“I’m simply expecting you to endorse my treaties before enemy powers walk off with everything.”
“France has no legal power to protect your treaties, supposing there are any treaties. Our colonies are Senegal and Sudan.”
“Holding Africa by Senegal and Sudan is like holding the sword by the blade! Without Fouta Djallon, we run the risk of losing all our possessions in Africa.”
He stopped for a moment and walked to a world map pinned to the wall:
“If you don’t mind, sir, let us take another look at the map of the world. What do we have around our poor France?”
He pointed to the map and dourly indicated Spain, England, and Germany—nothing but enemies. How could France survive in this hornet’s nest? Africa! There was no other solution. “It must be the body and we’ll be the mind!” he insisted. As soon as he had arrived in Gorée, he had understood that it could no longer be a mere stockroom for slaves and oleaginous plants but had to be meticulously refined by the teachings of Athens and Rome and turned into a friend, an ally, a French province. France could raise a massive army there; with this army she would easily conquer Italy and cross the Brenner Pass into Austria. Germany would be left without a choice: everlasting peace and possibly even union with France in the face of England, Europe’s enemy. And how would we turn Africa into a French province? It was plain as day: by making Fouta Djallon France’s base.
He didn’t realize he had been speaking for twenty minutes, in a tone combining the exalted pitch of his deliriums in Timbo and the more metaphysical concerns of The Absolute. The minister considered him, wondering whether he should throw him out immediately or enjoy the show for a few minutes more.
“Believe me, sir, Africa is the key to our future. Today we can make it our shield and tomorrow our refuge. Yes, you must realize that glaciation is increasing, that in a few decades Languedoc will be as frozen as the North Pole. The Inuit and the Laplanders will immigrate to France. And we’ll run to take refuge in the cooled climates of the equator. So long as we’ve made room for ourselves ahead of time.”
The minister stared at him, grumbled into his beard, and took a long look at his watch.
“Well, well, glaciation. Of course, my young friend, glaciation. And how many battalions do you intend to use to occupy the equator before glaciation sets in?”
“You don’t need one hundred thousand men to conquer Africa, you just need one—the one who will be able to win its trust.”
“And of course that man will be you.”
“Me or you. If not, it will be the English!”
“You truly are obsessed with the English,” the minister sighed as he led him to the door.
He looked at Olivier with a mixture of worry and condescension and shook his hand.
“Goodbye, sir. And please take good care of yourself. The last I heard, Africa was still free of glaciation, but you might want to be wary of its fevers.”
Leaving the office, Olivier found himself face-to-face with a man in an officer’s uniform. He had been listening at the door.
“Good God,” he cursed, “you listen at doors? Aren’t you ashamed, a grown man, and wearing that uniform?”
“Um…no. No, no!”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Um…I—I just wanted to walk you out.”
He left feeling profoundly unsettled. Clearly, Cloué didn’t believe in him or in his project. It had been a difficult day. He needed to clear his mind. He walked to the Café de Paris, ignoring the rain, and soothed his nerves by playing chess until nightfall. He did not feel like showing his face at the Grand Véfour or Foyot for dinner. His foul mood would not stand for the Paris rumor mill. Yet eating alone in his room would only aggravate his anxiety. He decided to walk toward les Halles, where he could eat cheaply and be left alone.
But as he walked, he had the impression that a stealthy shadow followed him from a distance, that footsteps echoed behind him but mysteriously vanished whenever he came to a halt.
“Have they already started to have me followed?” he muttered as he reached the Saint-Eustache Cathedral. “Well, if they’re spying on me it must mean that despite appearances I remain important to them.”
He hesitated for a moment between various cheap restaurants serving escargot soup, mussels à la Provençale, or tripe à l’auvergnate. He opted for the one offering sheep’s feet with a copious stew, lured not by the menu, but by the fact that the place looked less dirty and smoky than the others, although it was as fully packed. But thankfully the tables were not pushed close together and there was a corner where people could dance to accordion music.
