Seven Houses in France

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THE ASKARIS IN their red fezes had tied up the first mandrill and placed it behind a white-painted screen, so that only its head was visible. Richardson half-closed his eyes. He could barely see the target.

‘How many yards away is it, Captain?’ he asked.

‘About two hundred.’

The screen was right at the far end of the firing range. Behind it lay the jungle.

‘It’s too far, Biran. And the light isn’t going to help,’ said Richardson. The morning sun was just appearing behind the screen. ‘You try it.’

He handed him his rifle.

Lalande Biran couldn’t really see the mandrill’s head either. It was just a dark smudge above the white screen. Indeed, the only way he could identify Donatien — who was in charge of the askaris dealing with the screen and the mandrills — was by his greater height. Lalande Biran’s eyes might still be d’azur et d’or, but they were getting weaker and weaker.

‘Line up!’ he ordered. ‘Take forty paces forward!’

The officers lined up and advanced, counting the paces as they did so. ‘One, two, three, four …!’

‘That’s better!’ exclaimed Richardson when they reached the new position. Lalande Biran could see the target more clearly too; the smudge above the screen now bore the face of a mandrill. And the heads of Donatien and the askaris had ears.

‘Oh, yes, much better,’ repeated Richardson, after taking aim with his rifle. ‘It’s still not going to be easy, mind. It’ll keep us busy the whole day. The trouble is, once we start shooting, the monkeys will get agitated.’

The askaris had been ordered to leave the upper part of the mandrill’s body untethered, so that the animal could move its trunk and head freely. A moving target would make the game more of a challenge.

Lalande Biran shouted to Donatien and put his hand to his head. Donatien understood at once and ran to place a red fez on the mandrill.

‘Oh, that’s much better!’ exclaimed Richardson. There was laughter among the officers, some even applauded.

Van Thiegel joined in the laughter and the applause, but his thoughts were elsewhere. All the officers, young and old, were enjoying the party atmosphere, with one exception: Chrysostome. He had placed himself at the far end of the line, on the outer edge of the group, just as he did at the card tables in the Club Royal. It wasn’t indifference on his part, but arrogance. His very posture declared that distance mattered nothing to him and that he considered putting a red fez on a monkey to be an act of rank stupidity.

Lalande Biran noticed Van Thiegel’s unease.

‘A festive spirit reigns in the camp, but …’ he thought to himself, pursuing the first line of a poem. He looked around in search of details; he saw the cooks lighting the barbecues on which to cook the goat’s meat and the smoke rising up and dispersing in the air. The blue flag with the yellow star fluttered gently in the breeze, and his men were happy because they didn’t have to go into the jungle to carry out the everproblematic task of keeping guard. The only man who wasn’t happy was Van Thiegel.

He couldn’t understand his lieutenant’s attitude. The three huge barges that had set off downriver laden with six hundred mahogany logs and twelve elephant tusks would take less than a month to reach Léopoldville. A week later, the load would be in Matadi. Two weeks later, it would reach its final destination, Antwerp. From that moment on, Toisonet’s employees would take charge of everything, and by mid-December, the money would be safe in a Swiss bank.

‘A festive spirit reigns in the camp, and I am almost happy …’ he thought to himself, going back to his poem. The sentence, with the spontaneous addition of ‘I am almost happy’, surprised him and he decided he would continue the poem in that personal, confiding tone. There was no time for that now, though, he had to announce the start of the contest. Richardson, Lopes and several other officers were pacing restlessly about near the firing position.

Lalande Biran went over to them and explained that the prize would be a photograph. The journalist coming at Christmas would take a picture of the winner and publish it in the European press.

‘I’d better not win, then,’ said Richardson.

‘You know why, don’t you? Because he’s afraid of his wife,’ explained Lopes, who had a jovial, soldierly sense of humour. ‘In his last letter, he told her he was in Algeria and would be home soon. That was twenty years ago.’

Some of the officers laughed, and Richardson thrust the butt of his Albini-Braendlin into Lopes’ stomach. He had an even more soldierly sense of humour than Lopes.

