He as an antique bookseller (and buyer) and as a junior high school student getting exposed to the history of the Congo (river and country) as shaped by Stanley Livingston and King Leopold II. As a bookseller he discovers the Bringhurst Diary and as a student he discovers genocide. They are not unrelated.
This chapter gets you the reader some facts and politics of the Congo that will be useful in future chapters. I hope it’s not too much of an info dump and more exciting to read.
««« The Bringhurst Diary »»»
It was nothing spectacular yet it was old and had been in the Bringhurst Library for at least two centuries so it brought in a couple of hundred dollars. It was obvious the auctioneer was hoping the alcohol, the late afternoon, and the time spent would encourage larger bids.
He saw a lot of bidders imbibing in scotch or wine as they waited for the really valuable pieces to come up on the block. Later, drunker, their inhibitions lowered, they would venture a larger bid than prudent or financially responsible bid. But for now, they sipped.
Kravick bid $1850 for the Pamela but was outbid by an anonymous buyer at $2150, despite a slight tear on the back cover. Next up was a First Edition Second Printing of Shamela; Fielding’s sarcastic parody to Richardson’s Pamela. It was bound in a three-quarters snake-skin cover and had a slight smudge on the index.
It was then that he noticed some of the bigger bidders, some of the more famous booksellers, were absent. He looked into the hall to see one man standing beside the scotch sipping it and talking with Lord Bringhurst; both were smiling and nodding as if telling private jokes to one another.
Could it be, he wondered, they knew when the choice pieces would be cried and had already put in their bids? Could it be that Lord Bringhurst gambled on the big names buying the best books before the auction even began? Were they — the lowly peon bidders, assistants, and fledgling buyers — fighting for the leftovers: the slightly damaged Pamela, the Second Printing of Shamela. Perhaps a well-marked up first edition of Joseph Andrews? A play by Gay with a forged autograph?
He got to his feet and strolled back to the open bar, her I hate you swirling in his brain like a pop tune he couldn’t get out of his mind. Would he ever? He walked over to the bar, and poured himself a finger of Scotch.
“Ah, this is Timmons’ right hand man,” Lord Bringhurst said to his companion, seemingly unconcerned about the previous encounter with the mysterious man in black. “Good man, Timmons. This is Sir Clive Kennedy.” He leaned next to him to whisper loud enough for Sir Clive to hear, “Made his fortune in darkest Africa, you know.” Then, straightening up, asked, “How is the bidding going?”
“I’m just waiting for the better quality books to…”
“Well, don’t wait too long,” Sir Clive said. “I’m only here to acquire one book and,” he glared at him with a stern eye, “I shan’t be denied, eh?”
“And what book is that, sir?” he asked.
“No, no, no. Secrets must be maintained or all of society would break down, don’t you think?”
“Rightly so,” Lord Bringhurst agreed. He turned to him and asked “You’re after a Fielding, are you not?”
“Secrets,” he joked.
“Nonsense,” Sir Clive laughed. “We’re all friends here.”
“Well,” he said.
“Besides,” Sir Clive continued, “Everyone knows Timmons’ is an 18th century British man and Lord Bringhurst here has one of the largest private collections of Fielding in the kingdom, am I right? Speaking of collections,” he asked, “Didn’t you sell a complete set of Tristram Shandy last year?”
Lord Bringhurst nodded as he dipped his moustache perilously close to his Scotch. “Perhaps.”
“I’m a big Sterne fan, myself,” he said. “I would’ve loved to had the opportunity to…”
“Fleet of foot,” Sir Clive interrupted, “gets the best pickings, you know? What is that quaint Americanism? Something about devouring a worm? Ghastly.”
“Rightly so,” Lord Bringhurst agreed. He looked over his shoulder and added, “If you’ll excuse me. I must attend to …”
He realized he was being shut out of any conversation about the auction and books that had been snapped up by friends of the Lord. He put the Scotch to his lips before the aroma overwhelmed him and he took it away.
“Africa, you say?” he asked.
“Lord Bringhurst’s little joke,” Sir Clive said. “I was a mine manager for a bit. Nothing really. Still, managed to sock away quite a bit of coin.”
“In the Congo?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Just a guess. The Congo is a big resource exporting country, so, you know, just a guess.”
“Many African countries are big mineral and ore exporters. South Africa. Namibia. It takes several millennia for the minerals to form and Africa’s very old. Geographically speaking.”
“Really? I was only aware of the Congo…”
“Ah, my book is up next. I must reek financial havoc on this poor auctioneer. If you’ll excuse…”
“Of course,” he said, put his Scotch down,_ and hurried after Sir Clive, anxious to see which book he just had to have at no thought of the cost.
“Coming up next in your catalog is a prime example of early 19th century personal diary publication. This particular piece, bound appropriately in central African okapi skin, is, unfortunately incomplete, a diary of Sir Henry Stanley. At the time this diary was created, Sir Henry was in the employ of King Leopold II as governor-general of the King’s Congo holdings. There is a rather large patched wound on the recto cover — perhaps a bullet hole — and several pages have been removed, presumably by Sir Henry himself. Shall we start the bidding at 200 pounds?”
