Seven Houses in France

II

THE TASK ASSIGNED to Chrysostome of guarding the workers was not an easy one, because the rubbertappers, all native to the area, wandered about in the jungle at will and often made use of their superior knowledge of the terrain to escape. Nevertheless, to use the words of Captain Lalande Biran, the new arrival immediately proved himself to be another Chiron — the centaur who loved hunting — or perhaps an improved version of Chiron, given that Chrysostome was armed not with a bow and arrow, but with an Albini-Braendlin rifle. Very few workers tried to escape on his watch, and those who did never got very far. With his agility, youth and slight physique, Chrysostome could make his way through even the densest jungle and his aim never faltered. Lalande Biran had more than enough reason to be pleased that such a remarkable officer should have been posted to Yangambi.

‘What he did with the musket on that first day was no fluke,’ he told the other officers during an after-dinner conversation. ‘He’s an excellent shot, a real champion. I doubt there’s a better shot in the whole Upper Congo, or indeed in the whole country. He has, I have to say, exceeded all my hopes.’

There were other notable marksmen in Yangambi, among them young Lopes and Lieutenant Van Thiegel, but Chrysostome achieved with one bullet what they could only have achieved with three or more.

Chrysostome’s reputation soon reached the mugini in the region, as if a hundred drums had spread the news of his marksmanship throughout the dark jungle and along the damp shores of the river Congo and the river Lomami, and from then on, the workers under his supervision lost all desire to escape and devoted themselves to the collection of rubber with a determination and a will that made them run from tree to tree and from liana to liana even when they had already fulfilled the minimum quota set for each group by King Léopold. Two months passed, and Captain Lalande Biran — reminded once more of Chiron the centaur huntsman and of how he had taught the other demigods and heroes to hunt — appointed Chrysostome shooting instructor, encouraging the askaris and the black NCOs to go to Chrysostome in order to learn how to get the best out of their rifles.

One Sunday morning, Biran repeated this advice in a speech intended for the white officers:

‘A soldier, my friends, must not only be brave in the face of the enemy, he must be equally brave when facing up to himself. After all, it’s not so very hard to shout “Attack!” when confronted by the enemy, it’s far harder to struggle with one’s own pride. Even Napoleon, having triumphed at the battle of Borodino, which cost the lives of 50,000 Russian and 30,000 French soldiers, was capable of recognising his mistake, saying: “I cannot be that good a general, for if I were, the sacrifice of a mere 20,000 heroes should have been enough to gain victory.” It was this humility that made Napoleon great, as well, of course, as his many victories at Borodino, Marengo and elsewhere. Today, I want to encourage you to act in the same spirit. I know it wounds your pride to ask a mere novice for advice on how to handle the Albini-Braendlin, but fight against that feeling!’

On each of the following days, before sunset and once the work in the rubber plantation and the marches through the jungle were over, the firing range at Yangambi was the scene of some unusual activity. The askaris in their red fezes, the black NCOs, and the white officers all gathered round Chrysostome, who advised each of his pupils, one by one, on the correct position of arm, neck and foot. Lalande Biran, Van Thiegel and Richardson, the chiefs of Yangambi, watched the classes from a platform in the firing range. Presiding over the scene was the blue flag of the Force Publique with its single yellow star.

These were days of rare intensity and harmony, worthy, almost, of the age of Napoleon, but, after a week, the number of pupils had dwindled by half, then there were only fifty, then twenty. After a month, there was no one left. The shooting classes had come to an end.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Donatien, looking over Chrysostome’s head at the empty firing range. ‘The Captain wants us all to be like Napoleon, but that’s not easy. If we had a woman like Josephine waiting for us in bed, we might manage it, but we, alas, live in Yangambi.’

This was Donatien’s third or fourth attempt to get a smile out of Chrysostome — in vain. He received only this laconic reply:

‘It doesn’t matter. Some are born good marksmen and some aren’t. Like everything else, it’s in God’s hands.’

Carrying his rifle, Chrysostome set off briskly towards the Place du Grand Palmier. Donatien caught up with him and, deciding to change the subject, began instead to talk about Christmas. He couldn’t wait, he said. Captain Lalande Biran spared no effort in ensuring that his men were happy at such a special time of year. He laid on veritable banquets at which one could eat one’s fill of goat’s meat and the finest fish from the river, and in the card games at the Club, you could even lay bets of up to one hundred francs, rather than the usual ten. The best thing, though, was that, from then on, it rained much less and there was almost no mud. That’s why he liked Christmas and New Year. Plus it was the only time he ever received a letter.

They entered the palisade and the Place du Grand Palmier. Donatien pointed to Government House: ‘The Captain receives letters from Paris or Brussels almost every week. I don’t. I only get them at Christmas. Although Richardson has it worse. No one ever writes to Richardson, not even at Christmas.’

There was a set of pigeon-holes for the officers’ correspondence at the entrance to the Club Royal, and on some weeks, Donatien had seen a letter for Chrysostome there, always from Britancourt and always, to judge by the writing, from the same person. The problem was that the person only put the name of the village in the return address and so there was no way of knowing who had sent it, his mother, his girlfriend, a friend. Donatien wanted to know.

Chrysostome failed to take the bait, saying: ‘Christmas Day is a great day. A celebration of the birth of Jesus, who was conceived by Our Lady, the Virgin Mary and born in Bethlehem.’

He showed Donatien the medal on its blue ribbon, but said nothing about the family or friends he had left behind in Britancourt.

It was evening, and the palm trees lining the road that led down to the river were like drawings made in India ink; the sky was a sheet of greenish glass, the river Congo was the pressed skin of a snake, and the Lomami, a silver rope. On the beach by the river, a group of officers were enjoying a last cigarette before supper and the smoke from the club chimneys carried on it the smell of grilled fish.