Chapter twenty two:
For the Congo VI--- 1907
The sleep I endured that night was of the most wretched kind. Awakened every few hours by relentless sweat, I shed layers of clothing in a futile attempt for relief. Yet, no matter how much I stripped away, the oppressive heat lingered, refusing to grant me peace. The hours crawled by in an agonizing stillness, broken only by the faint light of dawn. Despite the arrival of morning, none of us dared emerge from our tents immediately. Through the thin fabric, we could hear each other's restless movements, punctuated by the sound of breakfast being unceremoniously opened—cans of meat or fish, our sustenance for the journey.
I cannot recall who braved the oppressive morning first—Nicholas or Conrad—but I soon followed their lead. No words were exchanged among us; the night's torment was shared, understood without need for discussion. It was an ordeal we had endured and conquered, however grudgingly. We dismantled our tents with methodical care, shaking free the condensation that had accumulated overnight, before packing them back into their respective bags.
We retraced our steps along the faint, meandering trail, meticulously marking our progress on the map to ensure no misstep would lead us astray. The path, though familiar, pressed upon our attention as we moved.
Our spirits were too drained for song or rhythm, leaving us to trudge forward in silence, the oppressive heat and dense vegetation sapping any remaining energy. After several hours—perhaps five, though it felt far longer—the landscape began to shift. The lush jungle gave way to younger, sparser vegetation, eventually receding entirely into expanses of heavy grass that stretched on either side of us. The rolling hills that replaced the forest exuded a peculiar emptiness, a void that felt unnaturally deliberate.
At the time, the sight of grasslands in place of dense forest defied all logic. Only later would I come to understand the grim rationale behind it. For now, we were left to observe and endure this unsettling emptiness as we approached the final stretch of our journey.
After cresting eight or nine hills, we finally encountered the first signs of human presence: a small herd of goats grazing amidst the grasses. These creatures, diminutive compared to the robust breeds I was accustomed to in Europe, seemed to mark the boundary between desolation and civilization.
Soon after, a solitary house came into view—though "house" felt like a generous description. It was an incongruous structure, a blend of neatly cut wood, compacted mud, and thatch roofing. It seemed to straddle two worlds: the traditional African style and a more rudimentary European influence, its corners marked with meticulously arranged wooden planks.
As we passed the shadowy entrance of the structure, a native man emerged. At first, I assumed he intended to engage with us, but instead, he bolted down the path ahead, running with such urgency that it left us momentarily stunned.
Though the man's behavior was undeniably suspicious, we chose not to alter our course. Discussing it briefly among ourselves, we resolved to proceed with caution, avoiding the pitfalls of paranoia or rash action. It seemed likely he was seeking a translator or summoning a village elder to meet us.
Continuing down the path, we passed several more houses, their states of disrepair varying widely. Some had the permanence of solid wooden construction, while others were patchwork amalgamations of mud and timber. Each structure deepened the sense of unease as we pressed forward.
It was only upon reaching what could be called the "main" village that a grim clarity began to take shape.
The village was a husk of its former self, its heart consumed by fire. The remains of designated "roads" formed a crude grid across the flat plain, but the structures that survived—perhaps thirty in total—barely occupied a fraction of the area. Though sufficient for a small settlement, it fell far short of our expectations.
In that moment, the dilapidated trail's poor condition became perfectly logical. The village had been reduced to ruin, whether by accident or design. The cause was irrelevant—what remained was a stark testament to destruction.
As we moved deeper toward what appeared to be the village's "hub," more eyes fell upon us. Such scrutiny was to be expected, and we tried to maintain our composure. Yet the lack of any attempt at communication heightened the tension, especially for Conrad, whose darting eyes and restless demeanor bordered on the erratic.
After what felt like an eternity, a distant voice called out in a language I didn't recognize but found oddly familiar. The effect was immediate: the tension that had gripped the crowd dissipated. Many observers smiled or dispersed entirely, while others visibly relaxed, leaning against walls or finding seats.
Emerging from the crowd, an elderly man of unmistakable European descent approached us, his pale skin and well-kept facial hair distinguishing him. With a warm smile, he began speaking in English, a language that was foreign to both me and Conrad. Fortunately, by the grace of God, Nicholas understood him.
Nicholas and the old man conversed for a time, their words incomprehensible to me. At last, Nicholas turned to us and began translating into German, bridging the language gap with calm efficiency.
