“Do you understand now, Lieutenant?” asks Mr. Harris. I am jolted at once out of my daydream.
“Yes, Sir,” I reply, “I believe I do.”
I try not to dwell on it any further and place my cap back on my head. It is time to set foot on this new land, and after bidding farewell to Mr. Harris I descend from the first-class passenger deck. Louis and Commander Rom are already down below, and I make my way towards them.
“Ah, you’re finally here, Deghendt?” the Commander greets me with his usual sarcasm. “I was beginning to think you’d hidden yourself away on the ship.”
“No, no, I’m right here,” I answer without much conviction. Of course, the Commander had known all along that we were transporting mainly weapons and had chosen not to share it with anyone. A pointless exercise, it seems to me, since now no-one could possibly miss the dozens of crates marked Fabrique Nationale piled up along the quay. “So then, where are we going?”
“To the Colonial House. If you’ll follow me?”
Commander Rom leads us along the main street, steeper than I had expected at first glance. I can feel it from the pounding of my heart in my throat. The tropical climate plays its part, certainly, but even so the town itself is very hilly and encircled by great rocks. This is only the beginning of a mission far more arduous than it had seemed when looking at the maps aboard ship. I understand now why so little of the railway line has been completed thus far. I look at all these fine new houses lining the street, with their wooden verandas and shutters closed against the midday heat. In these buildings live the chiefs, and for tonight they will likely assign me a lodging too in this pleasant part of town called Fuka-Fuka. The street is crowded with people, almost all Black and many of them balancing astonishing loads upon their heads.
I notice a woman walking bare-breasted, without the slightest shame, carrying an enormous amphora upon a cushion on her head. She bears it with a certain pride, without any support at all. I turn my head and follow her with my eyes in admiration until she disappears once more into the throng. At the roadside I see simple stalls laid out on the ground, displaying mostly carved figurines in ivory or a strange type of wood called ebony. On the outside it looks like any ordinary timber, like oak, but its heart is black as tar.
“Eh, chief!” the traders call to us. “Fine statuette! Fine for table! Look, chief!”
The Commander pays them no attention whatsoever, and I try to follow his example. Ahead stands the Colonial House, the administrative centre of Matadi and of the Lower Congo Province. It is a wooden villa like all the others along the main street, only somewhat larger. Two FP officers watching over the town from beneath the veranda salute us as we enter.
“Bonjour, Bernard! Comment ça va? It’s been quite some time since we last met!” Commander Rom says to the senior of the two, returning their military salute before shaking his hand warmly. The Captain is a very tall and broad-shouldered to barely fit a door frame, with narrow moustaches above a wide mouth and small eyes that peer rather than look.
“Ça va très bien, merci, mon ami!” Captain Roger replies. “Allow me to introduce Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois, an excellent new recruit for the FP.”
“It’s an honour, Commander,” the sub-lieutenant greets him eagerly.
He is a boy much younger than I am, I think, or at least he still has the face of a child. I do not even remember ever seeing him at the military academy, so he must have only just graduated. His nervous manner does not inspire confidence, and I wonder what on earth he is doing here in the wilds of Africa. The Commander does not respond but merely nods curtly, not wishing to seem overly discourteous. He does not like new blood, especially when they still belong at home with their mothers. He probably thinks the same of me, since it is quite clear he does not like me either. The fact that he has not introduced Louis or me to the captain confirms it. Instead, he carries on as though we did not exist, myself in particular.
“So then, what news? I see Matadi has changed considerably since my absence.”
“Yes, as you can see the construction of the town goes on. We have finished the barracks behind here and also the second quay of the port, which was particularly difficult.”
“Indeed, I remember they were still cutting through the great rock to the east to make enough room. So in the end the bougnouls managed it.”
“Not without struggle, but with a little motivation... hahaha...”
The Captain and the Commander both burst into loud laughter, as though sharing some private knowledge they have no wish to disclose to us. I pay it little heed. By now it is abundantly clear they have brought me here solely to do my duty as an engineer, and beyond that I am to remain silent. The Commander claps Captain Roger on the shoulder and the two of them enter the building. Louis, Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois and I follow dutifully, like obedient dogs. The order of things here is paramount, more so even than in the army, I would say. Everyone has his place, and I count myself fortunate that mine may not be at the very top, but neither is it too far down. I dare not imagine what it must be like to find oneself at the very bottom of the pyramid.
We sit around the table in the great central hall. It is a particularly handsome piece of dark tropical hardwood, crafted with great precision and resting on legs shaped like lion’s paws. The chairs are covered in the hides of the same noble beast. Against the wall two black women are waving large hemp fans to provide some relief from the heat. If only it worked against the flies as well… alas.
“Bernard, tell me,” the Commander suddenly asks the Captain, “what the hell is happening? The bougnouls were working so well when I left. Why have they stopped?”
“But Commander," Captain Roger stammers upon this unexpected turn of the conversation, "I wouldn’t say they are working badly, on the contrary, I…”
“Then why have the quotas not been reached?”
The Commander’s tone changes in an instant. A moment ago he was jocular, now he is furious.
“And don’t give me the same nonsense Wahis tried on me yesterday!” he snaps.
“Well… it’s true there have been a few little problems,” Captain Roger apologises. He too changes in a flash, becoming a sycophant, just like the rest of us. “Mainly because it is extremely difficult to explain to the blacks how to tap latex properly. It requires a precise cut in the tree so as not to damage it too much, and a fast pace of work to prevent premature coagulation.”
