Seven Houses in France

XXV

VAN THIEGEL’S DEATH DID

not change life in Yangambi. The sole consequence was an argument that broke out among various officers after he died. Some said that the bottle of cognac that was to accompany him to the grave should be empty, others that it should be full. In the end, they buried him with the bottle he had been holding shortly before the duel.

Ferdinand Lassalle was sitting writing on the porch of the Club Royal, while he awaited the arrival of the Princesse Clémentine. Richardson kept coming in and out of the storeroom, followed at all times by two servants. On the beach, the askaris stood guard.

Lassalle raised his eyes from his notebook and looked down at the river. The waki were flying very high now, but he dismissed the idea of including them in his report. They would not do as a symbol of the situation. If they symbolised anything, it was his state of mind, because, from where he sat on that porch, he was imagining his destination, Brussels, as if Europe were a huge mountain and Brussels were perched on top, and he found it hard to believe that he could set out from Yangambi on a steamboat and travel entirely on the flat, without soaring up into the sky.

He glanced across at Richardson. It was odd that he didn’t realise he was stuck in a hole, neither he nor the other officers, nor the askaris in their red fezes or indeed anyone. It reminded him of the horses he had read about in a book by Zola. When visiting a very deep mine, the writer asked the miners how they managed to get the Percheron horses they used for transportation out of the mine, given that the animals were so large and the entrance to the galleries so narrow. One of the miners told him: ‘Oh, we don’t take them out. They’re brought down here when they’re only a few months old and then they stay here for good.’ According to him, there was no reason to pity the poor beasts. The horses knew nothing else and had adapted to the world they inhabited.

Lassalle continued to write in his notebook:

After burying Van Thiegel, everyone wanted to know about the wound Chrysostome had sustained less than two inches from his heart. Livo explained that the bullet had only grazed his shoulder, and that he would be fine in a week, thanks to the ointment supplied by his tribal medicine woman. Young Chrysostome seemed saddened by the duel, because — and he said this two or three times — it was no way to resolve disputes between Christians. The Captain tried to reassure him. He had to bear in mind that the Lieutenant had changed, been poisoned, metamorphosed into a black mamba. Completing this train of thought in his own way, Chrysostome showed us the medal on its blue ribbon and declared: ‘Yes, it was a duel between the Virgin and the serpent, and, as always, the Virgin won.’ His words brought a great feeling of peace to the hut in which we were gathered, giving us all a sense of breathing pure air. Then came the most moving moment of all. Lalande Biran took a small mother-of-pearl box out of his pocket and gave it to the wounded man. Since Chrysostome could not open it singlehandedly, the Captain himself offered to help. It contained two beautiful emerald earrings. ‘I was aware how desperate you were to know where these earrings were, Chrysostome, because they were your engagement present to poor Bamu,’ said the Captain. ‘I feared that the serpent had snatched them from her when he committed his crime, and so I ordered Donatien to search for them. My assistant is very good at finding things, and here they are.’ At last, after spending whole days plunged in gloom, Chrysostome smiled. And we smiled too. Donatien could not contain his feelings and, going over to Chrysostome, he clasped his hand.

Richardson came out onto the porch and sat down beside Lassalle. He sighed.

‘It was Livo,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the jungle before them. ‘I’ve just found the proof in the storeroom. Three stinking baskets. He brought the snakes here in them. And there are ten boxes of biscuits missing, as well as loads of salami. It was obviously him.’

‘I remember now,’ said Lassalle, after an initial start of surprise. ‘When we were coming back from Samanga, he got onto the boat shortly before we reached the Lomami, and he had three reed baskets with him.’

‘Yes, that sounds like them.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Donatien knew where Livo’s village was, but I don’t. We’ll see. But now I’m going to ask you a favour. I need you to help me write two letters. I’m not much good at writing.’

‘Of course, with pleasure. Bring me some paper and envelopes, and we’ll have it done in no time.’

‘And a little coffee. The boat won’t be here for another hour.’

Not wanting to leave his report half-finished, Lassalle returned to his notebook.

In the wounded man’s hut, we all thought that the serpent had been crushed. We believed that the words repeated by young Chrysostome had come true, about the Virgin crushing the serpent. It was evening, the end of a difficult day, and we were all weary. After a light supper, we retired for the night. And lying in my bed, I was filled by the same peace I had felt earlier, in Chrysostome’s hut. When dawn broke, however, that peace was shattered. The serpent had not been crushed and was intent on spreading its poison.

