Seven Houses in France

XXI

‘THE MOST BEAUTIFUL metaphor was provided by the statue of the Virgin,’ wrote Lassalle in his notebook. He was preparing to describe the religious ceremony on the little island of Samanga. Once he had done that, he would add the two literary portraits he had already sketched out, one of Lalande Biran and the other of Chrysostome; then his article would be complete.

He read the sentence again — ‘The most beautiful metaphor was provided by the statue of the Virgin’ — then looked around him, hoping to find inspiration in his surroundings. The view from the boat was, alas, dreadfully dull — mortellement ennuyeux — even duller than the desert patrolled by the Foreign Legion. All he could see was the murky river and, on either shore, an inextricable, almost black wall, the first line of trees. Confronted by such a landscape, he found comfort even in the sound of the paddles and the sparks that flew up from the funnel along with the steam.

He found the soldiers of Yangambi equally uninspiring. In that respect, the members of the Force Publique and those of the Foreign Legion were the same. They were brave men, capable of the most dangerous of tasks and unperturbed by potentially deadly situations, but they were also very ordin ary and in no way like Achilles.

Lalande Biran had pointed this out in the interview Lassalle had made while they were travelling upriver. ‘You must remember, Monsieur Lassalle, why Achilles is so famous. It is not just because of his heroism. Ajax and many other men were equally brave, but Achilles was a melancholic. He knew that death awaited him. That is what lies at the root of his melancholy and that is also why we find him so attractive. Beside him, all the other heroes are mere oafs. They are still children despite their many escapades.’

Lalande Biran was an interesting man. He may not have been a melancholic, but he was deep. More than that, he wrote poetry. Lassalle had noted down a poem of his about a duel between kings: ‘Each in his own territory, but what territory can accommodate more than one king?’ It wasn’t a particularly remarkable piece, but it was a worthy enough effort, and the readers of Le Soir would enjoy it. The poem he liked best was the one dedicated to the sky of Yangambi: ‘It is not a lived-in heaven, but a desert; it is not Michelangelo’s heaven, peopled by angels and saints, and with the figure of God greeting Adam …’ He would try to write a commentary on it for some literary journal.

The Roi du Congo was progressing so slowly that it was easy to forget that you were travelling down the River Congo. He had to make a conscious effort to think this in order to remind himself where he was: in the heart of Africa, not in Europe. This, however, was a physical truth, not a spiritual one. His spirit was still in Europe, and his greatest joy was knowing that his stay in Africa was coming to an end.

‘The most beautiful metaphor was provided by the statue of the Virgin.’ He returned to his notebook. He was finding it harder than usual to begin the article. Africa was utterly exhausting. It wasn’t like strolling down the streets of Brussels, still less along the beaches or through the gardens of St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. The climb to the top of Samanga had left him almost drained of energy.

‘We disembarked and began our march across the island,’ he wrote, having finally found a way of beginning the article. ‘In the vanguard went the sappers, hacking a path through the undergrowth with their machetes, followed by the veteran officer Richardson, several other white officers and twenty or so of the irregular soldiers known here as askaris. Then came the bishop and two priests, Captain Lalande Biran and myself, and behind us the young native men who wanted to be baptised and who were acting as porters for the statue of the Virgin. Bringing up the rear was a second group of askaris, while guarding our backs was the best marksman in the Congo, the officer Chrysostome Liège.’

He raised his head and looked for Chrysostome. He was standing underneath the awning, watching the other officers playing cards. Lassalle couldn’t quite make Chrysostome out. He was in part, as Lalande Biran put it, an ‘Olympian’ figure, like an athlete entirely focussed on his goals and who might easily win a gold medal at the next Games in London; but he was also a deeply religious fellow, who proudly wore around his neck the blue ribbon and the medal of Our Lady. He had observed him praying during the mass at the top of Samanga. And shortly afterwards, when the ceremony was over and they were setting off back to the boat, he had seen him bidding farewell to the stone Virgin, kneeling before her, head bowed. So there were two sides to him, the Olympian and the devout. And there was another less defined element to his personality. He had heard it said that Chrysostome was somewhat effeminate, and yet, when he had asked Lalande Biran about this, the Captain had dismissed the idea as mere rumour.

