Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

Van Thiegel was taken by surprise.

‘So soon?’

‘It would probably be best to wait until Christmas, but that won’t be possible with a bishop and a journalist hanging around. Besides, there won’t be time then. We have to take the statue of the Virgin to the island of Samanga, and that will take us three or four days.’

Van Thiegel drank his martini down in one.

‘Why Samanga? You’ve lost me, Biran. Tell me more.’

Lalande Biran gave him the necessary information. Another change of plans in Brussels meant that there would be no royal party, just a journalist and a bishop, who would celebrate mass. So there seemed little point in travelling all the way to the Stanley Falls. The idea of taking the statue to Samanga had only just occurred to him, but he was sure the little island would be the ideal place, given that it was much nearer and looked rather like a small mountain. In Europe and the Americas, statues were usually placed on some high vantage point, and Africa should be no different. The Virgin would look out over the river and over many square miles of jungle.

‘So this Christmas we’re going to Samanga,’ he concluded. ‘But first, we’re going to have some fun with the shooting match.’

‘Both seem like excellent ideas,’ said Van Thiegel.

His mind had divided not into two this time, but three. The Captain — thought one of those three parts — had clearly reverted to his usual state of mind after that brief burst of happiness in the changing-room. According to the song, the grasshopper sang all summer, but the Captain’s joy had lasted barely an hour. He was absolutely furious. The proof of this was the chicotte he had hurled away so angrily and which still lay at the river’s edge.

‘What news from Paris? Is your wife well?’ asked the second part of his mind, but the letter from Christine Saliat de Meilhan, he realised, had not yet been opened.

‘We’ll find out now,’ said Lalande Biran.

He read it quickly. His wife said much the same as Toisonet, that they were to be the owners of a beautiful house in St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, and that agreement had been reached ‘thanks to the mediation of Duke Armand Saint-Foix’.

‘Christine is happy with her houses,’ he said, putting the letter down on the table again. ‘And she’ll be even happier when I send her the cheetah skin. We killed it on the way back, so it hasn’t started to smell yet.’

A question arose in the second part of Van Thiegel’s mind. Since leave in the Force Publique was rare and only brief, even for the higher ranking officers, how did Christine cope with her solitude? Was she unfaithful to the Captain? For a moment, his mind was filled with the image of that woman, of the same Christine he had seen in a photo in his superior’s office, but this time she was wearing a stole made of cheetah skin wrapped about her neck. A few golden curls spilled onto it. She was utterly adorable.

‘We had no problems at all with any attempted escapees while we were in the jungle,’ he said, shaking off the image of Christine and moving into the third part of his mind. ‘I didn’t waste a single cartridge collecting that timber.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. All the more ammunition for the monkeys,’ said Lalande Biran, standing up.

A feeling of unease gripped that third part of Van Thiegel’s mind. He would once again be pitted against Chrysostome in the shooting match, and if the poofter repeated his triumph, Van Thiegel’s reputation as a hunter and his good name in general would reach rock bottom. His time in the Foreign Legion had taught him one thing, which he bore engraved on his mind: if an officer ever revealed a weakness, his enemies would flock to it like mosquitos to an open wound.

‘How far away will the target be? A hundred yards?’ he asked, picking up the chicotte from the river’s edge and returning it to the Captain.

‘Oh, two hundred at least,’ replied Lalande Biran. ‘It’s not a matter of finishing off the monkeys as quickly as possible. We don’t want the party to be over too soon.’

‘Fine, two hundred yards it is then. By the way, Biran, what happened to the fourth porter? There were only three hands in the bag.’

‘He got swept away by the current and we weren’t going to hang around for the sake of a hand,’ said Lalande Biran, tucking the chicotte in his belt.

Van Thiegel tried to blank out the third part of his brain, but failed. The image of Chrysostome refused to disappear.

THE ASKARIS IN their red fezes had tied up the first mandrill and placed it behind a white-painted screen, so that only its head was visible. Richardson half-closed his eyes. He could barely see the target.

‘How many yards away is it, Captain?’ he asked.

‘About two hundred.’

The screen was right at the far end of the firing range. Behind it lay the jungle.

‘It’s too far, Biran. And the light isn’t going to help,’ said Richardson. The morning sun was just appearing behind the screen. ‘You try it.’

He handed him his rifle.

Lalande Biran couldn’t really see the mandrill’s head either. It was just a dark smudge above the white screen. Indeed, the only way he could identify Donatien — who was in charge of the askaris dealing with the screen and the mandrills — was by his greater height. Lalande Biran’s eyes might still be d’azur et d’or , but they were getting weaker and weaker.

‘Line up!’ he ordered. ‘Take forty paces forward!’

The officers lined up and advanced, counting the paces as they did so. ‘One, two, three, four …!’

‘That’s better!’ exclaimed Richardson when they reached the new position. Lalande Biran could see the target more clearly too; the smudge above the screen now bore the face of a mandrill. And the heads of Donatien and the askaris had ears.

‘Oh, yes, much better,’ repeated Richardson, after taking aim with his rifle. ‘It’s still not going to be easy, mind. It’ll keep us busy the whole day. The trouble is, once we start shooting, the monkeys will get agitated.’

The askaris had been ordered to leave the upper part of the mandrill’s body untethered, so that the animal could move its trunk and head freely. A moving target would make the game more of a challenge.

Lalande Biran shouted to Donatien and put his hand to his head. Donatien understood at once and ran to place a red fez on the mandrill.

‘Oh, that’s much better!’ exclaimed Richardson. There was laughter among the officers, some even applauded.

Van Thiegel joined in the laughter and the applause, but his thoughts were elsewhere. All the officers, young and old, were enjoying the party atmosphere, with one exception: Chrysostome. He had placed himself at the far end of the line, on the outer edge of the group, just as he did at the card tables in the Club Royal. It wasn’t indifference on his part, but arrogance. His very posture declared that distance mattered nothing to him and that he considered putting a red fez on a monkey to be an act of rank stupidity.

Lalande Biran noticed Van Thiegel’s unease.

‘A festive spirit reigns in the camp, but …’ he thought to himself, pursuing the first line of a poem. He looked around in search of details; he saw the cooks lighting the barbecues on which to cook the goat’s meat and the smoke rising up and dispersing in the air. The blue flag with the yellow star fluttered gently in the breeze, and his men were happy because they didn’t have to go into the jungle to carry out the everproblematic task of keeping guard. The only man who wasn’t happy was Van Thiegel.

He couldn’t understand his lieutenant’s attitude. The three huge barges that had set off downriver laden with six hundred mahogany logs and twelve elephant tusks would take less than a month to reach Léopoldville. A week later, the load would be in Matadi. Two weeks later, it would reach its final destination, Antwerp. From that moment on, Toisonet’s employees would take charge of everything, and by mid-December, the money would be safe in a Swiss bank.