‘And you think that’s wonderful?’
‘Isn’t it obvious I do?’
‘Strange, I see only an unspeakable tragedy and none of the good things you see in it.’
‘Africa isn’t something to be seen, Monsieur Krausmann, it’s to be felt, experienced, smelt.’
‘Well, it certainly has a strong smell!’
I had upset him. He was so sensitive that any disagreement struck him as a declaration of war, which was why he was so ready to take my reply at face value. But I had no intention of correcting what I’d said. I was convinced he knew what I was referring to. Africa did have a strong smell. Its air was polluted by the stench of dungeons and mass graves and massacres. It was a fact he couldn’t deny or question, because if you turn away from horror you have no chance of eradicating it. Bruno had to admit that his certainties were not truths, that his viewpoint was biased. That was what I couldn’t stand about him: that blissful squint which distorted his relationship with Africa and which saw virtue in suffering and contours where there was only flatness. We had often argued about that. Before, I had thrown in the towel, tired of having to keep the debate on track while Bruno went off at tangents and saw hidden doors, finding a kind of panache even in decay. But that wasn’t the case any more. The centaurs he had idealised while we had been rotting in Gerima’s jail were there, before our eyes, and I saw nothing of the myths they were supposed to embody.
‘You disappoint me, Monsieur Krausmann.’
‘It isn’t me, it’s Africa.’
‘You don’t know anything about Africa.’
‘Which Africa? The one you see or the one you smell?’ I looked him in the eyes. ‘In concrete terms, what fascinates you about it?’
‘Exactly what just struck you: the hunger for life. An African knows that life is his most precious possession. Sorrow, joy, illness are simply part of a person’s education. An African takes things as they come without granting them more credit than they deserve. And although he may be convinced that miracles exist, he doesn’t demand them. He’s self-sufficient, don’t you see? His wisdom cushions his disappointments.’
‘Did you say wisdom?’
‘You heard me correctly, Monsieur Krausmann,’ he said, more and more angrily. ‘He’s a splendid creature, the African. Whether he’s sitting in the doorway of his hut, or under a carob tree, or on the banks of a crocodile-infested river, he’s himself. His heart is his kingdom. Nobody in the world knows better than him how to share and forgive. If I had to give generosity a face, it would be the face of an African. If I had to give brotherhood a sound, it would be that of an African laugh.’
‘And what if you had to give death a face? Stop this, Bruno. What kingdom are you talking about? What brotherhood? Are you blind? You don’t have to raise poverty to the rank of prophecy to make the wretched of the earth into the just. You’re talking nonsense, Bruno. I don’t know Africa as well as you do, but what I see with my eyes is irredeemable. And I don’t see any of the things you’re trying to show me … It’s through protest that we lay claim to hope. And these people don’t protest. They flee when they should resist. They quickly gather their kids and their bundles and run blindly. The least sign of a tornado in the distance makes them panic … You want to know what I really think? These people don’t live, they exist, and that’s all.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Monsieur Krausmann. Here, when life loses meaning, it still keeps its substance intact, in other words, that absolute determination that Africans have, never to give up on any single minute of the time that nature grants them.’
‘Even a griot would laugh at your oracle, Bruno. And do you know why? Because it gives him nothing to get his teeth into. When you’re dying of starvation, you don’t give a damn about eulogies and orations because nothing in the eyes of the starving person is worth the illusion of a meal.’
‘We aren’t looking at the same things.’
‘Yes, we are. Except that where you paint a fairy tale, I see a disaster.’
‘Africa is more than the sum of its famines, wars and epidemics.’
‘Then what else is it, in your opinion?’
‘The refusal to—’
‘The refusal to what?’ I cut in. ‘To transcend misfortune, is that it? You can’t turn vomit into a banquet, Bruno. This continent has a serious problem with bad governance, corruption, lack of discipline, lawlessness. Violence is practised here like a priestly vocation. That’s the truth, and there aren’t any others. We’re dealing with a human catastrophe. The people I see here are doomed. As long as they have such irresponsible leaders, they’ll continue to suffer … There’s a rational explanation for bankruptcy. And Africa is bankrupt, my friend. Making it believe the scars on its body are beautiful tattoos is to make it an innocent. Painting an innocent with gold and releasing him into the wild is a recipe for chaos. And chaos is right here, in front of our eyes … Look at them: they’re scared, they’ve lost everything, they’re running without knowing where they’re going, and every day they die of hunger and exhaustion. That’s Africa, Bruno. A foul wound. A mess and a madness. And you don’t gild the image of someone who’s wearing a straitjacket. I’m outraged to hear you praise a scorched land where not even a hint of promise remains. You have to look things in the face and ask yourself the right questions. What’s become of the schools, the training centres, the institutions, the jobs? What’s become of order, justice, democracy, dignity? All I see is flights and raids and rapes, a people without gods or virtues forced out of their homes, at the mercy of thieves and genocidal tyrants, and that’s worse than death.’
‘I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength, Monsieur Krausmann,’ Bruno said, getting to his feet, offended by my diatribe.
‘We aren’t even on the same planet.’
The following morning, the convoy did not leave at the appointed time. A slight sandstorm had blown up, but the real reason for the delay was the young man with the cart. He was on his knees beside his mother, his fist in his mouth. His mother was resting on a mound of sand. Her swarthy complexion had darkened. She seemed to be dying. Dr Juárez, Lotta Pedersen and the two nurses were by her side, with a first-aid box containing a few meagre drugs. Dr Juárez took her blood pressure; the face she made as she put away her stethoscope wasn’t encouraging. The old woman’s breathing was a barely audible hiss. The emergency care she had been given had not woken her. In expectation of a death, the refugees appeared one after the other. A few sympathetic hands came to rest on the shoulders of the young man, who did not even notice. Dr Juárez said something to him in a local dialect. The young man shook his head and bit his fist, no doubt to suppress a sob. When he realised that everyone was hanging on his words, he cleared his throat and declared that for him and his mother the adventure was over. He explained to Dr Orfane that the old woman could no longer bear the jolts of the cart, that the planks of wood had eaten into her flesh and bones, and that there was no point prolonging her ordeal. Dr Juárez tried to persuade him to carry on. She suggested putting a blanket under the old woman’s body in order to absorb the knocks, while the two nurses offered to take turns pulling the cart. The young man refused categorically. Bruno also intervened. His great, oft-vaunted knowledge of the African factor had led him to think that he could succeed where others had failed. The young man didn’t even listen to him. In fact, he wouldn’t listen to anyone. A family of refugees volunteered to stay with him, but to no avail. He wanted to be alone with his mother and not owe anything to anybody; his torn bundle, his canteen of water and his remaining items of food would be enough for him. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste time because of us.’ After half an hour’s discussion, Dr Juárez gave up, convinced that the young man wouldn’t follow us. After weighing up the pros and cons, the three doctors opted to continue the march without further delay, as the sandstorm looked as if it was likely to get worse.