Chapter 19

 

 

 

The car sped through another intersection. A policeman in a cap, trying to block the road with his flimsy plastic barrier, jumped aside at the last moment, dropping his radio into a puddle. I merely glanced at him, changed gear, and the Cadillac, roaring with all its cylinders, began to climb toward the heart of the French capital.

And suddenly it seemed as if we'd found ourselves in the thick of some endless carnival. July 2021 transformed Paris into one continuous, frantic, and terrifying Venetian theater. The mask mandate, now mandatory in every public place, along with strict health certificates, gave rise to an utterly unimaginable epidemic—an epidemic of a new mask fad.

Grandpa Stepan was right in his own way: it really did resemble a ball during the plague, only staged by the finest Parisian directors. The French elite obediently muzzled themselves, but did so with such panache that it seemed the virus would die not from antiseptic but from envy. Silk masks matching designer dresses, velvet headbands with Louis Vuitton monograms, Swarovski crystals reflecting the light of neon signs, and those very same peacock feathers that had so outraged Grandpa flashed past. Paris had turned medical necessity into the finishing touch to its centuries-old hypocrisy.

"This isn't a masquerade, Grandpa Stepan," Brain responded from the depths of his skull, vibrating slightly with pleasure at the sight of such a triumph of semiotics. "This is a triumph of adaptation. Man is a symbolic creature. If forced to wear a rag over his face, he'll smash his forehead, but turn it into a work of art. Brigitte Macron, by the way, appears at official receptions in masks perfectly tailored to her formal two-piece suits. This is the new politeness."

"Politeness!" I muttered, parking at the Olympia. "It's a legal way to become someone else, Brain. When a city hides its face, its hands are untied. How ironic: the evening is dedicated to Africa's liberation from colonial oppression, while the entire European elite voluntarily shackled their mouths with designer “shackles."

But what we saw at the entrance to Olympia silenced even Brain. The French diplomatic corps' plan to "aestheticize" fear crashed against the true, primordial reality.

Paris's African diaspora rose to the challenge of sanitary regulations, but turned them on their head. While white gentlemen arrives wearing designer masks, disguising their fear of germs, black guests showed up wearing the masks of their ancestors.

It was a frightening and captivating sight. Under the flashes of cameras, next to diplomats in black tuxedos and silk headbands, stood people wearing massive, dark-wood masks of the Dogon, Bambara, and Yoruba peoples.

 From the slits of heavy ritual masks—crocodiles, antelopes, and ferocious spirits—living, glowing eyes peered out at the bewildered Parisian elite. These masks didn't protect against COVID. They protected against oblivion. They smelled not of Chanel laundry but of dry earth, bonfires, and the blood of sacrificial birds. The heirs of their great-grandfathers brought their gods to the center of COVID-19 Europe, and against the backdrop of these age-old totems, the peacock-feathered masks of European ladies suddenly began to look pitiful and cheap.

Vera-Virginia stepped out of the car, and her dark amber gaze instantly lit up, reflecting this parade of two civilizations. She wasn't wearing silk. Her face was covered with a light, gold-threaded mesh that concealed nothing, merely accentuating her regal lips. "Well, Lenya," whispered Leo, awakened, forcing our shared fingers to adjust his tie. "Your Eiffel 'Iron Woman' will definitely move today. Africa is taking this Paris for itself. Along with its sanitary dictates."

The atmosphere inside was electric. The aisles and stalls were packed with Vera's fellow African refugees and migrants, filling the hall to capacity. Seated in the front rows, dressed in formal suits and national dress, were the ambassadors of all the countries of sub-Saharan Africa.

But the most incredible thing was something else: the evening's organizers blurred the line between civilization and the wild. Right in the hall, among the stunned audience and in the aisles between the seats, real wild animals strolled majestically and calmly—graceful cheetahs, lions, and antelopes, brought in under the supervision of animal protection organizations, giving the event the character of a sacred African ritual. All this took place to the hypnotic, soul-stirring rhythms of traditional African melodies.

