Bernardo Atxaga - Seven Houses in France

That noble soldier Richardson came to my hut to tell me that Lalande Biran was dying and would I please go to his side. On the way, I learned that Donatien had also died. Both had been attacked by black mambas. ‘First, it was Van Thiegel and now it’s the Captain and Donatien. It’s like a plague,’ Richardson said to me as we entered Government House.

I found Lalande Biran close to death. His breathing was laboured and he kept trying to raise his hand to his throat, where he had been bitten. ‘Say something, Captain,’ I begged. It seemed important to me to capture his final words, the words of a great poet and a great soldier. He turned his aristocratic eyes to me. Grimacing and making a superhuman effort, the following unforgettable words sprang from his soul: ‘I am going to the eighth house.’ Now this would be an enigma to most people, but not to those familiar with the secrets of the Cabbala, because in astrology, the eighth house is the house of death.

Richardson had returned. He poured them both some coffee and set before Lassalle three envelopes and three sheets of paper.

‘I actually need you to write three letters. My writing is terrible, which is why I’m asking you this favour,’ he said. ‘But first, let’s drink our coffee.’

‘Why not do both things at once,’ said Lassalle, closing his notebook and taking up one of the sheets of paper.

‘The first is to the Captain’s widow, Christine Saliat de Meilhan,’ said Richardson. ‘The second is to a close friend of the Captain’s, Duke Armand Saint-Foix. And the third is to the authorities in charge of the Force Publique, to tell them that I, Eric Richardson, am now in command at Yangambi, but that they should send a captain and a lieutenant as soon as possible. I’m far too old for this sort of thing. Besides, something tells me that the rebels could attack any day. Livo was probably one of them. Anyway, let’s just hope Chrysostome gets better soon.’

The more he listened to Richardson, the more Lassalle wanted to leave Yangambi.

‘Shouldn’t you write to Donatien’s family?’ he asked.

‘He seemed to have hundreds of brothers and sisters, but he wasn’t in touch with any of them. Even at Christmas, the only letter he got was from the Force Publique. So that’s one less job to do.’

By the time they had written the letters, the hulking shape of the Princesse Clémentine was filling the beach, and they were walking down to the wooden jetty together, Lassalle carrying a suitcase and Richardson his three letters. In the prow of the boat was a huge metal cage, like those used in zoos.

‘Just what we need, a request for a lion,’ said Richardson. ‘Well, I have no intention of going hunting. Let them ask the company at Kisangani.’

When they reached the boat, Richardson flung his arms wide.

‘What are they playing at!’ he exclaimed.

The cage on the boat was not empty. Inside was a lion.

‘I have no idea,’ said Lassalle, although he preferred not to give the matter any further thought. He had quite enough material without having to open a whole new chapter devoted to lions.

A man wearing the insignia of the Force Publique came over to them. He, too, was carrying a letter. Lassalle realised then that Richardson’s problem wasn’t his writing, but his eyes. Unable to read the letter, Richardson passed it to Lassalle.

‘What does it say?’ he asked, in a voice that was more like a sigh.

Inside the envelope bearing the seal of the Royal Zoological Gardens of Brussels was a note explaining that they were sending them their oldest lion. They were doing this at the express wish of Léopold II’s secretary, Duke Armand Saint-Foix, so that the lion could die a dignified death in the jungle as befitted the king of the beasts.

The cage was lowered onto the beach, and Richardson and Lassalle stood studying the lion. It tried to get up, but its back legs buckled beneath it.

‘He wasn’t so bad when we reached Matadi,’ said the man wearing the insignia of the Force Publique, ‘but this last part of the journey has pretty much finished him off.’

‘It wouldn’t even be any use as part of a shooting contest,’ said Richardson. ‘I can’t imagine what Lalande Biran would have wanted with an old lion.’

‘You know what poets are like,’ said Lassalle. ‘I imagine you’re aware that Saint-Foix and Lalande Biran both figure in several Belgian poetry anthologies.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ said Richardson angrily. ‘And as soon as you leave, I’ll finish the beast off.’

The lion did not move a muscle. It remained lying down, watching the men unloading the cargo.

Near the beach, a monkey screamed. The lion appeared completely oblivious. It seemed to be deaf.