He went through customs and crossed a clamoring pack of beggars, impervious to their pleas. His man Bonnard and his pistachiers* were waiting for him near a cluster of saleswomen. The women swarmed about on the dusty sidewalk that was covered in rotten fruit and donkey and fly droppings. Most were bare-chested, their hair covered in pearls, their grass skirts barely reaching to their knees. They smoked from short earthen pipes and ran after the toubabs† offering statuettes, papaya, and coconuts. Their men squatted on the ground beside them, shaving or playing checkers with pebbles.
Bonnard had prepared a waterfront villa for him with a vast garden overlooking the beach. But the next day, instead of going swimming or visiting his trading posts, he disguised himself as a colonist (leather boots, gabardine jacket, helmet) and, leaving poor old Bonnard in the dust, lost himself in the city’s alleyways in search of slave forts and the penetrating odor of spices and fruits. But he soon found himself in the path of a mad bull. A gang of kids surrounded him and pushed him into a small house in the nick of time.
“You go in here! Him bad, bad!”
Soaked in sweat, shaking like a leaf, he watched the animal continue its rampage and gore another bystander. “There’s undoubtedly a lesson in this,” he muttered to himself as he tried to regain his calm. That night after dinner a mystical impulse drove him to isolate himself in a remote corner of the garden. His unrecognizable voice rose up to blend with the terrifying sound of the African night:
“A few hours ago you saved my life, my dear old Africa. Thank you! Now please, I beg of you, grant me Fouta Djallon so I can make it my kingdom!”
IN THREE SEDAN TOURS he had seen all of Dakar. The city was still slowly extracting itself from the grip of the jungle. Its only attractions were the windswept coast road lined with wild roses; the beach, port, and train station; and a brand-new hospital hurriedly thrown up to take pressure off the one in Gorée, overwhelmed by the ravages of malaria and yellow fever. These places reeked of what he thought he had left behind: blond heads of hair, poorly tanned bosoms spilling out of their brassieres, helmets, gaiters, Basque berets, Catalan and Provençal accents, ostentatious perfume, fetid breath stinking of red table wine and aniseed.
Luckily, deepest Africa—the real one, the Africa that cast its spell on him—had not yet fled the coasts. He could get a taste of it (its smiles and scarifications, its dialects and tribes, its colored patterns and stenches) just a few steps from the bars, belote rooms, and caravansaries. His initiation was to let himself be sucked into the boundlessly exotic market, native quarter, and fishermen’s village. Here were the tastes of sweat and salt, ginger and kola, an amalgam of violence and joy, and even more than that—Africa, an overabundance of thunder, heat and wind, a constant explosion. He was overcome by a sense of delight and death, a permanent drunken giddiness.
Only one regret upon discovering the ferment of this brand-new world: he wasn’t the first one here! No matter. He knew that deep in Fouta Djallon, there had to be one cave, one termites’ nest, one hillock, one stretch of undergrowth where a white man had never set foot. Long ago, so long ago, he would have imagined himself in this whirlwind of sweat, sap, leaves, and larvae in Émilie’s arms. Émilie, his first love, his very own Juliet when he was the Romeo of the banks of the Azergues. She was his cousin, older by three years, the one for whom he had jumped off a bridge, wanting to offer her his life as a sign of love and faithfulness. He was ten, twelve at most, but already as stubborn as a mule, with the soul of a knight. Émilie had been the only one to share his secret. Only she knew that somewhere deep in the most remote part of darkest Africa, a virgin land was patiently waiting for him to grow up to lie beneath his feet. His brothers were too dull and his friends too vulgar to understand. At bedtime, those fools went to their rooms while he entered his own private universe. They could never be the same.
Time passed and Émilie was carried away by a plague epidemic. Time passed again and she was resurrected as Rose.
He had awaited this miracle. He only wrote, “The Absolute is not the stable, unstable, or indifferent balance associated with the established idea of symmetry; it is ONE, everywhere itself, imposing its absoluteness anywhere…it possesses ubiquity.”
