The statue’s feet rested on a simple vehicle, its low platform and four wheels composed of other black, ingeniously combined whalebone stays. Two narrow rails, made from some raw, reddish, gelatinous substance, which was none other than calves’ lungs, ran along a dark wooden surface and, by their form if not their color, created the precise illusion of a section of railroad track. It was onto these tracks that the four immobile wheels fit, without crushing them.
The surface supporting the tracks formed the top of a jet black wooden plinth, the front of which bore a white inscription with these words: “The Death of the Helot Saridakis.” Below it, also in milky letters, one saw this phrase, half-Greek and half-French, accompanied by a slim bracket:
Next to the helot, the bust of a thinker with knit brow wore an expression of intense and fruitful meditation. On the stand one could read the name:
IMMANUEL KANT
After this came a group of sculptures depicting a thrilling scene. A cavalry officer with the face of a thug seemed to be interrogating a nun flattened against the door of her convent. Behind them, in bas-relief, other men-at-arms mounted on fierce steeds awaited orders from their chief. On the base, in chiseled letters, the title The Nun Perpetua’s Lie was followed by the question, “Is this where the fugitives are hiding?”
Farther on, a curious recreation, accompanied by the explanatory caption, “The Regent Bowing before Louis XV,” showed Philippe d’Orléans paying his respects to the ten-year-old child king, who maintained a pose full of natural, unconscious majesty.
Unlike the helot, the bust and these two complex groupings were made of what looked like terracotta.
Calm and vigilant, Norbert Montalescot strolled among his works, watching especially over the helot, whose fragility made a careless jostle from some passerby a matter of special concern.
Past the final statue stood a small cabin with no doors, its four walls, of equal width, made of heavy black cloth that in all likeli-hood left the interior completely dark. The gently sloped roof was strangely composed of book pages, yellowed by time and trimmed into tiles; the text, fairly large and exclusively in English, was faded or completely erased, but the visible headers of certain pages still bore the clearly printed title The Fair Maid of Perth. The middle of the roof contained a hermetically sealed skylight, made not of glass but of similar pages, also discolored by wear and age. This delicate tiling no doubt filtered a diffuse, yellowish light, soft and restful.
A kind of chord, suggesting the timbre of brass instruments but much fainter, escaped at regular intervals from inside the cabin, like musical breaths.
Just opposite Nair, a tombstone, in perfect alignment with the Stock Exchange, supported various elements of a Zouave’s uniform. A rifle and cartridge pouches lay alongside these military effects, which to all appearances served as a pious memento of the departed.
Rising vertically behind the funerary slab, a panel draped in black fabric offered a series of twelve watercolors, arranged in threes over four even, symmetrically stacked rows. Given the similarity of the characters depicted, the suite of paintings seemed to relate some continuous dramatic narrative. Above each image one could read, like a title, several words traced with a brush.
On the first sheet, a noncommissioned officer and a flamboyantly attired blonde were camped in the back of a luxuriously appointed victoria; the words “Flora and Lieutenant Lécurou” summarily designated the couple.
Then came “The Performance of Daedalus,” represented by a wide stage on which a figure in a Greek toga appeared to be singing lustily; in the front row of a box, one again found the lieutenant sitting beside Flora, who was training her opera glasses on the performer.
In “The Consultation,” an old crone wearing an ample sleeveless cloak drew Flora’s attention to a celestial planisphere pinned to the wall, and leveled an authoritative finger at the constellation Cancer.
“The Secret Correspondence,” inaugurating a second row of images, showed the woman in the cloak offering Flora one of those special grilles composed of a single sheet of cardboard with strange holes punched out, which are used in deciphering cryptograms.
“The Signal” took as its décor a nearly empty sidewalk café, at the front of which a tanned Zouave, sitting alone, indicated to the waiter a large bell tolling atop a neighboring church; below it, one could read this brief dialogue: “Waiter, what is that ringing?” “That’s the Benediction.” “In that case, bring me a harlequin.”