He went back to his notebook and continued the article.

‘At first, we thought that all the dangers lurked deep in the jungle. The cries of the monkeys perhaps betrayed the presence of the rebels. The lion’s roar was possibly a sign that the second monarch of these lands was angry. The faint sound of the flowing river underlined the solitude of the place, hard to bear for those of us accustomed to the parks of Brussels or the beaches of the Mediterranean. And yet the greatest danger was much closer, right above our heads, to be exact. It was none other than the mosquito. Did I say “the mosquito”? I should have said “whole armies of mosquitos”, for there were thousands of them and they seemed to move in formation. “Try to keep awake!” joked the veteran officer Richardson, only increasing our anxiety. Because that other menace, the tse-tse fly, known as oukammba here, is no laughing matter. The tse-tse first sends you to sleep and then kills you. Just like that. Tse-tse, then, is a synonym for death. Fortunately, most of us had applied lion grease to face and neck, having been assured by the natives that there is no better repellent.’

He then went on to describe what had happened once they reached the top of Samanga. Before the religious ceremony, Lalande Biran had ordered bonfires of branches and green lianas to be lit, to keep off the mosquitos, red ants and the hundreds of other insects swarming about there.

‘As the smoke faded, the ceremony reached its culminating point: “Credo in unum Deum!” cried the bishop and every voice joined his. The officers and the askaris of the Force Publique, as well as the handsome Yangambi youths, all united together so that their prayer would spread, carried by faith, carried upon the air, to the whole of Upper Congo. The wizards and witches and medicine men of the jungle received our message loud and clear: “This jungle has but one king. This jungle has but one God! Credo in unum Deum!”’

Lassalle looked up. Chrysostome was no longer watching the card-players, but sitting in the stern with his head thrown back, taking the sun. The chain and medal around his neck glittered.

Lassalle scribbled down various basic ideas for his article: ‘The statue of the Virgin is installed’, ‘The bishop blesses the river and the jungle’, ‘Baptism of the young men of Yangambi’, ‘Lalande Biran’s words of homage to the explorer, Henry Morton Stanley’, ‘Surprise: Richardson asks to be baptised’. ‘At the end, repeat the opening sentence: the most beautiful metaphor, etc., etc.’

He walked over to the stern, but Lalande Biran beckoned to him to come and sit with him and the bishop. Lassalle pointed to Chrysostome, indicating that he wished to interview him. Having made his excuses to the bishop, Lalande Biran joined him.

‘You’ll have to help me, Captain, and see if we can get anything out of the lad,’ Lassalle said, although he would have much preferred to do the interview alone.

Chrysostome stood up when he saw them approach. Lalande Biran explained what Lassalle wanted.

‘Why don’t you tell him about the day you hunted the rhinoceros? We could start there. I doubt that the readers of Le Soir realise the force with which a rhinoceros will charge when wounded,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t really that difficult,’ said Chrysostome impassively.

‘Really?’ asked Lassalle, surprised.

‘No.’

‘I’ve heard quite the opposite, that when a rhinoceros is angry it can disembowel a whole company of soldiers before it finally succumbs to their bullets.’

‘No, to be honest, the most difficult part was cutting off the horn and carrying it back to Yangambi,’ said Chrysostome.

‘I have the horn in Government House,’ added Lalande Biran. ‘I’m going to take it back to Europe with me and display it at home.’

The blue ribbon and gold chain stood out against Chrysostome’s chest, and, visible in his trouser pocket, was the silver watch chain.

‘Is that what the Captain gave you in exchange for the rhinoceros horn?’ asked Lassalle.

