Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

‘A festive spirit reigns in the camp, and I am almost happy …’ he thought to himself, going back to his poem. The sentence, with the spontaneous addition of ‘I am almost happy’, surprised him and he decided he would continue the poem in that personal, confiding tone. There was no time for that now, though, he had to announce the start of the contest. Richardson, Lopes and several other officers were pacing restlessly about near the firing position.

Lalande Biran went over to them and explained that the prize would be a photograph. The journalist coming at Christmas would take a picture of the winner and publish it in the European press.

‘I’d better not win, then,’ said Richardson.

‘You know why, don’t you? Because he’s afraid of his wife,’ explained Lopes, who had a jovial, soldierly sense of humour. ‘In his last letter, he told her he was in Algeria and would be home soon. That was twenty years ago.’

Some of the officers laughed, and Richardson thrust the butt of his Albini-Braendlin into Lopes’ stomach. He had an even more soldierly sense of humour than Lopes.

At a gesture from Lalande Biran, one of the black NCOs came over carrying a small bag. Each officer pulled out a number: Richardson chose seven, Van Thiegel eight, Lopes thirteen, and Chrysostome fourteen. Lalande Biran, however, did not put his hand into the bag. As commanding officer in Yangambi, he would only fire after all the others had done so.

The first mandrill did not move much when it heard the first shots, but as soon as it realised what was happening, it struggled to free itself. When Richardson fired, it was moving so frantically that the red fez fell to the ground. Richardson repeated his joke:

‘The only reason I didn’t hit it, of course, was because I’d really rather not win.’

Lalande Biran winked at him.

‘Cocó won’t miss, though, you wait.’

The Lieutenant wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, took careful aim, then fired. The mandrill’s head disappeared only to reappear a few seconds later.

‘You wounded him, Lieutenant, but not fatally,’ said Lopes. The monkey’s head was moving frenetically back and forth above the screen. ‘I think you got him in the shoulder,’ Lopes added.

‘And a lot of bloody good that is,’ said Van Thiegel.

Lalande Biran again winked at Richardson, meaning that the more cursing there was, the better the contest.

‘Calm down, Cocó, we’ve only just started,’ said Richardson.

The officers who followed all missed: the ninth, the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth and Lopes, the thirteenth. Then it was Chrysostome’s turn.

Van Thiegel kept his eyes fixed on the screen. The wounded monkey was bleeding and moving less frenetically now. This clearly wasn’t Van Thiegel’s lucky day. He had achieved nothing, and succeeded only in making things easier for his biggest rival.

In one movement, Chrysostome put his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The head above the screen vanished, and Donatien waved the blue flag with the yellow star of the Force Publique. The askaris dragged away the dead mandrill.

They took a break for lunch, and the participants sat in four circles around four trays piled with the barbecued goat’s meat. By then, Chrysostome had killed three monkeys; Lopes and Lalande one each; the other officers none.

Richardson offered Van Thiegel a jug of palm wine.

‘If you want to shoot better this afternoon, have a drink, that’s my advice. You were too tense this morning.’

The Lieutenant took a long draught of wine. He had already decided to get drunk and needed no encouragement from anyone. He had to change his luck. If not, he would be made to look a complete fool.

The wine, in a cask, had been left in the shade of a lean-to so that it didn’t get too warm, and the servants, Livo and another five men, were hurrying from group to group to keep the officers’ glasses filled. The only person striding around at his usual slow pace was Donatien, who was looking after the Captain and the two officers sharing his tray of meat, Van Thiegel and Richardson.

The sun was high and it was hot. Most of the men were eating eagerly. They were also drinking freely and unreservedly, relieved not to have to keep watch on the rubber-tappers in that dark jungle where a moment’s inattention could cost them their life.

According to the programme for the day, which Lalande Biran had written out himself and pinned up in the entrance to the Club Royal, they were currently enjoying un joyeux déjeuner sur l’herbe , a jolly picnic. But the prevailing tension prevented the men from enjoying the party. Conversation was awkward, even acrimonious at times; the rifles had not been placed together in a neat stack as usually happened when the men were at rest; instead, each rifle lay by its owner’s side; and no one had seized the opportunity to lie down on the ground and take a nap. Even Donatien, who cared nothing for the contest, was feeling increasingly nervous. He barely had time to breathe. Van Thiegel and Richardson kept calling him over and were drinking the wine as if it were water.

By the ninth or tenth summons, Van Thiegel was no longer demanding palm wine, but cognac. Donatien’s Adam’s apple sank beneath his collar. He had no cognac to give them.

‘Don’t worry, Donatien,’ Lalande Biran told him. ‘You have my permission to fetch the bottle of Martell from my office. That way, you won’t have to go to the storeroom.’

Donatien saluted and headed for the square.

‘You’ll never see that fellow break into a run,’ Lalande Biran said, following Donatien with his eyes. ‘He’s probably the laziest member of the whole Force Publique, but otherwise, he’s like a good dog, faithful and obedient.’

‘Faithful and obedient … and a bit short, wouldn’t you say?’ commented Richardson.

‘Short?’ exclaimed Van Thiegel. ‘There’s nothing short about him! I’ve seen his dick a couple of times and it’s huge. The first time, I thought he had a piece of salami dangling down between his legs.’

Lalande Biran laughed out loud. He felt good, partly because of the drink, but largely because he had managed to hit one monkey. He had told his men that, regardless of whether he hit the target or not, he would make only one attempt. He was thus quite highly placed in the rankings: one cartridge, one monkey. Cocó, on the other hand, was very low down: three shots and not a single monkey. As was to be expected, Chrysostome was in the lead: three shots, three monkeys. No one was likely to beat him. They would each have six more shots that afternoon, but it would be difficult for anyone to equal his morning score, especially Cocó. As the day wore on, Cocó was growing more and more agitated. Every time Chrysostome’s name cropped up in the conversation, his face darkened.

Donatien brought the bottle of Martell, and with it three brandy glasses.

‘Well done, Donatien. I thought you might forget,’ Lalande Biran said. He disliked drinking cognac out of a wine glass. ‘You can go and have a sleep if you like. The contest won’t start again for another hour.’

Donatien thanked him and went to lie down in the lean-to beside the cask of palm wine.

Van Thiegel had stood up and was watching Chrysostome. He was sitting with four other officers in the shade of a solitary teak tree, about fifteen yards away. They were toasting something, four of them holding their glasses high, while Chrysostome barely raised his at all. The great poofter was up to his usual tricks.

Van Thiegel turned to Lalande Biran.

‘Before I tackle my friend Martell, I need to empty my bladder,’ he said. His speech was slurred and he stumbled over his words. ‘But just in case, I’m going a bit farther off,’ he pointed to the solitary teak tree and added: ‘That’s the best place in Yangambi for a piss, but I don’t want to risk him seeing my tadger.’