The boulevard was a teeming river of life in
the golden dust of the setting sun. The entire sky was a blinding red, and
behind the Madeleine a huge swarm threw a huge slanted shower of fire into the
long avenue, shimmering like the cloud from a blaze.
The happy crowd, palpitating, went beneath
this fiery mist and seemed to be in the middle of a finale. The faces were
golden, the black hats and the frocks had flashes of purple, and the shoe
polish reflected flames onto the asphalt of the pavements.
Before the cafés, groups of men were drinking
shining drinks of all different colours that one would have considered precious
stones melted into the glass.
In the middle of the consumers with light clothes
that were slightly darkened, two officers in full uniform made everyone lower
their eyes due to the blinding light reflecting from the golden items in their
clothes. They were chatting, joyous without reason, in this glory of life, in
the radiant rays of the evening, and they watched in the opposite direction of
the crowd, the slow men and the hurrying women who left behind them a
delightful and moving aroma.
Suddenly an enormous black man, dressed in black,
big-bellied, decorated with trinkets on a drill vest, with a gleaming face as
if it had bee polished, walked past them with an air of triumph. He laughed at
the crowd, he laughed at the newspaper vendors, he laughed at the bursting sky,
he laughed at the whole of Paris. He was so tall that he stood way above
everyone else, and behind him the crowd turned round to gawk at him.
But suddenly he saw the officers and stumbling
through the drinkers he rushed forward to them. When he was before their table
he set his gleaming and happy eyes on them and the corners of his mouth were
raised all the way up to his ears, uncovering his white teeth, as clear as a
crescent moon against a dark sky. The two men, baffled, regarded this ebony
giant without understanding his gaiety.
"Hello, Lieutenant," he shouted in a voice
that made all the other tables laugh. One of the two was in charge of a
battalion, the other a colonel.
"I don't know who you are, monsieur, and I
don't know what you want from me," said the former.
"I liked you a lot Lieutenant Védié, I
know you from HQ at Bézi, lots of grapes, looked for me."
The officer, completely stunned, looked directly at
the man, searching the darkest recesses of his memory, but suddenly he shouted.
"Timbuktu?"
The black man, radiant, clapped him on the thigh
while laughing an impossibly violent laugh and bellowed. "Yes, yes, there
we go, Lieutenant, you recognize Timbuktu, good day."
The Lieutenant held out his hand, himself laughing
now. Then Timbuktu became serious once more. He shook the officer’s hand and, too
quickly for the other to do anything about it, kissed him, as is the black and
Arab way. Confused, the military man told him off with a severe tone.
"Come come, Timbuktu we're not in Africa. Sit down and tell me how you've
ended up here."
Timbuktu stretched his belly and mumbled because he
was speaking so quickly. "Won lots of money, lots, big restaurant, good
eatings, Prussians, me stole a lot, a lot, french cuisine, Timbuktu, cook for
the Emperor, two hundred thousand francs for me, ha ha ha ha!" And he
laughed, contorted he was laughing so much, shouting with a crazed happiness of
life.
When the officer--who understood his strange way of
speaking--had interrogated him for a while, he said to him, "All right
then, I'll see you again soon, Timbuktu."
The black man immediately got up and shook,
this time, the hand that was offered to him and departed laughing all the
while. "Good day, Lieutenant, good day!"
He left so happy that he was gesticulating while
walking and people thought he was mad.
"Who was that brute?" the colonel asked.
The commander replied, "A brave chap and a
brave soldier. I'll tell you what I know of him; it's rather funny."
Well, you know that at the start of the war in 1870
I was posted to Béziers, or as the black guy called it, Bézi. We weren't at all
under siege, but more blocked off. The Prussian lines surrounded us from all
sides, out of range of the cannons, and they didn't fire at us either. Instead,
they were starving us, little by little.
At the time I was a Lieutenant. Our garrison was
composed of troops of all sorts: the remnants of other decimated regiments;
runaways; people who had been separated from the rest of the army. Anyway, we
had all sorts, even eleven Turks who arrived at the garrison one night, God
knows how, or from where. They arrived at the gates looking tired,
ragged, starved and drunk.
