Disaster Was My God (30 page)

Gnats danced in globes, like invisible flowers.

Dazed, he heard a bone crunch, almost grumbling, under a foot not his, obviously.

Fortunately, the children were frozen.
If you don’t notice nobody else will
.

And look. Just then a very interesting bird landed on a tree—yellow with a droopy blue head feather, like a comma.

Then he said,
someone said
, quite as if nothing had passed or could be seen, “We’ll cross down there.”

And it was not true
.

In fact, as Rimbaud stirred from his shock, his mind, in a state of semidream, his then blank mind, revolted at the assertion of what was being averred by these bones spread out over half a kilometer. What so plainly was, was not so—was not and could not be. This was not life, and
this
life was not
his
life. Like a dog kicking grass, disowning what he had just now left, Rimbaud’s thinking was now quite magical.
This happened to them, not me. I’m alive
.

Suddenly he felt so very tired. Emptied, in fact.

Then, with curious relief, he remembered,
It’s Sunday
.

And look. There in the distance, like tomorrow, were the immense clouds. Wondrous, steamy white clouds—sea clouds.

The coast, the sea!

He wondered, with an odd kind of thrill, if they would hit the coast late tomorrow or the next day, and if he was lucky he would find a waiting ship, praise God, a ship on the blue-blue sea.

A bead of sweat rolled down his nose, briefly clung to his septum, then slid down to his upper lip. He licked it, salty as a tear, then stood there blinking, his eyes like dials. When, on the ground, all around him, he saw glinting yellowy flecks—gold.

Not gold—brass.

Brass shell casings.

Fat .45-70 cartridges sold in casks heavy as hogsheads.
Not his
. Perhaps not. Mercifully, he had his competitors—competi
tor
. Well, one, although he had heard rumors of two more in the trade.

“This way,” he heard himself, his other, his better self say. “Here’s the way,” he said, as if what they now saw was the result of lightning, famine, unstoppable forces. Some act of God. “There’s the gap,” he said as if he were Moses. “There we will cross.”

Mr. MacDonald was stumbling, murmuring prayers, herding and
shielding the children as best he could. Tied in her hat and veil, with her peeling red nose, Mrs. MacDonald, however, was now fully, horrifyingly awake as she fixed him in her gaze.

“Ah, Mr. Rimbaud,” she said overpleasantly. “You are too modest. Are you not the author of this lovely
poem
that we now see stretched out before us?”

He reddened. Grasped the poles of his gurney. Go. Go.

“What?” mocked Mrs. MacDonald, trembling with rage. “You cannot share with us several odious lines? Oh, but we should
so
love to hear them, Mr. Rimbaud. Please, poet, a poem! A pretty poem to pass the time.”

31
Lucky Bug

What eye can see itself? What eye
wants
to see itself?

He
, Rimbaud, did not direct the guns.
He
did not aim them, did he?

He was a businessman. The country was ill-organized and chaotic, as Menelik himself was, now in a preposterous military uniform, now in a suit, now in tribal dress. Or, often as not, some mélange thereof—molting into eventual civilization, as it were. To be sure, the Europeans were very expert liars, but none so expert as Menelik. In return for money and assurances, Menelik gave the Europeans bluff assurances that he would stamp out slavery—of course, reverse the rivers, too. Yes, even as they grabbed Africa and pulled her wealth around their necks like some rich fur, Europe’s anxious publics needed reassurance that their investment would return white and pure.

No slavery!

Done!

Nor would the savages be armed!

Done!

The railroad, the telegraph, proper hygiene—progress was coming.

Done!

Why, as a down payment on this new state of affairs, the railroad interests had given Menelik a model miniature railroad, with a baby-elephant-sized steam locomotive that puffed real steam. Upon this the king would ride round and round the palace, his caftan flying and his knees hiked to his chin. The king loved a good show. White-liveried flunkies stood at attention holding silver salvers containing sweating glasses of tea and lemonade; they put out stogies and spittoons and even crisply ironed napkins on which to wipe one’s lips. Good show! Standing in the equatorial sun with their creamy suits and Panama hats, waiting for an audience, his European handlers, so called—the various envoys and vendors, engineers, representatives of the mineral interests—would clap as he rode around and around and around. But, good heavens, as thirty minutes became one hour—as once more the recreating potentate rounded the bend—some fell out, while the rest stood cursing and grimacing.

Toot, toot!

Frangi!
Menelik loved to see them all sweaty and standing at attention, like hungry dogs, he said. Ha! Let the
frangi
fools stand in the sun—Rimbaud, too. For the old fox, it was a game, a negotiating tactic, like his threats and arbitrary taxes or even turning them all out—having waited the afternoon—because His Excellency was suddenly “tired.” Wear them down. Change the rules. Pretend not to understand. Or erupt into one of his very favorite English words,
e-vent-u-ally
.

Peace, eventually. Everything, eventually. Sewers. Schools. Water in pipes. Feet in shoes. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

“There, there, my boy,” Bardey would say to Rimbaud when he returned in fury from one of these ritual hazings. Or when Rimbaud would rage in general about the laziness and mendacity of the populace—the utter indifference to progress, the casual lying, the all but undisguised thievery! The genial Bardey would intone, “Mr. Rimbaud, may I remind you that before crumpets and concertos someone first needs to drain the swamps. And here you are, lad, in your gum boots! Why, right at the elbow of History.”

“Arsehole, more like it.”

