Impressions of Africa (French Literature Series)

by Roussel, Raymond

  By the light of the forest fire, Talou distinguished on the young woman’s brow a red birthmark with radiating yellow lines. There could be no mistake: it was his beloved Sirdah who stood before his eyes. She was very different from the imaginary portrait he’d so painstakingly crafted and that Meisdehl so perfectly incarnated, but this mattered little to the emperor who, mad with joy, ran up to his daughter to embrace her.

  He then tried to talk to her, but Sirdah, recoiling in fear, did not understand his language.

  During the happy father’s effusions, a tree consumed at the base suddenly toppled, violently striking the head of the Zouave, who fell unconscious. Sirdah immediately rushed to the soldier’s aid, her face contorted with anxiety.

  Talou didn’t wish to abandon the injured stranger who seemed to inspire such pure affection in his daughter; plus, he was counting on the man’s eyewitness revelations to illuminate the longstanding mystery of Sirdah’s disappearance.

  Several moments later, the palanquin, lifted by the runners, headed back to Ejur, carrying the emperor, Sirdah, and the unconscious Zouave.

  Talou entered the capital the next day.

  Brought before her daughter, Rul, terror-stricken and under threat of torture, made a complete confession to the emperor, who immediately ordered Mossem’s arrest.

  While searching his minister’s hut for some proof of the abject felony, Talou discovered the love letter that Nair had written to Jizme several months before. Seeing himself ridiculed on the drawing that headed the sheet, the monarch flew into a rage, resolving to torture both Nair, for his brazenness, and Jizme, for the duplicity she’d committed by accepting such a document and not denouncing its author.

  Lavished with care in a hut where they had laid him down, the Zouave came to his senses and recounted his odyssey to Seil-kor, who had been charged with learning his story.

  Velbar—for so the patient was named—came from Marseille. His father, a decorative painter, had taught him his own trade early on, and the admirably talented youngster had improved his craft by taking free local classes in which he learned drawing and watercolor. At eighteen, Velbar had discovered he had a strong baritone; for days on end, while on his scaffolding painting some shop sign, he lustily belted out many fashionable romances, and passersby stopped to listen, marveling at the charm and purity of his generous voice.

  When he reached the age for military service, Velbar was sent to Bougie to join the Fifth Zouaves. After a smooth crossing, the young man, delighted to see new lands, disembarked on African soil one beautiful November morning and was pointed to the military barracks amid a large detachment of conscripts.

  The rookie Zouave’s beginnings were difficult and marked by a thousand daily vexations. Rotten luck had placed him under the command of one Lieutenant Lécurou, a ruthless and fastidious martinet who made a boast of his legendary harshness.

  At the time, to satisfy the demands of a certain Flora Crinis, a demanding and profligate young woman who was his lover, Lécurou spent long hours in a secret gambling club where a tempting roulette wheel spun continually. As luck had so far smiled on the impetuous gambler, the richly kept Flora appeared in public dripping with jewels and strutted about in a carriage beside the lieutenant down the city’s elegant promenade.

  Meanwhile, Velbar pursued his arduous apprenticeship as a soldier.

  One day, as the regiment, returning to Bougie after a long march, still found itself in the middle of the countryside, the Zouaves were ordered to strike up a spirited tune to help them forget their road-weariness.

  Velbar, who by now was known for his splendid voice, was assigned to sing solo the verses of an interminable lament, to which the entire regiment answered in chorus with an eternally unvarying refrain.

  At dusk they crossed through a small wood, in which a lone dreamer, sitting beneath a tree, was jotting onto music paper some melody born of his solitude and reflection.

  Hearing Velbar’s voice, which alone carried more loudly than the huge chorus that periodically answered him, the inspired stroller suddenly jumped to his feet and followed the regiment back to town.

  The stranger was none other than the composer Faucillon, whose celebrated opera Daedalus, after a brilliant run in France, had just been staged throughout the major cities of Algeria. Accompanied by the performers, Faucillon had only recently arrived in Bougie, the next stop in their triumphant tour.