This was exactly what he needed. Nothing better than blending into a crowd to calm the mind. At least here he could gorge himself on good country cooking and drink as much as he wanted without being seen by the gossip columnists.
He finished his sheep’s feet and stew and started in on the cheese. As he was about to raise his hand to ask the waiter for another half liter of red wine, a man pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.
“May I?” the stranger muttered, putting his hands on the table.
It was the officer from that morning, the one he had caught listening at the door. He had traded in his uniform for an undistinguished suit, but Olivier recognized his sparkling shifty eyes and long snoopy nose right away.
“So you are the one who was following me?”
“Following is a big word. I just wanted to catch you in a quiet place so we could talk a little.”
“And what could you want to talk to me about?”
“About Fouta Djallon, of course. But courtesy demands that I begin by introducing myself: Doctor Bayol.”
Bayol, the Navy doctor, the one who had been on the Gallieni expedition to the Sudan. Incredible! He had thought he would run into him in Ségou or Kayes after Timbo and Dinguiraye, but instead he found him in this dive after catching him listening at doors. A Navy officer, a real French soldier who had distinguished himself in the Congo before going to war in the Sudan. He considered his determined brow, haughty mouth, and small eyes brimming with malice and intelligence. No, he couldn’t bring himself to admire him; he had to make a serious effort to keep himself from slapping him.
“So you have an interest in Fouta Djallon? Why didn’t you ever take a trip over there?”
“My superiors didn’t ask me to.”
“The Navy does frown upon anyone taking a crap without consulting his superiors.”
“Yet my trip wouldn’t have been an extravagance. We’re soldiers at the service of the nation, not exotic adventurers.”
“Did your superiors tell you to come say that to me?”
“No, I came on my own behalf. The two of us have nothing in common: ideas, profile, character. Except one thing: Fouta Djallon. Like you, I believe it must be the cornerstone of our strategy in Sudan. But it seems the British want to checkmate us. I learned this morning that they have just sent a mission to Fouta headed by none other than Goldsburry, their governor in the Gambia.”
“The bastards! Goldsburry in Fouta Djallon is important. If that’s why you came, you did well.”
“No, it wasn’t just for that.”
“What else?”
“It’s also to tell you that I like your idea of an official mission to Timbo. A lot.”
“Finally someone who understands me! What are you waiting for to convince Cloué? You have real influence since you traveled with Gallieni.”
“Not enough to make that old bear of a man give in. But you…”
“Me?”
“Yes. Mention it to Gambetta. I know you have connections to the President of the Chamber. If Gambetta gets involved, Cloué will have no choice but to obey.”
“So be it! I might tempt him with my treaties.”
“Just hurry, before the English reduce your treaties to ashes. Now goodbye. We’ll keep each other posted.”
As Bayol offered him his hand, Olivier de Sanderval sneezed.
“Ah
,” Bayol said, “the effects of glaciation are already being felt. Keep warm, Olivier, keep warm!” And with a snicker, he headed for the door.
As soon as he woke up, he wrote to the President of the Chamber. A messenger soon delivered an answer: “I’m eager to hear what you have to say about Fouta Djallon. What would you say to dinner at Chez Drouant? It will be quieter there than at Le Bœuf à la Mode or the Grand Véfour.”
Chez Drouant was the newcomer on the short list of restaurants frequented by Paris celebrities. He followed etiquette and arrived early, but found Gambetta already waiting for him with a drink, reading the latest edition of Le Figaro.
Gambetta was characteristically impulsive and frank, driving straight to the point:
“I saw Cloué this morning. To be honest, you did not convince him with your new ideas. I hope you’ll have more luck with me.”
“I expect two things from you—and by you I mean both the friend and the president of the Chamber: the founding of a genuine Ministry of the Colonies, and the immediate dispatch of an official mission to the almamis of Timbo.”
