Chapter 15 ++++(++)

 

 

 

 

Our activism quickly transformed the Congress of African Women from an ambitious startup into a dangerous player. International foundations were the first to sound the alarm; they saw our voluntary repatriation programs as competitors siphoning off grants.

Then the clergy took up arms. An influential Pentecostal pastor, Reverend Kesey, seeing his flock dwindle, declared full-scale war on Vera. He publicly accused her of secretly spreading a voodoo cult, which, it was claimed, was officially banned in the EU.

  But Vera refused to compromise. Instead, she attacked the main geopolitical predators, sharply criticizing China for depleting the continent's resources and openly condemning Russia for fueling military conflicts in the Sahel and Mali. And we've made too many enemies.

One day, we decided to take a short break and headed to the famous Dutch dam, Afsluitdijk. It was a beautiful Saturday. A steady, iodine-infused wind blew in from the North Sea, and cumulus clouds floated like caravels across the pale blue sky. The landscape seemed to beg for a canvas, and once again I regretted not becoming an artist.

Having left Amsterdam through the IJ tunnel, we found ourselves in the touristy, almost fairytale-like Hollandia. The road surface on the A7 was impeccable. Familiar windmills, the neat, toy-like houses of local farmers, and green meadows dotted with grazing cows swept past on both sides of the road.

On the way, we stopped in Zaanstad to buy some real Dutch cheese—the famous Katarina Hoewe cheese factory is located right next to the city, where tourists can watch the cheese-making process for free.

And then we continued on our way. Today, Vera was at the wheel. She handled our Cadillac with the ease and grace of the famous French racing driver Michèle Mouton, overtaking heavy trucks from Volvo, Scania, MAN, and Mercedes-Benz on the turns.

I remembered how some poor race director — probably a misogynist and a fool — saw Michelle in her brand new Antonelli overalls and declared: "The only helmet a woman should wear is a salon hairdryer."

"Well, yes, of course you're lying, Lenya, as always, just to seem smart," my Brain immediately remarked sarcastically. It didn't have a mouth, but it synchronized directly with the AI reality generator through its quantum channels. "Toto Roche blurted out that nonsense back in 1958, addressing Maria Teresa de Filippis. And 'Antonelli' is actually the helmet and equipment of a young Italian from modern Formula 1, which you found on the internet!"

But go ahead, keep making things up – Vera likes the mess in your head…”

"But what the hell does it matter? The important thing is that Michelle ended up winning four World Rally Championship rounds with the Audi team, finished second in the 1982 season, and won the grueling Pikes Peak Hill Climb in 1985, among many other victories..." I said, responding to Brain.

When you love a woman, you see only the best in her, and with all your heart you accept her completely—her face, her body, and her scent—as absolute perfection.

Knowing that I can't stand it when a woman smells like a horrible perfume, Vera uses only natural cleansers, strawberry or mint soap, and gels and creams made exclusively from herbs and royal jelly. They don't emit the disgusting odor characteristic of chemical laboratories in the same factories where isoprene and sarin are synthesized. Moreover, all Vera had to do in the morning was wash her face with clean, cold water, and her face instantly became as young as that of a fourteen-year-old nymph.

"Oh, here comes the heavy artillery," my brain buzzed silently again, sending a sarcastic impulse into the higher realms. "You mentioned Nabokov, mixed rubber isoprene, and combat sarin in the same bottle with Chanel... Lenya, sarin in its pure form is actually odorless; any military man will confirm this! And as for the fourteen-year-old nymphet—be careful on the turns; otherwise, Vera might just jerk the steering wheel of the Cadillac, and your nymphet will turn into your very own nurse in the trauma ward!"

Meanwhile, Vera once again demonstrated her ability to fold and unfold space like a rug. Instead of spending a little over an hour, we reached the famous Dutch dam Afsluitdijk in just thirty minutes.

The car came to a smooth stop. We stepped onto the dam's crest and stood transfixed by the endless freshwater lake Ijsselmeer.

Vera was momentarily speechless upon seeing this majestic structure, reclaimed from the stormy, salty bay. She recalled a recent dinner with Lucas van Janson, captain and owner of an Amsterdam schooner-hotel, and their conversation about the courageous people who had battled the ocean for centuries. Now, seeing the scale of this structure with her own eyes, she felt even greater respect for the Dutch.

"You know, Vera, around the same time this dam was being built, in my former homeland, the Soviet Union, a massive construction project was underway—the White Sea-Baltic Canal," I said, gazing into the bluish distance. "And this two-hundred-twenty-seven-kilometer route was built in just one year and nine months, according to official figures..."

Luckily, we escaped with only bruises and a severe fright, but the icy wind blowing off the North Sea made it frighteningly clear: this was no coincidence. It was a warning. However, we didn't linger on the sinking boat waiting for the police. Vera simply squeezed her eyes shut, squeezing space again, and in that instant, we found ourselves inside the dry cabin of our Cadillac.

"Well, at least in Amsterdam we've planted a seed of doubt in the minds of African migrants and refugees," I said, coming to my senses. "Let them think about it; let them decide for themselves where the cheese tastes better: in their homeland or in a Dutch mousetrap."