A bookseller raised a sign with his three-digit buyer’s number emblazoned on it: 289
“I have 200 pounds. Do I have 250? 250 pounds?”
A buyer raised his paddle:167.
“I have 250 do I have three? Do I have 300 pounds?”
The original buyer, his ear to a cell phone, raised his buyer’s paddle almost as an after thought.
“I have three hundre…”
“500,” Sir Clive said in a voice loud enough to reach the auctioneer’s ears as he raised his buyer’s paddle with his double digit number on it: 12; a sign of his early application.
“I have 500 from the gentleman in the back. Do I have 550?”
289 whispered into his phone with one hand covering his lips. He spoke, listened, argued, listened again.
“Do I have 525 pounds?”
289 nodded and put his cell phone in his lap. He looked up at the auctioneer and shook his head.
The auctioneer glanced at 167. 167 was looking through the catalog, seemingly no longer interested in Sir Henry’s Congo diary.
“Do I have 510?”
No one in the audience moved or coughed.
“I have 500 pounds. Going once.” He looked around the room. “Going twice.” He looked at the line of men standing at the back of the room. He looked over at 289. “Sold! to the far gentleman for 500 pounds.
“Next on the block was going to be a second edition Joseph Andrews. Unfortunately this item has been struck from the list. We will continue with the following item…”
“Wait!” he said aloud, but stopped himself before he made of fool of himself. Why was the one book he was searching for no longer available? Was he being set up? He sensed someone sneaking up behind him. He turned. A beaming Lord Bringhurst looked at him.
Sir Clive shook Lord Bringhurst’s hand and accepted a handshake from him.
“Calls for a nip of brandy, don’t you think?” he said to Lord Bringhurst. He turned to look at him, “Come along then, help me celebrate, will you? Timmons would most happily agree with my purchase, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he would. But I don’t understand why the Fielding was skipped…”
“He wouldn’t like how you barged in with the top bid, Sir Clive,” Lord Bringhurst interrupted. “It’s a game, you know,” he winked at him. “Wait the other bidder out, so to speak.”
“I could have, of course,” Sir Clive said as he poured three glasses of brandy. “But life is short, and I have no time for games.” He smiled as he handed Lord Bringhurst his glass. He handed him his and the three stood at something approaching Attention!
“To Sir Henry for writing the blasted thing,” Sir Clive toasted.
“And to Sir Clive’s winning bid.”
Lord Bringhurst and Sir Clive nodded; the three touched glasses, and downed their small shot of brandy in one gulp. Sir Clive immediately refilled their glasses.
“What will you be doing with the diary?” Lord Bringhurst asked.
“The usual,” Sir Clive smiled, “Nothing. Perhaps display it with the rest of my Congo mementos, of course. Even, dare I say it, eventually read the bloody thing.”
“Ho, ho, old man, don’t get carried away,” Lord Bringhurst smiled. He sipped his brandy and looked at him. “However, it is rumored that that diary has, how shall we say, a treasure in it.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Clive sipped his brandy; he noticed it was not the higher quality the Bringhurst house was known for, but a lessor brand; he guessed it was for the book buyers and sellers who infested the house during the auction. “The secret treasure of Sir Henry. Have you heard of it?” he asked.
“Me? Uh, no, no I haven’t,” he answered. “Is it valuable?”
“It has been said,” Lord Bringhurst whispered as he leaned so close to him that he could smell the breath mints through the aroma of brandy and stench of too many cigarettes, “Sir Henry sequestered over a million pounds of gold… that is 2.2 million kilograms — somewhere in the Congo. Buried, of course, perhaps during the dry season. Come the wet season and the river hides the horde.”
“Treasure hunters scour the basin every dry season. Some say it isn’t buried in the Congo. Some say Sir Henry smuggled it into England, France, or Spain.”
“Perhaps I should go look for it,” he said. “Find my own fortune.” He sipped the harsh liquid. “And that blasted Joseph Andrews edition.”
“Careful, old chap, what you wish for,” Lord Bringhurst warned.
««« Sixth Grade Four »»»
The River Report
He studied the teacher; he squinted his eyes at the other kids.
“The river,” he coughed. “Brings with it both life… and Death. Death,” he said louder, “with a Capital D a skull and crossbones tattoo on its forehead, greasy slime dripping from its gnarled…bloody…teeth.”
He stood up to glare at the kids in the second row. “Reptiles that have not changed in a hundred millennia pace the shores of the Congo. The Congo!” he roared. “Second largest river in the world! Largest river In Africa! Hoarder of Reptiles that have not changed in a 100 millennia. Diseases that rip the flesh off of living creatures. Tiny bacteria that chew their way into your eyes and blind you while you sleep. Tiny bacteria that burrow into your brain and can cause you to go mad! To believe they are out to get you. They are controlling the world!
