Horeb took a step toward him. The sun was hot overhead, and Radar felt his head begin to spin, but he did not look away. The feeling of déjà vu receded. Everything was new again. He could feel the sun, and Horeb was coming closer. In his previous life, this would have been the time when he would have had a seizure and the children could have seen for themselves what the machine had done to him, but now he did not seize. He stayed awake, staring into Horeb’s eyes, and he knew then that he would never seize again. He knew he had been cured. Cured by his father’s electromagnetic pulse.
Horeb brought his head very close to Radar’s until their foreheads were touching.
“Enna lillah wa enna elaihe Rajioun,” he whispered. “Jazaka Allahu Khairan.”
“It’s the truth,” said Radar. “It’s the truth.”
Horeb put his hand against the soft part of Radar’s neck and then turned and began to speak. The children listened and stared.
“They want to know why you changed.”
“Tell them it wasn’t my choice,” said Radar. “But I’m the same person I was before. Tell them I’m like them. Tell them this never changes.”
Horeb nodded. He spoke. He spoke for a while. When he was done speaking, a silence settled over them, until Radar limped over and kicked the ball and the children whooped with delight and easily took it away from him. Horeb swept in and recaptured the ball, and soon it was the two of them in their yellow tracksuits against all of the children. Horeb would keep the ball, pass to Radar, who would lose it, and the children would pass it around before Horeb would win it back again. The simplest of games, but enacted here, it was a pure and untouchable act that superseded all else. Language, color, time, place — none of it mattered when the ball was moving.
“Ahoy! We’re leaving!” Lars shouted from the filling station.
Horeb clapped his hands and said something to the children. They came crowding around Radar, touching him, hugging him.
“Mundele ndom, mundele ndom,” they cried.
“What does that mean?” Radar asked.
“It means ‘the white black man.’”
“Is that good?”
“You tell me.” Horeb laughed.
9
It was early evening by the time they reached Kinshasa, though Radar never saw the great city, for they did not stop. He only heard the shouts and the sounds of traffic, the crowds, the cries of anger, the brief caress of laughter, bursts of music from open windows, and the endless chorus of honking. At some point they heard the telltale screech and crash of an accident, followed by screams. For Radar, it was completely and solely an aural city. A city of the imagination.
“It’s easy to forget your soul in Kinshasa,” said Horeb as they passed through. “I was there to study. I made my brain larger, but sometimes I didn’t remember my heart.”
“What did you study?”
“Linguistics. International relations. Religious studies. I wanted to be a translator and interpreter for the UN. But I couldn’t focus on my work. I was going in too many directions. I lost my way. So I ended up leaving after two years.” He looked down. “You must think I’m stupid to throw away an opportunity like that.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” said Radar.
“I’ve never been able to finish what I start. It’s my curse. I always try to remind myself that when Muhammad started preaching, no one believed him — no one but his wife. Nothing came easy for him. He had to earn it. . with patience. With patience and wisdom and belief.”
They listened to the mutter of a moto approaching and passing their truck.
“When people live too close together, you see the best and worst side of them,” said Horeb. “You step over human waste in the street, but you are also given food by strangers. You see people robbed by guns, but you also see young men helping old women carry their bags. Sometimes you see the good and evil in the same afternoon. Everyone understands how difficult it is to live like this. It can make you hard, like a nut, but it also leaves you open for hope, for the words of a prophet — whether this is Jesus, Muhammad, or even”—he gave a little laugh—“one of our presidential candidates. Every nut has a soft inside.”
“Is that true? I feel like I’ve met nuts with no insides.”
Horeb smiled. “We need a great leader. We need a young Nelson Mandela in Congo, who can bring the people together. This country has so much. It can be the most prosperous country in all of Africa. It can be a symbol of cooperation. But this leader must not lead because he is seduced by power. He must lead because his only option is to lead, because the world demands him to lead.”
“Maybe this leader is a she,” said Lars without looking up from his work. It was the first thing he had said since giving Horeb the tracksuit. Radar realized he had been listening the entire time, and that what had passed between him and Horeb had in fact passed between them all.
• • •
THEIR DESTINATION was a small fishing port called Mikala. The truck rumbled down a dirt track, and when they finally stopped and the doors to Moby-Dikt were thrown open, they saw that they were once again on the banks of the great river, though 450 kilometers upstream. The same river but never the same river. The water still as glass and at least three kilometers wide.
Lashed to the docks were perhaps thirty small barges, all in varying states of rust and decay. The beach nearby was covered with small fishermen’s pirogues — canoes dug out from tree trunks. The fishermen had splayed their nets across the beach to dry. A single, ancient gantry crane rose above the docks.
As soon as they jumped down from the container, they were immediately surrounded by a crowd. People were pushing and jostling one another to get close, but not too close. Radar noticed that, unlike the scene that morning in front of the Hôtel Metropole, no one was trying to sell them anything. Instead, everyone was staring at Professor Funes, who stood beneath his parasol a short distance away, talking to his driver.
Indeed, as Radar watched, the crowd began to shift toward Funes. The driver immediately brandished a club and blew on a whistle. The crowd halted. The driver started to speak, waving the club above his head. Radar noticed that almost everyone in the crowd was holding a small package. Then a young man broke from the crowd and extended his package to Funes with one hand, his other hand holding the elbow of the outstretched arm. A hush fell over everyone. Radar thought the driver might hit the man with his club, but Funes stepped forward, folded up his parasol, and took the package. He lifted it to his forehead and made a little bow. Funes said a few words to the man in the man’s language. The man clasped his hands together and bowed back, beaming. The crowd held its breath and then, with an exclamation, everyone began to push forward. The driver blew his whistle, but no one was listening anymore. Another man held out his package, and again Funes repeated the ritual of receiving the gift and touching the package to his forehead. Packages were being extended from all directions. Funes calmly took each one, repeating his gesture of thanks. The crowd now stretched back off the docks and up into the village. More were coming down from the hills. Everyone was carrying a package.
“What’s going on?” Radar asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Lars.
“He’s the Tatayababuku,” Horeb said quietly, without taking his eyes from Funes.
“The what?”