Seven Houses in France

XI

DONATIEN BARELY SLEPT the night after he had been told that — at least until Christmas — Chrysostome would be accompanying him on his visits to the mugini in search of young girls. It would seem that Chrysostome was losing in the only contest that really mattered: the virility stakes. Donatien had heard Richardson say: ‘He’s a good shot with one of his rifles, but he can’t even take aim with the other.’

These words were greeted with guffaws by Van Thiegel and Lalande Biran, and Donatien immediately suspected that something strange was going on, and that far from helping Chrysostome, as they claimed, they were probably hoping to make a fool of him. Anyway, they were completely wrong about Chrysostome. He was no pansy. Donatien knew this better than anyone, because one of his brothers had been queer, and you didn’t have to be very bright to see that there wasn’t the slightest resemblance between his brother’s behaviour and Chrysostome’s. Right up until the day of his suicide, his brother hadn’t known a moment’s peace. Everyone beat him: his father beat him, his brothers beat him, as did anyone else who came across him. It was quite the opposite with Chrysostome. Everyone was afraid of him. Even Cocó. Cocó was always very full of himself when he was with the other officers or with the askaris, but if Chrysostome happened by, Cocó, however hard he tried to disguise the fact, clearly felt afraid and his Adam’s apple, like Donatien’s, would start moving uneasily up and down. In Yangambi, everyone knew where they were with Chrysostome. He was easily angered and would as happily shoot a white man as a black. Donatien knew about this too, because another of his brothers was a murderer, and such people held no secrets for him.

Donatien made a decision. He would treat Chrysostome with respect, as if he were an officer of Lalande Biran’s rank, but he would make no attempt to befriend him. He remembered the days spent with his murderer-brother, always fearing he might be his next victim, and he remembered, too, the sad fate of another brother, who had become close to the murderer. They were as thick as thieves and the lords and masters of the house and the neighbourhood where they lived, but one day, that same foolish brother ended up with a knife in his belly. It was always a mistake to rile a murderer, but befriending one was even worse.

Every Thursday morning, Chrysostome and Donatien would set off in a canoe, along with four askaris, in search of another young girl for Biran. That was the easy part of the job because the paths to the mugini and the procedure itself were well established. The natives knew exactly what their options were: they either handed over the girl or the village chief would receive forty lashes, and if he put up any further resistance, he would lose a finger or his whole hand, and that would be the end of the matter. He and Chrysostome carried out this task without exchanging a single word, which was by far the best way. Respect was fine, but not friendship.

The problems began when they got back to Yangambi. Lalande Biran had made it quite clear that Chrysostome should be the one to wash the young girl and test her virginity. This order, however, proved impossible to carry out. Everything went as planned until they reached the mooring place for the canoes. Donatien would go off to fetch the soap and towel from the club storeroom, but by the time he came back, Chrysostome had always vanished, leaving only the four askaris and the girl. This happened every week. When the moment came, Chrysostome simply disappeared.

One Thursday, as he listened to Donatien’s obligatory report, Lalande Biran was most surprised when Donatien, instead of presenting him with a simple lie as he usually did, elaborated on the falsehood, saying that Chrysostome was far better at washing the girl and testing her virginity than he was, a real professional.

‘Well, that’s a miracle I’d like to see,’ Lalande Biran had said. ‘Next Thursday, I’ll come down to the club with the Lieutenant and Richardson, and we’ll sit on the porch so that we can see at first hand the progress our pupil has made.’

Donatien felt trapped. He ran to Chrysostome’s hut.

‘Friend Liège, Lalande Biran says that …’ he began.

‘What do Lalande Biran, Van Thiegel and Richardson say?’ asked Chrysostome.

‘I think you’d better deal with the girl yourself next Thursday. Otherwise …’

He went no further, because he saw the look in Chrysostome’s eyes and recognised it as identical to that in his murderous brother’s eyes. He returned to his own hut feeling very frightened, his Adam’s apple stuck in his throat.

That night, anxiety kept him from sleep. Lalande Biran would be very angry when he found out that he had failed to do as he was told and had lied week after week about Chrysostome’s refusal to deal with the girl. ‘You’re a dog, Donatien, a lying dog,’ the Captain would say to him, or words to that effect, and then he would smile and send him off to clean the rooms in Government House, as if it were a matter of no importance. A week or a month later, possibly longer, Donatien would find out that the matter had, in fact, been very important and he would end up being despatched by the Captain to the jungle and not just to any part of the jungle, but to the rebel-infested area near the Lomami River. There he would meet a dreadful end, because the rebels were cruel to their enemies and capable of all kinds of barbarous behaviour, burning them or skinning them alive.

