain. The tables had been emptied, and another scene from a different play was in the offing while they waited for adequate lighting. Here and there abandoned bulbs diffused a little self-conscious light. The set comprised some dilapidated furniture, closed shutters, the shadows of piles of refuse sprawling beneath their putrefied smell. The actors were mature men, the actresses were barely pubescent children who, beyond the footlights, played the leading roles, unfortunately.

  “Shasha, mobali na yo, ayei!”8 It was Marie Liboma who spoke those words.

  A 4 × 4 with the UN logo approached in the half-light. The car stopped, its motor running. Inside sat a white man in a beige uniform and a blue beret on his head, observing the group of kids with a metallic, impassive look. Shasha crossed the street, balancing two small dishes on her head, as when you go to visit a particularly pampered lover. Twisting her skinny hips, the girl did her best to walk like Kate Moss. At sixteen she was lucky to have the body of a fourteen-year-old little girl. She got into the car and it left.

  Isookanga began to notice what was going on around him and grew worried. The principle of more liberal relationships escaped the young Pygmy.

  Beside him Marie Liboma, chewing gum in her mouth, burst out laughing: “Don’t make that face, Old Isoo. You really think La Jactance is afraid of that white man? It’s nothing to her. Okay! Me, I’m off, going to wander around,” she added, smoothing out her hair in which she’d attached Day-Glo blue locks.

  Isookanga picked up his bag, put it on his back, and announced he had some business to take care of nearby.

  “Old Isoo,” Omari Double-Blade said, “you’re not kidding, I’d say. Business already?”

  “Just because I’m from the village
you think I worry about distance? I make deals, my boy. I’m meeting up with a Chinese businessman,” Isookanga answered as he headed toward the Avenue du Commerce.

  Isookanga didn’t have to look long for Zhang Xia, for everyone in the neighborhood knew Old Tshitshi, who was enthroned on his wooden chair, the younger Chinese sitting next to him on a small stool.

  “Hello,” Zhang Xia greeted him.

  “Hello.”

  “Old Tshitshi, let me introduce my friend Isookanga. Where from again?”

  “From Tshuapa, pal, pure mwan’Ekanga.”

  Old Tshikunku studied Isookanga from top to toe. “You’re from Équateur?”

  “Yes, Old One, I arrived not long ago.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Close by, Old One, at the Great Market.”

  “The Great Market? Don’t tell me you’re living with those young devils!”

  “Yes, but don’t worry, I’m not young. I’m almost twenty-six.”

  Old Tshitshi sized Isookanga up again, but this time he looked him in the eyes. “All right. Sit down,” he told him as he gave up his seat.

  Zhang Xia intervened: “Would you like some tea?”

  Isookanga didn’t need to answer. Zhang Xia put a teapot with water on the small brazier with some still smoldering embers. The old man, spear in hand, sat down on the steps and proceeded to become immersed in the night that had spread out in front of him.

  “You have the computer?”

  Isookanga took it out of his backpack and sat down in Old Tshitshi’s chair. He raised the lid and pressed a button. He clicked on windows, tabs, and finally found what he was looking for. “Look.”

  Advertisements for various brands of mineral water paraded by on the screen. Isookanga asked, “What do you see that all of these waters have in common?”

  “It’s water,” Zhang Xia responded.

  “It’s better than that! Most of these brands belong to one, and only one, multinational. What’s the difference between them?”

  “The level of mineral salts?”

  “Maybe,” Isookanga answered. “But nobody’s sure of that. The major difference is the taste.”

  Zhang Xia didn’t speak.

  “I have something for you.” Isookanga placed the laptop on the ground and took a plastic bottle labeled “Fanta” out of the bag, with a dark brown Coca-Cola-like liquid. “With that you’ll get rich and you’ll be able to get back to China.”

  Zhang was still totally silent.

  “Wait,” Isookanga went on.

  He took out two small bags with frosty water and a disposable syringe with a needle. He unfolded a sheet of brown paper and put his gear on it. He uncorked the bottle, poured a little brownish liquid in the cap on the ground, then grabbed the syringe. “Don’t worry, I boiled it.”

  Isookanga took a sample of the syrupy substance in the cap, pressing the plunger of the syringe, watching his motion carefully like a first-class doctor. Satisfied, he smoothly shot the syringe just below the knot of one of the plastic bags of water and injected a few cubic millimeters of his product. Then he gave the other packet to Zhang Xia: “Taste it!”

  The Chinese bit off one of the corners of the little bag and sucked it up.

  “What do you think?”

  “Not bad.” Zhang Xia made a little grimace; the water was not as fresh as his own.

  “All right. Now taste this one.”

  Under Isookanga’s scrutinizing gaze Zhang Xia took the treated bag. “I don’t know,” Zhang Xia said, a little gleam in his eyes.

  “You see?” Isookanga exclaimed. “What do you notice?”

  “I don’t know, but this water tastes like …”

  “Rivers, trees, earth, clouds.”

  “Yes, exactly, there’s that …”

  Isookanga went on: “It’s a sweetener I came up with. I call it E26 because I’m almost twenty-six years old. Isn’t it good? It’s the flavor of local soil, which is the trend nowadays, the return to nature.”

  “Yes,” Zhang Xia answered without coming much closer.

  “But that’s not all.”

  Isookanga went back to the computer. “Take a look.” Graphics appeared. “See this here. I’ve researched household costs by country, including detergents, deodorants, toothbrushes, squeegees, brooms. I also looked at budgets for shampoos, antiseptics, pesticides, and rubber gloves across the world. Did you know, for example, that the number of washcloths bought in Austria in a single year could cover the surface of Germany twice? Here’s a question for you: of these countries which ones do you think are most frequently at the top of the list of national cleanliness?”