“Fish! with a thousand razor-sharp teeth that can strip the flesh from an unlucky human in seconds. Snakes! that can crush an Elephant. The Congo!” he shouted and jumped on the teacher’s desk.
“The Congo has over 700 different species of fish,” he said quietly. “Not all of them can kill you.” He stepped off the desk and walked to the back of the room.
“The Congo,” he said in a whisper, “is home to over 100 different types of snakes.” He traced his fingernails along the back blackboard. “Most can kill you within seconds. There are constrictors that crush your rib cage and the bone shards rip your lungs apart. There are cobras that spit venom thirty, forty feet!” He stood by the window to look out at the student parking lot.
“The Congo,” he said with fear in his voice, “is the hunting ground for fifteen species of crocodile, some grow up to 20 feet long and can devour five humans in one sitting. The Congo,” he whispered. “It both gives life and snatches it away — In an Instant!” He sat down. “The Map.”
The entire classroom stared at her. She slowly got out of her chair and walked to the podium. She looked down at her map of the Congo with its colors and rivers; cities and international airports. It looked childish. It looked as if she had finished it in one day and let it collect dust until today.
She picked it up off the podium. She collected four magnets and put it on the blackboard.
“This,” she said as she pointed at a hand-drawn gold star that looked as if a child had scribbled it, “is the capital of the Congo. It is called…”
The airplane she drew looked more like a deformed Christian cross no self-respecting messiah would be caught nailed to.
There was more water and green jungle and no indication that people lived there. Except for three cities she knew nothing about. Were they big? Small? Modern? Etched in grass huts and burnt pig roasting on fires of gathered wood? Naked children running around topless women while the men sat around with decorated loin cloths? She suddenly realized she should’ve done more research.
“This,” she said, quiet and ashamed, “Is Kinshasa, the capital.”
“Home!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet “to Over! OVER! 12 MILLION people. More than New York! More than London! Almost as Big as Tokyo!”
“And, uh, this is, uh, Boma,” she uttered and stepped away from him, fearing he would shout.
“A seaport! A seaport on a River. So wide, so deep, so powerful is the Congo that their Main Seaport Their Sea-port! is on the River! On the River! Imagine! Ships sail from Liverpool and Manchester, from New York and Newark — Across the Atlantic through storms, hurricanes, and swells 30 meters high! — and then must Sail Up the Congo River! to reach Boma. A seaport,” he repeated quietly, “on a strong and powerful river.”
“And, and, this is the biggest inland city…”
“Kisangani!” he said. He stood, looked out the window, then stared at the other students. “Named first Stanleyville after its founder: Henry Stanley, friend and trading partner with Tippu Tip, the Slave trader.
“Almost Two, Two million people in Kisangani. Poor, hard-working, and many refugees from the civil wars in countries that that surround the Congo. Civil wars!” He shouted, “Civil wars that enslave and kill millions! Just as King Leopold the Second of Belgium slaughtered up to ten. Ten! Ten! Ten!” he thrust his palms upward and outward as if in Prayer for the Dead. “Ten million Citizens of the Congo! More than the Holocaust!” He pounced forward.“Are we taught this Genocide? Do our teachers —” He pointed an accusatory finger at the Teacher — “tell us that ten million Africans Died so that King Leopold and Henry Stanley could live in wealth and leisure? Are we Taught the Murders that enable us to Live Comfortably?! The slaves of Today! Sweating over our Shoes? Our iPads? Even, yes, our Underwear? Are we taught this travesty?! This InHumanity?! Are we taught this Inhumanity!?”
“No!” Jack shouted.
“Are we taught the million Tutsis slaughtered in Rwanda!”
“No!” Abraham yelled, spit flying.
“Do our teachers tell us about the 300,000 murdered Hutus and Tutsis in Burundi?”
“No!” shouted Yumei.
“Empty Lies!” he shouted and pointed an angry finger at the world map tacked to the wall beside the teacher’s desk. “We are taught Empty Lies!”
“No more! No more lies!” a gaggle of students started to chant.
“No more Lies!”
The entire class jumped to their feet to ‘No More Lies!’ They rushed out the door. They poured into the hallway. They marched to the principal’s office chanting “No More Lies! No More Lies!”
She stood there, looking at her green/blue map of the Congo with its silly yellow star indicating the river seaport of Boma. She stared at the teacher.
The teacher, her mouth agape, tears swelling, stood still; wondering what happened, wondering how a simple assignment — designed to keep the brats busy for at least a week — got so out of control, so out of hand. Like a murderous rage of a gaggle of European explorers who saw the possibility of exploitation and attacked the entire population of a different country, a different people.
“Good,” she said. “G--.”
As you may know, the “Good G- -.” is a reflection of his love (as a bookseller) of Tristram Shandy which you read in a previous chapter.
If you have any questions, complaints, observations, I’d love to hear them.