His understanding of what lay ahead crystallized after a quick tour of Rufisque, with its lepers, former slave market, deposed old kings, piles of dead rats, and gigantic peanut silos. This black land, this sensual, wild she-devil, so exciting beneath the rustle of its palm trees and creepers, could only surrender to what was more monstrous than itself—wild beasts, calamities, bandits, and tyrants. To possess it, he would have to find something other than regrets, prayers, and incantations.
He wasted no time in raising a small column of Senegalese infantrymen and a crew of fifteen men. Then he recruited an interpreter and a cook. In a region where anything—women, cattle, gold, land, boredom, or susceptibility—could spark long and bloody tribal conflicts, he was careful to hire a Fula (Mâly) and a Serer, or kinsman to the Fula people (Mâ-Yacine).
In the colonies, a man’s cook and interpreter were essential. The white man’s life depended on their art. He lived or died by the cook’s pot and the interpreter’s mouth. A little pinch of salt—sorceress’s salt, of course—and your heart stopped beating after a two-day cold. A poorly translated word whispered into the ear of the Negro kings and you were condemned to the snake hut or strangulation, depending on local custom. These two had to be carefully selected, complimented morning, noon, and night, and rewarded at the drop of a hat—particularly the interpreter, for poisonous words were often more dangerous than poisoned food in these parts.
On December 7, everything was ready—the men, their mounts, the yacht, and the supplies. He set sail for Bolama.
Had he really crossed the Mediterranean? Did he really come from Europe? He felt as though he had not, that he had traveled directly from the teeming mangrove of his childhood to the splendid real one now unfolding before his eyes. He wanted to discover Africa slowly, traveling along its coast the way one feels a woman’s curves before penetrating her. Stretched out on a folding chair on the sunniest part of the deck, he took notes on the locations of the rios* and the incredible variety of birds and plants. The foamy fringe of the coast was like a dazzling string of jewels strewn between the ocean blue and the chaos of the jungle. He understood everything—the dense silence of the plants and the endless chirping of the birds.
The mystery of this land spoke to his heart.
He discovered the strange shape of the African fan palm and considered making it the emblem of his future kingdom. When the sun was at its zenith, he would have a partition attached to the boat’s hull to protect himself from the sharks and take a sea bath, dreaming of the fortifications of Timbo.
The elements were kind throughout the crossing, the men not so much. The crew was a difficult, contentious mix of Gascon sailors and African tribesmen. Yet by the time they landed in Bolama on the 15th of the month, he had succeeded in taming these wild animals—with smiles and pats on the back for the sailors, and the riding crop and the occasional coral beads and chocolate for the men.
Bolama, the door to Fouta Djallon! Now he just had to find the key.
He was greeted by the English consul, a young lord preparing to overcome his dainty manners to join Stanley at Yolala Falls. They had a brief discussion over a fine bottle of Bordeaux aboard the Jean-Baptiste:
“Only a Frenchman would think of going to Fouta Djallon! Europeans have been on the coast four centuries and less than a dozen have returned from Timbo alive. But I suppose what you Frenchmen need isn’t history, but heroes.”
“We happen to have the makings for the job, my dear consul, that’s all there is to it.”
“It will be even harder to play hero in Fouta Djallon than it was at Waterloo. If something were to happen to you there, the world would never know.”
“At least I would die with the satisfaction of having preceded you somewhere. You British are everywhere; you
spread like the plague. You’ll tell me it’s no challenge with the narrow minds running the French ministries. The only consular agent we had in the region was recently called back to France. I have no choice but to request the services of the Portuguese…and the British!”
“If you were a little friendlier, I would have given you a hand. It’s difficult to penetrate Fouta Djallon without any support. And more difficult yet to get back out.”
“What? Do you know someone?”
“Maybe I would, if you were willing to get off that high horse you feel you’re entitled to as a descendant of Louis XIV.”
The Englishman emptied his glass and delicately wiped his lips with a handkerchief that was startlingly white for these parts.
“Well, nonetheless, I’ll try to help you. Not because of your fine character, that would be asking too much of a Frenchman, but in return for this superior bottle of Bordeaux. Once you’ve rested up in Bolama and visited the coast, go to the Cassini to visit my friend Lawrence.”