When he considered the death that awaited him, Donatien felt a pulse in his Adam’s apple, although the beating, in fact, came from his heart, and he told himself that Lalande Biran wouldn’t inflict such a punishment for a relatively minor offence, after all, they had been together for six years, during which time he had served the Captain faithfully. This thought failed to console him though. He knew what Lalande Biran was like, because another brother of his, the eldest, was just the same, more like a crocodile than a rabid monkey. Not the sort of person who whips out a knife at the slightest provocation, but someone who knows how to wait for the moment when he can do most harm.

Donatien had to get out of bed and pace up and down in his hut in an attempt to drive away these troubling thoughts and calm the throbbing in his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t do it and he felt like crying. It was all his fault. The first time Chrysostome had refused to wash the girl, his initial intention had been to leave the soap and towel in the club storeroom and run directly to Government House to tell Lalande Biran what had happened. Then he saw the naked girl, standing up to her knees in the water — a sturdy girl, the sort he most liked — and he couldn’t resist. He enjoyed running his hand over the girls’ soapy bodies. As a boy, when he was ten or twelve, he hadn’t liked it at all, and his older sisters had to pay him to ‘rub them down’. With time, however, he had learned to enjoy it, and in that spot where the canoes were moored he had almost as good a time as he did in bed.

Donatien again felt like crying when he realised all that he would lose by not behaving as he should. There would be no more girls in his life, he would never again be able to surrender easily to sleep and rest. He wept a little; he was so very sorry, he would never do it again, and would always, in future, tell his Captain the truth.

His feelings of repentance were sincere, and perhaps because of that, an idea lit up his mind and he discovered a route to salvation, a path through the impenetrable jungle, a light in the darkness, to use a double metaphor. He remembered how swiftly he had acted on the day of his homosexual brother’s suicide. As soon as he heard the news, he had run to search the room in the small hotel where his brother was living, and he was rewarded for his efforts. Apart from some money, he found a little mother-of-pearl box at the bottom of a trunk of clothes and inside it a pair of emerald earrings. When he returned home, his brothers managed to get some of the money off him, but not the earrings, which he had buried. They beat him, his murderer-brother even threatened him with a knife, but Donatien had played his part to perfection and kept his secret.

For as long as those emerald earrings remained buried, he had nurtured in his heart the hope that one day he would marry and that those precious stones would be his wedding gift to his bride. However, his call-up papers for the Force Publique had arrived before he could fulfil this dream, and when he left home for Africa, he had dug up the earrings and hidden them at the bottom of his kit bag. Six years later, they were still there.

Drying his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, he picked up the kit bag where it lay in one corner of the hut and took out the little mother-of-pearl box. It was slightly battered, but the emeralds shone as brightly as on the first day he found them, brilliant and intensely green. Even in the dim light of the oil-lamp, they stood apart from all the other ordinary objects and he was once again hypnotised by them.

Chrysostome might not be a poofter, but he liked jewels, adored them. Donatien knew this because he had often spied on him through a crack in the wall of his hut and seen him polishing his watch or his gold chain. In that respect, Chrysostome was like another of Donatien’s brothers, who refused to sell the things he stole, taking this obsession to such extremes that when the police finally arrested him and searched his room, they found it stuffed full of booty, ‘a real Aladdin’s cave’ as the police chief called it.

He would make a deal with Chrysostome. He would give him the emerald earrings and, in exchange, Chrysostome would have to take charge of washing the girl on the next Thursday and on all the following Thursdays. This was not an easy decision for Donatien. His dream of marrying had endured in his mind as perfect and intact as the two emeralds set in the earrings, and it pained him to think that those precious stones would now never be the property of the long-dreamed-of mademoiselle whom he had hoped would become his wife.

That hope still crouched inside him. However beautiful, though, it was not enough to tip the scales in which the counterweight was the punishment Lalande Biran would mete out. He didn’t want to be sent to the jungle and the Lomami River and be burned to death or skinned alive by the rebels. He didn’t want to die in any other way either, but certainly not like that. He would have to give the earrings to Chrysostome.

