The Children of the Crab

by André Lichtenberger

  Darkness falls. The officer and the young woman return to the beach. A great gentle weariness overwhelms Laurette. She squeezes her cousin’s hand and retires to her tent.

  Raramémé lie down across the threshold. They can still be heard chatting in whispers. Then they snuggle together and go to sleep, entwined, like two kittens.

  The Citoyen’s carpenters are plying the ax, the saw, the plane and the mallet relentlessly. Thanks to the wood with which the island is overflowing, the few necessary repairs are easy to effectuate. Decorated with the scars of her exploit, the light cruiser will be in a fit state to regain her fatherland, but it is heavy work and it is necessary that her sojourn is a long one. Only Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans and his secretary are genuinely annoyed by that.

  The delay permits the delegate, it is true, to complete the general report of his mission. But Monsieur Pittagol, to whom that responsibility falls, would just as soon carry it out in his apartment in the Rue du Bac. And for long weeks, the Chambre will have been deprived of the eloquence and labor of one of the leaders of the radical-democratic party. How much more prejudicial that absence is at a time when political unease is increasing, and a ministerial crisis might perhaps permit a new man to take the helm!

  The député has difficulty consoling himself for that inconvenience. The company of kangaroos, ornithorhynchi and even that of all the varieties of psittacoids leaves him unsatiated. The indigenes only catch occasional glimpses of the horizons of democracy. On the orders of his employer, Monsieur Pittagol spends every evening around the hearth, promoting their civic education.

  Certainly, the song of the little hairy sorcerer is listened to with docility. Varied and picturesque dances accompany the session, and the words of the Elders are full of deference, but Monsieur Pittagol does not grasp many of them, and he has become convinced that his audience does not understand any of his. Although that particularity scarcely differentiates the Oyas from the conscientious proletariat that haunts electoral meetings and popular universities, it does not stimulate his zeal—and he sinks into the melancholy mood into which his incurably wounded heart is sliding.

  For Monsieur Pittagol is in love, and his love is in vain. Is the colonial officer the lover of the frail young blonde? Contrary to the opinion amidships, Monsieur Pittagol doubts it—but there is a cordial and banal relationship between them. She has given the officer, if not her body, the most precious part of her heart—and the surplus belongs to two Polynesian brats and an ape. That preference ulcerates and humiliates Monsieur Pittagol. He can only ease his pain by indulging in compassion for it.

  Monsieur Pittagol soothes himself by distilling abstruse prose pieces and amorphous verses in which he curses his slavery.

  If Commandant Kerfaouët did the same, he might gnaw less impatiently at his leash, but he is irritated. The Citoyen’s exploit has opened up a fine prospect of promotion; what bad luck it is to be immobilized in this lax Cytherea—all the more so because the atmosphere is not conducive to rigorous orders. A humane and conscientious leader, Monsieur de Kerfaouët feels an obligation not to begrudge young men whose lives are hanging by a thread the interval of relief that hazard has accorded them. In rotation, the men have permission to go ashore until eight o’clock in the evening; they savor the island’s pleasures with intoxication.

  Monsieur de Kerfaouët has been obliged to impose certain restrictions. In order not to injure the forbearance of the Oyas, who do not immolate game for everyday consumption and who asks its forgiveness, he has limited hunting permits severely. The sailors have not protested. Big children, they take little joy in massacring trusting beasts and, instead of killing them, are gladly exerting their ingenuity in domesticating them. In imitation of the savages, some have adopted one species, others another. Lancosme has appointed himself patron of armadillos; the loquacious Loustau that of the discreet kiwis; Balissard from Ménilmuche is so well-viewed by Pippi-kuink that if it continues, Raramémé will be jealous. Even though people joke about it, Châtenet has become the intimate of the white-maned macaques that roost in the coconut palms.

  Naturally, this familiarity does not extend as far as Kouang. One day, when they were a little drunk, two or three of the lads attempted to tease him; they received such shoves that the joke has not been repeated. Half out of respect and half in jest, when they cross his limping path, they render him honors. “No one will ever make me believe, old chap, that the fellow doesn’t know a lot more than he lets on.”

