Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

‘What’s extraordinary?’

‘The miracles,’ she said, looking in my eyes in search of something. ‘I’ve witnessed quite a few supernatural events. I’ve seen people come through terrible ordeals, sick and dying people get up out of their beds, and things so unlikely I can’t talk about them without sounding ridiculous.’

Her hand grasped mine, a gesture she had whenever she felt she was losing her way. It was much more a question of clinging to something than a considered move.

‘This continent is a holy land, Kurt. I don’t know how to say it. The people are … I can’t find the words.’

‘Strange?’

‘Not in the conventional sense of the word. They carry a kind of allegory inside them, or rather a truth that’s beyond me. And it comes home to me with such strength that it makes me shiver. There’s a biblical inspiration in these people. Something that strengthens my faith, even though I don’t exactly know what it is.’

‘Maybe because you give too much of yourself.’

‘It has nothing to do with that. In the Red Cross, we don’t have any respite. There are so many priorities that everything becomes urgent. But this is another dimension, don’t you see? When the old woman opened her eyes this morning, I saw a kind of revelation in them that bowled me over. As if a dead person had come back to life. I … I’m still in a state of shock.’

Holy land , I thought. My whole culture being incompatible with what I considered some kind of surreal folklore, that kind of statement disturbed me. Ever since the misunderstanding that had almost compromised my friendship with Bruno, any reference to an idealised Africa had made me uncomfortable. I hated to argue about subjects that led nowhere. I’d even say that I endured them with a patience I disliked. My embarrassment wasn’t lost on Elena, who frowned and asked me if she was tiring me.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I have the impression I’m boring you with my ramblings …’

‘No, no, I’m listening. I don’t know much about Africa. I come from a continent where miracles are simply remarkable coincidences.’

She turned up her nose in mild annoyance and sighed. ‘You’re right. I suppose it’s very difficult to connect with that kind of story when you don’t have faith … Can I get you a beer?’

I gladly accepted. She went into her cabin, leaving the door open so that I could follow her inside. I hesitated, and she came back to fetch me. She apologised for the mess. Her cabin was an exact copy of Orfane’s, with the same padded benches, fitted wardrobe and tiled bathroom. I sat down on a chair next to the desk and crossed my legs. Elena brought me a can and a glass.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked, pointing to a signed photograph pinned to the wall showing a black woman surrounded by a happy gang of kids.

‘Marguerite Barankitse.’

‘An African singer?’

‘An icon in the aid field.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘In her heart and mind, too. She’s an exceptional lady and a great fighter. She rescued tens of thousands of orphans and child soldiers and built a hospital, a school, and farms to help the widows and their offspring. I’d give anything to do in Darfur what she managed to do in Burundi.’

‘You’ve already done a lot.’

‘We can do better. We don’t have enough medical staff.’

She sat down cross-legged on one of the padded benches. Polite as I was, I couldn’t help admiring the curves of her legs, barely covered by her shorts.

‘I don’t see any other photos,’ I observed.

She burst out laughing, with that spontaneous singsong laughter of hers that was like the chirping of birds. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

She raised a sceptical eyebrow and let me sip my beer. ‘I married when I was twenty,’ she said. ‘A handsome Andalusian, intelligent, generous. But he was possessive, and I was independent. He wanted me for himself alone and forgot that he was only my husband. We’d loved each other since high school. We continued to love each other at university and got married as soon as he graduated. Two years after our honeymoon in Cape Town, we broke up.’

‘These things happen,’ I stupidly stammered.

‘I love my work, Dr Krausmann,’ she went on, brushing her hair back.

‘Kurt.’

‘I’m sorry … When I was a teenager, I had two idols. Robert Redford for my girlish fantasies. And Mother Teresa. My husband took the place of the first and tried to overshadow the second. We can’t have everything we want in life, can we, Kurt?’

‘That depends on what we want.’

‘I wanted to help people. Ever since I was very young, that’s all I’ve dreamed about. In my fairy stories, I didn’t see myself as a princess or Cinderella, but as a nurse devoted to the destitute. I imagined myself tending to the wounded on the battlefield. And when I saw what Mother Teresa was doing among the “untouchables” and the lepers, I was certain. It was exactly what suited me. It was quite natural for me to choose the Red Cross … What hospital do you work at in Frankfurt?’

‘I’m in private practice.’

‘What about your wife?’

My breathing accelerated when I told her that my wife was dead. I expected her to apologise profusely, as people usually do when they’ve been indiscreet, but she didn’t. She looked at me with sympathy and said nothing. I assumed that her long experience of death had hardened her and that she approached this kind of situation philosophically. Her eyes searched mine, shifted to my lips, then, in an almost mystic movement, she took my hand in hers and held it for a long time.

‘I have to go,’ I said reluctantly.

Lotta came to fetch me early the next morning. Three military vehicles bearing the insignia of the African Union were parked outside the camp’s administrative block. Soldiers rigged out like draught horses, their rifles at rest, were sitting in the back seats, stiff and silent. A light-skinned young officer in a multicoloured parka stood to one side, conversing with Pfer, who merely nodded his head, his hands behind his back. Bruno was already there, in his disguise as a Muslim dignitary, cooling his heels outside Pfer’s office.

The officer saluted me, then held out his hand. ‘Captain Wadi,’ he said. ‘I command the Omega detachment, stationed thirty kilometres to the south of here. I have orders to ensure your safety and that of the delegation which will be arriving by plane in two hours’ time.’

‘Dr Kurt Krausmann, pleased to meet you.’

‘I’m glad to know that you’re safe and sound, Dr Krausmann. The director has told me about your misadventure.’

‘Misadventure? Is that what you call it?’

He took no notice of my reservations about his definition and invited me to follow him into the office. Bruno sat down on the sofa, looking morose. Not once did he look up at the captain. He seemed to have an aversion to soldiers, and the proximity of this young officer made him ill at ease. I took a seat while Pfer went behind his desk. The captain preferred to remain standing, to feel in control, I suppose. He was somewhat sickly-looking with a thin, clean-shaven face, crew-cut hair and glittering green eyes that were in marked contrast to his bronzed complexion. He could well have been an Arab or a Berber.

‘According to the captain, the plane has taken off from Khartoum,’ Pfer said to relax the atmosphere, given that an inexplicable sense of embarrassment had fallen over the room.

Bruno shrugged. He addressed Pfer in order to avoid speaking to the captain. ‘In that case, why summon us now?’

‘I need some information,’ the captain said.