At a gesture from Lalande Biran, one of the black NCOs came over carrying a small bag. Each officer pulled out a number: Richardson chose seven, Van Thiegel eight, Lopes thirteen, and Chrysostome fourteen. Lalande Biran, however, did not put his hand into the bag. As commanding officer in Yangambi, he would only fire after all the others had done so.

The first mandrill did not move much when it heard the first shots, but as soon as it realised what was happening, it struggled to free itself. When Richardson fired, it was moving so frantically that the red fez fell to the ground. Richardson repeated his joke:

‘The only reason I didn’t hit it, of course, was because I’d really rather not win.’

Lalande Biran winked at him.

‘Cocó won’t miss, though, you wait.’

The Lieutenant wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, took careful aim, then fired. The mandrill’s head disappeared only to reappear a few seconds later.

‘You wounded him, Lieutenant, but not fatally,’ said Lopes. The monkey’s head was moving frenetically back and forth above the screen. ‘I think you got him in the shoulder,’ Lopes added.

‘And a lot of bloody good that is,’ said Van Thiegel.

Lalande Biran again winked at Richardson, meaning that the more cursing there was, the better the contest.

‘Calm down, Cocó, we’ve only just started,’ said Richardson.

The officers who followed all missed: the ninth, the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth and Lopes, the thirteenth. Then it was Chrysostome’s turn.

Van Thiegel kept his eyes fixed on the screen. The wounded monkey was bleeding and moving less frenetically now. This clearly wasn’t Van Thiegel’s lucky day. He had achieved nothing, and succeeded only in making things easier for his biggest rival.

In one movement, Chrysostome put his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The head above the screen vanished, and Donatien waved the blue flag with the yellow star of the Force Publique. The askaris dragged away the dead mandrill.

They took a break for lunch, and the participants sat in four circles around four trays piled with the barbecued goat’s meat. By then, Chrysostome had killed three monkeys; Lopes and Lalande one each; the other officers none.

Richardson offered Van Thiegel a jug of palm wine.

‘If you want to shoot better this afternoon, have a drink, that’s my advice. You were too tense this morning.’

The Lieutenant took a long draught of wine. He had already decided to get drunk and needed no encouragement from anyone. He had to change his luck. If not, he would be made to look a complete fool.

The wine, in a cask, had been left in the shade of a lean-to so that it didn’t get too warm, and the servants, Livo and another five men, were hurrying from group to group to keep the officers’ glasses filled. The only person striding around at his usual slow pace was Donatien, who was looking after the Captain and the two officers sharing his tray of meat, Van Thiegel and Richardson.

The sun was high and it was hot. Most of the men were eating eagerly. They were also drinking freely and unreservedly, relieved not to have to keep watch on the rubber-tappers in that dark jungle where a moment’s inattention could cost them their life.

According to the programme for the day, which Lalande Biran had written out himself and pinned up in the entrance to the Club Royal, they were currently enjoying un joyeux déjeuner sur l’herbe, a jolly picnic. But the prevailing tension prevented the men from enjoying the party. Conversation was awkward, even acrimonious at times; the rifles had not been placed together in a neat stack as usually happened when the men were at rest; instead, each rifle lay by its owner’s side; and no one had seized the opportunity to lie down on the ground and take a nap. Even Donatien, who cared nothing for the contest, was feeling increasingly nervous. He barely had time to breathe. Van Thiegel and Richardson kept calling him over and were drinking the wine as if it were water.

By the ninth or tenth summons, Van Thiegel was no longer demanding palm wine, but cognac. Donatien’s Adam’s apple sank beneath his collar. He had no cognac to give them.

‘Don’t worry, Donatien,’ Lalande Biran told him. ‘You have my permission to fetch the bottle of Martell from my office. That way, you won’t have to go to the storeroom.’

Donatien saluted and headed for the square.

‘You’ll never see that fellow break into a run,’ Lalande Biran said, following Donatien with his eyes. ‘He’s probably the laziest member of the whole Force Publique, but otherwise, he’s like a good dog, faithful and obedient.’

‘Faithful and obedient … and a bit short, wouldn’t you say?’ commented Richardson.

