BEYOND THE PALE

CONCLUSION

The drive into the jungle was as frightening as I imagined it would be. There were animals frozen in fear at our approach, their eyes glowing in the lights of the lorry; their shadowy figures darting into the darker shadows of the jungle without warning. Large, frightening, nocturnal creatures I’d only ever heard through the anonymity of the night. Branches whipped out of the darkness, slapping at the hood of the lorry, the fenders, and the windscreen as if they were an angry mob and we’d been forced to run through a gauntlet of trees. Vines snared the side mirrors—long grassy lassos hanging down like stretched tendrils of paper confetti dragging behind us—and I wondered when the road disappeared and the trail started.

We came to a stop. The last thing I remembered in that short moment before Livingstone turned the engine off and I sank back against the seat, was the dust was floating up around us. Insects hit the windscreen in the brightness of the lights. It felt as if the lorry was vibrating within the echo of its own shudder, the silence that followed speaking volumes as everything settled around us and Livingstone finally turned the lights off, enveloping us in blackness.

“Do you even know where we are?” I asked, looking into the darkness.

“It’s a trail I sometimes use.”

“A trail? What kind of a trail?”

“Animals use it to go to the river.”

“Animals? What kind of animals?”

I could see his smile reflected in the darkness, the light of the moon filtering through the trees in thin slivers, and I laughed at my own unease.

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing big enough out here to disturb your sleep,” he said as he settled down into the seat.

“Sleep? You expect me to sleep after a ride like that?”

“What would you rather do? Carry on?” He put his hand on the key and I shook my head.

“No. I mean, I’m too excited to sleep. I’m still vibrating from the ride. And how do you expect me to sleep in this small seat?”

“The seat’s big enough. You can use the stick shift to stop yourself from rolling off, if you want.”

“Yes, well, there’re two of us in here,” I was quick to remind him.

“Then I’ll sleep against the shift, and you sleep against the back of the seat. It’s a far more comfortable position. An enviable position,” he added with a laugh.

And that was how we made love for the last time, locked within the close confines of the lorry; the steam of our breaths and the closeness of our bodies pressed up against each other in the darkness. I pushed myself against him, pressing, wrapping my arms around him and holding him against me in the chill of the night. I could smell the sweet acrid scent of him, and began by touching my tongue along the soft line of his neck because I wanted to taste him. He rolled over, facing me, and I could see him in the darkness, see his shape as a darker shadow against the shadows—like the jungle pressing up against the night—as my lips sought his hungrily. His hands moved over my breasts and I moaned into him, moving against him, reaching down to feel the hardness of him pushing up against me.

If I close my eyes, I can still see his shape locked within mine; the memory of his nakedness pressing up against me as I pulled him deeper within me, thrusting myself up to meet him, kissing his thick lips, breathing in the scent of him. Those memories still visit me in my dreams, haunting me with the remembrance of a love I shall never know again.

The ride into Stanleyville was quiet. I hugged my arms around my legs, watching the jungle disappear as we drove across the wide savanna. The tall jungle grass swayed in the breeze, the tiny dust trail behind us evaporating with the miles. There were elephants grazing, and giraffes that broke off into long, lumbering gallops as we came out of the jungle, startling them, and I remembered how on the ride in with Richard I’d been so excited by it all.

Finally, I saw the Congo, wide, flat, immense, shimmering in the distance like a grey ribbon fluttering in the breeze, and I knew the trip would soon be over. An airplane came in low overhead, the back cargo gate open and I could see soldiers standing inside looking down at us, their rifles and machine guns at the ready as if they were expecting us to shoot up at them. Livingstone shifted the lorry into gear, following the trajectory of the airplane, smiling at me and saying how I was in luck; I’d probably be able to get out safely. I smiled at him, but it was a vacant smile.

Empty.

Stanleyville was silent. The buildings shimmered coolly in the distance, the sun reflecting off the windows, many of them broken. The river was full of fishing boats and barges, the streets quiet. If I was expecting murder and mayhem, burning buildings, and overturned cars, I was in for disappointment. People were walking the streets as if nothing was wrong, the only difference being the soldiers we saw patrolling the streets.

“Do you have your Passport?” Livingstone asked me.

“Yes.”

“And whatever other papers you might need?”

“I have them all,” I said softly.

“Good. I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”

“And what about you? Do you think I’ll be able to sleep at night not knowing if you’re alive, or dead? And Reverend Hoegeveen? What’s going to happen to him?”

“I’ll get him out of here eventually. He might not think he has to leave right now, but he will in time. I’ll make sure he does.”

“And what about you? Are you staying?”

“I have to try and fix it. This is my home. I can’t leave knowing I didn’t at least try. Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t,” he said as we approached the airport.

There were thousands of soldiers milling about, machine guns at the ready as we approached. Their steel helmets reflected the sun dully. They wouldn’t allow us to go any farther, and as Livingstone stepped out of the lorry, several of the soldiers stepped forward and pointed their guns at him. He stepped back and put his hands in the air as I stepped out and approached him. I put my arms around him, pulling his arms down and they seemed to ease back somewhat as he followed me to the back of the lorry, untying the small suitcase I had.

“I don’t want to leave you,” I said.

“You must. This can only mean one thing,” he said, looking at the soldiers. “Once they leave, it will be civil war.”

“Promise me that you’ll get out as soon as you can.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, and I knew he was lying.

Three years later, the Simbas took fifteen hundred European hostages in Stanleyville. The civil war Livingstone had predicted seemed about to erupt. There was a joint American and Belgian rescue attempt, and while several of the hostages were killed, most of them were safely rescued, among them the Reverend Hoegeveen. I went looking for him some months later in London, to ask him what had become of Livingstone.

“He died,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. He sounded as if I should have known about it a long time ago. “He died three months after you left. The Force Publique came to the School and beat him to death in the middle of the compound.”

“But why?” I asked, horrified, trying not to picture his beaten, bloody body, lying lifeless in the dust. I could feel tears stinging my eyes.

“He’d put his name in for political office. He was supposed to be an example,” he explained.

“An example? Of what? For whom?”

“Why child,” he said with sincerity. “You’re crying.”

“Yes,” I said, looking down at my hands. I’d been clenching them, and open them to see my fingernails had dug deep into my palms.

“He was an easy man to love,” he said, and reaching out to me with a smile, took my hand in his.  He looked at my palm and then looked me in the eye.

“You knew?” I asked.

“Of course I did.”

I left shortly after that, catching the tube out of London, watching as my reflection stared back at me. Who did I think I was convincing? I had to ask myself. I suppose I’d always known he’d die. A man like him was too passionate to remain anonymous. It was me. I was the one who had chosen to be anonymous. I’d remained in denial. I’d wanted to ask the Reverend why—the why seemed the most important question to me—but somehow, I think I already knew the answer. Livingstone had said it that night at Richard’s grave.

It’s Congo, people live to die here, and that’s all that matters.

It wasn’t quite all, but it’s all that I had left of him.