“Well, then, I am off to my
office,
” punned Bardey, ever brightly. “Leaving you, dear boy, to your
orifice.
”

A
fter Ambos, later that same day, they saw something resembling a military patrol, then a small outpost with a flag—the first signs of civilization since leaving Harar now ten days ago.

Tomorrow, or the next day, or certainly the next, they would reach the sea. For Rimbaud, however, relief turned to anxiety, and not merely about France, his family, or impending medical unpleasantries. Without Djami, he was panicked at the idea of separating from the MacDonalds, and not merely Mrs. MacDonald. It was the idea that they should leave
him
before he left
them
. Yet another dream, for whatever else, Rimbaud’s leaving days were now over.

So it was after they left the killing grounds of Ambos. A lizard could at least break off his tail—scuttle off, even half his length, to persist another day under a rock. Now even the crutch was useless. He was an inanimate object, a thing. When he called a rest halt, immediately the bearers set him down—down as if he were a crate—then left him like bad luck.

Left
. Lying back, the shotgun straddling his lap, as if from the hereafter Rimbaud watched the MacDonalds. He watched in particular Mr. MacDonald caring for the children. How ably he followed their moods, distracted them, contained their fits, the girl especially, who, quite understandably, was in a bad way. Crying jags. Screaming fits. Yesterday, sleep-deprived, ant-bitten and sunburned, with itchy hair, the girl had screamed at her supine host, actually screamed at the top of her lungs, as if she were the sun, “I
hate
you.” Then, in case he missed the point, she narrowed her swollen eyes and said,
“You!”

Shocking. He dodged her eyes—a child. He filtered sand through his fingers, trying not to think, then found himself watching Mr. MacDonald playing “marbles” with small stones in the dirt. Anything.
Sticks. Or the grass he had twisted, several days ago, into a crude doll for the girl.
Her name began with H, didn’t it?

What if I’d had a son?

You’d have made a hash of it.

I could learn. I didn’t do badly with Djami
.

Asshole. You left Djami.

To protect him
.

Left him.

I was a fool!

Yes, you are a fool, a bloody fool.

But look at MacDonald, thought Rimbaud, destitute in a foreign country, no money, no prospects—truly a fool for his family, a donkey. Yet when Mr. MacDonald arose, Rimbaud was still under this dizzying spell. When suddenly the girl—whose name, even the first letter, for the life of him he could not recall—
H? Or was it P?
—caught him looking.

“Stinking, horrid pig! Stop staring!”

“Don’t hate me,” he said. Pled. She looked away, sucking on her braid—exactly as his sister Isabelle did at that age.

“Miss,” he struggled, still blank on her name, “Miss, I did all I can do.” He wished he had a doll or something to give her, or even some plausible endearment. “One day you’ll understand.”

“No, I will not understand, you beast! Ever!
Now don’t talk to me.
”

Slapped, violently slapped by a girl. It felt like the fever sweats, violent, clenching chills like a beating, as he thought, Her name. If only I knew her name.

Still, he thought he might have a chance with the boy. For after all, he had been one, once—a boy.
Ralph
. Excellent, Rimbaud—you even remembered the lad’s name. And sitting in the sand, that very afternoon after Ambos, he found a bug, indeed, a very interesting and even unusual and quite curious bug.

“Ralph.” Smiling as best he could, he held out his closed hand. “Here, I’ve something for you.”

“What, a bug?” The boy scowled.

Rimbaud held it up, slowly gyrating. He smiled. Its legs were like black wires, almost mechanical. “It’s a
stick
bug.” Rimbaud waited. “A
walking
stick.”

“So?”

“Well, they’re considered lucky here, I think.” He waited. “Lucky.”

“Oh.” A caustic pause. “A
lucky
bug.”

“Ralph,” he said, as if, with the name, he held the magic key. “It’s for
you.
”

“Oh, no, no, no.
You
keep it.” The boy spun around. “You’re the one needing luck.”

32
Ill-Timed Visit

The next morning Verlaine, needless to say, was not home in his soft bed at 14 rue Nicolet. Nor, fortunately for him, was his father-in-law, M. Mauté de Fleurville. God no. To escape the waiting and female drama, the patriarch had fled to the country for a few days of hunting. It was shortly after nine—far too early for callers—that a dirty hand lifted the massive brass knocker and gave four resounding knocks, then a fifth. Then, injurious to the peace, even a
sixth
.

Naturally, one of the maids answered, then with swishing maid’s steps hurried into the parlor where the women maintained their vigil for the absent Paul, the furious Mme. Mauté in her high-backed chair and, opposite her, on the lyrelike fainting couch, the dazed and puffy-eyed Mathilde, rubbing her enormous belly.

Mme. Mauté made a face when the maid informed her who was at the door. Or claimed to be, rather.

“Impossible. Did he not give you his card?”

“No, Madame, nothing.”

Hauling up her overabundance of petticoats, then the swanlike bustle (a sure sign of the trollop, believed Mme. Rimbaud), Mme. Mauté
then did the unprecedented and answered her own door—stunned. It was as the maid had said.

For here, claiming to be Arthur Rimbaud, was not the grown man they expected but rather a blond, blue-eyed schoolboy—
un potache—
wearing a bowler hat, an ill-fitting jacket, two twisted strips suggestive of a tie, and ankle-high trousers. And the socks! Rude blue socks, bright blue, such as a rube might knit. Fat red hands. Big feet. Even more objectionable to Madame’s haute-Parisian ears was the boy’s hopelessly Ardennais accent. No bow. Not even a tip of the hat.