“I’ve said it before, John: You’re a very interesting man,” said Roosevelt, a strange expression on his face. “Please continue.”
“Continue?” repeated Boyes, puzzled.
“Tell me why you wouldn’t care to be part of an African nation based on African principles and beliefs.”
“For the same reason that they have no desire to become Americans or Europeans, once we stop bribing them to pretend otherwise,” answered Boyes. “Their culture is alien to my beliefs.” He paused. “Democracy, and the Christian virtues, and the joys of lit- erature, and a reverence for life, all these things work for you, sir, because you have a deep and abiding belief in them. They won’t work here because the people of the Congo don’t believe in them. They believe in witch doctors, and tribalism, and polygamy, and rituals that seem barbaric to me even after a quarter century of being exposed to them. We couldn’t adapt to their beliefs any more than they can adapt to ours.”
“Go on, John,” said Roosevelt, his enthusiasm mounting.
Boyes stared at him curiously. “You’ve got that look about you, Mr. President.”
“What look?”
“The same one I saw that first night we met in the Lado Enclave,” said Boyes.
“How would you describe it?” asked Roosevelt, amused.
“I’d call it the look of a crusader.”
Roosevelt chuckled with delight. “You’re a very perceptive man, John,” he said. “By God, I wish I were a drinking man! I’d celebrate with a drink right now!”
“I’ll be happy to have two drinks, one for each of us, if you’ll tell me what you’re so excited about, Mr. President,” said Boyes.
“I finally understand what I’ve been doing wrong,” said Roosevelt.
“And what is that, sir?” asked Boyes cautiously.
“Everything!” said Roosevelt with a hearty laugh. “Lord knows I’ve had enough discussions on the subject with you and the others, but I’ve always proceeded on the assumption that I was part of the solution. Well, I’m not.” He paused, delighted with his sudden inside. “I’m part of the problem! So are you, John. So are the British and the French and the Portugese and the Belgians and everyone else who has tried to impose their culture on this continent. That’s what you and Mickey Norton and Charlie Ross and all the others have been telling me, but none of you could properly articulate your position or carry it through to its logical conclusion.” He paused again, barely able to sit still. “Now I finally see what we have to do, John!”
“Are you suggesting we leave?” asked Boyes.
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s not that simple, John. Eventually we’ll have to, but if we leave now, the Belgians will just move back in and nothing will have changed. It’s our duty — our holy mission, if you will — to make sure that doesn’t happen, and that the Congo is allowed to develop free from all external influences, including ours.”
“That’s a mighty tall order, sir,” said Boyes. “For instance, what will you do about the missionaries?”
“If they’ve made converts, they’re here at the will of the people, and they’ve become part of the process,” answered Roosevelt after some consideration. “If they haven’t, eventually they’ll give up and go home.”
“All right,” said Boyes. “Then what about —?”
“All in good time, John,” interrupted Roosevelt. “We’ll have to work out thousands of details, but I feel in my bones that after two years of false starts, we’re finally on the proper course.” He paused thoughtfully. “Our first problem is what to do with Billy Pickering.”
“If you’re worried about the Belgians, we can’t give him a trial by jury,” said Boyes. “These people have hated the Belgians for decades. They’ll find him innocent of anything more serious than eliminating vermin, and probably vote him into the Presidency.”
“No, we can’t have a jury trial,” agreed Roosevelt. “But not for the reason you suggest.”
“Oh?”
“We can’t have it because it’s a Western institution, and that’s what we’re going to eradicate — unless and until it evolves naturally.”
“Then do you want to execute him?” asked Boyes. “That might satisfy the Belgians.”
Roosevelt shook his head vigorously. “We’re not in the business of satisfying the Belgians, John.” He paused thoughtfully. “Have Yank Rogers escort him to the nearest border and tell him never to return to the Congo. If the Belgians want him, let them get him.”
Having summarily eliminated the system of justice that he had imposed on the country, Roosevelt spent the remainder of the week eagerly dismantling the rest of the democracy that he had brought to the Congo.
13
Roosevelt was sitting beneath the shade of an ancient baobob tree, composing his weekly letter to Edith. It had been almost three weeks since he had embraced his new vision for the future of the Congo, and he was discussing it enthusiastically, in between queries about Kermit, Quentin, Alice, and the other children.
Boyes sat some distance away, engrossed in Frederick Selous’ latest memoirs, which had been personally inscribed to Roosevelt, whose safari he had arranged some three years earlier.
Suddenly Yank Rogers walked up the broad lawn of the state house and approached Roosevelt.
“What is it, Yank?”
“Company,” he said with a contemptuous expression on his face.
“Oh?”
“Our old pal, Silva,” said Rogers. “You want me to bring him to your office?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s too beautiful a day to go inside, Yank. I’ll talk to him right here.”
Rogers shrugged, walked around to the front of the building, and returned a moment later with Gerard Silva.
“Hello, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet and extending his hand.
“Ambassador Silva,” replied Silva, shaking his hand briefly.
“I wasn’t aware that Belgium had sent an Ambassador to the Congo Free State.”
“My official title is Ambassador-at-Large,” said Silva.
“Well, you seem to have come a long way since you were an Assistant Governor of an unprofitable colony,” said Roosevelt easily.
“And you have come an equally long way since you promised to turn the Congo into a second America,” answered Silva coldly. “All of it downhill.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” said Roosevelt.
There was an uneasy silence.
“I have come to Stanleyville for two reasons, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva at last.
“I was certain that you wouldn’t come all this way without a reason,” replied Roosevelt.
“First, I have come to inquire about the man, Pickering.”
“Mr. Pickering was deported as an undesirable some 19 days ago,” answered Roosevelt promptly.
“Deported?” demanded Silva. “He killed four Belgian soldiers!”
“That was hearsay evidence, Mr. Silva,” responded Roosevelt. “We could find no eyewitnesses to confirm it.”
“Pickering himself admitted it!”
“That was why he was deported,” said Roosevelt. “Though there was insufficient evidence to convict him, we felt that there was every possibility that he was telling the truth. This made him an undesirable alien, and he was escorted to the border and told never to return.”
“You let him go!”
“We deported him.”
“This is totally unacceptable.”