That noble soldier Richardson came to my hut to tell me that Lalande Biran was dying and would I please go to his side. On the way, I learned that Donatien had also died. Both had been attacked by black mambas. ‘First, it was Van Thiegel and now it’s the Captain and Donatien. It’s like a plague,’ Richardson said to me as we entered Government House.

I found Lalande Biran close to death. His breathing was laboured and he kept trying to raise his hand to his throat, where he had been bitten. ‘Say something, Captain,’ I begged. It seemed important to me to capture his final words, the words of a great poet and a great soldier. He turned his aristocratic eyes to me. Grimacing and making a superhuman effort, the following unforgettable words sprang from his soul: ‘I am going to the eighth house.’ Now this would be an enigma to most people, but not to those familiar with the secrets of the Cabbala, because in astrology, the eighth house is the house of death.

Richardson had returned. He poured them both some coffee and set before Lassalle three envelopes and three sheets of paper.

‘I actually need you to write three letters. My writing is terrible, which is why I’m asking you this favour,’ he said. ‘But first, let’s drink our coffee.’

‘Why not do both things at once,’ said Lassalle, closing his notebook and taking up one of the sheets of paper.

‘The first is to the Captain’s widow, Christine Saliat de Meilhan,’ said Richardson. ‘The second is to a close friend of the Captain’s, Duke Armand Saint-Foix. And the third is to the authorities in charge of the Force Publique, to tell them that I, Eric Richardson, am now in command at Yangambi, but that they should send a captain and a lieutenant as soon as possible. I’m far too old for this sort of thing. Besides, something tells me that the rebels could attack any day. Livo was probably one of them. Anyway, let’s just hope Chrysostome gets better soon.’

The more he listened to Richardson, the more Lassalle wanted to leave Yangambi.

‘Shouldn’t you write to Donatien’s family?’ he asked.

‘He seemed to have hundreds of brothers and sisters, but he wasn’t in touch with any of them. Even at Christmas, the only letter he got was from the Force Publique. So that’s one less job to do.’

By the time they had written the letters, the hulking shape of the Princesse Clémentine was filling the beach, and they were walking down to the wooden jetty together, Lassalle carrying a suitcase and Richardson his three letters. In the prow of the boat was a huge metal cage, like those used in zoos.

‘Just what we need, a request for a lion,’ said Richardson. ‘Well, I have no intention of going hunting. Let them ask the company at Kisangani.’

When they reached the boat, Richardson flung his arms wide.

‘What are they playing at!’ he exclaimed.

The cage on the boat was not empty. Inside was a lion.

‘I have no idea,’ said Lassalle, although he preferred not to give the matter any further thought. He had quite enough material without having to open a whole new chapter devoted to lions.

A man wearing the insignia of the Force Publique came over to them. He, too, was carrying a letter. Lassalle realised then that Richardson’s problem wasn’t his writing, but his eyes. Unable to read the letter, Richardson passed it to Lassalle.

‘What does it say?’ he asked, in a voice that was more like a sigh.

Inside the envelope bearing the seal of the Royal Zoological Gardens of Brussels was a note explaining that they were sending them their oldest lion. They were doing this at the express wish of Léopold II’s secretary, Duke Armand Saint-Foix, so that the lion could die a dignified death in the jungle as befitted the king of the beasts.

The cage was lowered onto the beach, and Richardson and Lassalle stood studying the lion. It tried to get up, but its back legs buckled beneath it.

‘He wasn’t so bad when we reached Matadi,’ said the man wearing the insignia of the Force Publique, ‘but this last part of the journey has pretty much finished him off.’

‘It wouldn’t even be any use as part of a shooting contest,’ said Richardson. ‘I can’t imagine what Lalande Biran would have wanted with an old lion.’

‘You know what poets are like,’ said Lassalle. ‘I imagine you’re aware that Saint-Foix and Lalande Biran both figure in several Belgian poetry anthologies.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ said Richardson angrily. ‘And as soon as you leave, I’ll finish the beast off.’

The lion did not move a muscle. It remained lying down, watching the men unloading the cargo.

Near the beach, a monkey screamed. The lion appeared completely oblivious. It seemed to be deaf.