Seven Houses in France

XXIV

ON HIS WAY to fetch the rubber-tappers who had been left corralled in the jungle, Van Thiegel was barely in control of himself because the two parts of his mind were constantly arguing and he could do nothing to stop them. They were quarrelling about Madelaine. One part insisted that the girl was conquest 185, while the other kept impatiently repeating ‘No, no, no, no!’Then the disagreement between the two parts grew more acrimonious.

‘So that’s 156 black women and 29 white women,’ said the first.

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites,’ the other retorted. ‘Madelaine was more white than black.’

‘No, you’re wrong. It’s 156 blacks and 29 whites!’

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites!’

The askaris with Van Thiegel stared in amazement as he slashed a path through the densest parts of the bush like a true sapper, chopping down any lianas, brambles and roots that got in his way. Such physical effort would have rendered anyone else incapable of thought, but in his case the two parties in dispute refused to surrender. Just when they seemed about to reach agreement, they would start again, always at the same point:

‘So that’s 156 black women and 29 white women,’ the first would say.

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites,’ the other would riposte.

The askaris eyed him warily. Van Thiegel kept shouting out, not like someone trying to urge on his men, but like a rabid monkey.

When the patrol finally reached the enclosure, they found the terrified captives all huddled together at one end. The black NCOs had to threaten them with the chicotte to get them to line up.

It turned out that the supply lines had failed, and no one had thought to bring provisions for the captives, leaving them both terrified and starving. When Van Thiegel saw the state they were in, a new discussion broke out inside his head. The first half argued that it wasn’t worth wasting time looking for food when it would be far easier simply to abandon any rubber-tappers too weak to survive the march back to Yangambi; the second half replied that they couldn’t just get rid of a group of men employed in the service of Léopold II, and, besides, it wasn’t so very hard to find food in that part of the jungle. It would be better to take a couple of days longer, kill a few monkeys to feed the men, and then return with the group intact. Lalande Biran might be angry with him for leaving responsibility for the garrison at Yangambi in the hands of someone like Donatien and for taking four or five days to sort out a matter that could have been resolved in two, but the fault lay with Lalande Biran himself for having locked up a hundred or so rubber-tappers in the middle of the jungle without making any arrangements to keep them fed.

The hunt for monkeys brought Van Thiegel some rest, because it required all his concentration and left him so physically exhausted that he could at least manage to sleep. On the third day, however, the images inside his head began to proliferate, just as they did when he got drunk. Chrysostome, Lalande Biran, Donatien, Livo, his mother, his father, King Léopold, the legionnaire with the four balls, all of them and many more were there, visible, so to speak, to his inner eye. He feared that, as had happened on other occasions, the images would start to spin around on the roulette wheel, but this didn’t happen, because the image of Chrysostome imposed itself on all the others: Chrysostome with the top three buttons of his shirt undone; Chrysostome with his blue ribbon and the gold chain he had received from Lopes in exchange for the cartridges; Chrysostome checking the time on the silver watch that Lalande Biran had given him for the rhinoceros horn.

At first, it seemed preferable and far less demanding to have a single image rather than an endlessly spinning roulette wheel of them. However, as the hours passed, he began to see its negative side. The image was telling him the truth, namely, that he was worried and afraid of Chrysostome. That’s why he had fled Yangambi. That’s why he’d persuaded himself that he really should go with the askaris to bring back the captive rubber-tappers, when the askaris could easily have done the job under the command of a black NCO.

There were no two ways about it. He was very frightened. Chrysostome might not find out what had happened to his ‘Madelaine’ at once, but it would be, at most, a matter of a week before he did. Chrysostome would go to her village to visit her, the people there would tell him what had happened; then, naturally, the yokel would come after him to put a bullet through his head. If only he was a bad shot! But even he could not deny that Chrysostome was an exceptionally fine marksman. The man who had felled a cheetah and who, at a distance of nearly two hundred yards, had shot a mandrill through the head, would have no trouble killing him.