  But since the last performance, the baritone Ardonceau, overwhelmed by the difficult title role and suffering from a tenacious sore throat, had become unable to go on; Faucillon, completely at a loss, had nearly given up finding a replacement for his leading man, when his ear had been struck by the young Zouave singing on the road.

  The next day, having made his inquiries, Faucillon went to find Velbar, who jumped at the chance to perform onstage. They easily obtained the colonel’s authorization and, after several days of intense rehearsal under the composer’s direction, the young debutant felt prepared.

  The performance was held before a packed house; in the front row of a box, Flora Crinis sat enthroned with Lieutenant Lécurou.

  Velbar, magnificent in the role of Daedalus, conveyed like a consummate actor the anxieties and hopes of an artist obsessed with the grandiose designs of his genius. The Greek toga flattered his superb physique, and the ideal timbre of his powerful voice ended each phrase with an abrupt surge of vigor.

  Flora could not keep her eyes off of Velbar, training the lenses of her opera glasses on him and feeling within her an irresistible sensation that had begun the moment the young singer had appeared onstage.

  In the third act, Velbar triumphed with the principal aria, a kind of hymn to joy and pride in which Daedalus, having completed the construction of the labyrinth and profoundly moved by the sight of his masterpiece, rapturously greeted the realization of his dream.

  The admirable interpretation of this rousing passage made the turmoil in Flora’s heart overflow, and the very next day she hatched a subtle plan to get close to Velbar.

  Before undertaking any project, the superstitious Flora always consulted Old Angélique, an overfamiliar and talkative busybody who read cards, palms, and horoscopes, loaned money, and, for the right fee, handled all sorts of dubious errands.

  Summoned by an urgent missive, Angélique went to see Flora. The old crone looked every bit the fortuneteller, with her filthy gunnysack and large, shapeless cloak that for the past ten years had protected her against the often harsh Algerian winters.

  Flora confessed her secret and asked, first and foremost, if her desire had been conceived under an auspicious sign. Angélique immediately took from her gunnysack a celestial planisphere that she pinned to the wall; then, using the previous day’s date as starting point for her horoscope, she sank into a deep meditation, seemingly absorbed in active and complex mental calculations. In the end, she pointed to the constellation Cancer, whose benign influence should preserve Flora’s future love affairs from misfortune.

  Once that matter was settled, the main thing was to conduct the affair as secretly as possible, as the lieutenant, a suspicious and jealous man, kept a watchful eye over his mistress’s every movement.

  Angélique put the planisphere back in her sack, then pulled from its depths a sheet of cardboard perforated by a certain number of irregularly spaced holes. This device, which cryptographers call a grille cipher, would permit the two lovers to communicate without fear of discovery. A sentence, written in the holes placed over a sheet of blank paper, could then be made unintelligible by filling in the spaces between them with random letters. Only Velbar could reconstruct the meaning of the billet-doux by positioning an identical grille over the coded text.

  But this subterfuge required some explanation: Velbar and Angélique needed to talk privately. The crone couldn’t go to the barracks without risking a dangerous encounter with the lieutenant, who was fully aware of her close relationship with Flora; on the other hand, summoning Velbar to her home would awaken the
young Zouave’s suspicions, as he would see in it only a self-interested bid for a paid consultation. Angélique therefore decided to arrange a rendezvous in a public place, predetermining a sign by which to assure identification, to prevent any mishaps.

  In Flora’s presence, the old woman composed an anonymous letter full of seductive promises: Velbar should sit the following evening at a sidewalk table of the Café Leopold and order a mixed plate, called a “Harlequin,” at the precise moment when the Benediction rang in the church of Saint-Jacques; immediately a confidant would approach the young soldier bearing the most gratifying revelations.

  The following day at the appointed hour, Angélique was at her post in front of the Café Leopold, not far from a Zouave who was calmly and silently smoking his pipe. The crone, not knowing Velbar and not wishing to commit a faux pas, prudently awaited the agreed signal to deliver her message.

  When the sound of church bells suddenly began pealing in the tower of nearby Saint-Jacques, the Zouave asked the waiter a question and then ordered a Harlequin.

