Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

He raised his head and looked for Chrysostome. He was standing underneath the awning, watching the other officers playing cards. Lassalle couldn’t quite make Chrysostome out. He was in part, as Lalande Biran put it, an ‘Olympian’ figure, like an athlete entirely focussed on his goals and who might easily win a gold medal at the next Games in London; but he was also a deeply religious fellow, who proudly wore around his neck the blue ribbon and the medal of Our Lady. He had observed him praying during the mass at the top of Samanga. And shortly afterwards, when the ceremony was over and they were setting off back to the boat, he had seen him bidding farewell to the stone Virgin, kneeling before her, head bowed. So there were two sides to him, the Olympian and the devout. And there was another less defined element to his personality. He had heard it said that Chrysostome was somewhat effeminate, and yet, when he had asked Lalande Biran about this, the Captain had dismissed the idea as mere rumour.

He went back to his notebook and continued the article.

‘At first, we thought that all the dangers lurked deep in the jungle. The cries of the monkeys perhaps betrayed the presence of the rebels. The lion’s roar was possibly a sign that the second monarch of these lands was angry. The faint sound of the flowing river underlined the solitude of the place, hard to bear for those of us accustomed to the parks of Brussels or the beaches of the Mediterranean. And yet the greatest danger was much closer, right above our heads, to be exact. It was none other than the mosquito. Did I say “ the mosquito”? I should have said “whole armies of mosquitos”, for there were thousands of them and they seemed to move in formation. “Try to keep awake!” joked the veteran officer Richardson, only increasing our anxiety. Because that other menace, the tse-tse fly, known as oukammba here, is no laughing matter. The tse-tse first sends you to sleep and then kills you. Just like that. Tse-tse, then, is a synonym for death. Fortunately, most of us had applied lion grease to face and neck, having been assured by the natives that there is no better repellent.’

He then went on to describe what had happened once they reached the top of Samanga. Before the religious ceremony, Lalande Biran had ordered bonfires of branches and green lianas to be lit, to keep off the mosquitos, red ants and the hundreds of other insects swarming about there.

‘As the smoke faded, the ceremony reached its culminating point: “ Credo in unum Deum! ” cried the bishop and every voice joined his. The officers and the askaris of the Force Publique, as well as the handsome Yangambi youths, all united together so that their prayer would spread, carried by faith, carried upon the air, to the whole of Upper Congo. The wizards and witches and medicine men of the jungle received our message loud and clear: “This jungle has but one king. This jungle has but one God! Credo in unum Deum !”’

Lassalle looked up. Chrysostome was no longer watching the card-players, but sitting in the stern with his head thrown back, taking the sun. The chain and medal around his neck glittered.

Lassalle scribbled down various basic ideas for his article: ‘The statue of the Virgin is installed’, ‘The bishop blesses the river and the jungle’, ‘Baptism of the young men of Yangambi’, ‘Lalande Biran’s words of homage to the explorer, Henry Morton Stanley’, ‘Surprise: Richardson asks to be baptised’. ‘At the end, repeat the opening sentence: the most beautiful metaphor, etc., etc.’

He walked over to the stern, but Lalande Biran beckoned to him to come and sit with him and the bishop. Lassalle pointed to Chrysostome, indicating that he wished to interview him. Having made his excuses to the bishop, Lalande Biran joined him.

‘You’ll have to help me, Captain, and see if we can get anything out of the lad,’ Lassalle said, although he would have much preferred to do the interview alone.

Chrysostome stood up when he saw them approach. Lalande Biran explained what Lassalle wanted.

‘Why don’t you tell him about the day you hunted the rhinoceros? We could start there. I doubt that the readers of Le Soir realise the force with which a rhinoceros will charge when wounded,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t really that difficult,’ said Chrysostome impassively.

‘Really?’ asked Lassalle, surprised.

‘No.’

‘I’ve heard quite the opposite, that when a rhinoceros is angry it can disembowel a whole company of soldiers before it finally succumbs to their bullets.’

‘No, to be honest, the most difficult part was cutting off the horn and carrying it back to Yangambi,’ said Chrysostome.

‘I have the horn in Government House,’ added Lalande Biran. ‘I’m going to take it back to Europe with me and display it at home.’

The blue ribbon and gold chain stood out against Chrysostome’s chest, and, visible in his trouser pocket, was the silver watch chain.

‘Is that what the Captain gave you in exchange for the rhinoceros horn?’ asked Lassalle.

Chrysostome nodded, but gave no sign that he was going to take out the watch and show it to him.

‘I’d like to ask you about that blue ribbon, if I may,’ said Lassalle, drawing a line in his notebook. He had nothing worth writing down. ‘How long have you had it? Why do you wear it? Do you feel safer with it round your neck? Safe from the dangers of the jungle?’

‘No, not safer,’ answered Chrysostome, taking three cartridges from another smaller pocket in his trousers. ‘This is what makes me feel safer. The more cartridges you have, the safer you are.’

‘The blue ribbon was given to him by the parish priest in Britancourt, the village where he was born,’ Lalande Biran explained. ‘He came elephant-hunting with me a few months ago and told me a little about his life. His years in Britancourt were a vital influence on him.’

‘Is Britancourt pretty?’ asked Lassalle.

‘I think so, yes.’

Chrysostome’s character and that of the landscape visible from the Roi du Congo chimed perfectly. His way of speaking was as inexpressive as the noise of the steamboat’s paddles. ‘ Stupide ?’ That was the adjective that popped into Lassalle’s mind, but at that very moment, he caught the look in Chrysostome’s eyes, as if Chrysostome had read his thoughts. It was a hard, frightening look. Lassalle immediately swallowed the adjective and saw, in its place, the caption he would give to the photo he would take: ‘ L’énigme de Chrysostome Liège ’ — ‘The enigma of Chrysostome Liège’.

The boat slowed. Lalande Biran stood up.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, leaning over the side. Then he cried out in surprise: ‘Why, it’s Livo! What’s he doing here?’

When he joined the Captain, Lassalle saw a small man with very black skin standing on the shore. He was carrying a pole over his shoulder from which hung three baskets. When the boat stopped, he recognised him as the servant in charge of the Club Royal. He couldn’t help smiling. Livo was even smaller than he was, and even smaller than Toisonet. Lalande Biran could offer him to his friend the Duke as a valet. He had also heard it said that Livo was an intelligent man.

All the passengers had now joined the Captain on the shore side of the boat, until the helmsman shouted at them to go back because the boat was beginning to list. Livo passed the three reed baskets one by one to an askari . Then, with some difficulty, he climbed on board.

Chrysostome had clambered onto the roof of the boat and was watching, his Albini-Braendlin in his hand.

‘See anything?’ asked Richardson from below.

Chrysostome was scanning the jungle. He shook his head. Richardson explained to the journalist: