Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

The tracks left by Chrysostome ran in almost straight lines along the shore of the river, but became crooked and uneven as they approached the Virgin. They seemed to contain some secret message.

‘Something has happened to Chrysostome. He has a problem and is worried,’ said Donatien’s intelligent brother, and Donatien agreed.

He wanted to find a clear, categorical answer in those marks on the beach, such as ‘Chrysostome’s problem is …’, but in that respect, the beach was silent, a blank page. When Donatien went back into the storeroom and lay down in his corner, he couldn’t get to sleep. The unease provoked by the sense that something was going on, something he was unable to identify, prevented him from sleeping.

That night, the same thing happened, and he spent most of the time awake. He simply could not sleep and, when he did close his eyes, rather than the image of a girl or some other similarly soothing image, he saw the image of Chrysostome, just as he had seen him on the beach, kneeling before the Virgin, head bowed.

He felt incapable of solving this mystery, even with the aid of his intelligent brother, and decided that perhaps it would be best to refer the matter to Lalande Biran. Easier said than done. The first day, he found Lalande Biran completely absorbed in reading a book; the second, he was in a rage because he couldn’t find his wedding ring; the third and the fourth, he was busy discussing the rubber crop with Van Thiegel. As Donatien waited for the right moment, time was slipping by, and the only reliable help he had were his brother’s encouraging words. Often, while he sat on the porch of the club, with a glass of anisette in his hand, his brother’s voice would ring out loudly in his head, always saying the same thing: ‘Be patient, dog. Soon you will learn something about Chrysostome and receive your reward.’

The fifth day, he went into Government House in order to clean the Captain’s office and found that Richardson and Van Thiegel were both there too. Seated on the wicker armchairs around the table, they were discussing the details of the bishop’s visit with absolute military seriousness. The paths and streets in Yangambi would have to be cleaned and three new huts prepared for the visitors: a large one for the bishop, another for the priests and a third for the journalist. The blessing of the Virgin would take place, at the express wish of Brussels, on Christmas Day, which left them just two weeks to organise everything.

Donatien dusted the furniture and the various objects in the living room, the rhinoceros horn, the desk, the rocking chairs, the books on the shelves, and the photo of the Captain’s wife, Christine Saliat de Meilhan, because once the rainy season was over and the mud in Yangambi had dried, dust invaded everything.

‘This whole business makes me nervous,’ said Lalande Biran.

‘You and everyone else,’ said Donatien, butting in.

Only one person noticed his remark: his intelligent brother. ‘Be patient, dog,’ he warned him from inside his head.

‘What makes me nervous is that Virgin in the middle of the beach. It will be a weight off our shoulders once we deposit her on Samanga,’ added Richardson.

Donatien nodded.

‘Let’s move on to the next point. Let’s talk about the menu,’ said Lalande Biran. He got up and started pacing round the table. ‘I thought we could start with a few smoked wapose , followed by kid soup, roast leg of goat with sweet potato sauce and, to finish, fried bananas. Oh, and a bit of chocolate to accompany the coffee. If we have any chocolate. Do we, Donatien?’

‘Yes, Captain. There’s a big box in the storeroom,’ answered Donatien.

There was disagreement. Richardson disapproved of the smoked wapose . They were, of course, delicious, but they looked hideous. There was no escaping the fact that they were worms, and the bishop would be sure to find them disgusting.

Lalande Biran expressed his thoughts out loud. The bishop and the journalist, especially the journalist, would have to realise that they were in the Congo, in Africa. Kid soup and roast goat were fine, but one could find such dishes in Brussels or in Paris. They needed something distinctive, a bit of local colour. If not wapose , they could perhaps choose something similar.

‘If we ply them with enough champagne, there won’t be any problem. Our visitors will eat everything that’s put before them, even grilled snake,’ said Van Thiegel.

‘What about smoked antelope fillets?’ suggested Donatien.

This time, Lalande Biran heard what he said and looked at him with his blue-gold eyes.

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘How long would it take to prepare and smoke an antelope properly?’ asked Lalande Biran.

‘About a week, or so Livo says,’ answered Donatien. ‘ UnesmenpepreçamdiLivoquendmem .’

Richardson clapped him on the back. He thought the antelope an excellent idea.

‘And it’s easy enough to hunt them at this time of year,’ he said. ‘The other day, when I was out with the rubber-tappers, I saw a whole herd of them.’

Lalande Biran walked up and down the room, thinking, his arms folded, his left hand cradling his chin. He stopped by the bookshelf and selected a cookery book.

‘I would cook it just as I would venison,’ he said as he searched for the recipe. ‘We have wine, even if it is only palm wine, and nutmeg too. The trouble is,’ he concluded, ‘we don’t have any spring onions,’ and he returned the book to its place and came back to the table.

‘You could use mulberries and other berries from the jungle,’ suggested Donatien, who had abandoned his labours and was taking part in the conversation as an equal. ‘Livo cooked it like that once. I think it was when you were off hunting elephants.’

Donatien’s last sentence oozed caution.

‘It would seem that you eat best when I’m away,’ said Lalande Biran, but he didn’t seem really bothered.

‘At least let there be French champagne, made, if possible, by the Widow Clicquot. I’m sure the bishop won’t object,’ said Van Thiegel.

Now he was pacing the room, and when he reached the corner where the rhinoceros horn was on display, he picked it up as if testing its weight.

‘The bishop won’t be our most influential visitor, Cocó. I’m not drawing up the menu with him in mind. I’m thinking of the journalist and his Kodak.’

‘I’ll pose like this and ask him to take my photo. Then I’ll have another one taken with the Widow Clicquot,’ said Van Thiegel, placing the rhinoceros horn on his head.

Richardson and Donatien both laughed. Lalande Biran merely smiled.

When Van Thiegel put the rhinoceros horn back down on the floor, he inadvertently knocked over a portfolio that was leaning against the wall, and its contents spilled out. They were Lalande Biran’s sketches of naked girls; one was larger than the others, and when he pulled it out, he saw something that sent a shiver down his spine. It was a photograph of Christine Saliat de Meilhan, but utterly different from the photo the Captain kept framed and on view to anyone visiting the office. According to a note in one corner, it had been taken on the beach in Biarritz. It showed Christine in a wet bathing suit, with her equally wet hair — one curl of which was stuck to her cheek — her flat stomach and her athletic thighs all the way down to her knees, where the photo ended.

He put the photo back and quickly closed the portfolio. He felt shaken. He could understand now why the Captain had those young girls brought to him. It can’t have been easy to fill the space left in his bed by such a woman.

He realised that he had dust on his fingertips. Donatien only cleaned the visible surfaces, but never went further than that. The portfolio had spent weeks, possibly months, leaning unopened against the wall. It was incredible. That photograph deserved to be in some far worthier place than a dusty portfolio.