Vera silently turned the steering wheel, smiling softly at the road that our Cadillac devoured kilometer after kilometer.

Outside, the summer seemed to be melting away. At the gas stations where we stopped, tourists squeezed past us, heavily slathered in deodorant. And the surrounding air turned into that very perfumed hell that could suffocate an entire regiment.

I took a deep breath and quickly returned to the car, burying my nose in Vera's shoulder—she smelled of clean grass, morning coolness, and mint. It was a true salvation.

“Well, Lenya,” Vera adjusted the rearview mirror, and a reflection of the Brussels highway flashed in her tired but determined gaze. “To Brussels?”

 “If we’re going to Brussels, then we’re going to Brussels!” I agreed, realizing that a safe haven wasn’t in the cards for us. Brussels is a space that's electrified to the extreme.

The Congolese knot and the blood-rubber King Leopold II —The most vulnerable and painful point of Belgium, I thought, watching how Vera concentratedly drove our Cadillac.

After free, sleepy Amsterdam with its secret gardens, we find ourselves in the cold, gray millstones of European bureaucracy, where the colonial past is literally encased in granite and bronze. The Belgian capital only pretended to be sleepy and prosperous. Beneath the glossy façade of European bureaucracy, dangerous undercurrents swirled. The city had become a melting pot, where the most polarized forces collided: grant-eaters and parasites of multiculturalism, promising to save the world immediately after the tranche; fanatics of the new digital faith, hoping for artificial intelligence as a panacea for all ills; and, of course, ghosts of the past. Here, ardent monarchists—adorers of King Leopold II, the "builder" who once turned Congo into a bloody personal slave factory—came face to face with Congolese revanchists and supporters of the late Marshal Mobutu, who ate his country to the bone. This cocktail was generously seasoned on top by left-wing politicians, who diligently cultivated in the local population a collective sense of guilt towards the Third World on the part of the West.

There was a hint of a storm in the air. It would only take one spark—for example, an attempt to demolish the equestrian statue of Congo's executioner, Leopold II—for Brussels to descend into a street war between the authorities and the marginalized. And this explosion threatened more than just the image of the European capital. It can strike directly at Vera Mason's life's work. The Congress of African Women's long-standing, titanic project for the controlled return of refugees from Europe to their homeland—a project that was supposed to become the foundation for the revival of the exhausted African continent—was risking. And we could not allow this to happen.

"Forward, Verochka! Great things await us there!" I mentally ordered Vera.

The Cadillac rocked gently on the Brussels cobblestones, alien and all too noticeable among the gray government buildings. Monumental facades floated past the window—frozen grandeur built on blood, tears, and Congo rubber.

Vera gripped the steering wheel tighter, her fingers turning slightly white. Suddenly, the street parted, and the Palace of Justice rose above the city like a gray mountain. Its cyclopean, oppressive scale took her breath away. What perverse, absolute pride had overcome Leopold II to build this courthouse, larger than St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican?

The Cadillac seemed like an insignificant insect at the foot of this colossus. The cruelest irony lay in the word "Justice," carved in stone: the palace of justice, erected on the bones of an entire continent, silently justified every atrocity of the crown. These gray, silent walls seemed to scream that here, in the very heart of the empire, a human life was worth nothing.

The capital of Belgium had no intention of lulling us to sleep, like Amsterdam. It waited. Somewhere ahead, near the Place du Trône, the dull, rhythmic hum of the crowd could already be heard—the beating heart of a city about to tear itself apart from its own past.

I looked at these cyclopean walls and thought how similar all these arbiters of fate were in their hubris. Leopold surely aspired to be the next Caesar or Napoleon, trying to outdo Rome and Paris, lest he lose face compared to the other monarchs of Europe. He aimed for eternity—and ended up in the dirt. Moreover, in the most terrible, sticky mud, mixed with Congolese blood, which now cannot be washed off any of these granite facades.

The capital of Belgium had no intention of lulling us to sleep, like Amsterdam. It waited. Somewhere ahead, near the Place du Trône, the dull, rhythmic hum of the crowd could already be heard—the beating heart of a city about to tear itself apart from its own past.

Arriving at Brussels' Place du Throne, Vera pulled up right to the monument to the Bloody King. She got out of the car and stepped onto the lawn, reddened by the summer heat but still springy. Speakers were already standing there, addressing the assembled crowd. And each one received their share of recognition from the people determined to destroy, to obliterate, the monument that had brought shame not only to one country but also to all of Western civilization.

People shifted impatiently from foot to foot, clutching picks, crowbars, or simply clenching their fists. They awaited the signal to unleash their energy on the destruction of sculptor Thomas Vicotte's creation.

The last speaker was a leftist Maoist politician, unleashing all his revolutionary fervor on the bronze head of King Leopold, he already his hand raised to initiate the righteous vandalism.

And at that moment, Véra Mayson strode forward, swiftly, like the heroine of Eugène Delacroix's "Liberty Leading the People." Her eyes radiated a soft power, her right hand raised, palm open, the left strap of her dress slipping down her shoulder, revealing a plump, deep purple breast, like an eggplant.