  Angélique went up and introduced herself, referring to the anonymous letter, just as the waiter placed before Velbar the requested Harlequin, a kind of multicolored assemblage of assorted meats and vegetables piled on the same dish.

  The old woman briefly explained the situation, and Velbar, enchanted, received an absolutely perfect double of the grille that Angélique had given Flora.

  The two lovers lost no time in beginning a secret, torrid correspondence. Velbar, having received a hefty fee for his performance in Daedalus, devoted a portion of his earnings to renting and furnishing a seductive retreat, where he could receive his mistress without fear of discovery. With the rest of the money he bought Flora a present, choosing, at the finest jeweler in town, a silver chatelaine from which hung a magnificent, finely wrought watch.

  Flora let out a squeal of joy as she accepted this charming souvenir, which she immediately pinned to her belt; they agreed that, as far as Lécurou was concerned, she had purchased this extravagance for herself.

  Still, in spite of the constellation Cancer, the affair would come to a tragic end.

  Lécurou, finding that Flora had begun acting strangely, followed her one day to the apartment Velbar had rented. Hidden around the corner, he waited two long hours and finally saw the lovers emerge, tenderly parting after a few steps.

  As of the very next day, Lécurou ceased all relations with Flora and conceived a mortal hatred of Velbar, whom he began persecuting cruelly.

  He constantly watched his rival, waiting to catch him out on the slightest pretext and persistently inflicting on him the harshest and most unjust punishments. Folding in the thumb of his raised right hand, he had a way of announcing confinement to the brig with the words “Four days in the cooler!” that made Velbar flush hot with rage and nearly drove him to talk back to his superior officer.

  But a terrible example brought home to the young Zouave that he needed to rein in his dangerous rebellious impulses.

  One of his comrades, a fellow named Suire, was said to have lived a rather turbulent life between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Frequenting the seediest quarters of Bougie and living among pimps and prostitutes, Suire, before joining the regiment, was a kind of bravo who, gossips said, had committed two as yet unpunished murders for hire.

  Fierce and violent by nature, Suire had difficulty bending to the demands of discipline and chafed under Lécurou’s continual reproofs.

  One day, the lieutenant, inspecting the barracks, ordered Suire to remake his pack, which was uneven.

  Suire, already in a foul mood, didn’t budge.

  The lieutenant repeated his order, to which Suire replied with the single word, “No!”

  Furious, Lécurou screamed abuse at Suire in his shrill voice, detailing with acrid joy the thirty days of prison that would quite certainly follow this insubordonation; then, before turning to leave, as a final insult he spat in Suire’s face.

  Suire lost his head at that moment, and snatching up his bayonet, shoved it full into the chest of the despicable lieutenant, whom they immediately carried off.

  Although unconscious and bloody, Lécurou was only slightly wounded by the weapon, which had glanced off a rib.

  Suire was nonetheless court-martialed and sentenced to death.

  Lécurou, soon recovered, commanded the firing squad, which included Velbar.

  When the lieutenant shouted, “Aim!” Velbar, realizing he was about to kill someone, was overcome by uncontrollable trembling.

  Suddenly he heard the word “Fire!” and Suire collapsed, struck by twelve rounds.

  Velbar would never forget that horrible moment.

  Flora now conducted her affair with Velbar openly; but, since Lécurou had abandoned her, the poor girl was racking up debt after debt. Knowing the gambling den that, for a time, had procured the lieutenant his resources, she decided to tempt fate in turn and sat day by day at the roulette table.

  But persistent bad luck caused her to lose even her last louis.

  She then resorted to Angélique, and the crone, sensing an advantageous prospect, immediately loaned Flora a fairly sizeable sum at usurious rates, using the borrower’s jewelry and furniture—her sole remaining assets—as collateral.

  Alas, the wheel soon made away with this new capital as well.

  One day, sitting before the green baize, the nervous and agitated Flora risked her very last gold coins. A few throws of the dice were enough to complete her ruin. The wretched woman, seeing in a flash her jewelry sold off and furniture repossessed, was suddenly haunted by thoughts of suicide.

