Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

Lalande Biran studied him with some respect. Physically, Van Thiegel was his superior. And he wasn’t a bad adjutant either. Certainly the best he could find in Yangambi. His strength meant that he could take charge of all the heavy work and, generally speaking, he had always got on well with the other officers and with the askaris . Up until now. Besides, he had that very unusual mother who dealt with all his money matters and kept him informed of those vital numbers, 370 and 330.

‘I was thinking, Cocó,’ he said suddenly. ‘We must find Chrysostome a girlfriend.’

Richardson roared with laughter: ‘That’s a good idea!’

‘Yes, I think so too, Biran,’ said Van Thiegel, putting his hat on straight.

‘If my long experience of such matters can be of any help, I am at your service,’ said Richardson.

Lalande Biran spoke in a whisper: ‘You’re aware, I assume, that Donatien is in charge of bringing me girls from the jungle. Well, from now on, Chrysostome will go with him.’

Van Thiegel beamed, and Richardson applauded. It really was a very good idea.

‘We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at Government House, gentlemen. About four o’clock. We must agree on a plan.’

Lalande Biran took his leave of his two colleagues and walked over to where the monkeys were being kept. The sky was blue, with just a few high, scattered clouds; the jungle was dark green; the teaks that grew here and there in the encampment were light green; the earth a yellowish brown.

While he walked, he diverted his thoughts back to the poem about Sisyphus that he had begun on the porch of the Club Royal after reading the article in Le Soir , and decided to use those two numbers — 330, 370 — as the title, but without telling anyone why, not even Toisonet. When he published his next book, he would tell the critics that they were ‘cabalistic numbers’ and that he preferred to leave it to his readers to interpret them.

‘“Sisyphus,” they said, “the rock you are carrying on your back has crumbled; sit down on the river bank, if you wish, and watch the water flowing. There is no weight now, there are no obligations.” But, friends, Sisyphus cannot stop. If he does, he will be assailed by ravenous bats. He is not as brave as Prometheus, my friends. He is a child and needs to play. Pray, do not disturb him.’

As he passed by the screen where the next mandrill was already tied up, the monkey followed him with its eyes, but the Captain was too immersed in his poem to notice. He only returned to reality when he reached the enclosure where the other mandrills were being kept and the askaris called him over. One of the male mandrills appeared to have rabies and was uncontrollable. If they tried to muzzle it, it would bite them.

Lalande Biran peered over the wooden palisade. Most of the mandrills seemed rather weary and eyed him meekly, but the supposedly rabid male stared at him with bulging eyes, baring its teeth. The Captain raised his rifle and shot the creature in the head.

Two askaris beat the mandrill to see if it reacted, but it was dead.

‘ Très bien! Très bien, mon capitaine! ’ they shouted.

Lalande Biran walked over to the other officers, again focussing on the poem about Sisyphus. He really liked that last line: ‘He is a child and needs to play. Pray, do not disturb him.’ It provided a good tight ending.

He felt overjoyed. He knew himself well. If he could finish one poem, he could finish another twenty. He would write a letter to his publisher in Brussels, telling him that the new book was underway and asking him for a publication date.

Donatien came up to him and asked permission to go back to the screen and the monkeys. Five minutes later, the first of the marksmen began the afternoon session. Three hours later, the contest had ended with the following result: Chrysostome nine monkeys, Lopes four, Van Thiegel three.

Richardson patted the Lieutenant on the back. ‘You were on excellent form this afternoon, but the younger men are pressing hard on your heels. You’ll have to make way for them.’

‘Oh, I’ll be happy to help them, especially Chrysostome. Let’s see if we can find him that girlfriend we talked about.’

‘I’m sure Donatien will show him which of many paths to follow,’ said Richardson.

And the two men laughed.

DONATIEN BARELY SLEPT the night after he had been told that — at least until Christmas — Chrysostome would be accompanying him on his visits to the mugini in search of young girls. It would seem that Chrysostome was losing in the only contest that really mattered: the virility stakes. Donatien had heard Richardson say: ‘He’s a good shot with one of his rifles, but he can’t even take aim with the other.’

These words were greeted with guffaws by Van Thiegel and Lalande Biran, and Donatien immediately suspected that something strange was going on, and that far from helping Chrysostome, as they claimed, they were probably hoping to make a fool of him. Anyway, they were completely wrong about Chrysostome. He was no pansy. Donatien knew this better than anyone, because one of his brothers had been queer, and you didn’t have to be very bright to see that there wasn’t the slightest resemblance between his brother’s behaviour and Chrysostome’s. Right up until the day of his suicide, his brother hadn’t known a moment’s peace. Everyone beat him: his father beat him, his brothers beat him, as did anyone else who came across him. It was quite the opposite with Chrysostome. Everyone was afraid of him. Even Cocó. Cocó was always very full of himself when he was with the other officers or with the askaris , but if Chrysostome happened by, Cocó, however hard he tried to disguise the fact, clearly felt afraid and his Adam’s apple, like Donatien’s, would start moving uneasily up and down. In Yangambi, everyone knew where they were with Chrysostome. He was easily angered and would as happily shoot a white man as a black. Donatien knew about this too, because another of his brothers was a murderer, and such people held no secrets for him.

Donatien made a decision. He would treat Chrysostome with respect, as if he were an officer of Lalande Biran’s rank, but he would make no attempt to befriend him. He remembered the days spent with his murderer-brother, always fearing he might be his next victim, and he remembered, too, the sad fate of another brother, who had become close to the murderer. They were as thick as thieves and the lords and masters of the house and the neighbourhood where they lived, but one day, that same foolish brother ended up with a knife in his belly. It was always a mistake to rile a murderer, but befriending one was even worse.

Every Thursday morning, Chrysostome and Donatien would set off in a canoe, along with four askaris , in search of another young girl for Biran. That was the easy part of the job because the paths to the mugini and the procedure itself were well established. The natives knew exactly what their options were: they either handed over the girl or the village chief would receive forty lashes, and if he put up any further resistance, he would lose a finger or his whole hand, and that would be the end of the matter. He and Chrysostome carried out this task without exchanging a single word, which was by far the best way. Respect was fine, but not friendship.

The problems began when they got back to Yangambi. Lalande Biran had made it quite clear that Chrysostome should be the one to wash the young girl and test her virginity. This order, however, proved impossible to carry out. Everything went as planned until they reached the mooring place for the canoes. Donatien would go off to fetch the soap and towel from the club storeroom, but by the time he came back, Chrysostome had always vanished, leaving only the four askaris and the girl. This happened every week. When the moment came, Chrysostome simply disappeared.