This was painful to acknowledge. He, Cocó Van Thiegel, who in his youth had served in the Belgian army, been a sergeant in the Foreign Legion, a lieutenant in the Force Publique, always ready to plunge into battle or join a party hunting for rebels, who, to put it bluntly, had never known fear, that same man now quailed before a mere yokel. He feared him. And this was not a new feeling, it had been there since the very first day.

His mind again split in two.

‘You’re shitting yourself over this,’ said one half.

‘I’m going to tell you what to do,’ said the other half. ‘Go back to Yangambi at night, creep over to Chrysostome’s hut and cut his throat with a machete. End of problem.’

‘And what if he’s awake?’ asked the first half.

The second half did not reply.

Van Thiegel gave the order for the black NCO to set off with the captives. They had to get back to Yangambi, they could wait no longer, and if any of the captives were still too weak, then it would be best to leave them where they were. When the NCO informed him that this would not be the case, that they could have started their return journey the day before, once the men had eaten their fill of monkey meat, Van Thiegel realised even more acutely what lay behind his behaviour. He resolved that he would not be made to look like a coward in front of Richardson, Lopes and the other officers. He must go back and kill Chrysostome as soon as possible.

For a moment, the mere thought of this made the rage he felt at his humiliation far stronger than his fear, and he clung to that feeling on the march back to Yangambi. His intense rage also meant that the image of Chrysostome faded somewhat and was replaced by an analysis of all the possible ways of killing him. How should he do it? The machete was, of course, an option. Another would be to go straight to Chrysostome’s hut as soon as he reached Yangambi and make some mocking remark about his lack of manliness. Chrysostome, enraged by this insult, would immediately reach for his rifle, and Van Thiegel would shoot him, later alleging self-defence. He could also, of course, turn to Lalande Biran for help and make a clean breast of what had happened. ‘Madelaine’ had fought like a tigress, her parrot had kept screaming in the most irritating manner, and while he and Bamu were struggling, he had underestimated his own strength and inadvertently killed her.

‘I know I was wrong, Biran, and I take full responsibility,’ he would say, ‘but if Chrysostome tries to exact his revenge, that will only make matters worse. Regardless of whether he succeeds or not, it will be a bad thing. We are both, after all, members of the Force Publique. Summon him, please, and tell him the punishment laid down in the military code for anyone who kills a colleague.’

The punishment was the firing squad. If Lalande Biran reminded him of this, Chrysostome would immediately understand the rules of the game.

They reached Yangambi that evening, and, having left the rubber-tappers in the hands of the askaris, Van Thiegel had supper with the black NCOs. Then, after dark, he walked over to his residence. No officer was to be seen in the main street or in the Place du Grand Palmier. They were probably all in the Club Royal.

He went into his bedroom, sat down on the bed and poured himself a glass of cognac. Of the various options, turning to Lalande Biran for help seemed the best one. It was the most sensible and the most militarily correct. Lalande Biran was his superior officer and, as such, was obliged to defend him. On the other hand, however cool a customer that yokel Chrysostome was, he would not want to die in front of a firing squad.

The thought of Lalande Biran brought with it the memory of Christine, and he picked up the pillow under which he had hidden her photo. It wasn’t there. He put down his glass and looked underneath the bed. Nothing, only his boots and socks. He went into his office, knowing full well that he would not find the photograph there either. In a flash, he understood. Donatien had spent several days completely alone in Yangambi! He had taken the photo, there was no doubt about it. The dog was always poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted! The traitor!

He sat down at his desk. The photo would now be in Lalande Biran’s hands. Matters, he realised, were getting complicated.

He sat waiting for Lalande Biran to arrive. He was absolutely sure he would come. His only doubt was how the Captain would react. Would he mention the photograph straight away or launch into one of his speeches, talking about this and that, without coming to the point or giving any clue as to what form his revenge would take? If he did that, thought Van Thiegel, picking up the rifle on the desk to check that it was loaded, he would have no compunction about shooting him because the man had not yet been born who could play cat-and-mouse with him. Then, as Lalande Biran himself never tired of repeating, alea jacta est, the die would be cast. He would kill the Captain, he would kill Donatien, he would kill Chrysostome, and then he would hide in the jungle until things calmed down. He wouldn’t be the first man to desert from the Force Publique. The only snag was that he would have to give up Christine and his dream of making her his woman number 200, but everything had its price.