“How many trees have you assigned to each gatherer?”
“To reach the quota set by His Majesty, we have allotted seven hundred trees to each collector. With proper organisation and goodwill this ought to work. Unfortunately, organisation is not something natural to the blacks. We must constantly tell them what to do and spur them on, even with force. This makes the process far from efficient. And besides, they tire after only twelve hours of work, and we must always find replacements for those who cannot keep up. If one considers the complexity of the harvest and the difficulties we face in teaching them, we are back at square one.”
The Commander grows angrier as the Captain explains. I can see it from the trembling of his mouth and his hands. To calm himself, he takes the little brass case of cigarettes from his breast pocket and opens it. He taps one on the table before putting it between his lips. A black servant rushes forward to light it. He draws deeply and blows the blue smoke upward.
“What methods have you already used to increase their motivation, then? Forgive me, but I can only conclude that these bougnouls are too idle. That, we cannot tolerate!”
It seems Captain Roger enjoys divine protection because before he can reply, no doubt to his own embarrassment, Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois announces the arrival of Major Thys.
“On your feet!”
In an instant we all rise in respect for the great man. He takes the head of the table and with a wave of his hand signals that we may sit again.
“Please, continue, Commander.” As always, he wastes no words.
“With your permission, Major, I was asking for an explanation as to why rubber production does not meet expectations.”
“I think we already know the answer to that question, do we not, Commander? The matter is what we must do to increase the efficiency of the harvest.”
Commander Rom leans back in his chair. He blows a great cloud of blue smoke from the corner of his mouth. I feel more and more uneasy with the turn the conversation is taking. I had thought the railway more important than the rubber quotas, but clearly I was mistaken.
“Failure to meet quota is a crime punishable by death, is it not?” the Commander asks rhetorically. It is hardly an unknown fact, and we all wonder what point he is leading to. Captain Roger does not hesitate to confirm.
“Indeed, Commander, and we have not failed to enforce the law.”
“Perhaps you have not been convincing enough?” Commander Rom cuts in. “Why not simply shoot every bougnoul who neglects his duty? In my view we should see immediate results!”
“Because we cannot waste ammunition unnecessarily. His Majesty’s own order,” Major Thys interrupts. “We shall still need it, for not all are yet convinced that His Majesty is the rightful sovereign of this land.”
The Commander looks straight into the Major’s eyes in a way I can only describe as evil. Indeed, he smiles, as though he seeks to provoke his superior. He blows another cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, which is scattered by the fans. The black women at the wall show not the slightest emotion, though I am certain they have understood everything. They simply do their work.
“Then we cut off their hands, as we have already done to all who resist us!” Commander Rom exclaims with determination. “Perhaps that will prove an even more effective incentive. In the end, do you not agree that a bullet in the head is a kind of mercy?”
All around the table heads nod. I nod too, so as not to stand out. It is vital we remain united, and I will be the last to oppose my superior, however much his ideas offend my conscience. Major Thys begins to laugh.
“Commander, I feel fortunate that you are not my enemy.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, Major. I think only of my sacred duty.”
“And that does you honour. Let us see whether your idea will succeed. Tomorrow we travel to Songololo, the present terminus of the railway. There you shall have the chance to study the situation on the ground more closely. Now let us eat. Judith!”
Another black woman enters the hall at once. She has a more elegant bearing than the two fanning us, and wears a brightly coloured local dress. She keeps her head bowed as she listens to the masters’ wishes.
“We shall dine on… beef fillet with vegetables… red wine, and do not forget the fruit.”
“At once, sir…” the woman replies in perfect French, and returns to the kitchen.
The rest of the evening we indulge in unexpected luxury for this land of dust and sweat. A land I shall not easily grow accustomed to, and where the accursed fly reigns supreme. A fortnight ago I was still in the icy cold of my beloved Antwerp, embracing Marieke. I thought I would remember her embrace for ever, but I was wrong. Now it seems impossible that such a wonderful place as Antwerp truly exists, and her embrace is nothing more than a distant memory. I eat sparingly, since the climate has robbed me of my appetite, though I force myself to put something in my mouth so as not to grow too weak, and above all not to appear contrary to the others. It seems Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois struggles in the same way, while my friend Louis eats ravenously. Whole steaks vanish beneath his red moustache, swelling his cheeks all the more. Captain Roger, Commander Rom, and Major Thys have no difficulty at all with this infernal environment, and eat and laugh as though they were truly happy to be here, three thousand six hundred miles from home. Of course, here they are absolute masters, and that near-unlimited power is a great seducer, capable of drawing out the fiercest instincts in any man. I too must admit to myself that I am enjoying my place at this almost royal table, with servants rushing to obey my every signal. But then I think of Mr. Harris, and recall our little conversation earlier. No, I must not let myself be corrupted by the unholy lust for power. I am not like that.
The wine soon goes to my head and the room broadens in my perception. Sounds grow wider, colours richer in the wavering candlelight. My reserve melts away, and I forget the things I saw today and the conversation carrying on at the far side of the table, a side that now feels very distant from me. I almost regret feeling a little unwell, as it prevents me from properly enjoying the moment. Wine is a fine medicine, but it carries a dear price, which I now feel more and more in my head. My back is soaked in sweat, but it no longer matters. I breathe… I breathe the poisonous air slowly, trying to draw from it some vital energy. I shall need plenty more if I am to survive. This country spares no one, master or not.
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