Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ said the Long-necked Dog wanly.

Even before he heard this reply, the Drunken Monkey was off, retracing his steps. He had spent many years in Yangambi and was pretty good at finding his way among the trees and the bushes. And he wasn’t stupid. He went directly to the spot where they had moored the canoe. He wasn’t leaping about or shouting now; he still had enough energy left for several more hours of searching, without flagging. A few red patches began to appear in Livo’s otherwise blue oimbé .

A large bird whistled, but Livo didn’t hear it. He was searching his mind for something that would tell him what to do, which risks to take and which to avoid. He reached the conclusion he had arrived at shortly before. Chrysostome would be the best deterrent. That way, he would save Bamu. She wasn’t a member of the Twa tribe, but their two tribes often helped each other.

They could hear the sound of the river now. They were reaching the point where they had first gone wrong. Livo slowed his pace and waited for Donatien to catch him up.

‘You’re a dead man,’ he told him. ‘What do you think Chrysostome, the best marksman in the Congo, will do when he finds out about this?’

Donatien’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.

‘ We’re not going to do anything. It’ll all be Cocó’s fault.’

‘You’re wrong. Chrysostome will fell three men with his rifle. First, Van Thiegel, then you and then me.’

Donatien started to cough. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t get a word out.

The Drunken Monkey stopped.

‘Lead the prince to the princess!’

It was an order.

To use a universal metaphor, a Pandora’s box had opened up in Donatien’s head. When he heard Livo’s words, all his brothers had started shouting, telling him what he should do. They all wanted to voice their opinions, and some wanted to offer him advice. The one who saw the situation most clearly was his brother the murderer. Donatien should help Lieutenant Van Thiegel achieve his objective, but when the Lieutenant lay down on top of the girl, Donatien should kill them both by bashing their brains out with a stone, then take back the emerald earrings. The risk was minimal, because a man with his trousers down and lying on top of a woman was practically defenceless, even a big strong fellow like Van Thiegel. True, the plan had its disadvantages, what with the blood from the wounds and everything, but a stone was the ideal weapon if he was to lay the blame on the natives. Who would believe him if he used his pistol? The natives didn’t know how to use such weapons. ‘Too difficult,’ objected his intelligent brother. ‘Donatien could never do it. If I were him, I’d forget about the earrings and just head back to Yangambi.’ One of his sisters intervened: ‘If Chrysostome is going to take his revenge on them all anyway, what does it matter?’ ‘You don’t understand,’ retorted the intelligent brother. ‘It’s a matter of giving yourself a reasonable chance of surviving or not. If he goes back with the emeralds in his pocket, he won’t have a chance in hell.’ Another sister spoke out indignantly: ‘How can anyone respect a man capable of giving away some emeralds? Besides, those emeralds belong to us, not to that black girl. She has no right to them at all.’

‘No, this isn’t the way either. I’ve gone wrong again, Lieutenant,’ he heard someone say. It wasn’t one of his brothers, but Livo.

‘You’re doing it on purpose, pygmy!’ yelled Van Thiegel. ‘ Tu le fais exprés, pygmée !’ He grabbed him by the throat with his two hands and lifted him off the ground.

Livo tried to say something, but couldn’t even breathe.

Donatien looked at the trees and the bushes around him and realised that this was the place where he had got lost before. There were the same small round green leaves which, in the jungle gloom, he had mistaken for emeralds. And just as had happened then, a flock of birds flew by overhead. Nearby, a monkey screamed.

Donatien saw a path. ‘It’s the path that leads to the girl’s mugini ,’ he heard a voice inside him say. It was his intelligent brother. ‘I don’t know what to do!’ Donatien cried, and at that very moment, his homosexual brother, the original owner of the earrings, spoke to him in a voice from beyond the grave: ‘Leave the earrings where they are. They don’t belong to you or to any of my loathsome family. I would much prefer the girl to keep them, rather than one of my sisters or whatever idiot agrees to be your wife.’ ‘If you fall for that one, then you’re a bloody fool,’ chorused ten or twelve of his siblings.

Livo was lying on the ground, coughing and spluttering. Van Thiegel was kicking him.

‘Lieutenant, I think I know where the girl lives,’ exclaimed Donatien.

‘ Alea jacta est ,’ said a voice inside him. It wasn’t one of his siblings this time, but Lalande Biran. The Captain often used those words. It was, according to him, one of Napoleon’s favourite sayings.

Van Thiegel had already set off along the path, and Donatien ran after him.

THE JUNGLE WAS always Dark, but livo knew that the gloom surrounding him now was to do with his oimbé and doubtless, too, with the sense that he was at the gates of death. He was, after all, nearly sixty years old; he had been a member of many expeditions; he had faced grave dangers both during his time in Yangambi and before; but never had his oimbé been so black. He felt like curling up where he lay on the ground, but that was impossible. He could get his knees up to his chin, but couldn’t lower his head. The slightest movement caused excruciating pain.

He fell asleep, and time passed. When he woke, even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was still alive. The monkeys — the monkeys, the tireless monkeys! — were screaming in the jungle; the birds — the marvellous music-making birds! — were singing and singing. Some were perched just above him.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed that the colour of his oimbé had changed slightly. It wasn’t black now, but violet. Dark violet. He was filled with a terrible sadness. That vile creature, the Long-necked Dog, who was always putting his foot in it, who was incapable even of looking after the club storeroom, and who was the clumsiest, laziest officer in the Force Publique, had found the right path. The Drunken Monkey would, at this moment, be in Bamu’s hut.

Slowly, he raised his hand to his throat. It really hurt when he touched it, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Taking his weight on his arms, he managed to scramble to his feet. Through the violet oimbé , he saw thousands of small bright green leaves. They weren’t common in that area, which is why the Long-necked Dog had noticed them and why he had recognised the place.

Then, as if Livo had summoned him with his thoughts, the Long-necked Dog appeared behind the small green leaves. He was running, crouching down so as not to bump into the branches, and he ran straight past Livo without so much as a glance. Shortly afterwards, Livo saw the Drunken Monkey. He was moving more slowly and stumbled as he passed.

‘You’d better hide the girl somewhere!’ he said, without stopping. On the other side of his violet oimbé Livo watched him as he moved away, his pistol still in its holster, his clothes dishevelled. Livo spat at him and saw on a stone his own saliva, made intensely red by his oimbé and by his blood. He again raised his hand to his throat and pressed harder this time. Again it hurt. He tried to say something.

‘Lulago!’ he muttered. That was his daughter’s name and it emerged quite clearly from his lips. ‘Lulago!’ he said more loudly this time. Obviously no real damage had been done to his throat. This reassured him, and his oimbé , while still violet in tone, became more transparent. He walked over to the path.