“Bwana...?”
A voice in the distance...
“Monsieur?”
The same voice, but now in a language I understand. I try to open my eyes, and the faint, blurred light slipping through the shutters burns my retina. The headache is murderous. I roll onto my back to see where the voice is coming from. A dark figure is leaning over me. I feel a flicker of fear, though I cannot show it. I am the master.
“Eh... oui? Where am I?”
“You are still in your bed, monsieur.”
Of course I am in my bed, and of course I am still in the Congo. The smell doesn't lie; it is even stronger than yesterday. My head spins so violently I doubt I could stand.
“It is time to rise, monsieur. The Commander has requested your presence.”
The Commander has requested my presence... How I long to answer: go to hell! But there is no escape. Today we shall travel deeper still into the gullet of this accursed land with its sulphurous breath. A fly settles on my forehead and I try to brush it away with my hand, barely managing with enormous effort. My arm feels as though it weighs a tonne. I roll towards the edge of the bed and let my feet drop to the floor, one after the other, before attempting to rise. Sweat streams down my face, trickling through my hair and along my neck. And yet I feel cold, while a dizzy turbulence robs me of all control. My stomach heaves... I must... urgently... now...
With the last of my strength I rush to the balcony door, fling open the shutters, and before I realise it I am spewing a vile yellow vomit onto the dirt road below. Thankfully, no-one was standing there. The few passers-by look up at me as though I had vomited directly upon them, then resume their business. It is not the first time a white man has fallen sick after a single day in the Congo, and it will not be the last.
The black servant who woke me offers a damp cloth for my forehead. I nod my thanks and accept the refreshing gift with relief. It does me good and I feel somewhat eased. Last night’s heavy dinner was hardly wise, but how could I refuse in the presence of my superiors? I step back inside, and the servant hands me my trousers. How I long for a bath and clean linen, but my trunk has no doubt already been loaded onto the train that will carry us fifty miles east, into the wild jungle. And besides, I wonder if a bath exists here at all. I suspect the only way to wash is to plunge into the river, at the risk of drowning in its whirlpools or being devoured by crocodiles and other foul creatures.
I stagger down the stairs. In the entrance hall a black woman offers me a dish of fresh fruit, which I decline. The mere thought makes my stomach cramp. And there is no time for breakfast in any case. My pocket watch shows it is already past nine, and the train will not wait. I leave the house allotted to me for the night, and the sunlight stabs my eyes. They tell me the hottest months are yet to come and the thought fills me with boundless optimism.
I hurry down the main road through a crowd even denser than yesterday’s, towards the port where the station also lies. In truth, 'station' is an exaggeration: it consists merely of three wooden shacks with white-painted roofs. The central one is the most important, as one may guess from the verandah that runs along three sides, and from the sign upon its roof — Station de Matadi — flanked by several flags, the Belgian tricolour of course at the centre. I note also the British flag to the left, which is hardly surprising. The Compagnie du Congo pour le Commerce et l’Industrie is, in reality, an English enterprise founded by Major Thys together with the Manchester syndicate, at the wise counsel of our King in order to share the cost of the railway project.
To my shame I find that all the others are already waiting upon the platform and that I am the last to arrive. Fortunately, it seems as though the whole town has gathered to bid farewell to the train, so my lateness passes unnoticed. Rank or not, I feel utterly insignificant here, even if the blacks clear a path for me at once. There, at the centre of the platform, I can make out the white uniforms of Major Thys and Commander Rom, speaking with a gentleman I do not know. Among the other officers I spot my friend Louis, who brightens at the sight of me.
“Ah! Here comes our drunkard!” he greets me with his usual irony.
“Drunk? I was not drunk at all! I was merely unwell, there's nothing more to it,” I reply, pretending to be offended.
“Yes, you were so unwell that we had to carry you to bed and tuck you in! Hahaha!”
Louis chuckles. Normally I would have laughed with him, since he has always been the great clown of the academy. His red hair and pale moustache have long lent him a comic air. Now though, I find his appearance rather diabolical. I do not know why, but I sense something has changed. Or perhaps it is only my sickness that makes me see spectres everywhere. I must constantly fight off the urge to faint. I wiggle my toes, but it helps little. I try instead to focus on the railway project. I have always thought a route along the river more logical, though considerably longer. From what I can see here, crossing these steep mountains that surround us cannot have been easy. How many human lives did it cost to build across cliffs more than a thousand feet high? After but a single day, it is already clear to me that the Congo conceals many secrets that will never leave this land.
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