He saw Richardson standing at the door of his office, as still and timid as a beggar come to ask for alms, his eyes fixed on Van Thiegel’s rifle.

‘What are you staring at?’Van Thiegel asked. Richardson’s presence displeased him. He wanted to see Lalande Biran. And shoot him.

‘We have to talk, Cocó,’ said Richardson. ‘Legionnaire to legionnaire.’

‘You mean ex-legionnaire to ex-legionnaire.’

‘As you wish, but we have to talk. Chrysostome wants to challenge you to a duel.’

Still keeping hold of his rifle, Van Thiegel gestured to Richardson to take a seat, then he took two glasses and poured them each a cognac.

‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said. Richardson was still standing, and Van Thiegel asked him again to sit down. ‘Now tell me everything — from the beginning,’ he said, when Richardson finally did as he was asked. For once, Van Thiegel’s mind was perfectly calm. It didn’t feel as if it was about to split, even if only into two, and this gave him confidence.

‘When Chrysostome found out what had happened to his girlfriend, it was as if he’d been bitten by a black mamba,’ Richardson told him. ‘It was as if he’d stopped breathing, as if he couldn’t move his lips, as if the poison had entered his internal organs and was destroying them one by one and as if, at any moment, his skin would become covered in …’

Richardson paused, looking for the right word.

‘Make it short, please,’ Van Thiegel said. What Richardson was saying cheered him, but the way in which he was speaking reminded him of Lalande Biran.

‘Then, suddenly, he regained the power of movement and started screaming like a madman. I mean it, Cocó, you’ve really hurt him. I’ve rarely seen a man so wounded. The Captain says the girl was his first love, which is why it’s hit him so hard.’

Richardson paused again. He was holding his glass in both hands.

‘You have to understand, Cocó. There was no alternative. The Captain tried to persuade him that there was no point getting upset over a native girl, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted to come after you and kill you. Then the Captain proposed the duel, and he accepted.’

‘Drink up,’ said Van Thiegel.

Richardson drank his cognac down in one, then said, ‘I’ll be your second, if that’s all right with you. The journalist, Lassalle, will be Chrysostome’s.’

‘What form will the duel take? You haven’t told me yet.’

‘On the beach, with rifles. At one hundred and fifty yards. Tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Yes, tomorrow.’

Van Thiegel filled their glasses again.

‘One hundred and fifty yards. That’s too far for me. As my second, you should never have agreed to that. Twenty yards would have suited me better. At least I would stand a chance of hitting him. That’s what I’m going to find most annoying, that he’ll manage to hit me, but I won’t hit him.’

‘I’ve asked that we stand at the Club Royal end of the beach, which would be best for you. That way, on Sunday at midday, you won’t have the sun in your eyes. Chrysostome will.’

‘What does that matter if he’s wearing a hat!’

‘I’ll try to make sure he isn’t, Cocó.’

Van Thiegel finished the cognac left in his glass, then yawned and stretched, saying: ‘I’m going to bed. It was hard work bringing those blacks back from the jungle.’

‘Just one more thing, Cocó,’ Richardson said, standing up. ‘In accordance with tradition, tonight, on the eve of the duel, a special supper is being held at the Club Royal. I’ll be going, as will Lopes and the other officers on your side, about ten or twelve of us. I’ve spoken to Livo and it’s all arranged.’

‘What about the others?’Van Thiegel asked, grabbing the bottle of Martell again and drinking straight from it.

‘Chrysostome didn’t want any celebrations. You know what he’s like.’

‘Don’t I just. A village yokel who doesn’t even know what to do with a woman. Well, if he doesn’t want to celebrate, neither do I. I’ll get some rest so that I have a steady hand tomorrow.’

‘As you wish. I’ll gladly eat your supper for you,’ said Richardson.

Van Thiegel went into his bedroom. When he undressed and got into bed under the mosquito net, he raised the bottle as if he were giving a toast, which was his way of saying goodbye to Richardson.

