For Louis and me, along with the first-class passengers, dinner will as usual be held in the luxurious dining room on the upper deck. The non-commissioned officers and labourers, by contrast, will dine below in the second-class compartment. I follow my companion inside, where everyone is already assembled save for Commander Rom and Major Thys, the captain of the vessel. They arrive shortly after, and at once all present rise in respect, before Major Thys motions for us to be seated.
The Major is a man of considerable importance, aide-de-camp and confidant to the King himself. Together with the legendary Briton, Stanley, he personally led the troops that drove out the Arabs, bringing an end to slavery and other atrocities in the heart of Africa. He is also a figure of imposing presence, his hair brushed severely back and a pair of stern brown moustaches lending him an even greater air of authority. Ordinarily, he is a man of few words, but today is no ordinary day and his voice carries across the room. I count it a privilege to hear him at his own table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I take this opportunity to make an important announcement.”
The assembly falls silent, all eyes fixed on the Major, expectant and admiring. The only sound is the steady throb of the ship’s steam engine, duf-duf-duf, beneath our feet.
“Sixteen days ago we began this voyage, the first of the new commercial line between Antwerp and the Congo of the Compagnie Belge Maritime du Congo. I am pleased to announce to you, ladies and gentlemen, that this very afternoon, at precisely half past three, we crossed the Equator.”
A spontaneous applause rises. For almost everyone present, it is the first time. Since many of them have never travelled more than a hundred miles from their birthplace, this crossing feels momentous. To pass the Equator is not merely to reach another point upon a map, but to achieve what few men or women will know in their lifetime. I count myself among the fortunate.
“Well then,” the Major resumes when the applause has subsided, “I propose we rise once more for a toast. Jacques…” he turns to the black waiter standing by the kitchen door, “bring us the champagne!”
The man vanishes at once, returning promptly with a trolley laden with bottles and crystal flutes. I had already observed how these so-called “apes” understand French, yet each time it strikes me anew. Their intelligence does not appear to me so very far below our own. But such thoughts I keep to myself, for they would not be welcome, least of all by Commander Rom, who never ceases to mock those poor ebony-skinned men as though their humanity were but a jest. Meticulously, Jacques and his four companions pour the sparkling golden wine, not spilling a single drop.
“To the King’s health!” the Major proclaims with steady voice.
“To the King!” we reply in chorus, before letting the divine liquid flow down our throats. A sumptuous dinner follows — trout en papillote and beef with tartar sauce.
Our destination draws nearer. One feels it not only in the tropical heat and the sudden brevity of the sunsets, but even in the air itself. We are still upon the open sea, off the coasts of gold and ivory, yet already the odour of that vast continent seems to reach us. I cannot describe it well: it is sharp and saline, like the sweat of a long day’s labour. Perhaps it is only the sea that deceives me, or my own perspiration. And yet, the company wears tailcoats and layered gowns as though we were still in Europe, for the protocol aboard the Léopoldville requires it, just as it requires me to don my full dress uniform. Thirty-five degrees or not, the rules do not change. Such things, we are told, distinguish us from animals. Once more I glance in secret at our waiters, working steadily, untouched by uniform or by the laughter of those who deride them. They are part of the entertainment on board. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
At the table of honour sits also a man who seems quite out of place. Small in stature, though still young, his thinning blond hair is brushed untidily, and his large spectacles lend him a bookish air. His attire too shows little sense of wealth or fashion. I had already made his acquaintance earlier: Mr. Harris, an English photographer, sent by the King himself as an independent witness to the great work of civilisation in darkest Africa.
“Deghendt, would you be so kind as to explain to the Major how you intend to proceed?” the Commander suddenly pulls me back into the conversation.
“You mean the railway, sir?”
“No, the Queen’s rose garden,” he replies with his usual sarcasm. “Of course I mean the railway!”
“The Commander tells me you have an idea for advancing the works more swiftly,” Major Thys interjects, “I am curious to hear it.”
“Go on, Deghendt, don’t be so shy,” Rom continues. “You were enthusiastic enough when you told Mertens.”
