Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

‘You mean gambling debts, don’t you?’ said Van Thiegel, slowing his pace, but not stopping. He wanted to get to the club.

‘My wife says that it’s madness to devote yourself to earning money in Yangambi only to spend it all in Yangambi as well. She’s quite right, and I don’t want anyone to fall into that trap. That’s why I set that limit.’

‘I told my mother, and she thought it was a good idea. She says I should go back to Europe and set up a business, but I’m not sure …’ Van Thiegel shook his head. ‘Anyway, I agree with you,’ he went on. ‘At least we have plenty of women, which is why most of us put up with being here. That’s why Chrysostome’s such an odd case. I just can’t understand it.’

Lalande Biran ignored Van Thiegel’s final comment. ‘On the subject of rules,’ he said, ‘there’s another one that my men are reluctant to accept. It seems that no one likes having to change their shoes before going into the club. But imagine what would happen if they didn’t. The place would be full of mud. And that wouldn’t be right. The Club Royal should be like an island in Yangambi, what the Latin poets called a locus amoenus .’

They had reached the river bank. The beach was completely empty. It would remain like that for another three weeks, more or less. Thereafter five hundred mahogany logs would occupy the area opposite the jetty. The elephants’ tusks would be on display there too, very clean and white.

They went into the Club Royal. It wasn’t really a building, but a group of four barrack huts. The first was used as a changing-room, and there you could find the officers’ lockers and the pigeon-holes for their post; the second contained the bar and the gaming room; the third, right on the bank of the river, served as porch or terrace; the fourth and largest hut was set slightly apart from the others and served as the club storeroom.

‘Oh, I agree with that rule too,’ said Van Thiegel. He was taking off his muddy boots. ‘I find the club a very restful place. It’s much more pleasant than my office.’

Lalande half-closed his eyes. This was his way of smiling. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Cocó. If a garrison is to work well, the commanding officers have to be in agreement.’

‘Who else will be going on the hunt?’ asked Van Thiegel.

‘Chrysostome. It’s best to be on the safe side and take a good marksman along, don’t you think?’

Van Thiegel wondered if Chrysostome would get a percentage of the profits from the ivory. If so, Lalande Biran was ranking him higher than he did Van Thiegel. Going hunting was more exciting than felling trees. A hundred times more.

‘He’s an excellent shot, there’s no doubt about that,’ he answered. ‘How many men are you taking altogether?’

‘Thirty porters, ten sappers and ten askaris as guards. It’s all arranged.’

Van Thiegel crouched down to tie the laces of the clean boots he had just put on. That was a lot of men. It wasn’t so very hard to find and kill five male elephants. And five askaris would be more than enough to guard thirty porters and ten sappers. With someone like Chrysostome on hand, you could make do with even fewer. And they would need a lot of cartridges. Knowing Lalande Biran, at least two hundred.

‘That’ll mean a lot of cartridges. You never can tell in the jungle,’ he said.

Lalande Biran merely nodded.

That night, Van Thiegel stayed very late at the club. When he did finally leave, a new rumour had sprung into life in Yangambi. It turned on the elephant hunt, with the number of cartridges the main motive for speculation. Various figures were bandied about, two hundred, three hundred and fifty, even the incredible figure of five hundred. A day passed, and like dough that has been left to rest, the quantity swelled and grew: it would be four hundred cartridges. Another day, and the vox populi of Yangambi announced the distribution: two hundred for Captain Lalande Biran; one hundred for Chrysostome; ten for each of the askaris .

On the third day, when Lalande Biran, Chrysostome, the askaris , the sappers and the bearers were setting off, the now poisonous rumour was circulating among the officers in Yangambi. They could understand the Captain having two hundred cartridges, and the number set aside for the askaris too, because they were going hunting and would need more than the customary two; but they simply couldn’t stomach the one hundred cartridges allotted to Chrysostome. A sharpshooter like him would need, at most, twenty cartridges to kill five elephants.

Before the party had disappeared into the depths of the jungle, a large black mamba of a word was slithering slyly from one hut to another in Yangambi. In the end, it managed to climb not only onto Van Thiegel’s table, but onto each and every table in the Club Royal. It was humiliating that such a privilege — one hundred cartridges! — should be given to that great poofter Chrysostome, the biggest pédé in the whole Force Publique.

THE PARTY RETURNED in the first week of October, a few days later than expected. When they entered the compound and marched into the European section, Lalande Biran was at their head; bringing up the rear was Chrysostome, his rifle on his shoulder; and in the middle came the askaris , the sappers and the porters. The latter were carrying the elephant tusks and leading along a group of live mandrills, linked together by a rope tied about their necks, as if they were a line of slaves.

Lalande Biran ordered his men to halt before they reached the Place du Grand Palmier, and the women employed in the slaughterhouses and the stores ran out to receive his commands. Five askari guards also approached, followed by a black NCO, and then another ten askaris . Striding after them came Donatien.

Half-hidden between the slaughterhouse and the storeroom was the hut where weapons and munitions were kept. Van Thiegel was observing the scene from one of the hut’s mean little windows and trying to understand what he was seeing. You didn’t have to be particularly bright to realise that the expedition had met with problems. Apart from the delayed return, two askaris and four or five of the porters who had set out with the group had not come back. There was something else too. Lalande Biran looked positively haggard, as if he had suddenly lost ten or even twenty pounds in weight. In his rain-sodden uniform and with several days’ growth of beard, he seemed a different person, older and almost ugly. Chrysostome, for his part, had lost the swagger with which he had strolled into Yangambi carrying that rhinoceros horn, although he still wore his shirt collar unbuttoned to show off his blue ribbon and gold chain. Beneath his hat, his hair had grown almost down to his eyes, but, thought Van Thiegel scornfully, there was still no sign of any hair on his chest.

‘Poofter!’ he spat out.

Lalande Biran gave an order, and the askaris guarding the mandrills bawled out the same words, brandishing their chicottes. Immediately, four porters came forward carrying by the legs the apparently heavy corpse of a cheetah. Lalande Biran shouted again. He was in a very bad mood indeed.

The porters carried the cheetah into the slaughterhouse, and Van Thiegel waited to see what would happen to the mandrills. Perhaps they had been captured for their meat, although none of the white officers, with the exception of Richardson, were particularly fond of it. The mandrills, however, weren’t taken to the slaughterhouse, but to the firing range. The porters who had been carrying the cheetah joined those carrying the elephant tusks and, accompanied by about ten askaris , headed down to the river.