“The Lieutenant’s Jealousy” showed a barracks courtyard in which Lécurou, raising four fingers of his right hand, seemed to be furiously upbraiding the Zouave from the preceding image; the scene was accompanied by this blunt phrase in military slang: “Four days in the cooler!”
At the head of the third row, “The Bravo’s Rebellion” introduced into the plot a very blond Zouave who, refusing to execute one of Lécurou’s orders, answered with the single word “No!” inscribed under the watercolor.
“The Convict’s Execution,” underscored by the command “Aim!” depicted a firing squad that, at the lieutenant’s orders, trained its rifles at the heart of the golden-haired Zouave.
In “The Usurious Loan,” the crone in the cloak reappeared to hand Flora several banknotes; sitting at a desk, the latter seemed to be signing some kind of IOU.
The final row commenced with “The Police Raid the Gambling Den.” This time, one saw a wide balcony and Flora hurling herself into the void, while through the open window, around a large gaming table, gamblers recoiled in horror at the unexpected arrival of several black-suited men.
The penultimate tableau, titled “The Morgue,” showed a frontal view of a woman’s corpse lying on a slab behind a pane of glass; plainly visible in the background, a silver chain sagged beneath the weight of a precious watch.
Finally, “The Fatal Blow” ended the series with a nocturnal landscape; in the half-light, one made out the tanned Zouave slapping Lieutenant Lécurou, while in the distance, standing out against a thicket of ship’s masts, a placard lit by a bright lantern bore the three words, “Port of Bougie.”
At my back, a dark rectangular structure of meager dimensions stood as a complement to the altar, a light grill with narrow bars of black-painted wood forming its façade. Four native detainees, two men and two women, paced quietly inside this exiguous prison. Above the grill, red letters spelled the word “Jail.”
Next to me, the sizable group of passengers from the Lynceus stood waiting for the promised parade to begin.
II
SOON THE SHUFFLE of footsteps could be heard. All eyes turned to the left, and from the southwest corner of the esplanade we saw a strange and solemn cortege advancing.
At its head, the emperor’s thirty-six sons, sorted by height into six rows, composed a dark phalanx ranging in age from three to fifteen. Fogar, the eldest, bringing up the rear with the taller boys, carried in his arms a huge wooden cube, transformed into a gaming die by a heavy coat of white paint dotted with circular black pips. At a sign from Rao, the native in charge of the parade’s progress, the troop of children slowly moved forward along the edge of the esplanade occupied by the Stock Exchange.
After them, in a seductive single file, came the sovereign’s ten wives, graceful Ponukeleans endowed with beauty and charm.
Finally, Emperor Talou VII himself appeared, curiously attired as a torch singer, his long blue gown with its plunging neckline dragging behind him in a long train, on which the number 472 stood out in black figures. His dark face, imbued with savage energy, was not lacking in character, and formed a sharp contrast with his luxuriant and scrupulously waved blond wig. With his hand he guided his daughter Sirdah, a slim child of eighteen, whose crossed eyes were veiled by opaque leucoma, and whose black forehead bore a red birthmark shaped like a minuscule corset from which yellow lines radiated.
Behind them marched the Ponukelean troops, superb ebony-hued warriors heavily armed beneath their ornamental finery of feathers and amulets.
The cortege slowly followed the same path as the group of children.
Passing in front of the Zouave’s sepulcher, Sirdah, who had likely been counting her steps, suddenly veered off toward the tombstone, on which her lips gently placed a long kiss full of unadulterated tenderness. This pious duty fulfilled, the blind girl affectionately took her father’s hand again.
As they reached the far end of the esplanade, the emperor’s sons, under Rao’s direction, turned right and skirted the north side of the vast quadrilateral; reaching the opposite corner, they turned a second time and headed back toward us, while the parade, still replenished at its source by numerous troops, precisely followed in their tracks.