‘Short?’ exclaimed Van Thiegel. ‘There’s nothing short about him! I’ve seen his dick a couple of times and it’s huge. The first time, I thought he had a piece of salami dangling down between his legs.’

Lalande Biran laughed out loud. He felt good, partly because of the drink, but largely because he had managed to hit one monkey. He had told his men that, regardless of whether he hit the target or not, he would make only one attempt. He was thus quite highly placed in the rankings: one cartridge, one monkey. Cocó, on the other hand, was very low down: three shots and not a single monkey. As was to be expected, Chrysostome was in the lead: three shots, three monkeys. No one was likely to beat him. They would each have six more shots that afternoon, but it would be difficult for anyone to equal his morning score, especially Cocó. As the day wore on, Cocó was growing more and more agitated. Every time Chrysostome’s name cropped up in the conversation, his face darkened.

Donatien brought the bottle of Martell, and with it three brandy glasses.

‘Well done, Donatien. I thought you might forget,’ Lalande Biran said. He disliked drinking cognac out of a wine glass. ‘You can go and have a sleep if you like. The contest won’t start again for another hour.’

Donatien thanked him and went to lie down in the lean-to beside the cask of palm wine.

Van Thiegel had stood up and was watching Chrysostome. He was sitting with four other officers in the shade of a solitary teak tree, about fifteen yards away. They were toasting something, four of them holding their glasses high, while Chrysostome barely raised his at all. The great poofter was up to his usual tricks.

Van Thiegel turned to Lalande Biran.

‘Before I tackle my friend Martell, I need to empty my bladder,’ he said. His speech was slurred and he stumbled over his words. ‘But just in case, I’m going a bit farther off,’ he pointed to the solitary teak tree and added: ‘That’s the best place in Yangambi for a piss, but I don’t want to risk him seeing my tadger.’

Richardson attempted a laugh, but his eyes were closing and he was falling asleep.

‘We’ll talk later,’ said Van Thiegel. He walked off, trying to keep very upright, and disappeared behind a mound.

‘A festive spirit reigns in the camp, and the warriors have been drinking,’ thought Lalande Biran, taking up the thread of his poem. ‘Some drink toasts and others sing, while the older men succumb to sleep. But there’s no peace, no camaraderie, the rivals eye each other coolly …’

Lalande Biran would have liked to slip in a quote at that point. He considered the story of Cain and Abel, but rejected the idea. Toisonet always said that you should never mix poetry and religion.

Van Thiegel returned to the group, walking with apparent ease, but when he bent his knees in order to sit down on the ground, he lost his balance and fell awkwardly, then struggled to his feet, cursing.

Lalande Biran poured cognac into two of the glasses and offered one to Van Thiegel.

‘Come on, Cocó, tell me what’s bothering you. What is all this about Chrysostome? Insinuations will get you nowhere.’

Friction among the men was not unusual, but Lalande Biran normally didn’t take any action until, as Napoleon used to say, ‘swords were about to be unsheathed’. There was no clash of swords as yet between Cocó and Chrysostome, but Cocó’s antipathy was taking on an increasingly aggressive tone.

‘He’s a poofter, Biran. I don’t know about you, but I doubt King Léopold would be amused to know that men like Chrysostome were in the Force Publique.’

Lalande Biran had just raised his glass to his lips and before he had even taken a sip, he gave the same spluttering laugh as Toisonet often did. Van Thiegel stared at him. It wasn’t always easy to understand the Captain’s reactions.

‘He’s obviously not interested in women, that much is clear,’ said Lalande Biran, looking over at Chrysostome. Coincidentally, at that precise moment, Chrysostome turned to look at them, as if he had heard what they were saying. ‘But as for him liking men, that’s another matter. I myself have no reason to believe it. To be frank, having just spent three whole weeks in the jungle with him, day and night, I can assure you that I saw no sign of such a proclivity.’

Chrysostome still had his head turned towards them. He raised one hand and showed them three fingers. Three fingers, three monkeys.

Van Thiegel didn’t understand; he couldn’t tell whose side the Captain was on.

