“Well then, shit, don’t open your mouth unless what you have to say is more beautiful than silence! I know my law, because it’s my law, and because I am the law!”
“Right you are, Mr President …
“Let us return to serious matters: who was the character I saw leaving Mama Fiat 500’s place if it wasn’t Moleki Nzela, that complete fool of an opponent who criticises me on the cable channels of Europe with the tacit support of the Whites who are jealous of our diamonds and our okapi, eh?”
Another bodyguard shyly took over:
“Mr President, with your permission …”
“How tall are you, eh?
“One metre sixty-three centimetres, but I get up to one metre sixty-seven centimetres when I wear the Salamander shoes they sell in the Lebanese shops in the centre of town …”
“What have you got to say on the subject of this man who vanished on our approach?”
“As a matter of fact, Mama Fiat 500 has a little business going with the girls …”
“And what has that got to do with anything?”
“What I mean is, there are other customers who come for these other girls …”
“I still don’t see the connection!”
“These customers have to go in to Mama Fiat 500’s private sitting room …”
“What for?”
“To pay for their session, they don’t pay the girls directly, they pay the boss and …”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on a minute … You’re not as stupid as I thought, you’re the best!”
“Thank you, Mr President …”
“So you’re saying that the character who just left is a customer who came for another girl, not for my Mama Fiat 500 who’s mine?”
“Exactly so, Mr President …”
“Well, that does indeed change everything!”
“Mr President, we should be discreet and not hang about even if we are in an unmarked car, either we’ve got to leave or you’ve got to go and find your Mama Fiat 500 …”
“This is true … But how did I never notice you were so talented before?”
“Because my other colleagues are taller than me, and it’s hard to see me especially when I always walk behind them …”
“So why were you hiding how smart you were from me? Why were you letting these other idiots with their foul-smelling mouths do the talking, eh?”
“They are my bosses, Mr President …”
“Well from this minute on, you are their boss!”
“Thank you, Mr President …”
“I have to go in now.”
“Please do, Mr President, we will guarantee your cover as usual …”
A few days later, when the King of Fools returned to the premises, with the same henchmen, he witnessed the same scene being played out. It was indeed Moleki Nzela who had managed to return to the country opposite by travelling via our country. The four men were first of all dismissed for offences against national security, then eliminated without trial.
From now on four new hefty guards accompanied the King of Fools to Mama Fiat 500’s with, as their secondary mission, laying a trap for Moleki Nzela.
Just as Moleki Nzela was coming out of Mama Fiat 500’s shack, two henchmen grabbed him, immobilised him and forced him to swallow hemlock.
“At least he’ll die a philosopher’s death,” remarked one of the henchmen.
The news that did the rounds in the country opposite was clear: Moleki Nzela was dead following a long illness in a Brussels hospital. The President in his boundless generosity, the press release pointed out, would pay for his funeral and promote this worthy son of the country to the rank of Hero of the Revolution …
* * *
I switched off the telly and the light, and fell asleep thinking about how the new opponent who had just been murdered in Africa would also be promoted to the rank of Hero of the Revolution because “the dead are all brave men”, as the singer from Sète would have said …
IV
My surprises with Mr Hippocratic weren’t over yet. He knocked on my door to invite me to the Roi du Café. He had, he added, something very important to tell me.
I followed him because I could still hear Louis-Philippe advising me to reach out to him. Not that I could see what we had to say to each other. So I let Mr Hippocratic do the talking just as I let our Arab on the corner do the talking.
We sat inside, at a spot that wasn’t far from the terrace. Mr Hippocratic couldn’t keep still, he seemed to have a case of ants in his pants.
