One of the white officers in the front row stepped forward.
‘That’s Captain Lalande Biran,’ whispered Donatien.
He was a very handsome man, with blue eyes flecked with gold. He saluted Chrysostome, then ordered him to step onto the dais so that everyone could see him.
It was a ceremony in which military humour prevailed. Captain Lalande Biran began by presenting Chrysostome with the blue uniform and red fez of the askaris instead of an officer’s pale brown uniform and white hat, a joke which caused everyone present on the firing range to titter, particularly his soon-to-be comrades. Frowning and resisting the desire of the Captain, the other officers and the NCOs to have their bit of fun, Chrysostome solemnly stuffed the trousers and shirt into his canvas bag and donned the red fez.
Large storm clouds were gathering. From one small clear patch of sky the sun was beating down.
‘And here is your rifle!’ said the Captain, handing him an eighteenth-century, barrel-loading musket, a hulking great thing, weighing at least twenty pounds. More tittering. ‘It’s loaded. The target’s over there. Let’s see what you can do.’
At the far end of the firing range, high up in a tree, a monkey appeared to be watching the ceremony with great interest. It was straight ahead, about a hundred yards away. That was the target.
The shot startled all the birds round about. The monkey fell to the ground like a stone.
‘Well, if you can hit the target with that great thing, I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with a really good rifle!’ exclaimed the Captain, his eyes still fixed on the place where the monkey had been.
Above the trees, the birds frightened by the shot were still wheeling around looking for somewhere else to perch. Any clear patches of sky were growing ever fewer, and clouds were covering the sun. A heavy rain shower was imminent. It was best not to prolong matters.
‘The new soldier deserves a prize, Cocó,’ said the Captain, addressing the man at the far end of the line of white officers.
Cocó was a robust, broad-shouldered fellow. He took a few long strides and planted himself in front of Chrysostome.
‘I’m Lieutenant Richard Van Thiegel, but everyone calls me Cocó,’ he said, handing him a rifle. Compared with the musket, it seemed positively delicate. ‘For you, légionnaire,’ he added. He had belonged to the French Foreign Legion before enlisting in the Force Publique, and, to use a common metaphor, his heart was still there. As far as he was concerned, all his comrades were legionnaires.
Chrysostome continued to frown, as if he found the jokes and the ceremony disagreeable. This wasn’t because he was annoyed, however, but because he was studying every detail of the weapon he had been given. It was a real marvel. A twelve-shot, breech-loading Albini-Braendlin. When he held it in the firing position, the butt fitted snugly into his shoulder.
‘There are twelve cartridges inside. You can check, if you like,’ said Van Thiegel.
Chrysostome removed the chamber and counted the cartridges one by one.
‘There are only eleven,’ he said, replacing the chamber. The sounds the rifle made were equally marvellous. Clean and precise.
Lalande Biran was watching him intently. This new arrival was clearly no ordinary soldier. He had never known any other ‘novice’ at a welcome ceremony to check the number of cartridges. Even veterans, who had served in other armies, would never dare to doubt a superior officer’s word.
‘When are you going to give us a smile?’ asked Van Thiegel reproachfully, handing him the missing cartridge. Chrysostome’s expression remained unchanged as he weighed the cartridge in his hand as though trying to determine its calibre.
Lalande Biran noticed a strip of blue ribbon round the soldier’s neck.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A medal of Our Lady, sir,’ replied Chrysostome, raising his eyes for a moment to glance at the Captain, before turning his attention back to the rifle and the cartridges.
‘Are you from a village in the provinces?’ asked the Captain. He didn’t run his words together like Donatien, but pronounced them precisely, modulating his voice: ‘Vous venez d’une ville de province?’
‘I was born in the village of Britancourt, sir,’ replied Chrysostome. He had a country accent.
‘We would be much better Catholics if we had been born in Britancourt, Cocó,’ Lalande Biran said to Van Thiegel. He was from Brussels and the Lieutenant from Antwerp.
Chrysostome pulled back the bolt and removed the chamber. He inserted the twelfth cartridge, closed the chamber, put the rifle to his shoulder, and pointed at a monkey about two hundred yards away, then at the leaf of a tree further off, then he lowered the rifle and asked: ‘How far can the bullet travel?’
‘About three thousand yards or more,’ said Van Thiegel.
On the horizon, the sky had turned black and was falling like a curtain over the jungle; closer to, the rounded clouds resembled the scattered beads of a necklace. Over Yangambi, the sky was still blue, but it was only a matter of time. Another quarter of an hour and it would start to rain.
‘Come on, Cocó, let’s go and have a drink. I don’t want to get wet,’ said Lalande Biran.
The Lieutenant gestured to the chief of the black NCOs, who, in turn, gestured to an askari. The blue flag of the Force Publique with its single yellow star was immediately lowered. The welcome ceremony was over.
Beyond the firing range lay an untidy collection of huts, cabins, chicken runs, vegetable patches and grain stores; and suddenly, noisy groups of askaris and black NCOs set off in that direction, laughing and joking, as if the lowering of the flag had lifted their hearts, prompting them to go and join their wives and children. In many of the huts, fires had been lit and meat and fish were being cooked. The smoke from those fires and, above all, from the bonfires lit to keep off the insects bothering the cattle, drifted over the whole area and added to the festive atmosphere.
In the European zone, however, such good cheer was notable by its absence. The white officers who had walked over to the Place du Grand Palmier — seventeen of them, not counting the new arrival, Chrysostome — looked as serious and tongue-tied as him, and as though they had nothing better to do than wait for the rain to start.
Opposite Government House, African servants were moving about among the different groups, serving glasses of Veuve Clicquot champagne. The officers accepted them carelessly and, just as carelessly, raised them to their lips, not even bothering to say ‘Good health’. It was clear that the military humour Lalande Biran had attempted to inject into the welcome ceremony had cheered no one. This was due entirely to Chrysostome’s refusal to collaborate.
Richardson was the third highest-ranking officer and, at over sixty, the oldest member of the Yangambi garrison. Seated in a rocking chair at the door of Government House, he reminded Lalande Biran and Van Thiegel of the various welcome ceremonies he had attended throughout his long career. There had been many amusing incidents; for example, it still made him laugh to think of young Lopes’ antics with the musket before he eventually fired it. But no two people were alike, and some had no sense of humour at all.
‘Today’s ceremony was the most boring ever. This Chrysostome fellow is as miserable as a mandrill,’ he declared.
The man in question was approaching, holding his rifle in one hand and his canvas bag in the other. Everyone fell silent. Lieutenant Van Thiegel strode over to him.