Authors: Stanley Johnson
Stephanie looked with great fondness at her old friend. She knew that Ngenzi was being amazingly frank with her. Burundi was a country, like many others in Africa, where you thought twice before criticizing the regime.
But Ngenzi’s position was clearly ambivalent. He was a Tutsi himself and a high-born one at that. He was a friend of the President. And besides he was a gentle good man, who abhorred violence. He would not force the pace of change himself.
She pressed him. “Michel, who is the leader of the opposition? I don’t mean the moderate opposition, people who think like you do. I mean the radical opposition.”
A nervous look passed across the Professor’s face.
“Look, Stephanie. It’s not a good idea to talk too freely about these things. If I’ve done so tonight, it’s because I wanted to put you in the picture.” He leaned forward. “But I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. I’ve heard that Mtaza’s own son, Victor, may be planning some kind of coup.”
Stephanie was amazed.
“But isn’t he a Tutsi like his father?”
“He is and he isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain. Victor Mtaza’s mother was the third of President Mtaza’s wives and she was a Hutu. There
is
intermarriage between Hutus and Tutsis and President Mtaza at the time was trying to set an example.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really. Victor Mtaza’s mother died not long after Victor’s birth — in mysterious circumstances. I’ve even heard the story that President Mtaza himself killed her in a fit of anger. So you see,” Ngenzi concluded, “Victor Mtaza is half-Hutu. Apart from that, he may feel he has his mother’s death to avenge. He may succeed in his political ambitions. He’s a very charismatic young man.”
“Does he go waterskiing?” Stephanie suddenly remembered the name VICTOR painted on the side of the boat.
“I don’t doubt it. He’ll want to keep up his image as part of the ruling classes, so as to avoid exciting suspicion.”
Stephanie thought of the bravura performance which she had witnessed on the water that afternoon.
“He certainly manages to do that. How did you hear about him?”
Michel Ngenzi nodded with his head in the direction of the servants who were still watering the flowers at the bottom of the garden.
“Those are Hutus,” he said. “They hear these things.”
“Before the President himself?”
“Mtaza would be the last to hear. I can promise you that.”
Stephanie shivered. The night was drawing quickly in. The cicadas had begun their evening chorus. And the moon had begun to rise, blood red, across the lake.
“I hadn’t realized it would all be so complicated when I decided to come down here.”
“Why
did
you decide to come?” the Professor asked quietly. “Isn’t it about time you told me?”
By the time Stephanie had finished it was quite late. Ngenzi’s servants had brought dinner out to them as they talked. They had coffee afterwards and still Stephanie had not completed her tale. When at last she had said all that she wished to say, Michel Ngenzi drew himself up to his full impressive height and paced about the terrace, thinking.
Finally, he turned to her.
“What makes you sure these really
are
the green monkeys you are looking for?”
“Because we have two independent references.”
“More than fifteen years separate the first reference from the second.”
“But tribes of monkeys will often stay in the same place for much longer periods, won’t they?”
“Provided nothing disturbs their habitat.”
“Nothing has.”
“Except, according to your story, trappers on at least two occasions. Has anyone talked to those trappers? Verified the locations?”
“Michel, you know how it is, just as well as I do. The trade in wildlife is very much an under-the-counter business. We don’t know who originally caught the monkeys. People don’t leave their calling cards on a nice plastic tag attached to a collar round the monkeys’ necks. We’re lucky to have as neat a reference as we do about where the green monkeys were found.”
The Professor was thoughtful. “I think it’s odd that you have such precise information on this point. It’s almost too precise.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s almost as though someone wants those monkeys to be found.” He appeared to puzzle over the problem for a moment or two, then he moved on to something else.
“Frankly, Stephanie,” he resumed his seat on the terrace next to her. “I don’t think it can be done. You may find those monkeys. But what will you do when you have found them?”
“I thought we might move them on somewhere; somewhere they couldn’t be found.”
He shook his head. “You can drive them out if you know what to do. But they’ll come back, especially if — as you think — the tribe has been living in the same place for a very long time. And if they come back, then they’ll be exposed to the same threat as before. If the WHO people don’t exterminate them the first time, they’ll try again and again. Until they do. And if they don’t come back, but find some other habitat, they’ll be hunted down elsewhere.”