Finally, the last of the black warriors having entered just as the advance guard of children touched the southernmost limit, Rao ordered the approach to the altar cleared, and all the newcomers crowded in orderly fashion along the two lateral areas, faces turned toward the center of the square.
On all sides, a black horde, comprising the population of Ejur, had assembled behind the sycamores to witness this tantalizing spectacle for themselves.
Still grouped into six rows, the emperor’s sons reached the middle of the esplanade and halted opposite the altar.
Rao took the monstrous die from Fogar’s arms, juggling it several times and then tossing it in the air with all his might. The twenty-inch cube spun as it rose, a black-speckled white mass; then, describing a very tight arc, it fell to earth and rolled on the ground before coming to rest. At a glance, Rao read the number two on the upper face and, walking toward the docile phalanx, pointed to the second row, which alone remained in place. The rest of the group, picking up the die, ran off to join the throng of warriors.
With majestic cadence, Talou marched to join the chosen ones whom fate had designated as his pages. Then, amid a profound silence, the emperor approached the altar, escorted by the six privileged children who each kept a firm hold on the train of his gown.
After climbing the few steps leading to the sparsely laid table, Talou bid Rao approach; the latter held in both hands a heavy sacramental cloak, presenting it inside out. Stooping, the emperor fit his head and arms into three openings cut in the middle of the garment; its large folds, as they fell, enveloped him to his feet.
Thus attired, the monarch turned proudly toward the assembly as if to offer his new costume to everyone’s gaze.
The rich, silken fabric depicted a large map of Africa, with indications of the principal lakes, rivers, and mountains.
The pale yellow of landmasses sliced through the variegated blue of the sea, which stretched on all sides as far as required by the garment’s overall shape.
Fine silver streaks covered the surface of the oceans with curved, harmonious zigzags, schematically representating the endless undulation of waves.
Only the southern half of the continent was visible between the emperor’s neck and ankles.
On the western side, a black dot, accompanied by the name “Ejur,” was situated near the mouth of a river whose source emerged from a mountain range a fair distance to the east.
Stretching from both banks of the wide waterway, a huge red area depicted the realm of the all-powerful Talou.
To flatter the emperor, the garment’s designer had pushed back the limits—ill-defined as they were—of the imposing territory under Talou’s scepter; dazzling carmine, heavily distributed to the north and east, stretched south all the way to land’s end, across which the words “Cape of Good Hope” paraded in fat black letters.
After a while, Talou turned once more toward the altar; on his back, the other half of his robe showed the northern part of Africa, hanging upside-down in the same watery frame.
The solemn moment was upon us.
In a powerful voice, the monarch began intoning the native text traced in hieroglyphs on the sheet of parchment in the middle of the narrow table.
It was a kind of bull, through which Talou, already Emperor of Ponukele, now crowned himself King of Drelchkaff by virtue of his religious authority.
His proclamation over, the sovereign seized the cruet standing in for the Holy Ampulla and, turning his profile to us, poured oil over the tips of his fingers, with which he then anointed his brow.
He immediately replaced the flask and, descending the altar steps, strode briskly toward the litter of leaves shaded by the rubber tree. There, his foot resting on Yaour’s corpse, he heaved a long sigh of joy, triumphantly raising his head as if to humiliate the late king’s remains before one and all.
Returning after that prideful act, he handed the heavy cloak back to Rao, who promptly took it away.
Escorted by his six sons, who again carried his train, he walked slowly in our direction, then turned toward the Incomparables’ theater, standing at the head of the crowd.
At that point, the emperor’s wives advanced to the center of the esplanade. Rao joined them there, bearing a heavy tureen that he placed on the ground in their midst.
The ten young women fell upon the receptacle, which was full of a thick blackish porridge that they devoured greedily, lifting it to their lips with their hands.
After several minutes, Rao removed the now empty tureen, and the sated Negresses took their places for the Luenn’chetuz, a ritual dance, justly favored in that land, that was reserved for only the most solemn occasions.
