Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

Richardson was sitting on one of the benches in the Place du Grand Palmier with two rifles by his side. He was asleep, and Van Thiegel approached very slowly. Twice the snake slid off the machete blade, and twice he patiently picked it up again.

‘Watch out, Richardson!’ he shouted.

When Richardson opened his eyes, Van Thiegel hurled the snake at his face and roared with laughter when he saw his colleague leap up from the bench and roll a few yards on the ground.

‘You’re too old to be on guard duty!’ Van Thiegel told him.

Richardson had taken off his hat and was wiping his cheeks and forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Beside the bench, the snake looked like the limp end of a whip. Its head had come off, the thread of skin that had kept it attached to its body finally broken.

‘I haven’t seen a mamba in years,’ Richardson said, holding the snake’s head between index finger and thumb. ‘God, it’s ugly! As ugly as you, Cocó!’

Van Thiegel was still laughing, and he laughed even louder when Richardson threw the snake’s head at him, hitting him on the chest.

‘I’m glad to see you so cheerful, Cocó! You look marvellous!’

‘I have a feeling I’m going to give that poofter a surprise today.’

‘What do you want to do, Cocó? We’ve got five hours before the duel.’

Van Thiegel picked up the snake, this time with his hand.

‘I’m going to treat myself to a good breakfast,’ he said. ‘Do you like grilled snake?’

‘I haven’t eaten it for years, not since my days as a legionnaire. I can’t even remember the taste,’ said Richardson.

‘Well, today, among other things, we will eat a little snake. Let’s go and see if Livo can fire up the barbecue for us.’

Time, that morning, passed neither very quickly nor very slowly. It was as if the world had started turning to a regular beat — au fur et à mesure — and was imposing that rhythm on all beings, on the monkeys and the birds in the jungle, on the fish in the river, and — at a more elevated level — on the wind, the currents, the clouds and the sun.

Now and then, the mandrills and the chimpanzees screamed, neither very far nor very near; the waki flew tranquilly past, neither very high nor very low; the fish swam easily by, neither very deep nor very near the surface. The wind was stirring the leaves, but not the branches of the okoume, the teak and the palm trees. And the current in the river, although strong, was not dragging whole tree trunks with it, as it did in the rainy season. As for the clouds, to use a rather bolder figure of speech, they resembled leisurely steamboats, and the sun shone gently out of that same sky.

The inhabitants of Yangambi were the only beings not keeping to the general rhythm of that Sunday morning. Those in the village — Lalande Biran, Ferdinand Lassalle, Donatien, Chrysostome and the other officers, the black NCOs, and the askaris with their red fezes — were more silent than usual, and were nowhere to be seen; on the other hand, those in the Club Royal — Van Thiegel, Richardson, Livo and the other servants — were notable for the ruckus they were making.

On the club porch, Livo barbecued the snake lightly at first, to remove its skin, and then grilled it on a higher flame until its flesh was nicely golden. When he judged it to be done, he picked up a piece on his knife and offered it to Van Thiegel.

The other servants on the porch laughed when they saw Livo wrinkle his nose, because the snake had the same rank odour as chicken giblets.

Van Thiegel took a deep breath in, as if savouring the aroma, and there was more laughter. When he put the meat in his mouth, everyone fell silent. For a few moments, all action was suspended. Then Van Thiegel raced down to the river and spat the meat out, before returning to the porch, swearing and cursing, but laughing too.

‘Livo, bring me some salami and biscuits. And coffee. And bring me any other tasty titbits you see in the storeroom,’ said Richardson.

While they were eating, the rhythm of the world slowed still further. The mandrills and the chimpanzees fell silent, the waki vanished from the air, the fish swam down to the river bed, the clouds stopped moving, and the sun lost its strength.

‘This is what I call eating,’ said Richardson with a calm he did not feel in his heart. He had noticed the sun growing dimmer. Its rays would be no obstacle to Chrysostome. Cocó would have no advantage.

‘Like kings, Richardson. I’ve heard it said that King Léopold II is mad for salami,’ said Livo.

There was even less calm in his heart than in Richardson’s. His oimbé was completely black. He was furious. He couldn’t understand what had happened. The snake he had left on Van Thiegel’s bed hadn’t eaten for days, and the mouse was tipsy on the little drop of cognac he’d forced it to drink. Why had the snake not pounced on the mouse? Why had it not bitten the Drunken Monkey?

‘Livo, bring me a bottle of cognac. It’s time for a little drink,’ Richardson said.

Livo went into the storeroom. He had hidden the baskets behind the boxes of biscuits. He spoke to the two remaining mambas.

‘Your comrade was too stupid. The Drunken Monkey cut off its head with a machete.’

His oimbé grew still blacker. He picked up a bottle of Martell and returned to the porch.

‘This is what saved me,’ said Van Thiegel, snatching the bottle from him. ‘The mamba was put off by the smell of cognac, and so I seized the moment.’

‘We don’t like his flesh, and he doesn’t like our cognac,’ said Livo.

The Drunken Monkey’s words were showing him the way. He shouldn’t have given the mouse any cognac. Or perhaps, he should simply not bother with a mouse at all and just empty the contents of the basket straight onto the victim’s sleeping body. That’s what he would do with Donatien and with the Captain. They might wake up and see the snake, but it was worth the risk.

Van Thiegel refilled his glass.

‘Cocó, don’t drink so quickly. I speak as your second!’ Richardson said.

Livo had taken the charred snake skin and was rolling it up into two small balls.

‘Livo, give me those,’ Van Thiegel said. ‘Say something to me, légionnaire !’ he told Richardson, after putting the two balls in his ears. He had spoken more loudly than he intended.

‘There’s not much time. We need to try out the rifle,’ Richardson said.

‘Excellent! I didn’t hear a word,’ said Van Thiegel. ‘I don’t intend taking these out until our Captain has finished his speech. That, I’m sure, will be the most painful part of the duel.’

Richardson stood up.

‘Come on, Cocó, let’s go and try out the rifle.’

‘The Lieutenant doesn’t need any practice,’ said Livo.

‘Not in shooting, no, but there are three movements he has to perform before getting into position to fire, and the faster he can do them the better.’

‘One last drink, Richardson,’ said Van Thiegel, filling his glass again. He felt good; his mind was calm. The yokel was in for a surprise. He wasn’t going to make those three movements. He would stand up, take one step back and fire, just like that, straight at Chrysostome’s chest. Neither his blue ribbon nor any of his other fripperies would help him then. And if Lalande Biran tried to lecture him about fair play, for the benefit of that dwarfish journalist, he would shoot him too. And then, well, who knows.

Van Thiegel still had the snake-skin plugs in his ears when they walked onto the beach, and Richardson guided him to the centre. Chrysostome arrived almost at the same moment, accompanied by the journalist Lassalle. They stopped ten paces from each other.