  Zhang Xia checked the screen: “Singapore, South Korea, Monaco …”

  “Don’t look any further,” Isookanga interrupted and stood up.

  He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper folded like a diamond cutter’s parcel. He unfolded it, took out a small, bright red sticker with a white cross in the center, and showed it to Zhang Xia. “The Swiss Confederation! Now tell me what it is that people in Congo need to fear most? Microbes! Statistically, and in the collective unconscious, Switzerland is the world’s number one in cleanliness.”

  The Pygmy then promptly stuck the little emblem on the packet of flavored water. “That’s all there’s to it! When they see this red and white sign people will come running because, since it’s made in Switzerland, they’ll be convinced it’s the cleanest water around. Have some more! Look at me.”

  Isookanga grabbed the packet, took a sip, and then, his mouth forming the shape of a heart like the great wine tasters, sucked it up and swallowed. Zhang tried to do the same.

  “When they drink your E26 flavored water, they’ll think of the shade of trees, the scent of humus, the sound of thunder. And with your extraordinary chill added, believe me, they’ll quench their thirst in no time and still want more. And because you have an enhanced product, you’ll see your business grow very quickly.”

  “You think so?” Zhang asked.

  “It’s not hard to check. We’ll test it tomorrow if you want. You give me half of your water packets, I’ll treat them, stick the Swiss flag on them, and we’ll soon see whose stock is sold out first. I’ll be done before you, I’m sure of it. And if that’s the case, I suggest we become partners. You bring the Alpine cold, I bring the Forests and Rivers E26 sweetener. We’ll call it ‘Eau Pire Suisse,’9 and you’ll see, we’ll become the leaders in the market.”

  Zhang Xia told himself he had nothing to lose; on the contrary, he would gain a partner, and with this win-win formula he would stay faithful to the ideal of equity developed at one point during the congress of the Chinese Communist Party.

  To perfect his E26 sweetener, Isookanga had put some water and a large piece of bowayo in a previously sterilized, old bottle of Nido powdered milk. He placed the container on the embers of the grill of a guy who sold turkey thighs and drumsticks next to where Shasha lived. The electric eel had been simmering on a moderate fire for more than an hour while Isookanga repeatedly took it off the grill to keep it from cooking too fast. The juices had to turn into a concentrate of bowayo with its delicate, fragrant flavor, only ten times stronger. Once it was mixed with the water, Isookanga imagined, it would make the people who drank it feel they were hearing a river sing in the Équateur’s shaded forests, purified of its amoeba, its Ebola virus, its typhoid fever, because it was made at the foot of the Swiss Alps, a few minutes away by Learjet from the financial institutions on Zurich’s Banhofstrasse.

  After putting the finishing touches on his commercial strategy and displaying a few rudimentary principles of globalization, Isookanga double-clicked on an icon and Raging Trade’s main window appeared. Zhang Xia knew of the game but had never played it before. For a moment they worked together, Isookanga at the keyboard, the young Chinese counting points. Congo Bololo was a pragmatist. With not enough troops at its disposal, it had based its strategy on perfecting its military tactics and on its c
hoice of weaponry. Thus, it favored rapid reaction forces and the use of helicopters, but, above all, Congo Bololo banked massively on intelligence, which was crucial when expecting to carry out actual surgical attacks. The multinational Congo Bololo was a past master in this area. Its infiltrating agents could place GPS markers wherever they wanted: at the core of radar stations, in underground firing sites, inside the arsenals that were concealed in residential districts.

  So, by the virtual light of a pale moon, the walls of a mountain split open under Zhang Xia’s startled eyes; platforms emerged from the waters; camouflage nets were pulled out of the fuselage of planes comprising Congo Bololo’s stealth squadron. Twelve formations of six B-2 bombers took flight at close to the speed of sound, followed by a geometrically complicated formation of F-117s that were meant to complete the destruction the first had wrought. Mostly, the planes, each loaded with eighteen tons of bombs, were sent to the north and west of Gondavanaland. They achieved their destructive task, spreading death on the positions of American Diggers, Mass Graves Petroleum, Kannibal Dawa, and Goldberg & Gils Atomic Projects, largely concentrated in the north.

  Isookanga was going strong; he thrust a few GBU-31s, each of them close to a ton. Then with unstoppable forcefulness he sent off some JDAM guided bombs. From the positions he was holding on some small islands, he sent a few Wave Riders to burn the control centers that Blood and Oil and the bunglers from Hiroshima-Naga had scattered around on floes in the continent’s extreme south. He ended with an abundance of A-Gs and G-Gs,10 fired off from every side at once. Zhang Xia watched the balls of fire explode with incredible speed on idyllic landscapes composed of grassy hills with crystalline rivers running through them, craggy gorges in thousand-year-old mountains or, conversely, on the sites of a mine under the open sky, of an oil complex, or on a stricken village, where man would have become wolf to his fellowman.

  After the aerial attacks, ground troops obviously needed to be sent. Isookanga took great pleasure zooming in, for it was on firm ground that Congo Bololo’s assorted platoons had the best opportunity to prove their effectiveness in battle. As a commercial body, it enjoyed a special feature that destabilized the rival troops psychologically: not only were its units made up of all the sons of bitches that Gondavanaland could bring together, but they also included an impressive number of amazons recruited among the women of the Mongo, Bashi, Amazigh, and Ashanti nations. Their sections might be positioned anywhere and they were always there to clean up as needed. Each one of Congo Bololo’s elements performed like a titan. They were merciless, veritable masters of pillage. Hidden inside a Toyota pickup truck, the cannon of a .50-caliber machine gun appeared on the screen and began to launch projectiles that smashed the chests of those men whom Congo Bololo’s furies and boors were slaughtering on the battlefield.