She pleaded with him. “Surely it’s worth a try, Michel. You of all people must see that. You’ve made your life with animals. You knew my parents and my sister. You must see what it means.”
“Would you like me to help?” He smiled. That wonderful Tutsi smile. “Would you like me to come with you? Get a team together. It’s been some time since my last field trip and I’ve always had a fondness for monkeys.”
She could hardly believe her ears. She had never dreamed that she might be able to persuade Michel Ngenzi to come with her. She had wanted his advice and encouragement. That would have been enough. But to have him on the expedition itself was almost too good to be true. She stood up and kissed him on both cheeks, standing on tiptoe to do so.
“Are you sure you can spare the time?”
“If I can’t spare the time for this kind of thing, what do I have time for?” He raised his glass. “Let’s drink to it? To the green monkeys!”
“To the green monkeys!” Their glasses clinked.
Stephanie came back to Ngenzi’s house around lunch-time the following day. She was fretful with impatience.
“When can we leave, Michel?” she asked. “The WHO team isn’t going to be hanging around. We are probably only a few days ahead of them.”
Ngenzi explained the problem to her:
“I’ve already spoken to my people,” he told her. “I can get the guides and porters we need. They know the area. There’s a lot of movement between Burundi and Eastern Zaire. Frontiers don’t mean so much in this part of Africa. But there’s one man I’m waiting for and he’s upcountry at the moment visiting his village. His name is Kodjo and he’s lived his life in the jungle with monkeys. I may know about them from a professional and scientific viewpoint — I know the difference between the genus and the species. I can tell a marmoset from a macaque. But Kodjo knows them right to the tips of his fingers. If we are going to move those monkeys we are going to have to go about it the right way.”
“Which way is that?”
But Ngenzi would say no more. “Wait till Kodjo joins us.”
Kodjo finally reappeared early on Sunday morning. He seemed to know that his presence was eagerly awaited. He was a young man, about twenty-two years old, with an engaging smile.
“I’m sorry, I’m late, boss. My wife had a baby. We had to have the ‘mwemba’.”
Ngenzi explained to Stephanie that the mwemba was a special ceremony to celebrate the birth of a child.
“It’s basically an excuse to drink. It probably took Kodjo three days to recover.”
When he learned of the task that lay ahead, Kodjo looked doubtful. “I’ll try,” he said.
Later, Stephanie saw him at the bottom of Professor Ngenzi’s garden squatting on all fours, prancing in and out of the hibiscus and uttering weird howls and growls.
“What’s he doing, Michel?” Stephanie asked.
“He’s practising,” Ngenzi replied. He wouldn’t say any more.
They decided to leave that evening as soon as the moon came up.
Stephanie went back to the hotel to pack up her things and check out of her room. She told them to hold most of her luggage.
“Ah, so you’re coming back?” The prospect seemed to please the hotel manager. He liked guests who tipped well. If his staff was happy, he was happy since there was just a chance that they would show up for work in the morning. “How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure.”
Stephanie turned to go. As she did so, a tall handsome African who had been standing near the desk, addressed her.
“Vous allez en safari, mademoiselle?”
She immediately recognized the man she had seen water-skiing that first afternoon and at the same time recalled the conversation she had had with Professor Ngenzi on the subject of Victor Mtaza.
“Pas exactement . . .” Stephanie didn’t quite know what to say but knew instinctively that it would be a mistake to say too much.
The big white teeth flashed.
“Oho? Not exactly?” Victor Mtaza’s eyes roved over the pile of baggage which she was taking with her. He saw the cameras and the guncases and the other equipment which she had gathered.
Then he appeared to lose interest. “En tout cas, bon voyage.”
As he stepped out of the lobby, Stephanie saw him exchange some words with one of Professor Ngenzi’s African servants who had been sent over to help her with her things.
In the car she asked the driver casually:
“Who was that man who came out of the hotel ahead of me, Charles?”
“That was Victor Mtaza, Madame. He’s the President’s son.”
