Stringer (3 page)

I empathized, saying it wasn't easy in Kin.

“You're telling me,” she said. “I have a university degree and all they say is come back again.” She stressed the word
university
.

There was a silence about the house, unusual for the morning, and I wondered if Nana was eavesdropping from the yard. Fannie pointed at my notebook. “What's that?”

“Some work.”

“Nana mentioned. Why don't you write about me?” And she opened her eyes wide, as if she thought it were a grand idea. “You'll have to know me better, though,” she said, laughing, “or you won't have the juicy details.”

“Why don't you show me around Kin? I'm looking for stories.”

“It's a date.” She tapped her feet on the carpet and fingered her braids tenderly; she wouldn't leave my bed. Then she said, “Could you lend me a small thirty bucks?”

“What for?”

“Your girl needs to braid her hair.” I must have looked skeptical. “Don't you want to write about a beautiful girl?” She waved her hair and the plaits swayed like playground swings. I shook my head. “That's too bad,” she said. “Because I love you.” She waited for the words to have effect. “Surely you have something to share.”

“Nothing at all.”

She stood up sharply and strode off like a cat, crossing her legs exaggeratedly. I followed through the corridor. She stopped and leaned against the living room doorway, not moving as I approached. I had to brush against her chest to pass, and I felt her press; she tried to trip me. Nana appeared not to notice any of it. She offered me a piece of bread and sat on the floor, breaking green beans.

Fannie moved to the dining table; she almost wafted.

I took the adjacent seat and picked at the bread. Some awkward moments passed. Then I looked at her. “I'd like your help.”

She frowned.

I described the landfill to which I had followed Guy, when he had stolen my phone. “You know the place I'm talking about? It's close to the restaurant that sells whole goats.”

She turned—I thought to look at me—but she only scratched the back of her head. And she spoke with skepticism. “Nana says you're important, but then how come you're so poor?”

While Fannie sat with a long face we had more unannounced visitors. They popped in and out with precise wants: a lemon slice, some tonic quinine, a cloth to wear to a funeral. The visits were regular, part of Bozene's sharing: it was Congolese custom to share both good luck and misfortune. Later I understood that I was a piece of luck that Nana had tried to share. And by asking Fannie to show me around I had given her license to make her own request; I had reneged. It set my reputation. But I was new to Bozene, and there were more experienced abusers. The street had a very definite structure; it operated like a tribe: an urban clan of village and city, of assorted languages, religions and cultures. All this had coalesced here into a Donut Society, with the family at the center, and the clan (the street) as the ring. Outside this ring the world was chaotic, without clear rules or enforcers. At the center it was much the same—family was excused no matter the gravity of the crime. But the clan was society's best-organized unit: here the rules were strict and the punishment was severe. Disobedient families had their credit extinguished—which meant they could starve—for errors that outside Bozene or within families would be considered minor. The severity showed in the wounds on their dwellings: gates falling from hinges, iron frames exposed on crumbling walls. Nana said they slept sixteen in a room, mat beside mat, arms and legs over one another. Theirs were always the darkest houses, voids among the lights; and in the morning they lay empty, quiet. I never knowingly saw the inhabitants. “Better keep away,” said Nana. Bozene tried not to talk about the wretched. But lately there had been some chatter about the neighbors. And it was one of their boys
who now shook our door and peered through the grill. His face was small between the painted bars, his eyes dark and fearful. Nana heaved harshly, “What is it?”

“Sugar.”

“Only sugar?”

The boy lowered his face. Nana stood and straightened her dress, spilling the blackened ends of the beans. She grumbled all the way to the kitchen. The boy waddled around the living room, the shame apparently forgotten. He skipped wantonly. He deposited himself at the TV. A musical skit was playing. Fannie, now ignored, played with the saltshaker. I heard Nana move pots and bags. The mood in the house was dull. I lay my face sideways on my arm and the plastic lace tablecloth made an imprint on my skin. A light breeze touched my feet.

I didn't mind the moment of quiet.

