Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

‘You mean ex-legionnaire to ex-legionnaire.’

‘As you wish, but we have to talk. Chrysostome wants to challenge you to a duel.’

Still keeping hold of his rifle, Van Thiegel gestured to Richardson to take a seat, then he took two glasses and poured them each a cognac.

‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said. Richardson was still standing, and Van Thiegel asked him again to sit down. ‘Now tell me everything — from the beginning,’ he said, when Richardson finally did as he was asked. For once, Van Thiegel’s mind was perfectly calm. It didn’t feel as if it was about to split, even if only into two, and this gave him confidence.

‘When Chrysostome found out what had happened to his girlfriend, it was as if he’d been bitten by a black mamba,’ Richardson told him. ‘It was as if he’d stopped breathing, as if he couldn’t move his lips, as if the poison had entered his internal organs and was destroying them one by one and as if, at any moment, his skin would become covered in …’

Richardson paused, looking for the right word.

‘Make it short, please,’ Van Thiegel said. What Richardson was saying cheered him, but the way in which he was speaking reminded him of Lalande Biran.

‘Then, suddenly, he regained the power of movement and started screaming like a madman. I mean it, Cocó, you’ve really hurt him. I’ve rarely seen a man so wounded. The Captain says the girl was his first love, which is why it’s hit him so hard.’

Richardson paused again. He was holding his glass in both hands.

‘You have to understand, Cocó. There was no alternative. The Captain tried to persuade him that there was no point getting upset over a native girl, but he wasn’t having it. He wanted to come after you and kill you. Then the Captain proposed the duel, and he accepted.’

‘Drink up,’ said Van Thiegel.

Richardson drank his cognac down in one, then said, ‘I’ll be your second, if that’s all right with you. The journalist, Lassalle, will be Chrysostome’s.’

‘What form will the duel take? You haven’t told me yet.’

‘On the beach, with rifles. At one hundred and fifty yards. Tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Yes, tomorrow.’

Van Thiegel filled their glasses again.

‘One hundred and fifty yards. That’s too far for me. As my second, you should never have agreed to that. Twenty yards would have suited me better. At least I would stand a chance of hitting him. That’s what I’m going to find most annoying, that he’ll manage to hit me, but I won’t hit him.’

‘I’ve asked that we stand at the Club Royal end of the beach, which would be best for you. That way, on Sunday at midday, you won’t have the sun in your eyes. Chrysostome will.’

‘What does that matter if he’s wearing a hat!’

‘I’ll try to make sure he isn’t, Cocó.’

Van Thiegel finished the cognac left in his glass, then yawned and stretched, saying: ‘I’m going to bed. It was hard work bringing those blacks back from the jungle.’

‘Just one more thing, Cocó,’ Richardson said, standing up. ‘In accordance with tradition, tonight, on the eve of the duel, a special supper is being held at the Club Royal. I’ll be going, as will Lopes and the other officers on your side, about ten or twelve of us. I’ve spoken to Livo and it’s all arranged.’

‘What about the others?’Van Thiegel asked, grabbing the bottle of Martell again and drinking straight from it.

‘Chrysostome didn’t want any celebrations. You know what he’s like.’

‘Don’t I just. A village yokel who doesn’t even know what to do with a woman. Well, if he doesn’t want to celebrate, neither do I. I’ll get some rest so that I have a steady hand tomorrow.’

‘As you wish. I’ll gladly eat your supper for you,’ said Richardson.

Van Thiegel went into his bedroom. When he undressed and got into bed under the mosquito net, he raised the bottle as if he were giving a toast, which was his way of saying goodbye to Richardson.

In his dreams, Van Thiegel thought he was back in the jungle and that a black NCO was stroking his chest. He tried to slap him, but the NCO dodged the blow and started touching his belly instead, moving his hand in circles as if to relieve a stomach ache, but he didn’t have a stomach ache and the hand wasn’t warm like his mother’s. Again he tried to slap the man, harder this time, but the NCO was very quick and the blow struck empty air. For a few moments, the cold hand stroked his thighs and knees, then returned to his belly. This time, he attempted to punch the man, three times, each time in vain, because the NCO had excellent reflexes. Cursing, he felt behind him for his rifle, but it wasn’t there. It occurred to him that the black NCO had stolen his rifle, which is why the bastard had the nerve to stroke his body with that cold hand of his. He knew the NCO, but had no idea he was a queer. Perhaps he was Chrysostome’s partner.

When he woke, the morning light was coming into the bedroom. Before him, with half its body raised up, was a black mamba. It was a very strong specimen and its tongue kept nervously, ceaselessly, flicking in and out.

Van Thiegel felt a need to move his legs, but as soon as he bent his knees, the snake slithered down to his belly. Its skin wasn’t just cold, it was rough.

He closed his eyes and very slowly lowered his legs. When he looked again, the mamba seemed even more nervous, its tongue moving frenetically.

Something crawled over his neck, something with tiny feet that tickled his skin. When it reached his arm, he saw that it was a mouse. The snake’s mouth was wide open now and its head was swaying back and forth, as if the creature were making careful calculations before it attacked. The attack did not happen, though, and the snake continued to sniff the air with its tongue. What was it that smelled so strongly? Van Thiegel felt a glass object next to his right side, and his skin told him what it was before his nose did. It was the bottle of Martell, empty now, having spilled its contents. Now he understood. The snake was nervous because it could smell both the mouse and the cognac and found the unfamiliar smell of cognac confusing.

Van Thiegel could see his machete next to the bed, still in its case, hanging from the belt on his trousers. It was within reach, but making use of it would not be easy. He would have to lift the mosquito net, grab the machete and then strike.

The mouse was crawling back up his chest towards his neck. It seemed to be moving rather slowly and uncertainly, as if bemused by the snake’s presence. Van Thiegel snatched it up in his hand and threw it to the snake as he might have thrown it to a dog. Then he raised his legs sharply and the mamba was hurled against the mosquito net.

When he grabbed the machete and cut off the snake’s head, the mamba still had the mouse in its mouth, in the act of swallowing it. Van Thiegel gave a joyful whoop. It was his finest victory in a long time. Death had come looking for him, but now there it was lying on the floor of his room. Its tail continued to swish furiously in a last attempt either to propel itself forward or, perhaps, to swallow the mouse. But, as Lalande Biran might have said, there would be no more jungle for him, or for the mouse.

The swishing gradually slowed and when it finally stopped, Van Thiegel got dressed very slowly, laughing to himself. His mind never ceased to surprise him. That Sunday morning, a few hours before he was due to face Chrysostome, it was calmer than ever. It had not divided in two, there was no roulette wheel, nor did it insist on assailing him with painful memories.

He scooped up the snake on the blade of his machete and held it at waist height. The head dangled by a slender strip of skin. It was quite heavy. It must have had enough venom in its fangs to kill an elephant.