  The most cordial relations have been stabilized with the indigenes. They have maintained the traditions of generous hospitality that won the affection of the navigators of the eighteenth century. One cannot say, since they have none, that their hearths are open to the white gods, but in the appropriate measure, the latter are at home in the company of all. The women smile at them and open their arms. Jealousy is unknown to the husbands. What Amphitryon would not rejoice in sharing with Jupiter?

  In the midst of these exotic idylls, the sailors have forgotten the perils that they have recently escaped. Those of tomorrow? Wait and see. Homesickness has ceased to gnaw at them. The seductive, alluring atmosphere impregnates them. An alcoholic beverage extracted from palm juice does not taste bad, and renders them more profound and more comforting dreams.

  In Oaleya the Fortunate, Hugues de Pionne and Laurette stroll untiringly, rediscovering the soul of their childhood. In this climate, where almost the entire race is afflicted by the same malaise as her, the young woman savors a respite, a wellbeing forgotten for years. She no longer has a fever. She eats with appetite. She sleeps, and wakes up refreshed in the cool morning. Often, she and Hugues set off at dawn. Raramémé take charge of a few provisions. They remain absent all day.

  Within a radius of several kilometers, all the charms of the exquisite island are now familiar to them. Nowhere, save for the old ancestral house, has such an amicable and reassuring atmosphere ever surrounded them.

  There are no dangerous animals on the island. Even the snakes here are harmless. Houga and Lauritea are the friends of all species. As they approach, the kangaroos lift up their timid muzzles amicably, and the armadillos no longer take the trouble to enclose themselves in their scaly boxes. The cackle of the parrots welcomes them, and the monkeys, anticipating some treat, would become indiscreet if Raramémé were not alert. Kiwi escorts them gravely, accompanied by his female and little ones.

  They are now familiar with a host of delightful, ardent, moving locations.

  They are acquainted with the lagoon with the thick waters full of ferments, around which an immense swirl of spirits circulates. They are acquainted the other lagoon with the clear waters, where the incessantly-oscillating crowns of the great acacias are mirrored. They are acquainted with the two forests of coconut-palms, one of bananas, and the enormous thickets of mulberries and guavas, beneath the somber vaults of the forked mango-trees.

  They are familiar with Kouang’s grotto.

  Barefoot, they have gone up the stream of the little river, visited the fissures where the skeletons of the great extinct birds sleep.

  Guided by the children, they have also made other discoveries. They have gone with them as far as the vicinity of Hakarou, the volcano. As one approaches it the vegetation becomes stunted, dries out and disappears. There is nothing but a bare ground of lava and sulfur, which creaks bizarrely underfoot, quivering, snoring and becoming hot. A stink fills the air. Encircled by charred earth, pools of water and oily mud seethe, in which bubbles burst. Unbreathable vapors scatter filthy spirits. Beneath the crust of the ground, others grunt like pigs. Miry and scalding geysers spring forth with enormous gouts of smoke. Everywhere there are ashes, scoria and lava, quivering and anguished. Beneath it all, the enchained demons of a prodigious becoming agitate.

  Another time, there was an even longer excursion. Raramémé led their friends to the southern tip of the island. It is terminated by a bluff, lashed by winds, an extremely high and sheer cliff that overlooks the sea vertically.
There, colossal figures lie on their backs, like the sarcophagi of giants. Their feet are directed southwards, their immutable eyes staring into the sky. They are carved with a measure of skill, reminiscent of Phoenicia or Assyrian sculptures. The artists who created them were infinitely superior to the Oyas, who, apart from the traditional designs of totems, reproduced indefinitely according to a rigorous and invariable perfection, seem to be almost strangers to the fine arts.

  How were the masses of these stone gods transported? By whom? What is their significance? An unfathomable mystery. Raramémé have explained that, apart from the ancestor Manga-Yaponi, no other members of the tribe would dare to contemplate them, except on sacred days, but that the four of them can, since they are children of the crab.

  The children have also shown the visitors the somber thickets in which Minniloa, the Black Flower, grows. Dr. Boujade, who has accompanied them, has explained its properties to them. Those who are tired of life innocently request a peaceful end from it. Hugues sniggered: “Tell that to Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans. Death without tears—what an export!”