Before she left Fannie answered my question. She had not been to the landfill, but knew it as the 25th Quarter. It had an entrance from a main road, she said, avoiding the need to pass through the alleys. That's what I should tell the taximen. They all knew the 25th Quarter.

I asked around. Most people didn't seem to know the place; some had heard of it; others only “remembered” after I probed. The more I learned about the place the more I became intrigued. The 25th Quarter, I found out, had once been a cemetery.

But I did not go until the next day, until after a knock sounded on our door and the tall figure of Mossi, a journalist I had met at the election commission, strode in. “Why the hell are you not picking up the phone?” he said, throwing his cap to the table like a Frisbee.

Mossi Mwassi was a refugee from South Africa. He had a short crop of gray hair. Nana didn't like him—she said he had the bloodshot eyes of someone carrying hepatitis. But Mossi enjoyed being an irritation: he stretched his legs on the chair, though Nana had told him not to, and he put his arms behind his head
and dug at his back tooth with his tongue. His face screwed up when he saw Nana. But Mossi was undeniably helpful: he knew all the journalists and also which stories were hot—he recalled news expertly, without pause, as if reading from some mental ticker tape.

I told him how my phone was stolen.

“Oh, good,” he said. “I thought you were avoiding me. The president is giving a meeting tomorrow, are you going?”

“I wasn't aware.”

“His protocol must be trying to reach you.”

“Can I call them?”

“No, they have to call you. It's a big meeting. He doesn't talk a lot, this president.”

“What's he going to say?”

“They're changing the constitution. Rumor has it they want to reduce the minimum age for a head of state so Mr. Kabila can run in the elections. Can you believe it? He's too young! It's causing an uproar. The opposition is saying he's illegitimate, weak, this, that. Tomorrow will be a sight. You don't want to miss it. Get your phone, man, there's still a chance. The protocol will probably make another round of calls in the morning. Pay the boy off! Fifty dollars usually does the trick. Show him the cash. Yes, that's how it works in Congo, you pay twice, three times for your own things!”

I did not need more convincing. At another time I might have shown more prudence, I might have interviewed more people and thought through the plan another day. But Mossi gave me reason to go that night. And his nonchalant confidence (“only fifty dollars,” he now repeated, waving a hand) revived a buried hope that I might retrieve my phone. So I hurried.

The timing was perfect. It was late afternoon and the children, known to sleep during the day, would now be waking. Nana tried to dissuade me. “Those boys are fetish.” It meant they had connections to dark powers. “They become monsters at night.
And the girls, they seduce old men. Make fools of them.” She put a banana on the table. “At least talk to the boy at the grocery store. He'll tell you what's what.” The insects chirped outside the bathroom window as I washed my face.

I purchased a packet of milk biscuits at the Bozene corner store. They were crushed. The shop boy cracked open a new Britannia carton and asked casually, “Visiting someone?” I told him; he grimaced. “Don't buy biscuits.” Gasoline or glue would be better, he said, but his kerosene stock was finished. He helped as best he could, and at the end my cargo pants were stuffed with sugar, a canister of Baygon insect repellent, a handful of
stems
—long cigarettes—and two samples of pastis, a strong liquor made from aniseed.

“I used to live on the street,” the boy said. “You'll see. It's a place God doesn't visit.”

Before I left Victoire I again tried calling Guy. But my phone had been switched off.

The twilight began to fade as the taxi progressed. The roadside gutters grew wider and greener, the heaps of rubbish higher; the air felt more laden with noise and the fires to our side grew more frequent. Our car seemed an absurd addition to the environment. I amused myself by imagining our form seen from high above, our dim headlights slowly turning among the ruins. Some children ran along the walls; a couple drank from a puddle in a place where the sidewalk had caved in.

The taxi deposited me at a stretch of sand and left at once. Two mounds of waste formed an entrance to the 25th Quarter. A path led in between and curved out of view. With two steps I was inside. Instantly I felt apprehensive. In front, in the field, dozens of empty car frames were silhouetted against the sky, making shapes like large tombstones. The garbage rose as mounds and arches, rolled over pipes and fell into pits. The ground splintered
as I walked. The boundary with the city was lost; there was no boundary. The garbage seemed to grow in an expanse around me and consume the city as one gigantic slum.