I cast a glance at Louis, my friend, or so I thought. Now I am less sure. Him and his accursed loose tongue! He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. Best so; shame is the most fitting emotion for him just now.
“Ahem…” I clear my throat. “If I may, and without having seen the situation on the ground, it seems to me, from your accounts, that the problem lies chiefly in the motivation of the local labourers.”
“Do you hear, Major, how my young lieutenant has a certain tenderness for les bougnouls?” Rom cuts across me, bursting into roaring laughter. Jacques remains impassive, though I am certain he understands the fine nickname. The Major smiles faintly, but keeps his gaze fixed on me.
“Please, Lieutenant, explain yourself further.”
“With respect, Major, if I understand correctly you have already tried everything to quicken the work of the local men, is that so?”
“Indeed, Lieutenant. We have asked politely, we have commanded, we have involved the missionaries, we have threatened, we have used stick and whip, we have carried out exemplary executions, and even employed the mungu, their witch-doctors. All, alas, without effect.”
The Major leans in slightly.
“So tell me, Lieutenant, how do you propose to raise their motivation?”
An awkward silence descends upon the table. All eyes are on me, save Louis’s still lowered. Sweat pours from me like a horse in harness, though I am not alone in my discomfort; the heat is unbearable for all.
“By offering wages?”
The eyes widen. First in disbelief, then in derision. Rom cannot contain himself.
“Ha! Did you hear that? Ha! Offering money! What a jest!”
Fortunately, though amused, the Major remains composed. When the laughter subsides, he replies:
“Lieutenant, I am sure your motives are noble, but you must not confuse this situation with the one familiar to you. Do not forget we are in Africa now, and the context is wholly different.”
“Deghendt,” Rom interjects, “we are speaking of apes. Creatures who know nothing of money. Even if we offered them a reward in coin, they would not understand it. Does your dog run faster when you offer him a Franc?”
“No, sir. But when I offer him a piece of ham, he does.”
Another absolute silence falls. No one laughs anymore. Rom flushes with embarrassment. Perhaps I should have held my tongue, yet the words were out before I had weighed the consequences. The Major intervenes with calm authority.
“Lieutenant, your words spring from a profound humanity and reflect the realities of our European industry. But I repeat: this is Africa. The rules here are different. For years we have attempted to introduce a money economy, yet most of them refuse it, preferring payment in chickens. So your idea, though well-intentioned, cannot hold.”
I lower my eyes and fall silent. I must trust the knowledge these men have gathered in all their years in Africa, while I have never yet set foot beyond my homeland. I realise how ill-prepared I am for this journey, let alone for the colossal task of the railway. The Léopoldville’s hold is filled with rails and tools for its construction, yet I now understand the work will not be simple. It is not merely a matter of laying track upon firm ground. Greater interests are at stake. The English are eager to resume where the Belgians have failed, while on the far side of the Congo the French have already built their fortress of Brazzaville. We can no longer use that right bank with its established paths without the French demanding tolls on every kilo of rubber that passes. And pass it will, tonnes upon tonnes, for an industry ever more insatiable.
Dinner draws to a close, and the earlier exchange is forgotten, or at least not spoken of. Not in my mind though, for I cannot forgive myself for having publicly contradicted my superior. My hands are still trembling, even when the Commander gives no sign of displeasure. He laughs and talks loudly, as though nothing had occurred. Better so. We have not yet arrived, and conflict now would serve no good. Yet within me grows the conviction that one day, such conflict will come.
I have always held the Commander in the highest esteem—perhaps because he is the only Walloon officer I know who speaks a little Flemish, my mother tongue and that of the great majority of our people, which, alas, is still not recognised by the government in Brussels as an official language. In that sense, I too feel myself a bougnoul among all these French-speakers, who enjoy priority at the military academy. But I must put aside such trifles. I am here for a mission greater than my own small grievances. I have sworn loyalty to the King and I shall do my duty, even at the cost of my life.
Comments
Post a Comment