Apart from his fortunate education, Afonso was a man of unusual abilities, for he possessed the gift of charismatic leadership and a clear perception of where he and his people stood in history. He was also an honest man, brave in battle, and with a keen sense of strategy. He was, in short, the finest leader that the black people of Africa were to produce over a five-hundred-year period, and if ever the African Negro had a chance to establish a secure position vis-à-vis Europe, it was through Afonso; his letters to the King of Portugal in Lisbon were documents of prime historical importance, for in them he asked not for cannon or gold but for teachers and priests who would show his black subjects how to govern themselves.
When Cato reached this point in the history he felt that he had to share his discovery with the others, so he asked Hajj’ if he might take the book to the pop-top, but when he got there, a little boy told him, ‘They go Bar Africa,’ so he joined them, and under the awning, while the fan droned noisily, disturbing the air hardly at all, he read them portions of the record. His white listeners were impressed, and Monica said, ‘I never heard of this man.’ Nor had the others.
It was Gretchen who introduced the subject that would occupy them for several hours: ‘If black people comprise such an important segment of the world population, and especially if they are so crucial to the United States right now, why don’t we study about men like King Afonso? At college I had a course in Belgium history. How big is Belgium? I don’t know, eight or nine million people? Maybe a third as many people as we have Negroes in the United States. Yet it’s academically respectable to have a course in Belgian history because Belgium happens to be white and a part of Europe. But it would be ridiculous to have a course in Congo history, even though the Congo has one and a half times the population of Belgium, because it’s black and is not a part of Europe. Crazy world.’
‘That’s it!’ Cato cried with some excitement. ‘That’s
why we blacks demand that we be given courses in black history. God knows it’s more important to the world today than Belgian history. And for America it’s fantastically more important.’
Gretchen had a subtle point: ‘I don’t agree with you, Cato, that only blacks should be given the course in black history. It’s us whites who ought to take it … so that we can see you and ourselves in different perspective.’
But shrewd Monica saw the flaw in this argument: ‘You can rationalize all you wish, and you can daydream about what might have happened, but the cold fact remains that the history of the world is and apparently always will be the history of what white men have accomplished. The history of Belgium is at least fifty times as significant as the history of the Congo if only because Jan van Eyck invented oil painting there and Maurice Maeterlinck wrote his books. When somebody in the Congo accomplishes something like that, it’ll be worth our while to study how his culture enabled him to do so. Until then …’
Cato grew angry, and demanded, ‘What about the Benin sculptures?’ and Monica, who had heard this question a hundred times in Vwarda and London, snapped, ‘What about the giant heads on Easter Island? Do they make history? Does one lucky break build a culture? You saw the cultural history of Africa … when that commission came down to talk with Sir Victor … then went back and slaughtered his wife. That’s Africa.’
Cato said, ‘I happen to think that tribal groups murdering a white woman in Vwarda is neither better nor worse than Protestants slaughtering Catholics in Ireland. Neither country is fit to govern itself, but we’re stuck with both of them.’
Gretchen, always unhappy when Cato and Monica argued, tried to conciliate their points of view by asking, ‘What happened to King Afonso?’ and Cato replied, ‘I haven’t got to that part yet,’ and Monica said, ‘Pounds to sixpence he sold his people out.’ When Joe told me of the argument later, I asked what part he had played, and he said, ‘I sat there nursing a beer, listening and trying to decide what I thought.’ I asked him what he had concluded, and he said, ‘Like on so many things, I was mostly confused.’
When Cato returned with the book to Hajj’s veranda, he settled down to follow the history of Afonso I, and as
he read, a grief of great magnitude enveloped him as he learned how Afonso’s reign had ended in disaster. The missionaries that Portugal sent to help him found that they could make a fortune by rounding up slaves for European ships that were starting to anchor at the mouth of the Congo; the first of the terrible chain gangs leading from the interior to the beach were shepherded by priests. Traders who were to guide the king became buccaneers waging war against him. White counselors who were supposed to help bring the Congo into the concert of nations perverted everything they touched and defeated each effort of the king to civilize his domain. Worst of all, the Portuguese who had opened the kingdom to trade and Christianity saw quickly that it was not to their interest to have the area governed by a strong central power, so they supported any insurgency that came along and initiated their own when native rebellions flagged. Afonso’s attempts at leadership were frustrated. Savages who stood to gain a little gold by selling other savages in slavery were encouraged to overthrow the king, and in the end, betrayed by the God he had accepted, by that God’s representatives, by his tutors the Portuguese, and by his own people, he fled his homeland, unable to comprehend the collapse that had engulfed him.