In his dreams, Van Thiegel thought he was back in the jungle and that a black NCO was stroking his chest. He tried to slap him, but the NCO dodged the blow and started touching his belly instead, moving his hand in circles as if to relieve a stomach ache, but he didn’t have a stomach ache and the hand wasn’t warm like his mother’s. Again he tried to slap the man, harder this time, but the NCO was very quick and the blow struck empty air. For a few moments, the cold hand stroked his thighs and knees, then returned to his belly. This time, he attempted to punch the man, three times, each time in vain, because the NCO had excellent reflexes. Cursing, he felt behind him for his rifle, but it wasn’t there. It occurred to him that the black NCO had stolen his rifle, which is why the bastard had the nerve to stroke his body with that cold hand of his. He knew the NCO, but had no idea he was a queer. Perhaps he was Chrysostome’s partner.

When he woke, the morning light was coming into the bedroom. Before him, with half its body raised up, was a black mamba. It was a very strong specimen and its tongue kept nervously, ceaselessly, flicking in and out.

Van Thiegel felt a need to move his legs, but as soon as he bent his knees, the snake slithered down to his belly. Its skin wasn’t just cold, it was rough.

He closed his eyes and very slowly lowered his legs. When he looked again, the mamba seemed even more nervous, its tongue moving frenetically.

Something crawled over his neck, something with tiny feet that tickled his skin. When it reached his arm, he saw that it was a mouse. The snake’s mouth was wide open now and its head was swaying back and forth, as if the creature were making careful calculations before it attacked. The attack did not happen, though, and the snake continued to sniff the air with its tongue. What was it that smelled so strongly? Van Thiegel felt a glass object next to his right side, and his skin told him what it was before his nose did. It was the bottle of Martell, empty now, having spilled its contents. Now he understood. The snake was nervous because it could smell both the mouse and the cognac and found the unfamiliar smell of cognac confusing.

Van Thiegel could see his machete next to the bed, still in its case, hanging from the belt on his trousers. It was within reach, but making use of it would not be easy. He would have to lift the mosquito net, grab the machete and then strike.

The mouse was crawling back up his chest towards his neck. It seemed to be moving rather slowly and uncertainly, as if bemused by the snake’s presence. Van Thiegel snatched it up in his hand and threw it to the snake as he might have thrown it to a dog. Then he raised his legs sharply and the mamba was hurled against the mosquito net.

When he grabbed the machete and cut off the snake’s head, the mamba still had the mouse in its mouth, in the act of swallowing it. Van Thiegel gave a joyful whoop. It was his finest victory in a long time. Death had come looking for him, but now there it was lying on the floor of his room. Its tail continued to swish furiously in a last attempt either to propel itself forward or, perhaps, to swallow the mouse. But, as Lalande Biran might have said, there would be no more jungle for him, or for the mouse.

The swishing gradually slowed and when it finally stopped, Van Thiegel got dressed very slowly, laughing to himself. His mind never ceased to surprise him. That Sunday morning, a few hours before he was due to face Chrysostome, it was calmer than ever. It had not divided in two, there was no roulette wheel, nor did it insist on assailing him with painful memories.

He scooped up the snake on the blade of his machete and held it at waist height. The head dangled by a slender strip of skin. It was quite heavy. It must have had enough venom in its fangs to kill an elephant.

Richardson was sitting on one of the benches in the Place du Grand Palmier with two rifles by his side. He was asleep, and Van Thiegel approached very slowly. Twice the snake slid off the machete blade, and twice he patiently picked it up again.

‘Watch out, Richardson!’ he shouted.

When Richardson opened his eyes, Van Thiegel hurled the snake at his face and roared with laughter when he saw his colleague leap up from the bench and roll a few yards on the ground.

‘You’re too old to be on guard duty!’ Van Thiegel told him.

Richardson had taken off his hat and was wiping his cheeks and forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Beside the bench, the snake looked like the limp end of a whip. Its head had come off, the thread of skin that had kept it attached to its body finally broken.

‘I haven’t seen a mamba in years,’ Richardson said, holding the snake’s head between index finger and thumb. ‘God, it’s ugly! As ugly as you, Cocó!’

