Impressions of Africa (French Literature Series) Page 4

  The body was taken away, along with the parchment and the brazier.

  Back at their post, the slaves took hold of Rul, an oddly attractive Ponukelean, the only remaining member of the ill-fated trio. The condemned woman, whose hair sported long golden pins arranged in a crown, wore a frayed red velvet corset above her loincloth; the corset bore a striking similarity to the curious marking on Sirdah’s brow.

  Kneeling in the same direction as Mossem, the proud Rul vainly attempted a desperate resistance.

  Rao removed from her hair one of the golden pins, then applied its tip perpendicularly to the woman’s back, choosing the circle of skin visible behind the first eyelet to the right on the red corset with its frayed, knotted laces; then, with slow, even pressure, he buried the sharp spike, which penetrated the skin to the hilt.

  At the scream provoked by this horrendous injection, Sirdah, recognizing her mother’s voice, threw herself at Talou’s feet to beg his sovereign mercy.

  Immediately, as if to receive an unexpected change of orders, Rao turned toward the emperor, who, with an inflexible motion of his hand, commanded him to proceed with the torture.

  A second pin, pulled from the woman’s black locks, was planted in the second eyelet, and one by one the entire row bristled with shining golden studs. Repeated on the left, the operation finally stripped her hair of its ornamentation and successively filled all the eyelets.

  It had been a while since the wretched creature had stopped screaming; one of the sharp points, penetrating her heart, had caused her death.

  The corpse, quickly taken up, disappeared like the two others.

  Lifting the mute, anguished Sirdah to her feet, Talou walked to the statues aligned near the Stock Exchange. The warriors parted to clear the way for his passage and, promptly joined by our group, the emperor made a sign to Norbert; the latter, approaching the small cabin, called out his sister’s name.

  After a moment the skylight in the paper roof slowly opened and flapped back, pushed from within by the slender hand of Louise Montalescot; gradually appearing through the wide aperture, she seemed to be climbing the rungs of a ladder.

  Halfway out, she stopped and turned to face us. She was quite beautiful in her officer’s uniform, her long blonde curls flowing freely from beneath a tight policeman’s kepi tilted over one ear.

  Her cavalryman’s blue dolman, molding a superb waist, was decorated on the right with shining gold shoulder braids; from these emanated the discreet music we’d been hearing through the walls of the hut. The sound was generated by the woman’s own breathing, thanks to a surgically established connection between the lobes of her lungs and the looped braids that concealed flexible, sonorous tubing. The gilded tips hanging from the ends of her aiguillettes like gracefully elongated counterweights were hollow and contained vibrating strips. At each contraction of her lungs, a portion of her exhaled breath passed through the multiple conduits and, activating the strips, triggered a harmonious tone.

  A trained magpie perched motionless on the alluring captive’s left shoulder.

  Just then, Louise spotted Yaour’s body, still laid out in Gretchen’s costume in the shade of the withered rubber tree. Violent emotion played over her features and, clasping a hand to her eyes, she wept nervously, her breast wracked by terrible sobs that accentuated and quickened the chords from her shoulder braids.

  Talou, losing patience, barked several unintelligible words that snapped the unhappy young woman back to attention.

  Swallowing her grief, she reached her right hand toward the magpie, whose two claws hopped readily onto her proffered index finger.

  With an expansive gesture, Louise stretched out her arm as if to launch the bird, which took wing, then landed in the sand before the statue of the helot.

  Two barely perceptible openings, more than a yard apart, pierced the visible façade of the black plinth almost at ground level.

  The magpie approached the farther opening and jabbed in its beak, activating some inner spring.

  At once, the railway platform began to tilt, slowly sinking into the plinth on the left while rising above ground level on the right.

  Its equilibrium broken, the vehicle bearing the tragic effigy trundled slowly over the gelatinous tracks, which now lay on a fairly pronounced slope. The four wheels, made of black strips, were kept from derailing by an inner lip that extended slightly beyond the rims and held them fast to the rails.

  Reaching the bottom of its short descent, the small wagon was abruptly halted by the edge of the plinth.

  During the several seconds the journey required, the magpie had hopped over to the other opening, into which its beak energetically poked.

  Following a second activation, the movement occurred in reverse. The vehicle, gradually lifted, then pulled to the right by its own weight, rolled motorless over the silent rails and butted against the opposite edge of the plinth, which now stood as an obstacle to the lowered platform.

  This seesaw motion was repeated several times, with the magpie constantly flitting between one opening and the other. The helot’s statue remained fixed to the vehicle as it rode back and forth, and the whole was so light that the tracks, despite their lack of substance, showed not the slightest trace of flattening or damage.

  Talou watched in awe the success of the perilous experiment that he himself had conceived, without thinking it possible.

  The magpie stopped its maneuvers of its own accord and with a few flutters of its wings reached the bust of Immanuel Kant; from the top of the stand, at left, jutted a small perch on which the bird alighted.

  No sooner had it done this than the inside of the skull shone brightly, its exceedingly thin walls perfectly translucent above the brow line.

  One could divine the presence of many reflecting mirrors facing in all directions, judging from the dazzling rays, representing flames of genius, that burst violently from the incandescent light source.