Chrysostome nodded, but gave no sign that he was going to take out the watch and show it to him.

‘I’d like to ask you about that blue ribbon, if I may,’ said Lassalle, drawing a line in his notebook. He had nothing worth writing down. ‘How long have you had it? Why do you wear it? Do you feel safer with it round your neck? Safe from the dangers of the jungle?’

‘No, not safer,’ answered Chrysostome, taking three cartridges from another smaller pocket in his trousers. ‘This is what makes me feel safer. The more cartridges you have, the safer you are.’

‘The blue ribbon was given to him by the parish priest in Britancourt, the village where he was born,’ Lalande Biran explained. ‘He came elephant-hunting with me a few months ago and told me a little about his life. His years in Britancourt were a vital influence on him.’

‘Is Britancourt pretty?’ asked Lassalle.

‘I think so, yes.’

Chrysostome’s character and that of the landscape visible from the Roi du Congo chimed perfectly. His way of speaking was as inexpressive as the noise of the steamboat’s paddles. ‘Stupide?’ That was the adjective that popped into Lassalle’s mind, but at that very moment, he caught the look in Chrysostome’s eyes, as if Chrysostome had read his thoughts. It was a hard, frightening look. Lassalle immediately swallowed the adjective and saw, in its place, the caption he would give to the photo he would take: ‘L’énigme de Chrysostome Liège’ — ‘The enigma of Chrysostome Liège’.

The boat slowed. Lalande Biran stood up.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, leaning over the side. Then he cried out in surprise: ‘Why, it’s Livo! What’s he doing here?’

When he joined the Captain, Lassalle saw a small man with very black skin standing on the shore. He was carrying a pole over his shoulder from which hung three baskets. When the boat stopped, he recognised him as the servant in charge of the Club Royal. He couldn’t help smiling. Livo was even smaller than he was, and even smaller than Toisonet. Lalande Biran could offer him to his friend the Duke as a valet. He had also heard it said that Livo was an intelligent man.

All the passengers had now joined the Captain on the shore side of the boat, until the helmsman shouted at them to go back because the boat was beginning to list. Livo passed the three reed baskets one by one to an askari. Then, with some difficulty, he climbed on board.

Chrysostome had clambered onto the roof of the boat and was watching, his Albini-Braendlin in his hand.

‘See anything?’ asked Richardson from below.

Chrysostome was scanning the jungle. He shook his head. Richardson explained to the journalist:

‘It could be a trap set by the rebels.’

The boat got underway again, and Chrysostome came down from the roof.

‘As you know,’ Lassalle said to Richardson, having abandoned the idea of interviewing Chrysostome, ‘I’m writing a chronicle of the journey, and I will, of course, mention your baptism. Why that sudden decision to abandon Protestantism and convert to Catholicism? Why now and not before? You’ve had plenty of time in which to convert. You’re a veteran soldier, after all.’

Richardson burst out laughing and then led the journalist to a place where no one else could hear them.

‘I’ll tell you what happened, but you must tell no one else. You know Lopes, don’t you? He’s the young officer who was stationed in Angola before. Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a real practical joker. He’s always playing tricks on people. Anyway, when we were up there, hearing mass, he positioned himself behind me. And when the bishop asked those who had not yet been baptised to step forward, Lopes gave me such a shove that I took not one but two steps forward. There was the bishop beaming away at me. What was I supposed to do? Take a step back? Disappoint him?’

Richardson laughed again, wagging his finger.

‘This story must go no further, mind.’

Lalande Biran was sitting in the prow of the boat, alone with Livo, and Lassalle’s journalistic instincts impelled him to join them. The two men stopped talking when they saw him approach.

‘You should definitely dedicate a few lines to Livo,’ Lalande Biran said. ‘Sometimes he thinks he has a brightness or a kind of vapour around him. Not like the steam coming out of the funnel on the boat, which is always white, but one that changes colour all the time. His oimbé — that’s what they call it — takes on a different colour depending on his mood.’