“Do you know him, Charles?”
“Oh no! Victor Mtaza is a big fish. He swims in Lake Tanganyika. Charles Obonjo is just a little fish who swims in the puddles of the road when the afternoon rains have gone.”
Stephanie left it at that. There were far too many things she didn’t understand about Africa for her to begin chasing every stray straw in the wind. But she wondered idly why Charles Obonjo didn’t want to admit to an exchange which she knew he had had.
That night the moon rose at around 10 p.m. Half-an-hour later, two cars pulled out of the drive of Professor Michel Ngenzi’s private residence and headed south along the road which bordered the lake. Ten miles further on, they pulled off the road into a clearing.
“This is the place.” Michel Ngenzi got out of the leading car.
“What’s that?” asked Stephanie. She pointed to a large perpendicular stone which stood in the clearing, clearly visible in the moonlight.
“Go and see.”
Stephanie was able to read the inscription. “At this point on the shores of Lake Tanganyika Stanley met Livingstone 25 XI 1871.”
“What a place to begin!” she exclaimed.
“Let’s hope we all return safely,” Professor Ngenzi replied softly. He touched the stone with his hand and then brought his hand to his forehead.
“Come.” He beckoned to his party. “It is time to go.”
The boats were waiting for them by the shore. The porters shuffled forward with the food and equipment for the journey. Ten minutes later, they were off.
“Oars first,” ordered Ngenzi.
Now that they were on their way, the Professor was even more evidently in charge than he had been during the preparations. He had shed his city clothes and wore only the umbana, the characteristic loincloth of the high-caste Tutsis. He sat in the prow of the boat, the moonlight glancing on his bare shoulder. Stephanie could not help being struck by the dignity and inner peace of this man whom she had known for so long.
At last, when the lights of the city of Bujumbura were no more than a distant glow, Ngenzi gave permission for the outboard to be started. From the shore only the keenest listener would have detected the sound of the engine above the night wind.
Stephanie Verusio leaned back in the stern of the boat. Ahead of her the mountains of Zaire loomed larger and more ominous with each passing minute. Somewhere among those mountains was a tribe of monkeys. She was going to find those monkeys and save them. That was what her father would have tried to do. That was what her sister would have tried to do. She thought about her parents and her sister.
From the other end of the boat, Ngenzi saw the tears in her eyes, large drops of water glistening in the brightness of the tropical night.
“Don’t cry, Stephanie.” His voice was gentle.
Stephanie put her hand to her face and brushed the tears away. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed.”
Bukavu! Had he been asked six months earlier if he expected during the first week of July to fly, via the Zairian capital Kinshasha, to a half-baked town at the southern end of Lake Kivu in the Eastern Congo, Lowell Kaplan would certainly have said that the odds were against it.
His life as a top epidemiologist working for the U.S. Government was a full and interesting one. Even so, he would not normally have anticipated spending his summer vacation in a dilapidated barracks left behind by the Congolese army when they cleaned out the Mulelist rebels back in 1964. Nor would he have anticipated sharing those same barracks with a fat and perspiring Brazilian, namely José Rodriguez the Director-General of the World Health Organization; with Rodriguez’ Russian Deputy, the tall and sinister Ivan Leontiev and with an earnest bespectacled British scientist called John Cartwright.
But Kaplan was determined to make the best of the situation. He decided that his priority task was to lick the WHO team into shape. Each morning before the sun grew too hot, he encouraged his colleagues to exercise on the weed-infested concrete square in front of the barracks.
“One, two, three, four,” Kaplan would shout, setting the pace for the others. Leontiev declined to participate, pleading a gamey leg. But Rodriguez and Cartwright turned out, the former with an offended look as though he found it beneath his dignity, as head of a body concerned with global health, to demonstrate a personal concern with physical fitness.
The Congolese part of the operation was in another hut across the square. Protocol required that the Zairian government should be nominally in charge, with the WHO team in an “advisory” role (in much the same way, Kaplan reflected, as the Americans had had an “advisory” role in Vietnam). So a short thickset Zairian soldier called Colonel Albert Mugambu had been assigned to liaise with them.