Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

Those workers deemed to be suitably photogenic, about fifteen of them, were taken to the Place du Grand Palmier, where the work of decorating the square had begun, supervised by Lalande Biran. He had found the coloured ribbons said to have been used on the day Yangambi was officially founded, and he wanted to create a kind of cupola by hanging the ribbons from the top of the palm tree. ‘Ideal work for our black Adonises,’ he had declared. As for the ugly or less presentable workers, about a hundred of them, they were marched off into the jungle, and Van Thiegel was charged with escorting them there.

This wasn’t a particularly dangerous mission, but given that the enclosure was located in a somewhat inaccessible part of the jungle, the whole thing took all day. The outward journey lasted eight hours because of the sheer difficulty of moving such a large group of men and because one of them attempted to escape, a problem Van Thiegel managed to resolve satisfactorily. Coming back took another three hours. Not that he minded. The physical and military nature of the exercise lifted his mood, for he had been feeling uneasy ever since he stole Christine’s photograph.

Back in Yangambi, he met up with Lalande Biran on the club porch. The Captain seemed very contented, and pleased with the improvements being made in Yangambi. He began singing that song again: ‘ La Cigale, ayant chanté tout l’été … ’ Everything indicated that the last steamship to pass through Yangambi, the En Avant , had brought him good news.

‘Our visitors are about to arrive,’ he announced.

Two letters lay on the table. Van Thiegel looked at the return address on one of them: Christine Saliat de Meilhan. Rue du Pont Vieux 23. Paris . There was his woman number 200! La femme numéro 200 !

‘My wife is happy,’ said Lalande Biran. ‘Her ambition was to own seven houses in France, and she has just bought the last one, in St-Jean.’

‘Is that where she will live? All year I mean?’ asked Van Thiegel.

Lalande Biran shook his head.

‘I’ve also had a letter from Monsieur X. The profits from the mahogany and the ivory — which were huge apparently — have been safely deposited in the bank.’

As usual, the Captain was hiding Monsieur X’s letter from Van Thiegel, this time underneath the letter from Christine. Not that Van Thiegel cared who Monsieur X really was. He was about to leave Yangambi, and there would be no more of those emergency expeditions in search of mahogany and ivory.

‘I’ve sent a letter to my mother in which I recommend that she model herself on your wife,’ he said.

‘As I mentioned before, they would make excellent colleagues.’

‘When we get back to Europe, we could meet up in Paris, you, Christine, my mother and me.’

‘Yes, why not,’ said Lalande Biran.

Livo came to ask if they wanted anything to drink.

‘Is there any cold champagne?’ asked Lalande Biran.

‘I’ve left a few bottles to cool in the river.’

‘Bring me one, will you, Livo. The one with the best oimbé ,’ said Lalande Biran. Livo left, smiling, and returned carrying the bottle of champagne in a bucket of water.

They sat out on the porch until late in the evening, and Van Thiegel told Lalande Biran of his plans. By next spring, he hoped to be in Antwerp, where he intended opening a business with Donatien, a bar that would be simultaneously modern and old-fashioned. Donatien had some experience in the field and his family was well known in the city.

‘Sounds good,’ said Lalande Biran.

‘Of course, I won’t stay in Antwerp all year. I’ll spend some time in Paris too,’ added Van Thiegel.

Lalande Biran’s only response was to begin softly singing that song again: ‘ La Cigale, ayant chanté tout l’été … ’ Van Thiegel almost mentioned which Paris street he would like to live on, but stopped himself.

Richardson joined them, and Livo was despatched to bring another bottle of champagne.

‘I have some important news for you,’ Lalande Biran said when their glasses were full.

‘We’re all ears, Captain!’ said Richardson.

Lalande Biran raised his glass to his lips. His blue-gold eyes were smiling.

‘Gentlemen, Chrysostome is in love. With a girl!’ he exclaimed.

‘In love?’

This time Van Thiegel’s look of surprise was absolutely genuine.

Richardson was pacing up and down.

‘Chrysostome? In love? With a girl?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, with a young girl, half-black, half-white!’

Lalande Biran poured himself more champagne.

‘A young girl, half-black, half-white?’ Richardson repeated. He was waving his arms about like the conductor of a choir, as if urging the monkeys to scream loudly. As chance would have it, the monkeys did exactly as Richardson asked.

Lalande Biran and Van Thiegel burst out laughing.

IN THE DAYS prior to Christmas, Van Thiegel drank a lot of cognac and a lot of palm wine, and he began to feel that his head was dividing not into two, as was usual with him, but into smaller segments, into eight, twelve or sixteen compartments. In these compartments, the image of Christine merged with that of Lalande Biran, Livo, Donatien, Chrysostome and many other people. To make matters still more confusing, intermingled with these images were thoughts about his economic situation and his sentimental or sexual life and, finally, with ineffable particles that were neither images nor thoughts and that dissolved before they could take shape.

The images, thoughts and ineffable particles spun round and round in his head as if driven by a roulette wheel, until he feared he would go mad and end up, like his father, in a straitjacket. At that point, he tried to drink less and to pass the time playing cards, swimming in the river or going to bed with the women who worked in the warehouses or in the slaughterhouse. In this way, he succeeded, at least some of the time, in slowing the speed of the roulette wheel, but as soon as he abandoned these activities and had a few drinks, the wheel would start to spin as fast as before, so that he couldn’t even follow a conversation and found it hard to pay attention to what was going on around him.

Soon, he began to see new images. They didn’t belong to the roulette wheel spinning inside his head, but, so to speak, to reality, to Yangambi. He saw the Petit Prince moored at the jetty, and a line of priests getting off the boat, with their black cassocks hoisted up to their knees. Later — the following day or two days later, he wasn’t sure — he saw one of those priests in a white chasuble blessing the statue of the Virgin and, beside him, a short man taking photographs. He saw Lalande Biran, too, wearing his white hat and with his Luger pistol at his waist.

He heard what Lalande Biran said:

‘Gentlemen, kindly follow me to the Club Royal, where the finest jungle delicacies await us.’

Lalande Biran looked very elegant with his Luger at his waist. His blue-gold eyes shone as never before. Van Thiegel realised that those eyes were looking at him and ordering him to sit down.

‘Have you ever eaten smoked antelope before, Bishop?’ asked Lalande Biran.

Instead of the white chasuble, the bishop was now wearing a black cassock and a purple silk sash. He shook his head and smiled.

‘And what about you, Lassalle, have you ever eaten it before?’ Lalande Biran asked the little man who had been taking photographs of the Virgin.

The little man said No.

Van Thiegel did not feel very comfortable at the table. He found Lalande Biran’s formality irritating. He didn’t like the bishop either. And he liked the little man even less. That was why he kept drinking palm wine, glass after glass, so as to forget about his companions.