Cato closed the book, and when Hajj’ asked him a question about it, he merely stared at the tall saint and walked out into the evening cool. Without seeing the people who passed him on the boulevard, he wandered toward the fort and came to that attractive plaza which stood between the sea and the governor’s palace, and there he saw the familiar statue of Vasco da Gama looking toward India, with the inscription which Cato had always disliked but which now infuriated him:
VASCO
DA
GAMA
1469–1524
Descobriador
de
Moçambique
en
1496
‘Just like the arrogant bastards,’ he muttered to himself, thinking not of the Portuguese but of all white men. ‘They
stumble upon this island in 1496 and announce to the world that they’ve discovered it. The damned thing had been known by Arabs for a thousand years and by blacks for two thousand years. But until white men got here it didn’t exist. When they set their sacred feet ashore it became a part of the known world. Known to whom? Goddammit, the Queen of Sheba knew this island. Regular boats were sailing from here to Arabia when Portugal was still a pigpen.’
He stared at the metal explorer and cursed him: ‘A savage murderer, that’s what he was. That’s what they all were.’ And then, as he stood on this historic spot, where trading ships had tied to the shore for two thousand years, he seemed to see in the shadows the endless procession of slaves, reaching back to the beginning of time, shuffling silently from jungle to barracoon to ship. Among those naked women heading for the slave markets in Lisbon or Pernambuco or Charleston was one who could have been his great-great-great-great-grandmother. Among the men, weighted with wooden yokes, walked his spiritual father, and over all the passage there was a smell of death.
He covered his face with his hands, as if he were ashamed to have the white captains of the slave ships see him weep; his anguish was deep. But then his pride took over. Wheeling away from the shore and its hideous scene, he faced the metal statue and in a loud voice, shouted, ‘Fuck you, Vasco da Gama.’
And then one day the letters arrived! In Lourenço Marques, in Beira and here on the island, Gretchen had gone often—but in vain—to the poste restante; finally, this day, there was a batch of mail sent north by the young man from the consulate. There was a letter from her mother and one from a former escort, both of which she tucked into her handbag. With joy she saw that Yigal had written to Cato, from Detroit, and that Mr. Holt had written to Joe, from Lausanne, and it required much self-restraint to keep from ripping open the envelopes, so eager was she to know what was happening to her friends. But what pleased her most was a letter addressed to her, also from Lausanne, and in Britta’s precise European hand.
Hurrying to Bar Africa, she ordered a glass of white
wine and ripped open her precious letter. Then, unfolding the sheets with care, she spread them before her and began to read.
Hotel Splendide
Lausanne, Switzerland
2 September, 1969
Dearest Gretchen,
Not a day goes by but what Harvey and I ask ourselves, ‘How are the kids doing in Moçambique?’ I have read three books on the area and probably know it better than you do, because Harvey adds to the reading with strange bits of information. Did you know that Lourenço Marques was almost the cause of a war between the French and Germans and English and Portuguese, and not too long ago, either?
How did I get here? Well, after you left Pamplona that night to catch the boat in Barcelona, I went back to the military hospital, told the guide I was Mrs. Harvey Holt just in from Madrid, broke into the room and told Harvey that I was going with him to Ceylon whether he married me or not. Both he and Mr. Fairbanks wanted me to leave Pamplona, but I saw very clearly what was right for Harvey, and I refused to leave.