  Often the magpie flew up, only to land back on its perch again, alternately extinguishing and relighting the top of the skull, which alone shone brilliantly while the face, ears, and neck remained in darkness.

  With each landing, it was as if a transcendent idea were hatching in the thinker’s suddenly illumined brain.

  Abandoning the bust, the bird alit on the wide stand featuring the band of thugs; once again its prying beak, this time thrusting into a narrow vertical pipe, activated a certain delicate concealed mechanism.

  To the question “Is this where the fugitives are hiding?” the nun blocking entrance to her convent answered a persistent “No,” shaking her head from side to side after each forceful jab of the bird’s beak, as if it was pecking for grain.

  Finally, the magpie arrived at the platform, smooth as a floor, on which the two last statues stood; the spot the intelligent creature chose to land on featured a delicate rosette, which sunk half an inch under this slight extra weight.

  At that instant, the regent bowed even more deeply to Louis XV, whom this obeisance left unmoved.

  The bird, hopping in place, provoked several more ceremonial greetings, then fluttered back to its mistress’s shoulder.

  After one last, long glance at Yaour, Louise descended back into her cabin and slammed the skylight shut, as if impatient to resume some mysterious task.

  III

  THE FIRST PORTION of the ceremony had ended and the Incomparables’ gala could now get underway.

  But first, there would be one final opportunity for trading shares.

  The black warriors moved farther aside to clear the approach to the Stock Exchange, around which the passengers from the Lynceus gathered.

  Five stockbrokers, played by the associated bankers Hounsfield and Cerjat and their three clerks, sat at five tables set up beneath the building’s colonnade, and within moments they were calling out the rhymed orders that the passengers feverishly placed with them.

  The stocks were named after the Incomparables themselves, each represented by one hundred shares t
hat rose or fell in value depending on predictions regarding the players and the outcome of the contest. All transactions were handled in cash, in French or local currency.

  For a quarter of an hour the five middlemen ceaselessly shouted execrable lines of verse, which the traders, following the fluctuations of the stock quotes, improvised hastily and with copious amounts of padding.

  Finally, Hounsfield and Cerjat signaled the close of business by getting up from the table and walking down the stairs, trailed by their three clerks; they joined, as did I, the players crowding back into their former places, their backs to the prison.

  The dark warriors again lined up in their original order, though at Rao’s command they avoided the immediate vicinity of the Stock Exchange to allow free passage.

  The gala performance began.

  First the four Boucharessas brothers made their appearance, each wearing the same acrobatic costume, which consisted of a pink leotard and black velvet trunks.

  The two eldest, Hector and Tommy, lithe and vigorous adolescents, each carried in a solid tambourine six dark-colored rubber balls. They walked in opposite directions and soon turned to face each other, stopping at two very distant points.

  Suddenly, at a softly called signal, Hector, who was standing near our group, vigorously launched his six balls one by one from his tambourine.

  Meanwhile, Tommy, standing at the foot of the altar, successively projected from the musical disk in his left hand all his rubber projectiles, which crossed paths with his brother’s.

  This first feat accomplished, each juggler began bouncing individual balls back to his opposite number, effecting a constant exchange that now continued without interruption. The tambourines vibrated in unison, and the twelve projectiles formed a kind of elongated arc in perpetual motion.

  Thanks to the perfect synchronicity of their movements, combined with a marked physical resemblance, the two brothers (one of whom was left-handed) gave the illusion of a single person reflected in a mirror. For several minutes the tour de force went on with mathematical precision. Finally, at a new signal, each player caught half the projectiles in the hollow of his upturned tambourine, abruptly ending the to and fro.

  Immediately, Marius Boucharessas, a bright-looking ten-year-old, ran forward while his two older brothers cleared the area.

  The child carried in his arms, on his shoulders, and even on top of his head a collection of young cats, each wearing a red or green ribbon around its neck.

  With the edge of his heel, he drew two lines in the sand about forty to sixty feet apart, parallel to the side occupied by the Stock Exchange. The cats, jumping spontaneously to the ground, posted themselves in two equal camps behind these conventional boundaries and lined up facing each other, all the green ribbons on one side and all the red on the other.

  At a sign from Marius, the graceful felines began a frolicsome game of Prisoner’s Base.

  To begin, one of the greens ran up to the red camp and three times, with the tips of its barely unsheathed claws, tapped the paw that one of its adversaries extended; at the last tap it swiftly ran away, chased close behind by the red, which tried to catch it.

  At that moment, another green ran after the pursuer, which, forced to turn back, was soon aided by one of its partners; the latter lit upon the second green, which was forced to flee in turn.

  The same maneuver was repeated several times, until the moment when a red, managing to tag a green with its paw, let out a victorious meow.

  The match halted, and the green prisoner, entering enemy territory, took three steps toward its camp, then stood stock still. The cat that had earned the honor of the capture went to the greens’ camp and began anew, by sharply rapping three times on a tendered paw, freely offered.

  At that point, the alternating pursuits resumed with gusto, culminating in the capture of a red, which obediently stopped dead before the enemy camp.