“Are there Englishmen all the way into the Cassini?”
“Nearly.”
Lawrence, the king of the Nalus and an ally of the Fulas, had both black and white blood. He had inherited his name from a distant American forebear, a slave trader who had come here in the late eighteenth century and, like most of his fellow traders, protected his interests by marrying the daughter of a Negro kinglet. The practice had spread like wildfire, to the point that most of the tribal chiefs from Bolama to Sierra Leone now had European names. While colonization struggled on by conquest in the interior, it had long been established in bed on the coasts. The jungle now had as many Curtises, McCauleys, Harolds, Da Silvas, Da Costas, Wilkinsons, and McCarthys as breadfruit trees.
“All they need is a few French names,” the consul added with biting irony. “You should hurry up!”
Olivier de Sanderval wrinkled his brow and looked far into the distance:
“In a way, these are the buds of colonization. Europe’s spirit is infiltrating Africa’s body. My childhood dreams are coming true. I’ve arrived at the right moment. Only the fanatical Fulas of Fouta Djallon haven’t given in yet. Yet!”
“And now,” the consul replied, “if you’re done dreaming, I’ll take you to your abode. You can flatter your Gallic ego—it’s the most beautiful home in the colony. You Frenchmen need your Versailles even for a stopover among the Papuans. When your Bonnard first showed me the plans, I thought he was pulling my leg.”
It was no Versailles, but in contrast to the bamboo and creepers surrounding it, the splendid colonial house had a certain grandeur. It was cluttered with staircases and balustrades and had a vast garden gently sloping to the rippling sea. He had wanted to build something worthy of the king he would soon become. The Carrara marble, granite, oak, and slate were imported from the most highly reputed suppliers in France. Rose, who was never short on imagination and inspired ideas, soon had the house’s color scheme, basic shape, and decorative flourishes on paper:
“What about the corkscrew staircase and the archway leading into the living room? And don’t forget the ballroom and the gardenias outside!”
He took at least a half hour to tour all its alcoves and rooms. The consul looked on with a mocking half smile, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. Olivier leaned over the balustrade on the second floor and pointed:
“What’s that over there, near the tall trees?”
“Those little mounds with crosses? Beaver’s colony. In the eighteenth century, my compatriot Beaver came here to found a fifteen-person colony. Ten died, the other five were brought back to England twenty years later half crazy and covered in scabs, on a boat that had gotten lost in the area. You’re right—we beat you everywhere, except we never take ourselves for heroes.”
“We don’t ask you to! If only you would play fair!”
“Do you recall what Lord Chatham said? ‘If England treated France in good faith, it wouldn’t last twenty-five years.’ But you’re not here for France, are you? You’re here for yourself. Strange fellow, you are. What is it that draws you to Africa?”
“Exactly that taste for History, my British friend. Europe is blasé. This is where History has a chance to start fresh. So long as we pull the Negro out of his animal state.”
“That’s why you’re here, to pull the Negro out of his animal state?”
“I do believe the time has come to pass on the torch we received from Athens and Rome.”
“I wonder if I did well to meet you, Monsieur Olivier. I hope you’re not mocking me?”
No, he was not trying to mock anyone, nor to show off. He was as serious as could be. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath to regain his countenance. He looked at the consul like an exasperated tutor and began to speak. For more than a half hour, he told the Englishman what he had tried to explain to Marseille’s top brass on dozens of occasions: Europe’s genes were worn thin by two thousand years of formulas and cathedrals and it was up to him to pass on the torch handed down from Athens and Rome. At the Geography Society, Jules Charles-Roux had listened out of friendship and tried to bring him back to reason, knowing full well his efforts were in vain. The Chamber of Commerce only continued to receive him because of his august name. Only his gentle little Rose supported him. She drank up every one of his words, her blue eyes staring intently, her body wrapped around his like a vine around an oak tree so she could thrill with him to the magical sound of the Fulas and Mandingos, Dakar and Timbuktu. He was right, the law of progress came first and went everywhere—into ideas, habits, climates, even Africa. Lex mea lux, darkness had to be banished both from the far north of the Laplanders and the land of the Negroes. After the wheel and the steam engine, Africa was the new challenge of the mind. The man to face the challenge would naturally be the master builder of humanity’s new era.
