A band of colonials tries to keep at bay the threat of Africans reclaiming
their own; one of them pays the price.
"Jamart went to Bikoro today," Pereira said,
looking over his cards.
"But he would certainly have returned by sundown,"
I replied.
"Perhaps he had trouble at a roadblock," Pereira
suggested.
The last white man to have trouble at a roadblock was pulled
from his car at 11:00 in the morning by soldiers who had been drinking for two days. They
accused him of being a spy and beat him with rifle butts. He had left the Equateur, the
Congo's remotest province, to us, the five who remained.
"But I doubt it," Pereira continued. "Jamart
is too well known. He has interests these days along that road."
As Jamart's banker, I knew all about these interests. I was
skeptical about the kind of future any European had in the independent Congo. Since
shortly before independence I had advised the bank's European clients to liquidate their
assets. I told them to salvage what they could and start again elsewhere. Pereira and the
other Portuguese had already sent their capital out of the country. Jamart was different.
I had to call him to my office. I sent my Congolese assistant on an errand and turned up
the air-conditioner so that its rattling obscured our voices. Then I explained the
financial facts of life, even how to evade the foreign exchange regulations. Jamart
rejected my advice. In helping to colonize the country he had become convinced of its
future. He could not believe that it might collapse. That it was collapsing.
"This is a magnificent country," he told me.
"But not for your money."
"It's on the threshold of a great future."
"That future will not come in your lifetime."
He did not listen to me. |