Colony

by Hugo Wilcken

  No offer of water or any other refreshment, after a long day’s walk through the jungle. The official wandered off in search of the correct forms, leaving Manne to leaf through a weeks-old copy of La Dépêche Guyanaise. It was as bland as any provincial newspaper might be – no doubt it was under military censorship. As he turned the pages, his eye was caught by a fait divers. It was about the murder of a Cayenne street artist – probably a libéré, although the article didn’t say. The murderer’s wife had owned a portrait of a man, which she’d cherished and gazed into every evening. She wouldn’t tell her husband who the man was, but she did tell him who’d painted it. So the husband had gone out and killed the artist. That was all there was in the article. It didn’t explain the logic behind the murder, and seemed to take motive for granted.

  Manne turned the story around in his head for a few minutes. A very old memory came to him, of a painting in his mother’s bedroom in the family home. After she’d died, he’d had the habit of stealing in there most days, and staring at the picture for minutes at a time. It was such a long time since he’d last thought of this; the memory swept through him with an extraordinary force of emotion. The painting was a landscape, he remembered, probably a copy of a Poussin or a Le Lorrain. A vast green panorama, utterly dominating the tiny figures in the foreground. Off in the distant hills, a walled town, with its turrets and steeples. It was infinitely intriguing, and the young Manne had had the fantasy that he might one day penetrate its artifice, go through its oils.

  The official came back with the forms, and spent another quarter of an hour questioning Manne and filling them out.

  ‘When’s the rest of your luggage due?’

  ‘I don’t have any more luggage.’

  The official looked at him quizzically. ‘You’re a botanist?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You don’t have any equipment with you?’

  ‘No.’

  For once, Manne was too tired to make anything up. The official waved his hand dismissively. ‘You’d better get down to the commandant’s house now. It’ll be dark soon.’

  A convict showed him the path to the commandant’s residence, back through the jungle. The sun was already setting over the trees, but he’d been told it was only a ten-minute walk. Back into the darkness of the forest. For a while, as he walked, he couldn’t shake the image of his mother’s painting from his mind.

  Now a break in the jungle. A large house – like a country residence in the French provinces – came into view. It had extensive grounds; some effort at landscaping them had been attempted and, it seemed, abandoned. A vast lawn had been laid out with turf, only the turf had gone a reddish brown, the colour of dried blood. Something about it all reminded Manne of his great-uncle’s house in Chiswick, where he’d been sent to stay soon after his mother had died. The size and layout were much the same, except that where his great-uncle had had his greenhouse, here there was a peculiar-looking construction, with a brick base and wooden slats holding up a palm roof. Beyond that, Manne could see the immense expanse of river, even wider than at Saint-Laurent.

  As he got closer to the house he could hear music. A man singing, accompanied by a piano – Schubert Lieder, by the sound of it. The effect, out in the jungle, was distinctly unsettling. Especially since there was something off-kilter about it, as if the piano were out of tune, or the man not in time. Only when he was at the door did he realise it was a gramophone record.

  A butler showed him into a large office. Most of it was taken up by an architect’s model of what looked like a town, spread out across two tables. It was very detailed, with little carved blocks and plaster casts representing buildings and tiny model trees making up the limits of the forest. There were even models of people, like toy soldiers, strolling up and down the thoroughfares. Manne remembered Leblanc’s words about the commandant’s ‘unusual’ building schemes.

  To one side of the model, a man was bent over the gramophone. He was taking the needle off the record, replacing the record in a dust cover. ‘Sound’s not terribly good, I’m afraid. The records have all got warped in the heat. But I’m used to it. I like to listen to music while I work.’ He extended his arm. ‘You must be Monsieur Hartfeld.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They shook hands. The commandant was tall, an imposing figure. A wiry body; thinning hair cropped close to the skull – there was something of the monk about him. A long face, as if it had been stretched like a rubber mask. And marked with some kind of suffering, Manne fancied. He didn’t look like a war veteran, though, despite his military rank. Manne had a knack for picking out veterans – something about the way they talked or moved their body; he couldn’t be more precise than that. Leblanc had had it; this man didn’t.