Stopping the crowd from their reckless actions with a classic gesture, she said in a calm but firm voice, demanding attention: "Madmen, who clouded your minds? Who directed your actions toward this futile action—to destroy a worthless monument to a worthless ruler!

It's not just Congo; all of Africa demands vengeance, from Cape Ben Sicca in the north to Cape Agulhas in the south. And this vengeance must be expressed not in the destruction of metal idols or symbols embodying someone's inordinate pride, but in demands for reparations and indemnities for all the years of colonial rule.

Vera, with her electrifying, almost mystical feminine strength and bare breasts, literally hypnotized the furious crowd. Everyone seemed frozen, paralyzed by this sudden appearance—the woman, as if from a revolutionary canvas, breathed in time with their collective anger, but her hand held back the avalanche.

Staying in the car, I held my breath, feeling a chill run down my spine: Vera was going all in.

"Do you want to smash the bronze?" Vera glanced at the men with crowbars, whose faces expressed unwavering determination. "Do you want to erase his name from this pedestal, thinking that along with the metal, the memory of his crimes will disappear? By cutting off the head of this statue, you will only help Belgium forget its shame! You will hide his sins under the rubble!" She took another step forward, and the cold Brussels wind stirred the hem of her dress. There was no fear in her voice—only a searing, sober logic that had a stronger effect on the intoxicated crowd than any tear gas.

"This idol should stand here," Vera said, pointing her finger at the monumental figure of Leopold II. "Drenched in your paint, branded with your contempt, but whole. Let every European bureaucrat, leaving their glass office, stumble upon his face and remember whose blood is the foundation of this well-fed Europe. Don't tear down the monument. Make it their eternal curse.

Suddenly, a group of drug-addled young men in torn jeans, leather vests with metal chains clutched in their hands, separated from the monolithic crowd and walked towards Vera. One of the leaders, waving a chain over his head, shouted, “Congo whore, don’t interfere with our process of retribution!”

"Attention, Lenya! Quantum radar is detecting an act of vandalism!" Brain gave me a shrill signal." Leopold was certainly a despot of the Congo, but if they tear down this historical monument, Belgium will lose some of its charm. Save the monument, you misfits!" 

I didn't waste a second. Leaping out of the Cadillac with a heavy adjustable wrench at the ready, I launched into a tirade, mixing choice curses in broken French and Frisian, that instantly stunned the crowd.

While they were trying to figure out who this madman was and why he was defending their late king in an incomprehensible dialect, Vera got behind the wheel and abruptly turned the Cadillac, causing the tires to squeal deafeningly. The element of surprise worked perfectly: the activists scattered in terror, convinced that a Russian intervention in Belgium had begun. Leopold remained standing on his pedestal, like an idol, not realizing who saved him from being melted down into small coins.

Leaving the astonished Leopold behind, our Cadillac drove onto the Place Royale, where an equestrian statue of Godfrey of Bouillon towered over the square. The legendary leader of the First Crusade stood frozen in bronze, his banner raised high, as if he were still calling Western Christianity to march on Jerusalem.

"Look at him, Lenya," said Vera, slowing down near the cobbled square. "The Defender of the Holy Sepulchre!" I wonder what he would say if his bronze ears could hear the modern streets of Brussels.

They sowed the winds of eternal conflict, fueling a defensive jihad that burned for centuries, and sincerely believed they were creating a world where the white man's sword dictated the terms of existence.

And so, the wheel of history has turned full circle, smoothing out their legacy with quiet, demographic precision.

The descendants of those slaughtered by Godfrey of Bouillon and his fellow crusaders had no need for a crusade of their own. They didn't need trebuchets, heavy armor, or even a drop of spilled blood. They simply packed their bags, boarded budget flights, crossed the Mediterranean, and entered the heart of the kingdom.

Bronze Godfrey stood frozen on his bronze horse, his bronze eyes staring blankly at the noisy, multinational crowd below. He had given his life to the conquest of the East, completely unaware that nine centuries later, that very East would simply walk into his living room, sign a lease, and leave him with nothing but a useless Crusader flag in his bronze hand…

As we drove away from the monument to the chief Belgian-Lorraine crusader, I recalled that not everything in his biography was as bright and heroic as it might seem. According to historical sources, clashes broke out between the Latins and Greeks immediately upon the crusaders' arrival in Byzantium. The Byzantines tried to avoid battle, but the crusaders forced them to defend themselves. As a result, the Lorrainers were defeated. Negotiations between the warring parties yielded no positive result, and the following day, another battle took place between the crusaders and the Byzantines, which again ended in the rout of Godfrey's knights. Only then did the duke agree to accept Byzantine Emperor Alexius's terms, swearing allegiance to him and vowing to hand over all the lands he would conquer. Moreover, upon accepting homage—the blessing of the Byzantine emperor—Godfrey was informally adopted by him.

This doesn't diminish the feats Godfrey accomplished in the Promised Land, but it nevertheless makes one wonder: how would Christ himself have viewed the campaigns carried out in his name?