  Pensively, Laurette looked up at the young man and placed a finger on his lips. “You mustn’t say anything. It would be too dangerous.”

  On another occasion, Raramémé, cutting a path through the tall grass and lianas, take their friends to a strange clearing. A dome of interlaced foliage covers it, in which white and red corollas blossom that are almost monstrous. The ground is carpeted with soft and tenuous moss sprinkled with silver flowers. It is bordered on one side by Taroa, the dormant waters of which are swarming with turtles, frogs, insects, larvae, fish and eels. Such heady perfumes impregnate it that moisture forms on the temples and a kind of mist veils the brain. A breath passes through it, powerful, warm and sweet, like the caress of a velvet wing. Gripped by vertigo, Laurette feels herself become unsteady, and lets herself fall unwittingly on to Hugues’ shoulder.

  Watching the couple with a tender and very cheerful gaze, Raramémé explain things, self-importantly. Intrigued, the young couple, wanting to understand, appeal to Monsieur Boujade for help. He knows more words than they do, and grasps their connections more fully. He listens attentively, makes an effort, and suddenly bursts out laughing.

  Laurette interrogates him. He avoids the issue.

  She insists, eventually becoming annoyed.

  Then, satirically, he says: “At your own risk, Madame. Anyway, since you’re children of the crab, you won’t be scandalized. You’re not unaware that the entire island is full of spirits. Our little friends move in an invisible world that has as much reality for them as my shoe or that flying squirrel spying on us over there in the fork of that mango-tree. Now, know that this place full of saps and odors is simmering, if I might put it like that, the magma of what will be. Here, you and the captain are going to impregnate yourselves with the most alluring perfumes and germs…with the result that, if the will of Rahuo intervenes, in nine months, the people of the crab will be enriched by a new recruit—to whom, Madame, you will give birth.”

  Laurette blushes and bursts out laughing. “How silly!”

  The afternoons rarely end without a visit to the village. Of all the white gods, those of the crab are the tribe’s favorites. They pause in front of the huts, pronounce words that augur well, touch the sick, distribute candy to the children, glass beads to the women and smiles to everyone. Then, heaped with blessings, they descend to the beach of golden sand, and there, with Raramémé playing at their feet, facing the setting sun, the smoking volcano, the purring waves and the black coral, they savor peace, melancholy and acceptance.

  Everything is finishing, everything crumbling, including dolor. Nothing is entirely bad. Almost everything is good. Everything is good, since nothing endures...

  And very often, the evening ends with the rhythmic canticle of the crabs. Hougalauritea have learned the tune and the words now; they know how to intone it in the necessary fashion. Their voices and those of the savage children rise up in chorus. It is sufficient for them to call; in a few moments, the fraternal animality surges from the Ocean and surrounds them.

  Lost in the swarming life that envelops them, the young couple experience a bizarre sensation of comfort and delight. Everything was a dream, save for the children they once were, and whom they have rediscovered, and the strange games that have revived within them, across the generations, the emprise of the unknown Ancestor.

  It is evident that Raramémé have a project, with which they want to associate Hougalauritea. They raise it agitatedly, on a daily basis, with great speeches and abundant gestures. Unfortunately, it is difficult to grasp. It seems to be a matter of an excursion to be made together. It will be necessary to traverse the whole island, probably to spend one or two nights in the forest, and visit something.

  What?

  Summoned to consultation, Dr. Boujade has declared himself impotent to clarify the enigma. Probably a taboo place, a sanctuary, or more images of a magical character, like the colossi of the southern promontory.

  Invariably, at the end of their speeches, the children never fail to designate the totem inscribed on their breast and on the wrists of the young couple, and the name of Kroum returns to their lips with vivacity. There is no doubting the interest of the trip, which is presumably connected with the indigenes’ superstitions, and will lift a further corner of the veil of the unknown that envelopes them.

  In vain Hugues raises objections, fearing that it might be too tiring for Laurette. She is strong and alert. She has never felt better.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow, Doctor. Would you like to come with us?”