“Who will do the job? Who?”
He continued to a thundering crescendo, ignoring the disconcerted questions of the Englishman—who, for once, had utterly lost his composure. Who? The Negro, of course! Who else could it be? The Asians had worn themselves out long before the Europeans. As for the Indians, the poor souls had been destroyed by the conquistadors’ sword and the Spanish influenza. But the Negro!
“This is absurd. Must I really continue listening to this?”
“The Negro is the materiality of the world!” he declared emphatically, overriding the consul’s lamentations. A virgin spirit, energy for at least ten thousand years! Only he could pass on the teachings of Plato and Michelangelo and ensure they bore fruit. He was ready to receive them. The white man in these regions could no longer satisfy himself with collecting palm nuts and wax, he had to educate, to civilize. Cultivate the bush, of course, but also—mostly—the minds.
“I wouldn’t be so worried if you were a genuine madman. Isn’t your idealism hiding something? Everyone says you’ve come to get yourself a kingdom.”
“Why hide it? I need a place to try out my ideas, after all.”
“If I’ve understood correctly, you’re going to introduce yourself to the Fulas and say, ‘My name is Aimé Olivier, give me your kingdom so I can try out my ideas.’”
“Not exactly. First I’ll ask for their authorization to trade and build a railroad, then—”
“A railroad!”
“The Romans civilized the tribes of Europe with aqueducts, we’ll civilize the tribes of Africa with the railroad.”
“Yes, but why Fouta Djallon?”
“First because of the name, and second because of the geography.”
He sketched an imaginary map in the air between them and explained the strategic importance of the tallest mountains in West Africa, equidistant from the sea and the inland kingdoms, the source of all the great rivers.
“According to the French explorer Lambert, Fouta Djallon is the most powerful and best-organized kingdom in the highlands. I’ll establish my base there and deploy tribes along the railroad. First Fouta, then Dinguiraye, Sakatou, and Timbuktu…all the w
ay to Oubangui-Chari and Limpopo! My dream is to found a new nation, the first nation of blacks and whites, the boundless Empire of Sudan…”
At this stage, the consul seriously considered walking out. But ever the skillful diplomat, he changed the subject to poetry and opera, which enabled them to prolong the evening with a fine meal accompanied by another bottle of Bordeaux.
Next, he visited the Portuguese governor, who received him with a banquet and offered him his guides. He roamed the Bissagos Islands, but carefully avoided Orango, which was said to be ruled by the diabolical Outpace, notorious for having robbed and devoured Austrian castaways on his land. He enjoyed exploring Bubaque and getting a taste of the Africa he would find deeper inland, so unlike the cities in that here the white man was still a mysterious phantom. He got his first glimpse of the scenes that would reoccur time and again throughout his long career in the bush: women and children fleeing at the sight of him; endless palaver; witch hunts; rituals; and hours of exchanging gifts with Negro kings. Yet he was pleased to realize that even the jungle-dwellers were not hostile—stunned, delighted, disdainful, or terrified, but never hostile! He admired the daring appearance of the women, covered in shells and wearing skirts of braided straw. He played with the children, who sported a single tuft of hair in the center of their shaved heads and wore braided headbands, trading pieces of sugar with them for rare insects. This is a good start, he told himself. The landscape is as incredible as I thought and the people are intelligent, cautious, industrious, and often elegant.
The king of Bubaque and his hundred wives treated him to a week of festivities. Astonishing: in this remote part of the jungle, the king lived in a one-story palace with a courtyard paved with shells.
Along with the gifts his agents in Gorée had suggested, Olivier presented the king with a crystal dish. He was so pleased with it that he added his twelve-year-old son to the customary bull, two pigs, and four hens he offered Olivier. Olivier followed tradition and thanked him over the course of several days, then turned his mind to finding a way to get rid of this troublesome gift. The interpreter tried to smooth things over as best he could:
The King of Kahel Page 2