  At that moment, a loud bang was heard at the door of the clandestine establishment, and someone rushed in crying, “It’s the police!”

  Panic gripped those present, some of whom threw open the windows as if to find an escape route. But four stories separated the balcony from the street, making flight impossible.

  Soon the door burst open and a dozen plainclothesmen rushed into the foyer, then into the gaming parlor.

  The hysteria around Flora had brought her anxiety to a climax. The prospect of a scandal, added to the specter of indigence, hastened the accomplishment of her fatal plan. In a bound she ran to the balcony and hurled herself to the pavement below.

  The next day, learning simultaneously of the drama at the gambling den and his mistress’s disappearance, Velbar felt a sinister foreboding. He went straight to the morgue, where he saw, hanging above the corpse of a woman with a mangled and unrecognizable face, the famous silver chain that he himself had given poor Flora. This clue left no doubt as to the dead woman’s identity, whose funeral service the young Zouave paid for by selling off at rock-bottom prices the furniture he had recently bought with his stage earnings.

  Flora’s death did nothing to lessen Lécurou’s hatred, and he abused his rival more than ever with insults and punishments.

  One moonless night in May, at a certain halt in a nocturnal march lit only by the stars, Lécurou went up to Velbar, on whom he inflicted a week under police guard for a supposed violation of the dress code. After which the lieutenant began coldly insulting the young Zouave, who, pale with anger, clenched every muscle to remain in control.

  In the end, Lécurou reprised the conclusion of his scene with Suire by spitting in Velbar’s face; the latter saw red and, acting purely on instinct, roundly slapped the lieutenant across the face before he knew what he was doing.

  Immediately, the terrible consequences of this quasi-involuntary action appeared to him with terrifying clarity, and in a flash he saw the horrible vision of Suire crumbling beneath a hail of bullets. Shoving past the lieutenant and the several officers running up to lend their chief a hand, he plunged straight ahead through the countryside, soon protected from pursuit by the nighttime darkness.

  He reached the port of Bougie and hid out in the cargo hold of the Saint Irenaeus, a large packet boat bound for South Africa.

  The next day, the Saint Irenaeus lifted
anchor; but five days later, disoriented after a storm, it ran aground within sight of Mihu. Counting the Sylvander and the vessel carrying the Spanish twins, it was the third time such a thing had occurred in the region since the long-distant coronation of Suann.

  Hastening from his hiding place, Velbar, still in uniform and carrying his rifle and full cartridge belts, went to blend in with the crowd of passengers.

  The inhabitants of Mihu, fearsome cannibals, placed the castaways under heavy guard to gorge on their flesh; every day one of the prisoners, after a summary execution, was devoured then and there in the others’ presence. Soon only Velbar remained, having seen his ill-fated companions disappear to the last man.

  When the time came for his own agony, he decided to attempt an impossible escape from his killers. As they reached for him, he suddenly began swinging his rifle butt, clearing himself a passage through the crowd, then began fleeing blindly, chased by some twenty natives who bolted after him in hot pursuit.

  After an hour of solid running, as his strength was beginning to flag, he saw the edge of the Vorrh and made one last dash in hopes of finding a thicket in the huge forest to hide him.

  The flesh-eaters, urging each other on with frantic shouts, managed to close in on the captive, and it was just as they were about to grab him that Velbar dove into the outermost foliage. The chase ended then and there, as the natives dared not follow him into the dark lair of the evil spirits.

  Velbar lived peacefully in the safe haven of the Vorrh, never venturing out for fear of being recaptured by the fierce anthropophagi. He fashioned a small hut from branches and lived on fruits and roots, preciously guarding his rifle and cartridges in case of attack by wild beasts.

  When he’d given the lieutenant the fatal slap, Velbar had had on his person his box of watercolors and sketchbook. Using water from a stream transported in a concave stone, he managed to dilute his paints and fill his long, solitary days with work. He wanted to summarize in images the somber drama of Bougie, and he marshaled all his talents to accomplish this absorbing task.