Van Thiegel was still laughing, and he laughed even louder when Richardson threw the snake’s head at him, hitting him on the chest.

‘I’m glad to see you so cheerful, Cocó! You look marvellous!’

‘I have a feeling I’m going to give that poofter a surprise today.’

‘What do you want to do, Cocó? We’ve got five hours before the duel.’

Van Thiegel picked up the snake, this time with his hand.

‘I’m going to treat myself to a good breakfast,’ he said. ‘Do you like grilled snake?’

‘I haven’t eaten it for years, not since my days as a legionnaire. I can’t even remember the taste,’ said Richardson.

‘Well, today, among other things, we will eat a little snake. Let’s go and see if Livo can fire up the barbecue for us.’

Time, that morning, passed neither very quickly nor very slowly. It was as if the world had started turning to a regular beat — au fur et à mesure — and was imposing that rhythm on all beings, on the monkeys and the birds in the jungle, on the fish in the river, and — at a more elevated level — on the wind, the currents, the clouds and the sun.

Now and then, the mandrills and the chimpanzees screamed, neither very far nor very near; the waki flew tranquilly past, neither very high nor very low; the fish swam easily by, neither very deep nor very near the surface. The wind was stirring the leaves, but not the branches of the okoume, the teak and the palm trees. And the current in the river, although strong, was not dragging whole tree trunks with it, as it did in the rainy season. As for the clouds, to use a rather bolder figure of speech, they resembled leisurely steamboats, and the sun shone gently out of that same sky.

The inhabitants of Yangambi were the only beings not keeping to the general rhythm of that Sunday morning. Those in the village — Lalande Biran, Ferdinand Lassalle, Donatien, Chrysostome and the other officers, the black NCOs, and the askaris with their red fezes — were more silent than usual, and were nowhere to be seen; on the other hand, those in the Club Royal — Van Thiegel, Richardson, Livo and the other servants — were notable for the ruckus they were making.

On the club porch, Livo barbecued the snake lightly at first, to remove its skin, and then grilled it on a higher flame until its flesh was nicely golden. When he judged it to be done, he picked up a piece on his knife and offered it to Van Thiegel.

The other servants on the porch laughed when they saw Livo wrinkle his nose, because the snake had the same rank odour as chicken giblets.

Van Thiegel took a deep breath in, as if savouring the aroma, and there was more laughter. When he put the meat in his mouth, everyone fell silent. For a few moments, all action was suspended. Then Van Thiegel raced down to the river and spat the meat out, before returning to the porch, swearing and cursing, but laughing too.

‘Livo, bring me some salami and biscuits. And coffee. And bring me any other tasty titbits you see in the storeroom,’ said Richardson.

While they were eating, the rhythm of the world slowed still further. The mandrills and the chimpanzees fell silent, the waki vanished from the air, the fish swam down to the river bed, the clouds stopped moving, and the sun lost its strength.

‘This is what I call eating,’ said Richardson with a calm he did not feel in his heart. He had noticed the sun growing dimmer. Its rays would be no obstacle to Chrysostome. Cocó would have no advantage.

‘Like kings, Richardson. I’ve heard it said that King Léopold II is mad for salami,’ said Livo.

There was even less calm in his heart than in Richardson’s. His oimbé was completely black. He was furious. He couldn’t understand what had happened. The snake he had left on Van Thiegel’s bed hadn’t eaten for days, and the mouse was tipsy on the little drop of cognac he’d forced it to drink. Why had the snake not pounced on the mouse? Why had it not bitten the Drunken Monkey?

‘Livo, bring me a bottle of cognac. It’s time for a little drink,’ Richardson said.

Livo went into the storeroom. He had hidden the baskets behind the boxes of biscuits. He spoke to the two remaining mambas.

‘Your comrade was too stupid. The Drunken Monkey cut off its head with a machete.’

His oimbé grew still blacker. He picked up a bottle of Martell and returned to the porch.

‘This is what saved me,’ said Van Thiegel, snatching the bottle from him. ‘The mamba was put off by the smell of cognac, and so I seized the moment.’

‘We don’t like his flesh, and he doesn’t like our cognac,’ said Livo.