Cautiously I circled the first mound. Behind it stood a boy in a pit of water. The pool was black, like some juice secreted from the surrounding decomposition. He froze when I said, “Guy?” Then he shouted in high pitch; the sound carried beyond; I heard children call: isolated calls. It was as if my presence had become known. I took a seat on a brown-brick parapet while the boy splashed himself, eyeing me like a sentry and scratching his wiry thighs. And perched there, under the force of his stare, I gained a sense of composure. I smiled. The boy babbled something.

The landscape felt deceptively peaceful. From time to time there was the cawing of birds. And the hustled motions of children. Tinny voices could be heard. They seemed distant, and I felt disregarded, separate, that the Quarter didn't perceive me as a threat and continued its regular business. A large crow fluttered and landed on the ground; its horny beak picked at the garbage and scraped against plastic and metal. Two feet together, it hopped about.

Some moments later I heard a sound from behind. I turned. Guy was dragging himself across the field like an old man, his brow furrowed. He looked small, ruined. In both hands he held brushes that began to clack, each hand in succession.
Clack clack
. The noise seemed to resonate inside my ears, and it mixed with the anticipation, sounding strangely weary.

He swooped over my feet, mumbling, “White man,” as if in some trance, and not responding when I said his name. He ripped the cover off a can of watery shoe polish and began to paint, acting out the scene like a formal ritual, as if this was a necessary interaction between the street boy and the foreigner. I waited uncertainly, still: a brightness rose through the leather. Guy brushed with vigor. But the intention seemed foolish, and thoughtless, and at the end the solid black of the polished shoes
only jarred against the waste. His lips stretched in a smirk. On his face was a look of triumph.
“Pesambongo!”

“No,” I said, imitating his urgency.
“Moyen té!”

He laughed at my usage of Lingala. Then he hit my shoulder with the back of his fist. He jumped back and jeered. “White man. Give me money.”

“Guy. Where's my phone?”

“Phone?” He paused. “Gone.” His French was labored.

“I have money,” I said.

“Give me money!” These words came easily.

There was nothing to be done, and I let it go. I had known all along, I thought. I had known better than Mossi: this gave me some solace. And I think how I didn't get angry, and accepted his word, I think this surprised Guy. He held my arm and took me into the field. I felt he thought that I somehow understood his position.

We ran into a group of boys but Guy shouted and they fled. Then we came to a gray car frame. All the glass was gone and the chassis was dotted with barnacle-like clumps of orange rust. Guy looked left and right and climbed in. The ceiling was too low to stand under—we sat on the ground. On the dashboard were arranged liquor bottles. Guy handed me one, pulling out the stopper, while he upturned a nearly empty bottle over his mouth. But the liquor smelled like laboratory alcohol; I pulled out my pastis. He broke into a smile. I only sipped, and when Guy finished his bottle he drank from mine, with its orange label and yellow lettering: “PASTIS. For Export Only. Made in Nagpur, India.”

He sucked the last drop with a whistle. He gave a long gasp, stretching over the mud.

We went out again. I felt his wrist. “Come,” said Guy, opening his arms, as if showing me some monument—in his tone I thought I caught a sense of his pride. We walked over the fields. For the first time I saw graves. In places I saw offerings: food
tins, prized open and empty, fruit peels, empty frames for photographs. The city used to place its dead here, but garbage, it seemed, had simply been piled on top; and then the cemetery had been reclaimed for new purposes: for waste and unwanted children. We came upon a large agricultural clearing, lined with rows of carrot and cassava; so the cemetery now provided the city with food.

As night fell children materialized from the cars like mice, carrying bottles and blowing puffs of smoke in thick, mysterious clouds. One saw us and cried: a big-boned but skinny boy, he skipped over, rubber slippers flapping, followed by a girl whose blouse barely reached down to her waist. She stopped at some distance and pulled the bottom of her tight black shorts over her thigh.