He cleared his throat and began:
“I am not against you, that is why I have invited you here today … I had a bad dream about you. A car ran you over at the Gare du Nord and everybody walked past your body without stopping. I was passing by, I lifted you onto my shoulders so I could drive you to Lariboisière. But it was too late, there was too much blood, and you died in my arms … I cried for the first time in my life. I don’t want to go to heaven thinking I’m the cause of your death. So I’m asking for your forgiveness, yes, I’m asking you to forgive me for everything I’ve done to you. And if you die today or tomorrow, remember it’s got nothing to do with me, I’ve covered myself with a mea culpa … That said, I would also like you to find out who I am and what I think, because I know that you are going to die soon, my dreams always come true in the end. I’m a good person, and an upright citizen, my skin isn’t too black, and my nose isn’t too squashy. In my opinion, small minds exaggerate the injustice done to Africans when to this day your man in black Africa lives in a state of barbarism and savagery that prevents him from being part and parcel of civilisation. Now take me, I love France, I’m a big fan of white women and pig’s trotters, so please understand my anger, it’s not directed against you but against all the Blacks who criticise colonisation. You’re not like them, it’s taken me a long while to realise this, I was very wrong to give you such a hard time. Do you fully appreciate that without colonisation you wouldn’t have had blondes, redheads and pig’s trotters, eh? Come on now, let’s be honest about this!”
A waiter came by with two coffees. Mr Hippocratic looked daggers at him, as if he had committed a crime against humanity.
“Waiter! What are you serving me here? I asked for a cognac, not wild cat’s piss! I’ve been coming here for years, have you ever seen me drink that stuff?”
The waiter shook his head. He appeared to have got the measure of Mr Hippocratic’s temperament. He came back with a cognac.
“And where are my ice?”
“You usually take your cognac without ice, monsieur …”
“Well, today I want ice!”
While the waiter went to find some ice, Mr Hippocratic leaned in towards me:
“Did you see that waiter? I’ll have him fired, I swear! His hair’s a bit fuzzy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had negro blood somewhere! Take a good look at him, is it normal to employ people like that, eh?”
The waiter put the ice on the table.
“You won’t be getting a tip today!” Mr Hippocratic called out after him.
Then he downed his cognac in one before carrying on:
“I hear that some ungrateful Blacks are seeking reparations for the losses caused by colonisation. Come, come. Let us not pick the wrong battle. I say there is much to be gained from the legacy of colonisation. What is colonisation, eh? It is a movement of generosity, it is aid for the small nations in darkness! Do you understand? Civilised beings went to help the savages who were living in trees and scratching themselves with their toes. The natives used to eat each other, without even adding salt to their human flesh! Is that a normal way to behave? In fact, my favourite colonisers are the Belgians. They didn’t mess about, those Belgians! To understand this properly, you need to take a close look at the photos of the natives in the Belgian Congo during the blessed era of the colonies. And let me tell you, they are magnificent! What artistry! There are chopped hands. There are shaved heads. It was the Belgians who invented the number-one haircut, because they wouldn’t tolerate fuzzy hair. It was all positive, but the natives could only see the down side. And when the Belgians got annoyed, well, they chopped off the natives’ hands and shaved their heads without any other form of trial! Which was only to be expected, considering the natives talked too much without saying anything. They bring you light, they bring you civilisation and other knick-knacks, and you lot still dare to make a fuss in your pidgin French. At the very least you could have said: “Thank you, Bwana! Thank you, Bwana! Thank you, Bwana!” On top of which, those natives were now learning how to pronounce the word Independence. But it was the glasses of Patrice Lumumba and Co. that irritated the Belgians most of all, which is why they were keener on that brave sergeant Mobutu who entered the Pantheon of the century’s Great Men. Thanks to what? To colonisation, by Jove! Now listen here, just a few days ago I was thinking about how serious the situation was becoming. Luckily we voted in a brilliant law, which enhances the status of colonisation. There was no point in waiting for acknowledgement like that to come from those ungrateful Negroes! They are so black that they blacken everything, even those truths that leap out at you. I say that the African leaders should be inspired by this law, which restores the glory of colonisation. For example, a banana republic could promulgate a law that recognises the benefits of Idi Amin Dada’s dictatorship, of Mobutu’s one-party system, of torture in the death camps of Sékou Touré, etc. Isn’t that brilliant, eh? And I’m only talking to you about dead dictators here. I don’t want any trouble with the ones who are still alive …”