But now he was home once again. It was Boxing Day, the New Year and a new decade of the Nineties lay ahead, and Jimfish made it his New Year’s resolution to try harder than ever to burn with the fury that fired the lumpenproletariat to a happy landing on the right side of history.
In a giant, open-topped limousine, flanked by motorcycle outriders and Horse Guards — splendid in uniforms based on those worn by Napoleon’s cavalry — the Great Leopard and his friend progressed from the spanking-new airport, where the runways had been specially lengthened to allow the Concorde to land, into a town called Gbadolite. Chanting crowds lined the route and Marshal Mobutu translated the praise song they repeated: ‘One party, one country, one father — Mobutu!’ He waved his wooden sceptre to acknowledge the cheers.
Almost everyone in the town was related to Seso Seko Mobutu, he told Jimfish proudly, and they all adored him.
‘I am bound to my people by pure love. But what good is love if it doesn’t take very concrete forms? It is as simple as that, you will find.’
Simple was not at all what Jimfish found.
What had been a tiny village was now a thriving city of thousands. His friend pointed out the German-run hospital, the new sawmill, the factories, the impressive dam to supply hydroelectric power, the experimental breeding farm stocked with thoroughbred English cows and Swiss goats, the Coca-Cola plant, and, last but not least, the Central Bank of Zaire, where printing presses worked day and night to produce bushels of banknotes adorned with the image of the leader in his leopard-skin hat.
Gbadolite was his home town, and ‘Home for a king,’ the marshal explained, ‘is where your palace stands.’
Ahead loomed a colossal palace ringed by a high fence. Sentries saluted as the limousine swept through the gates of gold and drew up at the main door, which was bracketed by enormous pink marble columns and guarded by four life-size white marble lions. In the palace gardens stood towering sculptures of elephants, lions and buffaloes, while peacocks wandered at will among pools, fountains and waterfalls.
Jimfish was lost in admiration. ‘It is a palace in the forest!’
Marshal Mobutu nodded. ‘It’s known as Versailles in the Jungle. I have a second one nearby, a pagoda, built for me by the Chinese. And somewhere’ — he made a vague gesture towards the thick green bush that surrounded the estate — ‘is a third. But I lose track of them. After all, I own a castle in Spain, a palace in Switzerland, capacious residences in Paris, the Riviera, Belgium, Italy, the Ivory Coast, Senegal, South Africa and Portugal. Not to mention a string of palaces that adorn Zaire like a lovely necklace, stretching from Kinshasa to Lubumbashi. To me a palace is just one more place to hang my hat.’
Seeing his friend’s incomprehension at this prodigious display, the Great Leopard said soothingly: ‘I don’t do this for myself, but because I know my people. I understand how much they admire glamour. They are too poor to afford anything themselves. So someone must take up the challenge on their behalf. I sacrifice myself in the name of peace. We have over two hundred ethnic groups in Zaire and I am the magic that melds them together.’
In what was clearly a customary ceremony of welcome, a butler led in a young leopard on a silver chain and presented it to the Great Leopard, who in turn introduced his pet to Jimfish.
‘This is Simba, my friend and brother.’
The leopard looked at Jimfish and he looked at the leopard. It seemed a shame to keep a big cat on a chain, but he was too polite to say so.
‘Come, let’s go to my office,’ the marshal proposed.
Up the spiral Italian staircase he led Jimfish, beneath great crystal chandeliers flowering from tall ceilings, followed by butlers, valets, pages, chefs, housemaids and praise singers, while from speakers hidden in the walls came the plaintive chant of Gregorian monks.
The presidential office seemed about the size of a tennis court and, after opening the safe and stuffing his favourite Vuitton bag with hundred-dollar bills, they moved into the presidential bedroom. It was dominated by an immense bed of sculpted marble in the shape of a pink cross. Jimfish was invited to seat himself beside the Great Leopard, and then, at the touch of a button, like an ascending elevator, the great bed climbed smoothly until it was level with the windows. Gathered in the gardens below was a large, excited crowd.
‘My relatives,’ the President explained, throwing fistfuls of dollar bills from the window, beaming to see his devoted family fighting for their share as the greenbacks rained down. ‘This ceremony encourages loyalty and love and competition. My advice over the years, to poor Nicolae, was to keep your friends close and your enemies closer still. I wish he had listened to me.’
Once the distribution of dollars was over, palace tailors came and took Jimfish’s measurements, and returned a few hours later with a set of splendid clothes. The Great Leopard having forbidden all western costume in his country, the craftsmen had sewn for Jimfish a tunic of gunmetal grey that echoed the President’s. It had a pert collar, worn with an olive-green silk cravat. He was also presented with a ceremonial pistol in a holster of python skin to be worn on formal occasions. In each pocket of his tunic he found neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, placed there by his ever-thoughtful friend the Great Leopard, who, when Jimfish tried to thank him, brushed aside his gratitude.
‘You are my African brother,’ he said. ‘It is I who must thank you for helping me to find another recipient for a very small part of my fortune.’
There was to be a great banquet that evening with more pink champagne, truffles, foie gras, shrimp, quail and caviar to celebrate the safe return of the Redeemer to his people. But Jimfish had begun to feel the strain of his travels and pleaded to be allowed an early night, to which his host graciously assented.
And so it was that Jimfish found himself alone in a bedroom, itself as large as the old trawler captain’s house in Port Pallid. Before sleeping, he switched on the giant TV and watched the evening news bulletin. It opened with a portrait of Mobuto Sese Seko, Beloved Leader, Solitary Sun, Incomparable Helmsman, shown descending from heaven, garlanded with golden rays, while unseen choirs hymned his incomparable genius. There followed film of their arrival at the airport of Gbadolite and scenes of his relatives massing in the palace gardens to receive the rain of dollars. The nightly newscast closed with the Blessed Redeemer of Zaire ascending to heaven to the accompaniment of harps and trumpets.
Unable to keep his eyes open a moment longer, Jimfish fell fast asleep wearing his splendid new suit of clothes, with his ceremonial pistol in its holster of python skin. So dead to the world was he that, when he felt someone shaking him gently, he was sure he was dreaming.
He opened his eyes to find a black lady swathed in a silver veil, who bent over him and whispered: ‘Follow me and you will be very, very happy.’
When he asked what this happiness might be, she touched her finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Trust me, Jimfish.’
CHAPTER 13
Down a long, dimly lit passage and into another part of the palace, the veiled woman led Jimfish, seemingly knowing her way by instinct. She showed him into a room furnished with a fine red sofa and enormous tapestries, woven with hunting scenes of kings and knights pursuing wild boar. Here she told Jimfish to wait. He sat on the red sofa and pondered the tapestry. The hunters on their giant horses, their lances buried in the bleeding bellies of the snarling boars, and in the corner of the scene he saw the emblem of the President himself, a leopard on a chain, lunging at the prey.