“Impossible, my friend! We’re experiencing an unprecedented budget crisis. As for sending a mission to Fouta Djallon—”
“It’s indispensable, Gambetta!”
“In your mind, it all seems simple. Cloué did say your imagination is quite fertile. So, tell me about this glaciation,” he chuckled.
“I see it makes you laugh, too. Yet there is nothing funny about it. Monsieur President, the mind only evolves if it inscribes itself in movement. Yes, the world is not static, it is in perpetual motion—the earth, the weather, the races. Nothing stands still!”
“Even the races?”
“Especially the races, Monsieur President! The evolution of humanity does not stop with the white race. Understand that we are not all of humanity, but only one branch of it.”
“If I understand you correctly, the monkeys of Africa will carry on the work of Plato, Descartes, Voltaire, and Gay-Lussac? Is that it?”
“I didn’t say the monkeys, I said the blacks.”
“Am I to understand that their genius will awake with glaciation?”
“In a way, yes.”
“My dear Olivier, you’re lucky you’re sitting across from someone who shares your love of fantasy. Unlike Cloué, I don’t think you’re mad. But it would still take me a century or two to get used to ideas like yours.”
He stood up to ask for his coat and his walking stick. Then he added:
“Very well. I’ll discuss all this with my cabinet. And I beg of you, please don’t hold it against me if the answer is no.”
He immediately returned to Marseille and sent a telegram to his trading post in Gorée:
My dear Bonnard,
The reason I haven’t given you any news since telegraphing you upon disembarking in Bordeaux is simple: I had no news to give. My family’s life in Montredon is as ordinary as can be. As for the life of France, to tell the truth, aside from the raised voices one hears in Parliament, it is the peaceful and dull life of an old woman of independent means who feels quite comfortable as she waits for death. Only I have just come from Paris, where, having worn myself out scaling the echelons trying to convince our bureaucrats it is in our country’s best interest to subjugate Fouta Djallon, I finally came across some news: it appears the English have sent a mission to Timbo under Goldsburry, their governor in the Gambia. I don’t need to go any further for you to know this is bad news for us. You know better than I do how shifty the English are, and how greedy and fickle the Fulas. The meeting of these two treacherous races threatens to wipe out our treaties and swallow up all the treasures we invested as gifts and in trading posts. Therefore I order you to immediately go to Timbo to ensure that we—rather than those English scoundrels—are the friends of the almami, and that our treaties still stand. You know the vile ways of the Negro kings. For them, friendship goes to the highest bidder. So don’t hesitate: cover those petty Fula lords in presents (especially Pâthé, Aguibou, Bôcar-Biro, and Alpha Yaya). Let each of them have a mirror or a ball of amber. As for the English, denigrate them! Sabotage poor old Goldsburry! Make the Fulas understand that the English only want one thing: to behead the almami and take control of his country. Tug at the Fula’s heartstrings: his legendary pride, his attachment to Islam and to his country’s independence, everything the villainous English want to destroy while we, the French…Remind them a million times over how I am and will always remain their most faithful and devoted friend. Do as I say and keep me informed.
In the meantime, I have to stay here to harass the ministries. For the moment everything is going against me. But you know me!
I will return to Fouta as soon as I can.
Say hello to all the Portôbés on my behalf!
WINTER PASSED WITHOUT ANY new developments—nothing from Gambetta, and nothing from Timbo. And so he dedicated himself completely to the two poles of his new existence: in his nocturnal life, during which others dreamed and the private nightmare of his insomnia reigned supreme, he worked on his travel journals and the arduous theories of The Absolute; in his daytime life, he attended to the Marseille routine of sports, business, banquets, and family. Georges, ten, and Marie-Thérèse, eight, enjoyed his presence as perhaps never before. They used the slightest excuse to escape from the conscientious grip of servants and tutors and seek shelter in his arms. He scolded them for various trifles—elbows on the table during dinner, sloppy attire, a botched Latin or math exercise—while his hand gently patted their cheeks and his paternal heart secretly exuded tenderness and affection.