‘Granted, as a marksman, he’s second to none,’ he said. ‘He had a bit of an advantage with that first monkey because I’d already winged it, but not with the other two. They were leaping about like mad things, yet he still managed to hit them.’

Lalande Biran took a sip of cognac. Van Thiegel, who had already emptied his glass, picked up the bottle and poured himself some more.

‘Are you tired, Cocó? Bored with life in Yangambi?’ Lalande Biran asked him.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Van Thiegel cautiously.

‘It’s such a relief to know that next year I’ll be back in Europe. I wouldn’t want to end up like Richardson.’

Van Thiegel looked at him, intrigued. The Captain didn’t often confide his thoughts to him. Then he turned to Richardson, who was sleeping with his mouth open, revealing two gold teeth. Seen from that perspective, he looked older than his years, like a real old man.

Lalande Biran again took up the conversation: ‘He’ll drop down dead in some corner of the jungle one day, and someone will come along and pull out his teeth for the gold.’

‘That’s certainly what Chrysostome would do,’ said Van Thiegel. ‘He loves jewellery — like all inverts. You just have to see the way he shows off his medallions.’

All the negative aspects of Chrysostome were piling up in his head. On the one hand, there was his crisp, clean appearance, with his jewellery always on display; on the other, there was the way Chrysostome had insulted him as soon as he arrived in Yangambi, by beating him in the William Tell competition, and then there were the looks he gave him now and then, which always said the same thing: ‘I don’t know what you were before, but I know what you are now: a second-rate marksman.’ He couldn’t get this out of his mind. He couldn’t forgive him.

These malign thoughts rose up into his mouth like belches, and he felt a need to spew them out. Lalande Biran, however, raised one finger to his lips and told him to be quiet.

‘Calm down, Cocó. We’ll talk about this another time.’

The Captain lay on the ground and placed his white hat over his eyes.

‘Let’s follow the example of our veteran friend here. A little rest will do us good. We still have a dozen or so monkeys to kill.’

Van Thiegel felt disappointed. He knew the Captain was not a man of hasty reactions, but he had hoped for something more from him. A few disapproving words, a promise to take steps. Instead, he had received only empty phrases, which came to nothing.

With his eyes covered by his hat, Lalande Biran returned to his poem. He was determined to pin down his muse, who, at the moment, would offer him only beginnings, but forty beginnings did not make a book. And he had published nothing for over six years.

‘Some drink toasts and others sing, while the older men succumb to sleep. But there’s no peace, no camaraderie, the rivals eye each other coolly …’

He remembered again how long it had been since he had published anything. More than six years. It didn’t seem possible.

‘There can be no peace because each man here harbours a secret, and secrets cause …’

He felt uncomfortable and changed position so that he was lying on his side. Once again, the poem refused to emerge into the light, and he thought it best just to forget about it and ponder the numbers he had seen in the article in Le Soir. Especially the two that represented the rise in the price of mahogany and ivory: 330 and 370.

The two numbers began to change shape in his mind. First, he saw them floating in the air and then, immediately, they were transformed into birds flying over a vast green meadow. ‘Mon ami, you see that area of flattened grass?’ someone asked, someone he couldn’t see, possibly Toisonet, although it didn’t sound like his voice. Whoever it was, though, was quite right. The grass in the meadow was completely flattened. The voice went on: ‘Well, that represents part of your life, the years spent in Yangambi, a sad, sterile time. That grass will never spring up again; the days wasted in this place will never return.’ He looked at the meadow and saw the shadow of the birds flying over it. Except that they weren’t birds now, but two bats. ‘Yes, bats,’ said the voice. ‘Who are you? Toisonet?’ he asked. ‘No, I am the Other,’ answered the voice, and the two bats flew straight at him, screaming wildly, with the clear intention, or so it seemed to him, of devouring his liver. He lay face down, hunched up, then sprang to his feet. When he opened his eyes, he realised that he was back in Yangambi. The sun was still high, and the day still hot. At the far end of the firing range, the askaris were dragging a monkey over to the white screen.

‘Bad dreams?’ asked Richardson. He was awake now and pouring himself a cognac. ‘You leapt up as if the ground was burning you.’