I saw very soon that they were rebelled against any
form of discipline, they were always outside and always drunk. I tried the
police cells, even tried prison, but nothing worked. My men were disappearing
for days at a time, as if they had burried themselves underground, and then
they would reappear legless. They didn't have any money. Where did they drink?
And how? With what?
The whole thing was really beginning to intrigue me,
even more so because these savages interested me with their eternal laughter
and their character like big mischievous children.
Then I saw that they all obeyed the biggest one
religiously, the one who you just met. He was in charge and could make them do
whatever he wanted, and it was he who prepared their mysterious outings as an
all-powerful and unrivalled leader. I sent for him and interrogated him. Our
conversation lasted three hours, since it took a great effort to understand the
gobbledegook that came out of his mouth. Him, the poor devil, made unheard of
efforts to try and be understood, inventing words, gesticulating, he was
sweating from the effort, wiping his forehead, breathing deeply, stopping and
starting again suddenly when he thought he was onto a better way of expressing
himself.
I inferred eventually that he was the son of a
Chief, a sort of black king from around Timbuktu. I asked him his name. He
replied something like Chavaharibouhalikhranafotapolara. It seemed simpler to
me to give him the name of his homeland, 'Timbuktu.' And, eight days later, no
one in the entire garrison called him anything but that.
Nevertheless, we were still obsessed to the point of
mania with finding out where this African ex-prince found his booze. I stumbled
upon the answer in a rather unexpected way.
One morning I was on the ramparts, scanning the
horizon, when I saw something moving in a vine tree. We were nearing the time
that the grapes were harvested, and the grapes were ripe. But I didn't think
about that at all. I thought that a spy was approaching the town, and I
organised an expedition to catch the prowler. I took command of the operation
myself, after having been given the general's permission.
I made three little groups of troops go out in three
different directions via three different gates, and these would team up near
the site of the suspect vine tree and surround it. In order to be sure of
blocking the spy's retreat, I made one of these detachments take a long route
round which meant an extra hour's walk at least. A man who had stayed at the
observation point gave me a sign from the ramparts that the spy hadn't left the
field. We approached silently, crawling, almost lying completely in the ruts of
the field. Eventually, we came to the designated point. I motioned to my troops
who burst forward, running to the vine tree and finding... Timbuktu, crawling
on all fours in the middle of the vines and was eating all the grapes, or
rather tearing them from the vines like a dog eating soup; with a full mouth,
even biting off bits of the plant when gnashing at the grapes.
I wanted to get him up, but there wasn't a chance of
that happening, and then I understood why he was on the ground like that on his
hands and knees. Whenever we stood him up, he swayed a few seconds, held out
his arms and fell flat on his face. He was drunk as I'd ever seen any man be
drunk.
We took him back carrying him between two poles. For
the entirety of the trip he did not stop laughing, gesticulating madly with his
hands and legs all the while.
It was in that last part that the real mystery
existed. My men would eat the grapes down themselves. Then, when they were too
drunk to move, they slept where they lay.
Timbuktu, on the other hand, had a love of the vines
that went beyond all belief and all reason. He lived in the vines like the
thrushes, who he hated as a jealous rival would hate. "The thrushes have
eaten all the grapes, arses!" he would repeat over and over.
One night, I was called for. You could see on the
plain that something was approaching. I hadn't taken my telescope and I
couldn't make anything out very well. One would have said it looked like a long
snake, or a convoy, what do I know?
I sent some men ahead of this strange caravan
that soon enough made its triumphal entrance.
Timbuktu and nine of his companions had on top of some sort of makeshift
altar—made from chairs—eight grimacing, bloody severed heads. The tenth Turk
was pulling a horse along whose tail was attached to another horse, and six
more were behind that one, joined together in the same way.
This is what I was told.
Having left for the vine trees, my Africans had suddenly seen a Prussian
detachment approaching a village. Instead of fleeing, they hid themselves.
Then, when the officers had dismounted at an inn for refreshments, the eleven
men had ambushed them, chased off the uhlans who thought they were under
attack, killed the two sentries, and then the colonel and the five officers
that made up his escort.