  ‘I see you’re looking at my model.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’m rather proud of that. Took a couple of convicts a good month’s work to come up with it. Come and get a closer look.’

  He beckoned Manne over. On the edge of the model rested a tumbler, half full, probably of rum. The commandant was drunk, he realised. Not very drunk, but Manne could nonetheless see it in the glassiness of his eyes.

  ‘It’s a plan of the camp, or the settlement, I prefer to call it. It’s how Renée will look once the first phase of construction is finished. You see here? This is the avenue you would have arrived at. There’ll be trees planted along it eventually. It’s where all the administrative buildings will be – I’m relocating the convict barracks further north, in their own quarter. Between the avenue and here, I mean the river, there’ll be a residential quarter, with three main roads …’

  The commandant carried on in this vein for another few minutes. Not a word enquiring about Manne’s mission. At one point, Manne broke in: ‘And this, up here?’

  He was pointing to the carefully carved model of an arch, at the top of the avenue.

  ‘This? It’s a monument. To the war dead. My Arc de Triomphe, ha ha … But you must think me awfully rude; can I offer you a drink or something? I usually have an apéritif about now, rum I’m afraid, I’ve rather gone native. But I have some whisky. And plenty of red wine. Not much point in drinking white, there’s no way to keep it cold.’

  ‘Not just yet, thanks, perhaps later.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll ask Charles to show you to your room. No doubt you’re tired after the trip. Charles!’

  Manne followed the butler through a corridor and up a wide sweep of stairs. It was getting dark now, and the house evidently had no electricity. Everywhere, it gave the impression of being not quite completed. Skirting boards only partly laid, a wall unplastered, a section of balustrade missing. Simple things, but things that looked as if they’d remained undone for months. On the other hand, there were paintings on the wall – good ones – that would almost certainly end up eaten away by damp and mould.

  On one side of the landing were a couple of rooms; Manne could see a narrow bar of light escaping from under one of the doors. The butler led him over to the other side of the landing. Manne’s bedroom was large, and yet the heat somehow made it feel claustrophobic. The thick stone exterior walls were unsuitable for this climate – wooden walls allowed the night coolness to penetrate, while stone stored up the heat during the day and discharged it during the night. Surely the architect should have known this.

  The butler lit the several lamps in the room, then left. Manne’s bags were on his bed, opened. His clothes already put away in the wardrobe – by Guépard, he guessed. He went through his affairs, to check that nothing had been taken. No, everything was where it should be.

  For no good reason, he took out the two drawings of the Vera Cruz orchid that Edouard had sent him, and stared at them for some time. In his daze of exhaustion, he found the drawings mesmerising. There was the trompe-l’oeil of the brown cross within the petals, with the twisted strands that well enough represented a man hanging from it. But Manne had seen too much bizarre orchidry to be impressed by that a
lone. It was something about Edouard’s meticulous, unsentimental draughtsmanship. There was none of the fantasy or sensuality that tended to creep into even the most scientific of orchid drawings. These were clean-lined, technical perfection, like an architectural plan of something yet to be built, that perhaps never would be. Almost as if the thing depicted were not alive at all.

  Apparently, Edouard’s artistic efforts hadn’t always been like this. Once, in Rio de Janeiro, Manne had got chatting to a middle-aged Frenchman who was teaching at the Escola de Belas Artes. The man had invited him for a drink, and the two had ended up having dinner together. By chance, Edouard’s name had come up in conversation. It transpired that the art teacher had briefly known him in Paris, about twenty years before. Edouard had been a young painter then, and known as a rather flamboyant character. He’d gained a certain notoriety for his obscene paintings, which he’d sell to maisons closes. Not much appreciated at the time, the works had since become collectables among a certain clientele. They were painted in a strikingly modern manner, the teacher had told Manne.