We drove to Madrid … Harvey got well so soon you’d never believe it. The doctors said he must have been raised on tiger milk. There’s a real hole in his belly, but the doctors said it would fill in as the muscle grew back into place, and before we left Pamplona something terribly nice happened which I think you kids, and especially Cato, ought to know. The young Frenchman who grabbed Harvey from behind and caused the accident came to the hospital and apologized and wanted to pay the entire hospital bill because he had been told that Harvey was a poor man who worked in the oil fields all year and saved just enough money to run with the bulls at Pamplona each summer. I had tears in my eyes and Mr. Fairbanks coughed and Harvey embraced the young man, the way they do in French movies, and then what do you think happened? He—the Frenchman, I mean—brings out a big photograph of the scene where he is grabbing Harvey and the bull is goring him, and would you believe it, he wants Harvey to sign it, and when Harvey does, he brings out another copy which he has signed and he gives this to Harvey as a present! When he left, the young man said, ‘I’ll see you next Bastille Day,’ and Harvey said, ‘That would be just my luck.’
I suppose you want the big news. Harvey refuses to marry me but I am going to Ceylon with him … that much I insist on and I think he rather likes the idea because I do many things to help him. I’m sort of unhappy that he doesn’t want to get married, but not too much. Between you and me, I
think he’ll gradually get used to the idea, and if the gradually doesn’t string out till I get wrinkles, I have a feeling it will work out all right. For the present, though, no babies. Every time we have a quarrel, which is not too often, he says, ‘Damn it all, I’ll set you up in a bar in Torremolinos,’ as if that were the greatest thing a girl could want. So maybe years from now when you and Clive come back to Torremolinos, there I’ll be. He got the idea in Japan, where if a man lives with a woman for a certain number of years, when they break up he’s obligated to buy her a bar. I told him that if that was my destiny, the least he could do was give me a book on how to mix drinks, and the other night he brought one home wrapped in silver foil.
How did we wind up in Lausanne? Dear Mr. Fairbanks persuaded Harvey, when we got to Madrid, that he ought to have a recuperation. Besides, all his savings are invested in World Mutual here in Geneva and he ought to see the head office. What I think it really was was that Mr. Fairbanks likes Harvey very much and wanted to encourage him to marry me. So we came to Geneva, which was very busy, and then came right down here, which is lovely—Lake Leman, which I used to read about in school, and a super art museum and the mountains not far off. I was so happy the other night I said, ‘This is like a honeymoon,’ and Harvey said, ‘This is your honeymoon,’ so I guess that’s that.
Of course, Harvey was worried about getting back to work, but Mr. Fairbanks said, ‘You’re entitled to sick leave, take it,’ but Harvey was afraid UniCom might think he was only playing sick, so Mr. Fairbanks had his company physician examine Harvey so that he could write a letter and certify that Harvey had really been injured, and when the doctor saw that first big scar across the chest, and the latest one in the belly, and the big one on the rump and the two shrapnel wounds from Okinawa when Harvey got one of his medals, the doctor said, ‘Hell, this man should
never
go back to work,’ and they spent the rest of the day drinking and talking about war and bulls and far-off places.
Gretchen, I want you to do something very important. Harvey is going to write Joe a letter. He thinks of Joe all the time. Some days he mentions his name four or five times, as if Joe were his son. Sometimes Joe said in Pamplona has worried Harvey very much and he thinks that maybe when they were talking he didn’t express himself very well, so he’s going to write this letter in which he hopes to express his ideas more clearly. He’s afraid that Joe won’t take the letter seriously. Joe will listen to you. As a matter of fact, I think he is in love with you, in his sweat-shirt sort of way, so please see to it that he takes the letter seriously. It will mean a great deal to Harvey.
Give my love to Monica. She is a girl who needs a great deal of love, Gretchen, and I don’t mean from men. Stay close to her. I miss her sadly, as if she were my little sister, although I am no older than she is. And give sweet little Cato a kiss for me. I like to hear him arguing about things he knows nothing about. He’s marvelous fun, but I often wonder what’ll happen when Monica breaks it off.
And to you, as we Spaniards say,
un abrazo grande.
I would stain the page with tears if I told you how indebted to you I am, not for the kindness—anyone can give kindness—but for the money. Without it I’d never have met Harvey and I’d never have gone to Ceylon and my life would have been frustrated and barren. We shall meet somewhere and I will try to tell you, but I’m sure you know.
Love,
Britta
P.S. When you live with Holt you live with music, but his tape recorder is so complicated he won’t let me touch it. I made him get me one I could play. It cost $50 and I tell him it sounds better than his.