  For form’s sake, Monsieur Boujade demurs. In truth, what need do the two young folk have of him? Nevertheless the bonhomie that he hides beneath his playful Southern skepticism is touched; his curiosity also scents an appetizing mystery. Then again, to flee, to flee for forty-eight hours, the new obsession that has taken hold of the Delegate General: could Oaleya not become a kind of sanitarium for the sick and wounded of his constituency? Monsieur Boujade is required to assemble the meteorological documentation. With a thermal bath and a little summer-house... The capital will not be difficult to find.

  At dawn, escorted by the brown children and the Hairy One, the excursionists set out. They plunge delightedly into the forest, powdered with dew and overflowing with perfumes.

  It is forbidden for the sailors to go more than three kilometers from the camp. Nonchalant, finding without difficulty in their immediate vicinity all that they need for their subsistence, slaves of the instinct that engages them to remain grouped together, the indigenes hardly ever go beyond the same radius. Hougalauritea and their companions have the gigantic forests, the babbling streams, the still pools, the shady valleys and the abrupt escarpments entirely to themselves.

  At the departure, distractedly, the young woman has enquired: “Have any new communications come in?” And then, the wireless known and forgotten, they have abandoned themselves to the dazzling delight of the Garden of Eden of which they are the privileged guests.

  Raramémé precede them, brush against them and follow them, dancing around with the petulance of young mad dogs. They are scouts, supporters, providers and rearguard. They are perpetually running up, their hands laden with presents: orchids with surprising corollas, fruits, calabashes, clusters of grapes, beetles with polished metal wing-cases, a ruby butterfly or a little bird, a warm living gem plucked from its nest—and which, after having brushed it with her lips, Laurette releases into the air.

  The brown children wrestle with one another, chase one another, knock one another over, roll around, bite one another. Kouang sometimes plays his part. Climbing after him through the trees, leaping from branch to branch, they bombard him with coconuts, challenge him, abuse him. He ends up losing his patience, turns round, launches himself with a prodigious agility, catches up with the tormentors, takes hold of them, shakes them, swings them from the end of his arms. They utter shrill cries, burst out laughing, esc
ape and pester him even harder. The frightened macaques scatter and the multicolored parrots fly away with strident protests.

  The midday halt takes place in the depths of a verdant valley, beneath the vast crowns of lataniers, near a small waterfall streaming in a casket of somber plush. Sheltered from the ardent sun, there is a humid and gentle coolness. Water-moles yawn on the moss. The shiny muzzle of an otter emerges, its eyes sparkling. It gazes briefly, and dives again, unhurriedly.

  Is it certain that life could not have been modeled on another plan? Oh, a less abnormal development of the cerebral lobes, a less jealous individualism, a less bitter competition between creatures...

  Laurette murmurs: “Hugues, how can we live anywhere else?”

  The officer’s lips contract, bitterly pursed. What! Is Laurette forgetting that this is the final halt? No, she knows. But she is resolutely proscribing and suppressing the universal anguish. And as if she believed it, she sketches plans.

  “It’s decided. We’ll come back, when the war is over, to settle in Oaleya. Will you accompany us, Monsieur Boujade?”

  Monsieur Boujade nods his head. “Be careful that we aren’t to numerous. The other evening, I heard a group of sailors exchanging reflections. One said: ‘Old chap I’m going to naturalize myself here after the war.’ And another, a Basque, even sniggered: ‘Good—me, I won’t wait that long, and the Citoyen can leave without me.’”

  Idle words. But can they escape the dissolving contagion of the magical isle? Might they not consent to stop playing their part in the universal martyrdom? Are they not allowing themselves, a trifle criminally, to be lulled, distracted, numbed?

  The captain stiffens himself. “As the Citoyen won’t leave without us, I propose that we get moving again.”

  The slope becomes steep. Doubtless they are approaching the culminating point of the island. The vegetation becomes stunted, almost disappearing. They follow a sinuous gorge that plunges between two walls, a chaos of stones where nothing grows but a few mosses and fleshy plants, among which snakes a thin trickle of water. Inoffensive—but sometimes enormous—lizards watch them pass by, stupidly. There is a cave on the left; its depths are invisible. It exhales a cold draught. At intervals, the defile contracts so narrowly between overhanging rocks that the sky becomes invisible.