What Became of the White Savage (37 page)

Then he goes back down to the tribe.

“Amglo!”

The old woman calls out his name and extends her arm towards him. She shouts a short phrase, very loudly, several times, as if to call to the tribe.

He is immediately alert, not knowing what he’s done, which rule he’s infringed. He knows instinctively that his drawings are the cause of this upset.

They all come running up, forming a circle around him, looking at what he cannot hide.

The old woman says a few more words. Then, unable to speak any more, she splutters, her shoulders shake, a few inarticulate sounds escape her – yes, the old woman is laughing, she’s convulsed with laughter, she laughs until she cries.

The other women start to laugh too, then the children and the men. They all roar with laughter, shouting out jokes, slapping their thighs, rubbing their eyes and bursting into laughter again.

He was expecting an unpleasant surprise, to be shouted at, beaten. He’s disconcerted by all this hilarity: he has never seen them come together in enjoyment like this before. He doesn’t understand what is so funny about his paintings.

He wonders what to do. And then he takes a deep breath, spreads his arms wide, does a few improvised dance steps, a sort of gig to accentuate his muscles and display his decorated body. He jiggles about, waiting to see how the tribe will react.

Gales of laughter break out once more in the group. The children roll on the ground waving their legs in the air, the women gasp for air and laugh till they cry, the men clap their hands and shout gleefully. It seems as if this general hilarity will never end. Whenever the laughter starts to die down, someone cracks another joke and off they go again – even Waiakh chimes in with a quip of his own.

Soon he starts to smile and then he too joins in the laughter. He doesn’t know why he’s laughing, if it’s at his own misfortunes, at seeing them laugh, at being on display like this – he laughs with them and it’s like a drug flowing through him, a pleasing warmth, an escape to dimly perceived moments of happiness, a way of sharing the tribe’s good mood.

He places his hand on his painted chest and announces proudly: “Amglo!” And then he starts to laugh again.

From Charlotte de Vallombrun to the President of the Geographical Society.

Vallombrun, 8th April 1868

Monsieur le Président,

Viscount Louis joins me in conveying our heartfelt gratitude for your kind words of comfort in your letter of 25th March. Your sentiments bring solace to our troubled spirits, saddened as they are by the premature death of our brother Octave.

It was most courteous of you to send us the text of the obituary prior to its publication in the Geographical Society Review; we thank you for this. The complimentary portrait you paint of my late brother and of his work is in every respect faithful to the man he was and to the memory we preserve of him. Our only request is that you remove the paragraph on the white savage. This Pelletier affair must surely be regarded as no more than an act of personal charity; it has been of no benefit to the Geographical Society.

We have also taken note of the fact that the governing body will soon be considering both your favourable report and our proposal for an agreed solution to matters arising from the will. We await the formalisation of this agreement with confidence and look forward to signing the notarised documents in your presence.

Two years ago, Octave donated the majority of the artefacts brought back from his travels to the Museum of Grenoble. Two trunkfuls of these objects, carefully inventoried by Octave, still remain in the attic. If the Society is interested in any or all of these artefacts, I shall be happy to send them to you.

One of these trunks is a sailor’s chest of studded leather containing an assortment of oiled wool garments for protection against cold and rain, including gloves, hats and scarves. Most of these items are old and patched at the elbows and knees. The chest also contains a bible in Icelandic with a dedication written in German by the pastor in whose house Octave sojourned; knives, needles of all sizes, chess pieces made of ivory from the teeth of I know not what marine beast; a rag doll; a pair of snow shoes; a metal harpoon with barbed spikes.

The second trunk is larger and of inferior quality. In it are woven skirts and belts made of sturdy leaves; a puzzle; a coconut shell sculpted into the shape of a hut; twelve long necklaces of small white and yellow shells; a grotesque mask in black wood with splashes of red paint, its lips set in a grimace with the tongue half exposed; three digging sticks; a “black wood fork with three bent prongs known as a cannibal’s fork”; five wooden statuettes vaguely human in form; eight black or green “magic stones”; a “Kanak coin”; a cloth bag containing an assortment of strange seeds; a headdress of birds’ feathers which is already crumbling away.

