for my wife, you see,’ says the commandant. ‘She loves orchids. When she was a child, I used to take her out on mountain rambles sometimes. There was one Alpine orchid flower we used to find all over the place … with its two yellow petals …’ The commandant quickly downs his rum and pours himself another. For a minute or two he’s silent, seemingly lost in memories. He snaps out of his reverie. ‘And that’s why I ordered the shipment. Something of an extravagance, of course.’
Outside, it’s growing dim. The commandant tends to get carried away with his conversation, and often at these meetings Sabir has to remind him that he needs to go, if he’s to make the barracks for dinner and lock-up. Today, he pretends to forget. It’s partly the rum. But mostly it’s the murder. Masque’s blue body and his blue face. Would there be reprisals against Pierrot and Antillais tonight? When Sabir left the barracks this morning to be interrogated, the two seemed supremely calm. Antillais was still building his little boat, Pierrot was cleaning his nails with his knife – the same one that had killed a man. Perhaps they’re safe. Perhaps Masque had too many enemies and his empire has crumbled at first touch. All Sabir knows is that he can’t spend another night in the barracks. Not with his knife clenched to his side, in a delirious haze of insomnia.
The commandant is pouring the rum again. ‘She’s been ill, you see. Not physically ill. A nervous complaint. She’s spent some time in Switzerland. Now she’s much better. I took this wretched job for her, do you see? She said she wanted to be as far away from Europe as possible. One of the African colonies, or Indochina. But when this post came up, she told me to take it. She couldn’t wait any longer. She said she wouldn’t marry me unless I took an overseas post. So I took it. Now I want everything to be just right for her arrival. I want her to regret nothing.’
It’s not clear whether the commandant is talking to Sabir or himself. The man’s hands are shaking. Maybe from drinking, but Sabir thinks not. He gets the impression that the commandant is like a ravenous animal, physically hungry perhaps, emotionally starving certainly. This unceasing tide of words and plans – Sabir is a mere shadow to him, an object in a room, solid to touch but nothing more than a receptacle for this outpouring.
Across the trees, a bell tolls, and echoes back across the river to ghostly effect.
‘The evening bell. You’ve missed lock-up.’
‘Yes, sir. I wasn’t thinking of the time. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘No. It’s my fault. I’ve been talking too much.’
‘They’ll probably send a guard down, once they do the headcount.’
‘Yes. They probably will.’ The commandant strokes his chin. ‘But they won’t open up the barracks for you. You’ll have to sleep out tonight. If a guard comes down, I’ll tell him what’s happened. I’ll make sure there’s no trouble for you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘In the meantime …’
Sabir can see what’s going through the commandant’s mind. His natural instinct is to offer Sabir a bed for the night, but that would hardly be appropriate, given their different circumstances. He could let Sabir sleep on the floor downstairs, but even that would be regarded as peculiar, should a guard come down.
‘Sir, if I might take a lamp, could I suggest that you allow me to sleep in the folly? We put the palm thatch on two days ago, so that way I could at least get some protection from the rain.’
The commandant looks relieved. ‘Why, yes, I think that would be a good solution.’
A few hundred metres from the house, at the back of the garden, there’s a narrow path that leads to a perfectly circular clearing, in the centre of which is the folly. It, too, is circular, with a diameter that’s just big enough for a man to lie down, fully stretched out. The floor decking is no more or less comfortable than the bed board in the barracks. But what a relief to be able to lie down on your own, with only your thoughts and dreams to accompany you. It’s as if the world has expanded and breathes again.
The commandant has given Sabir a blanket. They waited in the house for a guard to come, but none did. In the meantime, the two dined on cold meat. For all the guards know back at the camp, Sabir could have murdered the commandant – and yet no one has bothered to come down to investigate. Tomorrow, he’ll ask permission to move out of the barracks and stay down here, in the folly. He knows the commandant will agree. Nonetheless, anger wells up in Sabir. The commandant, letting Sabir in on his plans and secrets like that – as if they’re the centre of this world, and Sabir’s own life and aspirations are of no consequence. He sits up, takes the photograph of the commandant’s wife from his pocket, holds it to the lamp and stares at it for a long time. Outside the folly, everything is obscure, lugubrious. A world of solid night. There’s nothing else here except Sabir, the lamp and the photograph.
Staring at the photograph, Sabir thinks back to what the commandant said about his wife: the ‘nervous complaint’ she suffers from; the recuperation in Switzerland; the desire to be ‘as far away from Europe as possible’. To Sabir, it sounds like the bare bones of some impossibly mysterious story. Perhaps she’s still pining for a lost lover killed in the war. Or she’s committed a crime passionnel and has had to leave the country. Or she’s succumbed to some dark thread of family madness that runs back through generations.
There is nothing tragic or dramatic about Sabir’s fiancée. No story to tell. She’s the hard-nosed type. No doubt she’s already found herself another man. There was just one occasion, Sabir now remembers. One moment of true drama in his relationship with her. Sabir had been flirting – innocently enough – with a girl at a friend’s wedding. His fiancée was furious with him over it. She went off to stay with her mother, and her parting words were: ‘If I ever find out you’ve slept with another woman, I’ll kill you.’ She said it in such a matter-of-fact voice that he knew she meant it quite literally. That night, he spent his wages at a local brothel. It was the first time he’d visited one since the war.
The commandant’s wife now stands before him. She’s slipped out of her dress. Her underwear resembles the swimming costume she wears in the photo. From the house, Sabir can hear the gramophone playing its German songs, resonating through the forest. Sabir’s vision is more intense than anything he’s seen in the jungle camp. Out here, it can be days or even weeks before you catch sight of a woman: the feminine is a country of the imagination. ‘I knew you’d find me,’ she whispers to him. She smiles, puts her arms around him. This is their secret hideaway. This is where they retreat to when she can get away from the commandant. She’s the bored wife of a chilly colonial administrator, cast into a tropical wilderness. She’s hungry for connection, for company, emotion, sex. And he’s the skilful gardener, tending her beloved grove of orchids. Together they talk, exchange histories. Sabir’s banal existence suddenly seems heroic. As a soldier, he fought for his country. As a convict, his country repaid him with exile.
He lights a cigarette from the lamp, puts the photo back into his pocket. The gramophone music has stopped. It’s given way to an aria of frog croaks, insect clicks, monkey howls and other random noises of the night. Sabir stretches out, finishes his cigarette and closes his eyes. Moments later, the dawn light streams in through the shutter lattices. It’s the first proper night’s sleep he’s had in weeks.
Edouard has health problems. He doesn’t see as well with his good eye as he used to. It’s this terrible