‘How interesting.’

And he wasn’t lying, because, as a journalist, he found everything interesting, but he knew that what really mattered was the thing they weren’t telling him.

‘Livo and I have something we need to talk about, Ferdinand,’ Lalande Biran said, thus confirming Lassalle’s suspicions. ‘We’ll be back in Yangambi soon and, if you like, you can ask him about that luminous vapour then.’

‘Of course. I’ll interview you later, Livo, if I may.’

Livo had scratches on his face and would not meet his gaze. It seemed to Lassalle that Livo could not even see him, as if the oimbé to which Lalande Biran had referred stood between them. He gave no reply.

‘Livo has some family problems, that’s why he’s looking so downcast,’ Lalande Biran explained. ‘The Twa are like that. If there’s anything worrying them, they lose all heart. He’s come to ask my advice.’

For the first time since he arrived, Lassalle felt like staying on in the Congo. His journalistic nose was telling him that there was some juicy bit of news there. What he had written so far wasn’t bad, and he was sure that European readers would find his article interesting, but it lacked that special something, the pinch of salt that would lift the story off the page and into after-dinner conversations. In his article about the Foreign Legion, the story about the ‘well-endowed soldier’ with four balls had served that purpose, and was doubtless the ‘pinch of salt’ that had led to him winning the prize.

‘I’d like to interview you in the Club Royal,’ he said to Livo.

‘It’s probably best if I tell you about it, Ferdinand,’ said Lalande Biran. ‘As you can see, our man here is not feeling too well. I’ll tell you tonight over supper, if you like.’

‘Or some other day. I’ve decided to stay on in Yangambi. I’ll leave on next week’s boat.’

He himself was surprised by what he had just said, but it was done now.

‘If you don’t mind, that is,’ he added.

The Captain’s blue-gold eyes took on a special intensity.

‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s an excellent idea.’

Lassalle gave a discreet bow and returned to the stern of the boat. He sat down where Chrysostome had been sitting. There was no sun now. Thick clouds covered most of the sky.

‘The most beautiful metaphor was provided by the statue of the Virgin,’ he read in his notebook. Then he re-read his other notes and crossed out the sentence saying: ‘Surprise: Richardson asks to be baptised.’

The words flowed easily from his pencil now, and he reckoned that he would finish the description of the ceremony on Samanga before they reached Yangambi. However, just then, the boat started to sway and rock, and when he looked up, he realised that they were already at the point where the two rivers met, and were manoeuvring into shore.

The Roi du Congo left the main part of the river and, after passing between two islets, advanced in the direction of the Club Royal and turned towards the jetty. Ten askaris were standing on the beach and some raised their rifles in salute.

Lalande Biran waited for the bishop so that they could disembark together, and the other members of the expedition followed one by one. The beach filled up with people, as always happened when a boat arrived. On that occasion, though, the excitement was more muted. The officers, the askaris, the newly baptised youths, all seemed exhausted. Besides, the Roi du Congo was not bringing with it, as it usually did, boxes of biscuits or salami, still less alcoholic drinks. Its cargo was, so to speak, a spiritual one. They had managed to install the Virgin in her place.

Livo was among the first off the boat. He stepped down with the help of an askari and walked very slowly towards the Club Royal, as if he barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. On his shoulder, hanging from the pole, were the three reed baskets.

The last to disembark was Chrysostome. Holding his rifle in one hand, he jumped onto the beach without even getting his boots wet.

L’énigme de Chrysostome Liège. There was definitely something strange about him. If what everyone said was true, how was it that such a vigorous young man had remained as virginal as the statue they had left on Samanga? He thought of a good opening sentence: ‘He’s like a cheetah, yet he moves through the world as shyly as a hedgehog.’ Not bad. However, as with all such enigmas, what mattered was its resolution.