I kissed Timbuktu that
day. But I saw that he was walking with a little difficulty. I thought he was
injured, he laughed and said, “Me, I provide for my country.”
The thing was that Timbuktu never went into
battle for honour, but for personal gain. Everything that he found, everything
that he thought might have any value, especially anything shiny, he put in his
pocket! And what a pocket! It was more of a chasm that began at his hips and
finished at his ankles. Having learnt the word from his time in his army, he
called it his “depth”, and it was his depth in effect.
For this reason he had
hacked off the gold from the Prussian uniforms, the leather from the helmets,
the buttons etc. and had thrown all of it into his “depth”, that was so full it
was overflowing.
Every day he threw into
it any shining object that caught his eye, bits of tin or coins, which put him
in a very happy mood.
He wanted to take
everything back with him to his land of ostriches, which seemed to be almost
like a brother to him, this son of a king tortured by the desire to engulf shiny
bodies. If he hadn’t had his depth, what would he have done? In that scenario,
he would have swallowed everything instead.
Every morning his pocket
was empty. He must have had a shop where he kept all his riches. But
where? I couldn’t find out.
The general, having been
alerted to Timbuktu’s exploits, ordered the bodies that had been left in the
village to be quickly buried before anyone discovered that they had been decapitated.
The Prussians went back there the next day. The mayor and seven notable locals were
executed on the spot as reprisals, for having given away their position.
The winter came. We were
exhausted and demoralized. Now we were fighting every day. The starved men
could no longer walk. Only the eight Turks (three had been killed) had retained
their weight and were always gleaming, energized and ready to go into battle.
Timbuktu was even getting bigger.
“You lots of hunger, I good meat,” he
said to me one day, and he brought me an excellent fillet of meat. But from
what animal? We no longer had any cattle, or sheep, or goats, or donkeys, or
pigs. It was impossible to procure a horse from anywhere. I thought about all
that after I had devoured my meal. Then a horrible thought came to me. These
black men were born very close to a country where it was not uncommon to eat
human meat! And every day there were plenty of soldiers who died around the
town! I asked Timbuktu. He didn’t want to reply. I didn’t press him further, but
from then on I refused his gifts.
He adored me. One night,
the snow fell on the outposts without warning. We were sat on the ground. I
looked over pityingly at the poor Africans shivering beneath this dusting of
white and frozen snow. Since I was also extremely cold, I started coughing. I
immediately felt something fall on me, like a great and warm quilt. It was
Timbktu’s coat that he had thrown around my shoulders.
I stood up and gave him back his jacket. “Take
this back, old boy; you need it more than I do.”
“No, Lieutenant, for
you, me no need, me warm, warm.” And he looked at me with pleading eyes.
“Come now; take it back,
that’s an order.”
The African stood up, took out his sword
that he could wield like a scythe in one hand, and in the other held the coat
that I had refused. “If you no keep the coat, I cut, no one’s coat.”
He would have done it. I
took the coat.
Eight days later we had been defeated. Some of our men had managed
to escape. The others were to leave the town and go to over to the victors.
I was going over to the
place d’Armes where we were meant to meet when I was left stunned and silent
when I saw a giant black man before me, dressed in white cotton drill and topped
with a straw hat. It was Timbuktu. He seemed radiant and was walking with his
hands in his pockets past a little boutique where you could see two glasses and
two plates.
“What are you doing?” I
asked him.
“Me no leave. Me good
cook, me make colonel eat, me eat Prussians, me steal lots, lots.”
It was a freezing ten degrees.
I was shivering before this African in drill. So he took me by the arm and made
me enter, I saw a large sign that he was only going to put on his door after we
left because he had some decency.
And I read this notice,
written by the hand of some accomplice:
MONSIEUR TIMBUKTU’S MILITARY CUISINE
PREVIOUS COOK
FOR THE EMPEROR
Parisian Artist—Moderate prices
Despite the heavy heart
I had at that time, I couldn’t help but laugh. And I left my African to his new
trade.
Was it better to do that
than to be taken away a prisoner?
You have just seen that
the rascal succeeded.
Béziers, today, belongs
to Germany. The Timbuktu restaurant is a backwards start.