‘It’s the fault of the cognac. I’m not as used to it as you are,’ said the Captain.

‘In that case, we’ll have to punish it. We’ll imprison it in here.’ Richardson patted his belly and drank his glass down in one.

‘I want to punish it too,’ said Van Thiegel in the same humorous tone as Richardson. He was sitting on the ground, his hat pushed back on his head, and he appeared to be sober, or was, at least, talking more coherently.

Lalande Biran studied him with some respect. Physically, Van Thiegel was his superior. And he wasn’t a bad adjutant either. Certainly the best he could find in Yangambi. His strength meant that he could take charge of all the heavy work and, generally speaking, he had always got on well with the other officers and with the askaris. Up until now. Besides, he had that very unusual mother who dealt with all his money matters and kept him informed of those vital numbers, 370 and 330.

‘I was thinking, Cocó,’ he said suddenly. ‘We must find Chrysostome a girlfriend.’

Richardson roared with laughter: ‘That’s a good idea!’

‘Yes, I think so too, Biran,’ said Van Thiegel, putting his hat on straight.

‘If my long experience of such matters can be of any help, I am at your service,’ said Richardson.

Lalande Biran spoke in a whisper: ‘You’re aware, I assume, that Donatien is in charge of bringing me girls from the jungle. Well, from now on, Chrysostome will go with him.’

Van Thiegel beamed, and Richardson applauded. It really was a very good idea.

‘We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at Government House, gentlemen. About four o’clock. We must agree on a plan.’

Lalande Biran took his leave of his two colleagues and walked over to where the monkeys were being kept. The sky was blue, with just a few high, scattered clouds; the jungle was dark green; the teaks that grew here and there in the encampment were light green; the earth a yellowish brown.

While he walked, he diverted his thoughts back to the poem about Sisyphus that he had begun on the porch of the Club Royal after reading the article in Le Soir, and decided to use those two numbers — 330, 370 — as the title, but without telling anyone why, not even Toisonet. When he published his next book, he would tell the critics that they were ‘cabalistic numbers’ and that he preferred to leave it to his readers to interpret them.

‘“Sisyphus,” they said, “the rock you are carrying on your back has crumbled; sit down on the river bank, if you wish, and watch the water flowing. There is no weight now, there are no obligations.” But, friends, Sisyphus cannot stop. If he does, he will be assailed by ravenous bats. He is not as brave as Prometheus, my friends. He is a child and needs to play. Pray, do not disturb him.’

As he passed by the screen where the next mandrill was already tied up, the monkey followed him with its eyes, but the Captain was too immersed in his poem to notice. He only returned to reality when he reached the enclosure where the other mandrills were being kept and the askaris called him over. One of the male mandrills appeared to have rabies and was uncontrollable. If they tried to muzzle it, it would bite them.

Lalande Biran peered over the wooden palisade. Most of the mandrills seemed rather weary and eyed him meekly, but the supposedly rabid male stared at him with bulging eyes, baring its teeth. The Captain raised his rifle and shot the creature in the head.

Two askaris beat the mandrill to see if it reacted, but it was dead.

‘Très bien! Très bien, mon capitaine!’ they shouted.

Lalande Biran walked over to the other officers, again focussing on the poem about Sisyphus. He really liked that last line: ‘He is a child and needs to play. Pray, do not disturb him.’ It provided a good tight ending.

He felt overjoyed. He knew himself well. If he could finish one poem, he could finish another twenty. He would write a letter to his publisher in Brussels, telling him that the new book was underway and asking him for a publication date.

Donatien came up to him and asked permission to go back to the screen and the monkeys. Five minutes later, the first of the marksmen began the afternoon session. Three hours later, the contest had ended with the following result: Chrysostome nine monkeys, Lopes four, Van Thiegel three.

Richardson patted the Lieutenant on the back. ‘You were on excellent form this afternoon, but the younger men are pressing hard on your heels. You’ll have to make way for them.’

‘Oh, I’ll be happy to help them, especially Chrysostome. Let’s see if we can find him that girlfriend we talked about.’

‘I’m sure Donatien will show him which of many paths to follow,’ said Richardson.

And the two men laughed.