French First Lady Brigitte Macron appeared in the brightly lit government box. The hall fell silent for a moment as she stepped to the microphone to officially open this historic evening.

"Ladies and gentlemen, dear guests," her voice echoed through the vaults of the Olympia. "It is a great honor for me to stand here today. France deeply respects and expresses its gratitude for the enormous, selfless work being carried out by the Congress of African Women. Your program for the voluntary and dignified return of Africans to their historical homeland, to their roots, is a great step for the future of both our continents."

Brigitte Macron turned towards Vera, and her voice took on a special solemnity: “For outstanding contribution to the humanitarian mission, the protection of women’s rights and the strengthening of ties between peoples, on behalf of the President of the Republic, I have the honor to present France’s highest award.”

To a thunderous storm of applause, drowning out even the roar of African drums, the First Lady pinned the Legion of Honor to Vera Mason's dress. The hall literally exploded with cheers. Wild lions roared low in the aisles, as if welcoming their queen.

Brigitte Macron stepped back, giving way to the stage. Vera approached the podium. Hundreds of thousands of eyes in the hall and millions on television watched her. Her keynote speech from the Congress of African Women was ready to shatter the old world order.

Vera took a deep breath and placed her palms on the edges of the podium. The Legion of Honor glittered dimly in the spotlights. The music died down. The vast Olympia hall fell silent; even the wild animals in the aisles ceased their movements, as if submitting to the speaker's will. Standing backstage, Leonid saw the ambassadors' backs tense in the front rows.

"Brothers and sisters! Esteemed guests!" Vera's deep, powerful voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the hall. "Today I have been presented with this prestigious award. I accept it, not as a sign of personal merit, but as recognition of the long, arduous journey my people have traveled. But the time has come to tear off the masks of hypocrisy. A new era has dawned." She raised her head, directing a direct, uncompromising gaze into the box where Brigitte Macron sat. "For centuries, Europe has built its prosperity on our shoulders. And today we say frankly: it's time for European countries not just to apologize, but to sincerely and actively repent before the one and a half billion people of Africa for centuries of oppression, slavery, and colonial rule!" A dull roar of approval echoed through the stalls. Vera slammed her palm down on the podium. "You've declared a 'green revolution' and saved the planet from environmental disaster. But what's the price of your clear conscience? I declare on behalf of the Congress of African Women: we firmly demand an immediate end to the barbaric plunder of the Kolwezi cobalt mines and other rare earth metal and mineral deposits! Our land is not a free production site for batteries for your fancy electric cars, for which our women and children pay with their health and lives, receiving a measly three dollars.

The ambassadors from sub-Saharan Africa began exchanging glances, some with proud smiles; others casting fearful glance at the French delegation. Vera continued, her voice ringing with righteous anger: “But you’re not simply taking our wealth. Developed countries have turned our flourishing continent into their global latrine! Tons of hazardous industrial waste, mountains of used tires from the US and Europe are being dumped on African soil. Their quantities have already exceeded all reasonable and unreasonable limits! You’re strangling our environment with your garbage, while declaring environmental protection and humanism. This must end. The new era of globalization is not colonialism under a new guise. True globalization presupposes the equitable distribution of all resources: intellectual, cultural, and material.”

Vera glanced around the packed hall. Her eyes sparkled. This was a manifesto of absolute freedom.

"My beloved and proud people!" she addressed the migrants and refugees directly. "Our Congress is doing everything to bring Africans home. And I call on you: return to your native land! Enough building foreign capitals, enduring humiliation, and living on the outskirts of an aging Europe. Return to build our own great and free future together, with our own hands! Africa must belong to Africans!"

The hall literally exploded. People jumped from their seats, chanting her name. A lion in the aisle let out a powerful, booming roar, which merged with the applause of hundreds.

Backstage, Leonid caught his breath and looked into the government box. Brigitte Macron sat stony-faced, her polite smile melted, and her aides from the Élysée Palace were already frantically typing away on their smartphones.