The Drunken Monkey’s words were showing him the way. He shouldn’t have given the mouse any cognac. Or perhaps, he should simply not bother with a mouse at all and just empty the contents of the basket straight onto the victim’s sleeping body. That’s what he would do with Donatien and with the Captain. They might wake up and see the snake, but it was worth the risk.

Van Thiegel refilled his glass.

‘Cocó, don’t drink so quickly. I speak as your second!’ Richardson said.

Livo had taken the charred snake skin and was rolling it up into two small balls.

‘Livo, give me those,’ Van Thiegel said. ‘Say something to me, légionnaire!’ he told Richardson, after putting the two balls in his ears. He had spoken more loudly than he intended.

‘There’s not much time. We need to try out the rifle,’ Richardson said.

‘Excellent! I didn’t hear a word,’ said Van Thiegel. ‘I don’t intend taking these out until our Captain has finished his speech. That, I’m sure, will be the most painful part of the duel.’

Richardson stood up.

‘Come on, Cocó, let’s go and try out the rifle.’

‘The Lieutenant doesn’t need any practice,’ said Livo.

‘Not in shooting, no, but there are three movements he has to perform before getting into position to fire, and the faster he can do them the better.’

‘One last drink, Richardson,’ said Van Thiegel, filling his glass again. He felt good; his mind was calm. The yokel was in for a surprise. He wasn’t going to make those three movements. He would stand up, take one step back and fire, just like that, straight at Chrysostome’s chest. Neither his blue ribbon nor any of his other fripperies would help him then. And if Lalande Biran tried to lecture him about fair play, for the benefit of that dwarfish journalist, he would shoot him too. And then, well, who knows.

Van Thiegel still had the snake-skin plugs in his ears when they walked onto the beach, and Richardson guided him to the centre. Chrysostome arrived almost at the same moment, accompanied by the journalist Lassalle. They stopped ten paces from each other.

Unable to hear, Van Thiegel could only see. Everyone in Yangambi was gathered on the upper part of the beach. In the first row stood his comrades — Lopes at one end, Donatien at the other, and Lalande Biran in the middle, standing slightly forward of them. Behind, in the second, third and fourth rows were the askaris and their respective NCOs. At the back, in some disorder, were the natives. The blue flag with the yellow star of the Force Publique seemed to hang heavy on the flagpole. There was no movement, not a breath of air.

Lopes opened his mouth, and all the soldiers, the askaris with more brio than anyone, stood first to attention and then at ease. Afterwards, Lalande Biran began to speak, opening and closing his mouth vigorously and fluently. How the cuckold loved to talk! There he was on the banks of the River Congo, giving speeches, and there was Christine alone in Paris, hopping from one bed to the next, from one lover to the next. In the end, though, that woman would be his, because she had been born to be his woman number 200. Of that there was no doubt.

He turned towards Chrysostome, but his eyes alighted instead on the journalist, who was taking a photo with his Kodak. That Lassalle fellow was another poofter.

Van Thiegel stroked the barrel of his rifle and lifted it an inch or so from the ground. He felt its weight and felt, too, the weight of the twelve cartridges. The magazine was full. This was unusual. Usually in duels, each man had just one bullet, and if both men missed, then the matter was closed, and there was no loser. The magazines had clearly been filled on the orders of Lalande Biran. Both Van Thiegel and the yokel would have twelve shots. The cuckold obviously wanted to get rid of him. Well, he was going to be disappointed.

Richardson went over to him and touched his arm. Lalande Biran’s mouth was closed. Chrysostome and the journalist were walking to the other end of the beach.

When Van Thiegel removed the plugs from his ears, he was surprised at how quiet it was, far less noisy than when he’d had them in.

‘You’re as good as dead, you poofter, you yokel!’ he yelled.

Chrysostome, however, was too far away to hear all the foul words pouring from Van Thiegel’s mouth. Cocó addressed Lalande Biran:

‘Biran, if your champion misses, then you’d better start running!’

Finally, he spoke to the white officers, to Donatien in particular.

‘And if he kills me, bury me with a bottle of cognac!’

‘The sun is a little brighter now,’ Richardson told him as he led him to his position.