  It was hard to imagine the terse, ascetic Edouard ever being ‘flamboyant’, but this secret, romantic past of his had amused Manne. A year later, he’d run into Edouard at the Hotel Grande in Havana. They’d spent the evening talking about the trade, in the circumspect way that plant collectors do when they get together, careful not to give too much away. At one point Manne had remembered the conversation he’d had with the teacher in Rio. ‘Seems you’ve got something of an artistic reputation back in Paris,’ he’d said, recounting the story. Edouard had stiffened, transparently wondering for a moment whether he could deny the whole thing. And despite Manne’s questionings, he would barely talk about his past as an artist. The paintings he’d done were ‘garbage’; he’d only done them for money; he had nothing but contempt for the ‘charlatans’ of the art world. This outburst had put a dampener on the evening, and the two had gone their separate ways soon after. Had that been their last encounter? Maybe it had. Later, there’d been that ill-fated expedition south of Panama. And that was the last Manne had heard of Edouard, until he’d received the letter.

  Manne turned away from the drawings, opened his journal.

  I wonder what E. looks like now. I have a fear that I won’t recognise him, although I don’t see why I shouldn’t. The last time I saw him could only have been five or six years ago. He was probably forty then, mid-forties now. Men don’t change a great deal in their middle years. By then, they have already become who they are. And yet I have the impression that this rule doesn’t apply to me.

  He closed the journal, aware that once again he’d written himself into a corner. Manne dozed fitfully for a while, until the butler woke him. ‘Dinner will be served in twenty minutes, sir.’ He got up, went to the basin and washed his face. As he dressed, he could hear someone climbing the stairs, a door slamming, fierce whispering.

  IV

  There were place settings for three people. The commandant hovered by the table, waiting for Manne to sit down.

  ‘What do you care to drink? I’ve decanted a bottle of Burgundy. A Nuits-Saint-Georges. But Charles can easily …’

  ‘Some Burgundy would be a pleasure. I’m surprised you can find it out here.’

  ‘I had it shipped out especially. Of course, as soon as I got here, I realised it was impossible to lay down, due to the climate. We might as well drink it all up now before it goes bad.’

  Manne noticed that the commandant himself was still on his rum, refilling his glass at regular intervals.

  ‘Charles has managed some duck for this evening. How the devil he got hold of it is a mystery to me.’

  ‘Sounds splendid.’

  More small talk ensued. The commandant’s mood seemed to have changed since their initial meeting. Before, he’d been garrulous and relatively at ease; now he looked nervy and spoke in staccato phrases. The empty place setting was opposite Manne, and he waited for the commandant to mention his wife, even if just to say that she would be down in a minute. But he didn’t. Then halfway through a remark, the commandant stopped and looked up. Manne had his back to the staircase and turned around in his chair. She was coming down the stairs, but very carefully and slowly, as if on a swaying ship. The commandant jumped to his feet, waited until she got to the bottom of the stairs, then wrapped a solicitous arm around her. Manne got up, too.

  ‘Chérie, this is Monsieur Hartfeld. He’ll be staying with us for a few days. Monsieur Hartfeld, I’d like you to meet my wife Renée.’

  ‘Enchanté, madame.’

  The butler materialised with bowls of soup. After the introductions the conversation quickly dried up, and they started on dinner in an embarrassed silence. As he sipped at his soup, Manne glanced across the table at the commandant’s wife. Her face was amazingly pale for this climate. In the tropics, even the most sun-conscious woman ended up with a little colour on her face, her arms.

  ‘Monsieur Hartfeld is a botanist, dear,’ the commandant finally managed. ‘He’s up here for a survey of riverside flora.’ He waited for his wife to reply – she had her spoon to her mouth, but when she put it down again, she said nothing. ‘Well, in any case it’ll be pleasant to have a scientific man in the house,’ continued the commandant. ‘Someone interesting to talk to, at any rate.’ The remark hung awkwardly in the air as they continued with their soup.

  She looked to be in her early thirties, although a glazed look about her eyes might have added a few years. The lines of her décolleté hung crookedly between her breasts, as if she’d just woken and hurriedly thrown on some clothes. Poorly combed hair framed a striking face, sensuous, and yet with a strong, well-defined bone structure. It contrasted with the curves of her figure, which were feminine to an old-fashioned degree – the opposite of the straight-waisted flapper look.