It stopped snowing; the storks dispelled the last southern fogs with a single flap of their wings. Still nothing.
Splendid spring days rich in sunlight, birdsong, and jasmine left Rose, his treasure, swooning with love and romanticism. The thoughtful presence of her man and the daily presentations of Mephistopheles were soon no longer enough for her. Her wet eyes turned to the heights of Marseille, she sniffled and wrapped herself around him: “Aimé, if you really loved me, you would give me another lunch on the peak of La Verryère, only with the Teatro alla Scala this time.” He went to great pains to convince her that it wasn’t particularly exciting to indulge in the same extravagance twice. A second lunch at the peak of La Verryère would have no effect. The man in the street and the press would ignore it, and for the two of them, it would be one glass of champagne too many. The Teatro alla Scala was a brilliant idea, but really, not on La Verryère—the Kahel plateau would be so much better!
It would just require a little patience. Once he brought those proud Fula princes to heel, built a palace and a train station, and established trade and industry, they would surely find some grove to clear for an opera house based on the one in Paris, Milan, Florence, or London—it would be up to her. And the Teatro alla Scala would certainly be the best choice for the inauguration. The country required double civilizing: the railroad for the economy, opera for the culture.
“Tell me under what name you will reign, Aimé?”
He hadn’t thought about that yet. He would study the Merovingians or the giants of the Nile—something like Merovech or Ramses. Maybe he could combine them: Meramvech, Egypt’s peak and France’s flourishing beginnings! Meramvech was nearly like a Negro name. Just Meramvech, plain and simple—the founder of a dynasty has no need for numbers.
“And what would you call me?”
“Rose! The name of a flower, the most beautiful flower of all! Thorns and a sweet fragrance. You’ll be both loved and feared.”
He hadn’t thought about Dalanda when he answered. He hadn’t thought about her since he had arrived in France. In fact, Émilie, Rose, and Dalanda were not three different women, three separate entities likely to meet and rival one another. They represented the various states of a single person: snow here, water there. The metamorphosis must take place somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. It was only natural that he didn’t feel anything like guilt, wrenching emoti
on, doubt, or torment, none of the futile feelings or pathetic moral doctrines that might make one shudder in this kind of situation. He had never asked anyone how to say “rose” in Fula; it was surely dalanda.
“Ah, Kahel! Try for next year, Aimé, it’s so boring here in Marseille!”
He decided to rent a boat and take her on a cruise to Sicily.
Shortly after their return, a stranger appeared at the gate of the property. Olivier told the butler he wasn’t home for anyone. But the good man insisted that his visitor had come from abroad expressly to see him.
“From England, sir, judging by his accent!”
He received the stranger in the farmhouse library to make it clear the interview would be brief. The man handed over his cloak and walking stick, and came forward as he pulled off his gloves with a typically English sense of elegance:
“Sir Gladstone Jr. And it is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Olivier.”
“Sir Gladstone Jr.? You mean to say you’re the brother of the prime minister?”
“Not the brother. The son, Monsieur Olivier, the son.”
“My God, the son of Her Majesty’s prime minister. What interest could your empire have in a poor Frenchman like me?”
“We’ve always been highly interested in the French, Monsieur Olivier.”
“Especially Joan of Arc and the burghers of Calais.”
“Come now, Monsieur Olivier, all that is in the past. We’re friends now. In any case, it’s as a friend that I’ve come to see you.”
“Then please accept a glass of wine. That’s how we treat our friends in France—with wine.”
“If you see it as a punishment, Monsieur Olivier, I’ll gladly accept the maximum sentence,” the Englishman said, loudly clinking his glass.
“Did your honorable father send you?”
“Let’s say I came on my own initiative, though he is of course aware of my visit.”
Naturally, he had come to discuss the only subject they were both interested in: Fouta Djallon. London was aware of Olivier’s stay in Timbo and his fruitless efforts in Paris.
The King of Kahel Page 13