Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

His muse’s words did not convince him, but it soothed him to remember them.

‘Shall we take a look at the timber?’ said Van Thiegel. They were swimming again. Lalande Biran did not respond, but swam towards the shore.

Seen from the river, the piles of mahogany logs on the beach looked like the wagons of a train that had stopped there. Unfortunately, the real train, the one that Stanley — Mbula Matari — had helped build by dynamiting hundreds of rocks, only went as far as Léopoldville, and the valuable cargo from Yangambi would have to be transported there by river.

‘We’ll need three barges to shift this lot, but the load should reach Antwerp by the end of November,’ said Van Thiegel. His eyes were flicking from pile to pile, looking for the towels the servant should have brought. He felt uncomfortable in his nakedness.

‘It’s a lot of wood,’ said Lalande Biran.

Again, the answer inside his mind was more complex. Yes, it was a lot of wood, and he had brought back more ivory than expected, but it wouldn’t be enough for Christine. Another letter would come, insisting yet again that she must buy that seventh house in France and demanding more mahogany and more ivory, forcing him to go back into the jungle in search of more elephants. And the day would come, perhaps on that hunting trip, perhaps on the next — because Christine would keep asking for more and more — when his luck would run out and he would stay in the jungle for ever, struck by a stone flung by some fleeing porter or badly wounded by a shot from a rebel rifle, and then he would be trampled underfoot by a herd of stampeding elephants, elephants weighing eight tons apiece, which would kill him, leaving only his crushed remains, remains that would become food for vermin and insects …

He paused to take a breath. The scent from the mahogany resin was a pleasure to the nostrils; the pinkish, reddish colour of the wood a pleasure to the eyes. Mahogany was a benign wood. It helped drive away negative thoughts.

‘Ah, there they are!’ exclaimed Van Thiegel. Two white towels lay neatly folded on the jetty. ‘I told him to leave them on a log, but that was obviously too much to ask.’

He went over to the jetty and returned with one of the towels tied about his waist. Lalande draped the other round his neck.

‘I was worried Chrysostome might be prowling around somewhere, and I didn’t feel safe with my arse on view,’ said Van Thiegel. His lips parted in a half-smile, but beneath his puffy lids, his gaze was like that of a snake. The blue of his irises was dark, almost black.

‘Chrysostome stayed behind with the men cleaning the ivory. I get tired, but he doesn’t.’ Lalande Biran put his head in between two logs and inhaled deeply.

‘I have some good news, Biran,’ said Van Thiegel after a silence. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you.’

Lalande Biran removed his head from between the logs and looked at him.

‘There’s more than a million francs on this beach, Biran!’ Van Thiegel shouted, spreading his arms wide. ‘When you add in what we’ll get from the ivory, that’s a million and a half!’

Lalande Biran closed his eyes.

‘How much did you say?’ he asked, opening them again.

Van Thiegel picked up a twig from the ground and wrote the figure in the sand: 1,500,000. His eyes were once again very blue.

A light breeze from the river set the branches of the palm trees swaying. The air in Yangambi suddenly filled with good omens. On one side of the sky, the round sun was shining brightly, as if the rainy season had ended at that very moment. The mandrills were quiet. There were no bats.

‘Why?’ he asked, although he guessed what the answer would be and wasn’t surprised when Van Thiegel explained what had been happening on the European markets. Mahogany had tripled in value since the previous shipment, and the rise in the value of ivory had been even greater.

‘When I got back from Lomami with the mahogany, I found a letter from my mother. She sends me newspaper cuttings. I have them up at the club. I’ll show you.’

‘That’s really excellent news!’ cried Lalande Biran.

‘I know, Biran. A real stroke of luck.’

They started walking up the beach towards the Club Royal. They were two white men in Africa, one totally naked apart from a towel slung around his neck, the other half-naked, with a towel tied round his waist, and both were breathing in the smell of the mahogany resin, listening to the murmur of the river, and feeling all around them the presence of the endless jungle. Seen from a distance, they could have been taken for two figures in a classical painting. In reality, though, and to put it in somewhat sentimental terms, their hearts were beating like those of two adolescents. Even Van Thiegel’s heart, because having that information in your head was not the same as putting it into words. When he spoke it, verbalised it — ‘There’s more than a million francs on this beach, Biran! When you add in what we’ll get from the ivory, that’s a million and a half!’ — it became more real, became flesh. Especially when he saw the figure written in the sand: 1,500,000. It was so exciting that their bodies reacted. They both had goose pimples. A million and a half! 1,500,000!

It seemed so impossible that Lalande Biran wanted to hear it again.

‘Have I understood you right? A million and a half just for us, without counting the part that goes to Monsieur X.’

Van Thiegel replied very precisely: ‘800,000 francs for you, 650,000 for me, 50,000 for expenses.’

Lalande Biran felt a deep thrill of excitement. You didn’t have to be good at maths to understand what that sum of money meant. There would be no need for another expedition or another shipment. He and Toisonet would never have to discuss the sordid topic again. And, above all, Christine could buy her seventh house on the peninsula of St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and be contented for a good long while.

They went into the changing-rooms at the Club Royal and took their clothes and boots out of their lockers. While they were getting dressed, Lalande Biran was still pondering the consequences of that unexpected bonanza. He wouldn’t have to stay in Yangambi for another year. After Christmas, he would accompany Toisonet to the Stanley Falls and, once the statue of the Virgin had been put in place, he would ask one of the journalists present to take a photo of him with his Kodak camera, and thus bring to a close his contribution to the Force Publique. By spring, perhaps as early as May, he would be back in Paris. And if Christine moved quickly and bought that villa, they could spend the summer months in St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat in their seventh house.

‘The grasshoppers sing all summer!’ he exclaimed jubilantly, sitting down on the bench in the changing-room to put on his boots. ‘ Les cigales chantent tout l’été! ’

Even though he was sitting next to him, also pulling on his boots, Van Thiegel failed to notice the Captain’s joyful outburst. An anxiety had taken hold not just of one part of his mind, but of both. He was shocked by Lalande Biran’s response — or, rather, lack of response — to his insinuating comment about Chrysostome. ‘I was worried Chrysostome might be prowling around somewhere, and I didn’t feel safe with my arse on view,’ he had said, and Lalande Biran had ignored his words. Was it that he respected Chrysostome as a hunter even more than he thought, and that he was prepared to forgive him everything else? Such a possibility infuriated Van Thiegel and spoiled a moment that should, in principle, have been a source of both military and economic joy.

Lalande Biran continued to sing as he tied his laces. ‘The Grasshopper, having sung all summer …’ — ‘ La Cigale, ayant chanté tout l’été …’ This time, Van Thiegel understood. The Captain was very happy, indeed, he couldn’t ever remember having seen him so happy. On festive days, the other officers often burst into song, inspired by the convivial atmosphere and by the palm wine, but the Captain never joined in.