"Yeah, Lenya..." Brain's quiet, delighted whistle echoed in my head. "Looks like they won't be asking for the Legion of Honor back, but we might have to leave Paris very quickly. The French Foreign Ministry is collectively taking Corvalol right now." And Grandfather Stepan, whose ghostly figure loomed in the dark corner behind the stage, grunted contentedly, adjusting his cap:

"That girl hit me right. Our way, the front line way. She caused quite a stir in their Paris."

 "While I was calculating the logistics of a diplomatic scandal, Madame Macron had already calculated the trajectory for the 2027 French presidential election.  The constitution prohibits Emmanuel from a third consecutive term, but it says nothing about his wife. Vera Mason isn't a threat to her now, but a pure electoral catapult."

I glanced again toward the government box. Brigitte Macron's stony expression gave way to the subtle, yet predatory and triumphant smile of an experienced player. She wasn't just listening to Vera—she was literally taking notes on her points, trying them on for herself.

Paris's African electorate, the multi-million-strong community of migrants and refugees who just gave Vera a standing ovation, is a colossal political force. If Brigitte leads this trend, if she promises to legislate a halt to the import of toxic waste to Africa and renegotiate cobalt contracts, she will instantly secure the unconditional support of the "New Paris."

As the Olympia hall continued to revel in the thunderous rhythm of drums, the First Lady's personal aide-de-camp pushed through a crowd of bodyguards to reach Vera, who had just descended from the podium. He bowed his head politely and handed Vera an elegant card made of thick, expensive paper embossed with the coat of arms of the Élysée Palace.

"What's there?" I asked quietly, approaching Vera from behind while the cheetah lazily stretched on the carpet at our feet.

"An invitation to a private dinner at a country residence, Lenya," Vera turned to face me, a dangerous glimmer in her Swiss chocolate-colored eyes. "Just us, her and Emmanuel. It looks like our tour is taking a completely different turn."

"Keep your eyes peeled, girl," Grandfather Stepan said, materializing in the shadows of the wings and spitting incredulously onto the parquet floor. "These bourgeois people lay softly, but sleep hard. They've got a medal on their chest, but they're already thinking about how to harness your cavalry for their own ends. They've got their own interests in mind."

Grandpa Stepan was right in his own way, but Brain in my head was already busy analyzing the opening prospects:

"Leonid, this is an incredible opportunity. My algorithms show that Brigitte Macron is hatching plans to create a fundamentally new, powerful centrist movement. Rumor has it they want to make the endangered white rhinoceros their emblem—a symbol of the protection of the oppressed ecosystems of the South and of uncompromising strength. If Vera agrees to this partnership, the Congress of African Women will receive resources they couldn't even dream of in Kolwezi. But the price will be high—Vera will become the face of someone else's election campaign."

Vera tucked the gold-embossed card into her purse, took a final drag on her cigarette, and strode confidently toward the Olympia exit. Wild animals made way for her, and the excited roar of her fellow countrymen still echoed behind us.

Outside, we were greeted by the same sultry, COVID-stupefied Parisian evening of late July 2021. Our monumental Cadillac was waiting at the door, its wet black paint gleaming under the neon lights of the Boulevard des Capucines. I opened the passenger door for Vera, walked around the car, and climbed behind the wheel.

"Where are we going, Lenya?" she asked quietly, leaning back wearily against the leather seat. The Legion of Honor still glowed brightly on her chest.

"Where history is made, Vera. The address on the card is a gated country residence. Looks like Madame Macron's decided to play for high stakes."

"Well then," Vera smiled faintly, looking at the blurred raindrops on the glass. "Let's see if Old Europe is ready for the birth of the White Rhino." I started the powerful engine, shifted the gear selector, and the Cadillac pulled away smoothly, carrying us away from the noisy crowd. Ahead were the wrought-iron gates of the government residence, which slammed behind us with a dull, heavy thud. What happened next behind those tightly closed doors, what ultimatums Vera issued, and what cards Brigitte laid on the table, remained forever a secret from the press and the intelligence services. This was a confidential meeting, where the fate of Europe and Africa, a country with a population of one and a half billion, hung in the scales of history. The world would learn of its outcome much later—from the tectonic shifts in global politics...