  ‘And how have you spent the day, my dear?’

  Again she didn’t reply, and again a strained silence filled the room.

  ‘My dear, I asked you a question. I asked you how you’d spent your day.’

  ‘You know perfectly well how I spent my day.’

  The butler cleared the soup bowls. The woman stared down at her place mat, which depicted an old hunting scene. Manne noticed that the commandant hadn’t touched his wine, but had continued to serve himself rum throughout the first course. He found himself wondering whether the couple had any children. It was perfectly possible that they had, staying with relatives, or being schooled in France. But Manne thought not.

  ‘Monsieur Hartfeld, did you know that another botanist has recently arrived in the Colony? Not a professional, but a very good amateur one, I believe.’

  Surprised by the woman’s sudden remark, Manne took a moment to realise that it was addressed to him.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. Who is he?’

  ‘A fellow named Pierre Boppe. Strange chap. I used to know him. We moved in similar circles. A long time ago.’

  ‘I think I heard that name in Saint-Laurent. But isn’t he one of the … one of the transportés?’

  ‘He is. You probably read about his trial. Caused quite a stir, back in France.’

  ‘Renée dear, where on earth did you hear all this?’

  Manne glanced over at the commandant, who toyed nervously with his glass as he spoke. His wife stared past Manne, past the staircase and through the window to the river.

  ‘Charles told me. I knew Pierre. He was part of that Riviera set. Even then, I remember botany being his hobby. He used to disappear into the hills of Provence on the hunt for plants. I hear he’s shipped over crates of botanical equipment. The authorities are creating a post especially for him. Apparently, he wants to write a book about tropical flora. I thought it might interest Monsieur Hartfeld.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s certainly interesting,’ said Manne. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly did he do to find himself here?’

  ‘He murdered his wife,’ the woman replied in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘I knew her,
too. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it. He’s the heir to the Fernand fortune. He …’

  ‘Renée,’ interrupted the commandant, ‘I think that’s enough.’

  ‘Enough?’ she replied coolly. ‘Enough what?’

  ‘I really don’t think this is a suitable subject for conversation.’

  ‘Why ever not? I was answering Monsieur Hartfeld’s question.’

  ‘I said that’s enough. Quite enough. It’s rather morbid.’

  His wife shrugged her shoulders in irritation. ‘Honestly. Where do you think we are? What are we supposed to talk about?’

  ‘I said it’s enough!’ the commandant snapped, his face suddenly flushed. He put his hands to the table, as if he were about to lever himself up. ‘When I say it’s enough, I mean you to listen to me! Look at you! I asked you to dress properly for dinner! Look at you! You’re a mess!’

  An artery in his neck stood out horribly, as if inflamed; he waved an arm wildly in his wife’s direction. Her face bore an expression of astonishment rather than fear.

  Manne’s words cut through a bizarre pause: ‘With respect, sir, it’s true that I did ask her that question. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble. I think it’s best if we all calm down.’

  The commandant turned to him, still apparently in the grip of his rage. ‘This has nothing to do with you, Monsieur Hartfeld. Nothing to do with you!’

  ‘In that case, I must ask you to excuse me.’ Manne placed his napkin beside his plate and got up from his chair. ‘Although first I wish to say that I don’t much care for the way you treat your wife in front of a guest.’

  ‘I find that most impertinent, Monsieur Hartfeld. Most impertinent. You have no idea of the situation. May I remind you that you are staying in my house.’

  ‘I’ll leave in the morning.’

  The commandant’s wife broke in: ‘Monsieur Hartfeld, there’s no need to leave.’

  Another agonising pause. The commandant slumped back in his chair. ‘Yes, please sit down, Monsieur Hartfeld. I’m afraid I lost my temper. I owe you an apology.’ His voice was flat now, like that of a corrected schoolboy. ‘In fact, I offer my apologies both to you and to Renée. Please accept them.’