  Fast-paced and captivating, the game went on without any infractions of the rules. The prisoners, in two symmetrical and lengthening rows, sometimes saw their number decrease when a player’s skillful tag was able to deliver one of its teammates. Such alert runners, if they reached the opposing camp unhindered, became untouchable during their stay over the line they’d crossed in glory.

  Finally, the group of green prisoners grew so large that Marius imperiously decreed the red team the victors.

  The cats, without a moment’s delay, went back to the child and scampered up his body, taking the places they’d had on arrival.

  As he walked away, Marius was replaced by Bob, the last of the brothers, a ravishing blond boy of four with big blue eyes and long curly hair.

  With incomparable mastery and miraculously precocious talent, the charming lad began a series of impressions accompanied by eloquent gestures. The sounds of a train picking up speed, the cries of various domestic animals, the shriek of a blade against a whetstone, the sudden pop of a champagne cork, the gurgling of poured liquid, fanfares of a hunting bugle, a violin solo, and the plaintive notes of a cello formed a staggering repertoire that could give whoever momentarily shut his eyes the illusion of total reality.

  The prodigy took his leave to rejoin Marius, Hector, and Tommy.

  Soon the four brothers moved aside to let through their sister Stella, a charming adolescent of fourteen, who, dressed as Fortune, appeared balancing on the crest of a narrow wheel that she kept in constant motion beneath her feet.

  Rolling smoothly, the girl began turning the narrow rim in every direction, pushing off with the tips of her heels in an uninterrupted series of small hops.

  In her hand she held a large, deep, convoluted horn of plenty, from which money made of light, shining paper poured forth like a shower of golden coins and floated slowly to the ground, producing no metallic echo.

  The louis, double louis, and large hundred-franc disks formed a sparkling train behind the lovely traveler, who, maintaining a smile on her lips and her place on the wheel, performed miracles of equilibrium and speed.

  As with certain magician’s cones that endlessly disgorge an infinite variety of flowers, the reservoir of coins seemed inexhaustible. Stella had only to shake it gently to sow its riches, a thick, uneven bed soon partially crushed by the circumnavigations of the errant wheel.

  After many twists and turns, the girl vanished like a sprite, sowing her pseudo-metallic currency to the last.

  All eyes now turned to the marksman Balbet, who had just taken from the Zouave’s tomb the cartridge pouches, which he fastened to his flanks, as well as the weapon that was none other than a very old-fashioned Gras rifle.

  Walking quickly to the right, the illustrious champion, the focus of everyone’s attention, stopped before our group and carefully selected his spot, peering toward the north of the square.

  Opposite him at a great distance, beneath the commemorative palm, stood the square stake topped by a soft-boiled egg.

  Further on, the gathered natives craning their necks behind the row of sycamores moved aside at a sign from Rao to clear a wide berth.

  Balbet loaded his rifle; then, shouldering it with precision, he aimed carefully and fired.

  The bullet, skimming the upper portion of the egg, removed part of the white, leaving the yolk exposed.

  Several projectiles fired in succession continued the process; little by little the albumen envelope disappeared to reveal the inner core, which remained intact.

  Sometimes, between two reports, Hector Boucharessas ran up to turn the egg, gradually baring every point of its surface to the shots.

  One of the sycamores acted as a backstop to halt the bullets that penetrated its trunk, part of which had been planed flat to prevent ricocheting.

  The twenty-four cartridges in Balbet’s provision were just enough to complete the experiment.

  When the last of the smoke had poured from the weapon’s barrel, Hector took the egg in the palm of his hand to show it around.

  Not a trace of white remained on the delicate
inner membrane, which, though entirely uncovered, still enveloped the yolk without showing a single scratch.

  Then, at Balbet’s request, to show that no excess boiling had eased his task, Hector closed his fist on the yellow orb and let the liquid ooze between his fingers.

  The builder La Billaudière-Maisonnial appeared on schedule, carting before him, like a knife-grinder, a strangely complicated crank device.

  Halting in the middle of the square, he set the voluminous machine down in the axis of the altar; two wheels and two legs kept it in perfect balance.

  The entire mechanism consisted of a kind of millstone activated by a pedal, which could set in motion a whole system of cogs, levers, rods, and springs forming an inextricable tangle of metal; from one side emerged a jointed arm ending in a hand armed with a dueling foil.

  After replacing the Gras rifle and cartridge pouches on the Zouave’s tomb, Balbet took from a narrow bench that formed part of the new apparatus a handsome fencing outfit comprising a mask, plastron, glove, and foil.

  At once, La Billaudière-Maisonnial, facing us, sat on the now empty bench and, his body hidden from sight by the astounding mechanism rising before him, rested his foot on the long pedal that turned the millstone.

  Balbet, protected by his mask, glove, and plastron, energetically traced a straight line in the ground with the tip of his foil. Then, his left sole leaning on the fixed stroke, he elegantly took his guard before the articulated arm that emerged from the left, plainly standing out against the white background of the altar.

  The two swords crossed, and La Billaudière-Maisonnial, with a movement of his foot, set the millstone turning at a certain speed.