There was a risk, of course. Chrysostome might take the box containing the earrings, then show him a cartridge, saying: ‘If you tell anyone I took them off you, I’ll put this bullet through your brain.’ But that was unlikely. Generally speaking, murderers tended not to be thieves, and vice versa. At least, that’s how it had always been in his family.

Day was breaking when he left his hut, taking with him the mother-of-pearl box. This was a very grave moment for him, and his Adam’s apple rose and fell ceaselessly. Minutes later, when he met with Chrysostome and saw his eyes light up, he realised with relief that his plan would be successful.

Donatien’s life changed for the better once Chrysostome had passed the test in the presence of Lalande Biran, Van Thiegel and Richardson. Chrysostome washed the girl with great aplomb, and, as required by the Captain, checked that she was a virgin, donning a pair of rubber gloves for the purpose. Afterwards, the three officers left, convinced that their plan was being carried out to the letter. Donatien would thus escape punishment, would be spared exile to the Lomami River, and would not now run the risk, to put it bluntly, of having his balls cut off by the rebels.

However, the best was yet to come. On the following Thursday, when he joined the four askaris and Chrysostome by the canoes, ready to cross the river in search of another girl, Chrysostome placed his hand on Donatien’s chest, stopping him from going any further.

‘I would prefer to go alone,’ he said.

When he heard those words, Donatien again felt that pulse in his throat, this time a pulse of sheer joy. He couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You may know the paths that lead to the mugini, but it’s easy to get lost in the jungle. I could help you, of course, but if you want to go alone, fine. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a man from Britancourt.’

The most intelligent of his brothers had told him once that it was always a good idea to remember people’s names and those of their wives, children, parents, aunts, uncles and other family members. ‘The first step to getting what you want from someone is to treat them as if they were a friend or an old acquaintance,’ his intelligent brother would say. He had always tried to follow this principle, although it wasn’t as easy to do this in Yangambi as it was in Antwerp or Brussels, given that most officers were very tight-lipped when it came to talking about family or friends. He had, nevertheless, made some progress. Van Thiegel, for example, had been much more civil to him since Donatien had started asking after his mother: ‘Any news from Marie-Jeanne?’ ‘What does Marie-Jeanne think of the price of rubber?’And even Lalande Biran, always so strict on matters of protocol, would occasionally allow him to ask after his wife: ‘How is Christine Saliat de Meilhan, your wife?’ These things were much more complicated with Chrysostome, but for lack of any other information, he always made a point, when he could, of mentioning Chrysostome’s home town of Britancourt.

‘We’ll be back by four,’ said Chrysostome, after consulting his silver pocket watch. ‘I want you to be here on the dot.’

The terms of their collaboration had been agreed when they sealed the deal with the emerald earrings. If Lalande Biran or any of the other officers were around, then Chrysostome would wash the girl; otherwise, Donatien would perform his usual duties. They were helped in this by Livo and the other servants, who, in exchange for biscuits or salami, kept watch around the club so as to avoid any unpleasant surprises.

Chrysostome and the four askaris set off in the canoe, and Donatien sought shelter in the club storeroom. He had made a hiding place for himself out of a piece of mosquito netting and various crates containing food and drink, and there he would lie down and take his ease when he preferred not to be seen in the vicinity of Government House, particularly on Thursdays.

There was very little light in the storeroom, only what filtered in through the cracks in the roof, and usually Donatien fell asleep as soon as he lay down. On that day, though, he felt too happy to close his eyes. Things were going really well, the cards he was being dealt could not have been better. He no longer had to go into the jungle and face the ever-present threat from the girls’ relatives in the mugini, who did not like strange men stealing their young women; he could also continue to savour the best aspects of that task, for on most Thursdays he got to wash the girl and, on every Thursday, it was he who took her up to Government House. He was, after all, still the Captain’s orderly.

Lying awake in the near-darkness, he tried to work out if there was anything that should worry him about his present situation, if the current calm were merely an illusion. Everything indicated that it was not. There had only been one risky moment. While Chrysostome was testing the girl’s virginity, Van Thiegel had exclaimed: ‘Look at the little gloves the poofter’s wearing!’

Fortunately, the insult did not reach Chrysostome’s ears.