Finally, I found among Octave’s papers a note that had previously escaped my attention, much of which I could neither read nor understand, but which contains a reference to your Society. I cannot imagine that Octave would have wanted this rudimentary draft to be disseminated. However, since fate denied him the opportunity to bring order to these reflections, the fruit, as it were, of his deliberations shortly before his death, and bearing in mind your position and the relationship he enjoyed with you, I thought that these jottings might perhaps be of use to you. I have accordingly made a copy of the note for you to peruse. You will see that it has harsh words to say about a gentleman by the name of Leroy: I rely on your tact with regard to this.

I remain, Sir, your most humble and devoted servant,

Charlotte de Vallombrun

17th January

FOR/AGAINST THE GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY

The Geographical society is mistaken because it is right. It is mistaken in that it tries to understand savage peoples – we can never understand them; in observing them we change them: such curiosity is therefore impossible to satisfy. It can only lead to illusion – but it is right to try and be the first there. All things considered and since the white man will assuredly travel to the ends of the earth, better that the first contact be with a man of science than with a reiter (illegible )or a pastor or a merchant hungry for profit. Or all three of them together.

The forests will never be dense enough, the deserts never dry or frozen enough.

What is important is Peace. And Peace lies in Escape.

Read in the latest edition of the Geographical Society Review a long essay by Leroy on the Indians of Northern Quebec. Leroy, king of the imbeciles! Those cynical savages answered all his questions but told him a pack of lies. He clearly missed the point. He repeats their tales without ever stopping to think. Repeats parrot fashion.

The Indians talk to Leroy. Their lies are their salvation, their only means of escape. NP escaped. NP’s children have escaped. I am left alone
.

(Three illegible lines, except for the word Australia)

A savage among savages. Savage for the savages.

In the governor’s garden, from the highest point, over the walls, he would gaze at the sea.

Movement more important than vision (mission? Unclear word)

NP escaped in search of peace. NP’s smile throughout the plenary session of the Geographical Society.

What is a savage’s peace? What does it mean?

NP is not (4 indecipherable words)

Monsieur le Président, I have been the first to land here on the far shore of human knowledge. I am not sure if I can discern you yet.

NP’s flight is a personal failure, a scientific fact.

For me, NP’s flight is a betrayal, a vow, a promise, a sign of confidence and friendship; alas, what does scientific success matter.

He looks at the two islets in the middle of the bay: one is covered in luxuriant vegetation with lustrous green palms swaying in the breeze; the other, utterly sterile, nothing but a pile of sand reflecting the dazzling light.

Waiakh gathers shells. He signals to him with a wave of his hand. Around his left ankle, the tattoo no longer troubles him.

Now, he knows some words.

Quartermaster gave him the word for the Sun. His own name. The East. East wind.

The old woman gave him the word for Water. Water pouch. Tears. Pool of water standing in the bend of a dried up stream.

Waiakh gave him the word Ant. His name.

The old woman has given him the words for Good-to-eat and Not-good-to-eat.

The old woman has given him the word Fire. Campfire. Wood for rubbing together. The tree the wood comes from. Feverish rash.

Wanderer gave him the word Dislike-and-Despise. Words to be whispered at nightfall to ward off evil creatures of the night.

Waiakh gave him the words Come and Wait.

The old woman gave him the word Silence. Her name.

The old woman gave him the word Hunting. The leaping animal that stands on its hind legs, leaning on its tail.

The old woman gave him the word Dreamless-sleep.

In his head other words slumber, words of no use to him.

Narcisse. Pelletier. Schooner.
Saint-Paul
.

Quartermaster gave him the word Spear. His name. Southern Cross, fixed body in the southern sky.

The old woman has given him the word Singing-together. Clapping the rhythm with your hands. Banging a rock with a stick to keep time. Murmuring softly. With the others. With all the others.

This book is supported by the Institut français (Royaume-Uni) as part of the Burgess programme
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First published by Dedalus in 2015

Ce Qu’il Advint du Sauvage Blanc © Editions Gallimard (Paris), 2012 Translation copyright © Aneesa Abbas Higgins 2015

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