Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

‘I know full well, Chrysostome, that your beliefs would not allow you to kill yourself, and that you would be incapable of doing such a thing,’ he was thinking of saying at the end of his speech. ‘But I was afraid that when you heard the news, you would go straight out and kill Van Thiegel. And, as commanding officer of this military post, that is something I have to avoid. There are certain rules that all soldiers must obey. If you feel your honour has been compromised, then you can challenge Van Thiegel to a duel. The journalist from Brussels, Monsieur Ferdinand Lassalle, has agreed to be your second.’

But Chrysostome said nothing, thus depriving Lalande Biran of the chance even to begin his speech.

‘Lieutenant Van Thiegel is at present in the jungle. He will return tomorrow or the day after,’ Lalande Biran said.

In the dungeon, Chrysostome’s breathing sounded a little louder than normal, but there were no other sounds. Silence also reigned in the living room of Government House, where Richardson and Lassalle were awaiting events.

‘The Lord’s ways are strange indeed,’ Chrysostome said at last. ‘Who would have thought that he would seek the help of that filthy drunk to save my purity?’

Lalande Biran was somewhat disconcerted.

‘The Lord’s ways may be strange, but not as strange as you,’ he said after a pause. He forgot about Napoleon and his soldiers and suggested to Chrysostome the possibility of a duel. ‘If you feel that your honour has been besmirched, then the best thing you can do is challenge Lieutenant Van Thiegel to a duel. The journalist from Brussels, Monsieur Ferdinand Lassalle, has agreed to be your second.’

‘Fine,’ said Chrysostome. ‘It can be at two hundred yards or twenty, as he wishes. And if he prefers a machete to a rifle, that’s fine with me too.’

‘The seconds will sort out the details.’

Lalande Biran had already spoken to Richardson and to Lassalle about this. The duel would be with rifles, on the beach, and not on the firing range. The only other thing to be decided was the distance, although it would doubtless be the same as during the mandrill-shooting contest.

‘You agree then. You’re not going to go running off to find the Lieutenant,’ he said, opening the dungeon door.

‘I would like the duel to take place at the earliest opportunity,’ said Chrysostome.

‘It will take place as soon as the Lieutenant returns to Yangambi. On Sunday morning if possible.’

Richardson and Lassalle were surprised to see them come back up the steps together and they kept their eyes trained on Chrysostome until he had gone out through the door. Lalande Biran continued to watch him as he crossed the Place du Grand Palmier. He wanted to see how he behaved when he passed Van Thiegel’s house. Chrysostome did not stop or look up or spit; he carried straight on to his own hut.

Lassalle wanted to know what had gone on in the dungeon.

‘I thought he’d go mad when he heard the news and race off to find Van Thiegel,’ Lalande Biran explained. ‘That’s why I decided to put him in the dungeon, so that he wouldn’t do anything against army regulations. But, as you see, he remained perfectly calm.’

‘The man is an enigma,’ declared the journalist.

‘What distance shall we put them at, Captain?’ asked Richardson.

‘What was it when we shot the mandrills?’

Richardson sighed. ‘I think, in the end, it was one hundred and eighty yards, more or less, but as Cocó’s second, I would ask for a shorter distance. Otherwise, Chrysostome will be at an advantage.’

Lalande Biran shook his head. ‘No, one hundred and eighty is the minimum. Given that they will each have twelve cartridges, I imagine that at some point, they’ll manage to hit the target.’

‘As Cocó’s second, I would prefer one hundred and twenty-five yards,’ Richardson insisted.

He had just realised that the Captain was wearing his wedding ring, something he rarely did. Perhaps what Donatien had told him was true, that Cocó really had stolen an intimate photograph of the Captain’s wife from his office. That would explain the Captain’s stubbornness over the duel. It was a way of holding a firing squad, the only way. You couldn’t shoot someone, still less a lieutenant, over a photograph.

Lalande Biran addressed the journalist.

‘What do you think? I’ve given my opinion, but it’s up to you really. You are his second, after all.’

‘What about something in between, say, one hundred and fifty yards?’ Lassalle suggested. ‘But do you really think there will be a duel? Will Lieutenant Van Thiegel come back to Yangambi?’

‘He’s not a coward. He’ll come back,’ said Richardson.

‘And if he doesn’t, we’ll go into the jungle to find him, then bring him back here and shoot him,’ said Lalande Biran.

Richardson raised his coffee cup to his lips, but it was empty.

‘All right,’ he said, getting up. ‘One hundred and fifty yards it is. And on the beach, right?’

‘Yes. Speaking both as Chrysostome’s second and as a journalist, I prefer the beach,’ said Lassalle.

‘I’ll go and measure up,’ said Richardson, and left.

ON HIS WAY to fetch the rubber-tappers who had been left corralled in the jungle, Van Thiegel was barely in control of himself because the two parts of his mind were constantly arguing and he could do nothing to stop them. They were quarrelling about Madelaine. One part insisted that the girl was conquest 185, while the other kept impatiently repeating ‘No, no, no, no!’Then the disagreement between the two parts grew more acrimonious.

‘So that’s 156 black women and 29 white women,’ said the first.

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites,’ the other retorted. ‘Madelaine was more white than black.’

‘No, you’re wrong. It’s 156 blacks and 29 whites!’

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites!’

The askaris with Van Thiegel stared in amazement as he slashed a path through the densest parts of the bush like a true sapper, chopping down any lianas, brambles and roots that got in his way. Such physical effort would have rendered anyone else incapable of thought, but in his case the two parties in dispute refused to surrender. Just when they seemed about to reach agreement, they would start again, always at the same point:

‘So that’s 156 black women and 29 white women,’ the first would say.

‘No, 155 blacks and 30 whites,’ the other would riposte.

The askaris eyed him warily. Van Thiegel kept shouting out, not like someone trying to urge on his men, but like a rabid monkey.

When the patrol finally reached the enclosure, they found the terrified captives all huddled together at one end. The black NCOs had to threaten them with the chicotte to get them to line up.

It turned out that the supply lines had failed, and no one had thought to bring provisions for the captives, leaving them both terrified and starving. When Van Thiegel saw the state they were in, a new discussion broke out inside his head. The first half argued that it wasn’t worth wasting time looking for food when it would be far easier simply to abandon any rubber-tappers too weak to survive the march back to Yangambi; the second half replied that they couldn’t just get rid of a group of men employed in the service of Léopold II, and, besides, it wasn’t so very hard to find food in that part of the jungle. It would be better to take a couple of days longer, kill a few monkeys to feed the men, and then return with the group intact. Lalande Biran might be angry with him for leaving responsibility for the garrison at Yangambi in the hands of someone like Donatien and for taking four or five days to sort out a matter that could have been resolved in two, but the fault lay with Lalande Biran himself for having locked up a hundred or so rubber-tappers in the middle of the jungle without making any arrangements to keep them fed.