They began with several slow gyrations mixed with supple and undulating movements.
Now and again they let escape from their gaping mouths formidable belches, which soon came faster and faster. Rather than trying to suppress these revolting noises, they did their best to expel them, trying to outdo each other in force and volume.
This widespread chorus, which accompanied the calm, graceful pavane like a musical score, revealed to us the peculiar properties of the unknown foodstuff they’d just ingested.
Little by little the dance became more frenetic and improvised, while their eructations, in a potent crescendo, grew increasingly frequent and intense.
There was an impressive moment of apogee, during which the sharp, deafening sound reached an infernal pandemonium; the feverish, disheveled dancers, shaken by their terrible burps as well as by their own fists, slammed into each other, pursued each other, gyrating in all directions as if in the grip of some vertiginous delirium.
Then, gradually, all grew calm, and after a long diminuendo the dance ended with the women grouped in a climactic display, underscored by a final chord that gradually faded to silence.
The young women, still wracked by some lingering hiccups, slowly resumed their original positions.
During the execution of the Luenn’chetuz, Rao had moved to the south side of the esplanade to open the prison, releasing a group of natives composed of one woman and two men.
Now only one detainee still paced behind the heavy bars.
Clearing a passage through us, Rao led the three newcomers to the spot the dancers had just trampled, their hands bound in front of them.
An anxious silence fell over the entire assembly, in anticipation of the tortures the fettered trio was about to endure.
Rao drew from his belt a mighty axe, its finely honed blade made of a strange wood that was hard as steel.
Several slaves had joined him to assist with the execution.
Held fast, the traitor Gaiz-duh was made to kneel, head bowed, while the two other convicts stood motionless.
With both hands Rao swung his axe and three times struck the traitor in the nape of the neck. With the third stroke Gaiz-duh’s head rolled on the ground.
The area had remained unsoiled by red spatter, owing to the strange, sharp wood that, as it penetrated the flesh, produced an immediate clotting effect, meanwhile soaking up the initial drops that had unavoidably been shed.
The severed portions of the head and trunk had the solid, scarlet appearance of butcher’s cuts.
We couldn’t help thinking of those mannequins, cleverly substituted for stage actors through a false
bottom in a cabinet, that are cleanly sliced into sections previously painted in a bloody trompel’oeil. In this case, the corpse’s authenticity made that compact redness, usually a result of an artist’s craft, more impressive still.
The slaves carried off Gaiz-duh’s remains, along with the lightly soiled axe.
They soon returned and placed before Rao a fiery brazier in which rested two long iron pokers with coarse wooden handles, their tips glowing red.
Mossem, the second condemned man, was pushed to his knees facing the altar, the soles of his feet plainly exposed and his toenails to the ground.
Rao took from the hands of a slave a certain parchment that he unrolled at length: it was the fraudulent certificate of Sirdah’s death, which Mossem had once issued.
Holding an immense palm, a Negro continually fanned the bright, raging hearth.
Resting one knee on the ground behind the condemned man and holding the parchment in his left hand, Rao took from the brazier a burning poker whose tip he pressed into one of the heels offered to him.
The flesh crackled, and Mossem, firmly gripped by the serfs, writhed in pain.
Inexorably Rao pursued his task; it was the text of the parchment itself that he copied slavishly onto the counterfeiter’s foot.
At times he replaced the poker in the hearth, grasping its twin that glowed as it emerged from the coals.
When the left heel was entirely covered in hieroglyphs, Rao continued the operation on the right foot, still alternating between the two reddened iron tips as they cooled.
Mossem, choking on his own muffled roars, made monstrous efforts to escape his torture.
When finally the mendacious document had been copied down to the last character, Rao stood up and ordered the slaves to release Mossem, who, seized by horrible convulsions, expired before our eyes, overcome by his prolonged agony.
Impressions of Africa (French Literature Series) Page 3