Donatien was surprised really that Lieutenant Van Thiegel was still alive. He had known men like him before, men who courted danger, and they tended not to last very long, indeed, they rarely lived beyond forty. For example, two of his brothers had been like that and had long since been buried, one before he was even twenty and the other before he was thirty. Who knows what would have happened on that Thursday if Chrysostome had learned that Van Thiegel was calling him a poofter? Especially since he wasn’t. This was another thing he had noticed, how unobservant the officers were, whether it was Lalande Biran, Van Thiegel or Richardson. If they had asked him, he would have told them the truth at once: ‘Things are not as they seem! He’s just afraid of being infected. That’s why he wears those gloves! That’s why you don’t see him with any women!’ But they didn’t ask him, and so the situation continued.

He had understood Chrysostome’s fear of contagion as soon as he saw him put on those rubber gloves, precisely because one of his sisters was just the same and had always made Donatien wear such gloves before he, as a young boy, rubbed her down with soap and water. One day, he had asked her why, and she had told him: ‘I don’t want to catch one of those filthy diseases.’ It was odd that Lalande Biran had not picked up on this, given that he himself was so concerned about contagion. The only difference was that the Captain believed that virginity was a guarantee of health and Chrysostome did not.

A faint light began to impinge on the darkness. The sun was stronger now and was shining in through the cracks in the roof. His thoughts were growing ever more agreeable. Everything was going so well and he was, in general, acting very prudently. His future looked bright too. If Van Thiegel managed to get out of Yangambi alive and kept his promise of going into business with him, he would soon find himself achieving his dream of making his fortune running a brothel in Antwerp. That would be the moment to buy his wife some emerald earrings.

It seemed to him that the rays of light coming in through the roof were rippling and undulating like snakes. He closed his eyes. There were, of course, obstacles, but, generally speaking, everything was going well.

He was woken by a siren and ran down to the jetty. It wasn’t, as he had thought, one of the usual boats, but a small steamer bearing the letters AIA, the Association Internationale Africaine. He immediately regretted his haste. On the deck, a group of men were standing around a wooden crate about nine feet high and shifting restlessly from foot to foot as if they didn’t quite know what to do with it. No one else had responded to the siren, not even Livo.

One of the men beckoned to him. Donatien privately cursed himself for his lack of prudence. There had been no need for him to leave the storeroom. The people on the boat clearly needed assistance, presumably to unload their cargo.

The crate was so heavy they could barely move it. Donatien’s arms ached with the effort.

‘What have you got in here?’ he asked the men. They were all veteran soldiers, who had doubtless spent many years in Africa. He didn’t know them though.

‘It’s the Virgin,’ said the man who had beckoned to him. He wasn’t in uniform but wore the insignia of the Force Publique on his shirt collar.

Donatien said nothing, struggling to understand. Weeks before, he had overheard a conversation between Lalande Biran and Cocó about the possibility of bringing a lion from the zoo in Brussels so that the King could hunt it, and when he saw the wooden crate, his first thought had been that it must contain that lion. He wasn’t expecting a Virgin.

‘It’s made of marble, that’s why it weighs so much,’ the man with the insignia explained.

‘I’ll go and fetch the servants from the club,’ said Donatien. ‘We need more help here.’

‘No, we can manage fine with just you,’ said the man.

‘Well, if you think so,’ muttered Donatien. ‘Allezyvousvrrez.’

There was no going back. Instead of sleeping peacefully in his hiding place, he would have to help them unload. And without a hat either, because he had left it behind in the storeroom. The scalding sun was beating down on his head.

‘Fetch some more branches like those over there, so that we can lower the Virgin onto the beach,’ said the man with the insignia, pointing to some mahogany branches scattered about the sand.

Donatien joined the crew of the AIA in picking up branches.

‘How long are you staying?’ asked Donatien. ‘Have you got time for a drink of palm wine?’

He had just remembered that Chrysostome would be back with the girl at around four o’clock. It would be best if these strangers weren’t around to see her. Lalande Biran didn’t like witnesses. In that respect, he was just like Donatien’s brothers.

‘We’ll unload the cargo onto the beach and then be off,’ said the man with the insignia and started giving orders to the other men. They were to arrange the branches on the sand next to the jetty and set the crate down on top. That was the only way of dragging it along without it sinking.

The man seemed to know what he was doing. That way, they could easily drag the crate halfway up the beach.

‘We’ll leave it here. Tell your superior officer,’ said the man with the insignia. He got back onto the boat, followed by the whole crew. They clearly had no time to lose.

‘Of course,’ said Donatien.

He remained standing by the crate until the boat had disappeared into the distance. Then he walked calmly over to Government House.