"Alright," Nicholas began, "I'll summarize. The man's name is Arnold, and he's a member of the church. He welcomes us and invites us to his home to speak in private. He's curious about our purpose here and mentions that this place has been abandoned for nearly five years."
Rather than replying immediately, I turned to Conrad, silently seeking his thoughts on the matter.
"There's nothing to deliberate," Conrad said firmly. "Let's go with him and get this over with."
Though I said nothing, I silently agreed with Conrad's decision. The village was deeply unpleasant—visually decrepit and burdened with an overwhelming stench that lingered in the air.
Nicholas relayed our agreement to Arnold, and we began following him eastward, leaving the dilapidated village behind and crossing a series of gently rolling hills.
As we crested the final hill, a church came into view, unmistakable due to the large wooden cross adorning its peak. Despite Arnold's European origins, the structure bore little resemblance to the grand cathedrals of Europe. It was modest and unassuming—a small, square building defined by its simplicity.
Descending toward the entrance, we stepped inside and were greeted by an unexpected scene. The interior, though functional, was starkly rustic, resembling the set of a silent Western film. Pews and an altar were present, but their construction was rough, cobbled together from split timber and weathered planks.
The benches were fashioned from split logs, with one half serving as the seat and the other as the backrest, supported by roughly hewn timber. The altar was nothing more than a heavily carved tree stump, standing defiantly in its simplicity.
The church exuded an unexpected sense of care. Against all odds, and despite the evident effort it must have taken, Arnold had managed to create a space that felt welcoming in its modesty.
Arnold gestured for us to sit on one of the pews, with Nicholas taking a seat between Conrad and me. He then began an earnest barrage of questions: "Why are you here? What is it that you want? What are your names? Are any of you reporters? Has anything significant occurred in Europe since 1901?" and several others in quick succession.
After several minutes of awkward back-and-forth exchanges, we managed to convey our intentions. We explained that we were here to paint images of two individuals who had suffered the most under Leopold's rule. The paintings were for an art project, not for publication. The final piece would depict the village from the hill we had descended.
Our recounting of events from the past six years consumed the bulk of the conversation. Arnold appeared visibly shocked to learn of Queen Victoria's passing and Edward's ascension to the throne. He showed passing curiosity about the French scandal involving the Dreyfus affair, but his greatest fascination was reserved for the advent of powered flight. While he was familiar with balloons and zeppelins, the concept of an airplane left him wide-eyed with wonder. Among the dozen or so topics discussed, these three stood out most prominently.
Our conversation was eventually interrupted by the sound of the church's door knocker. Nicholas quickly stood to assist Arnold, whose advanced age—he had mentioned being in his early seventies—slowed his movements. After some time observing the native speaker's animated exchange with Arnold, followed by Nicholas's translation, we were informed of a surprising development: a villager, inspired by our visit, had decided to donate five goats to host a celebratory feast in our honor.
Humbled by their generosity, I felt a pang of guilt. I had done nothing to warrant such kindness. Reflecting on the money in my wallet, which I had scarcely touched save for the train tickets, I decided to give it all to Arnold, trusting it would be used to benefit the village. After learning the celebration would take place in a few hours, I excused myself to pitch my tent. Though Arnold had kindly offered a guest house for my stay, I felt it would be an imposition. In my tent, I lay quietly, reflecting on the day.
When it was time for the celebration, Nicholas, Conrad, and I made our way back to the village, navigating the rolling hills with ease. From a distance, the only discernible change was the growing noise emanating from the center. Upon arrival, I paused to take in the scene: rows of crooked benches filled with villagers, engaged in lively conversation and feasting. At the heart of the gathering were four large fires—three with goat carcasses roasting on spits, and a fourth with a large pot, presumably containing the remaining portions.
Unsure of how to proceed, I realized I hadn't thought to bring any utensils. Just as I was about to retrieve something from my tent, Arnold emerged from the crowd, wooden plates in hand for all of us. The four of us—Arnold, Nicholas, Conrad, and myself—sat together on a bench at the edge of the festivities. Arnold had thoughtfully served us portions of neck meat, which he explained was considered the finest cut, accompanied by a handful of greens for flavor.
A wave of shame washed over me as I realized the depth of my isolation. Here I was, amidst a once-in-a-lifetime cultural experience, unable to engage meaningfully because of my language barrier. Without Nicholas and Arnold to translate, I was relegated to silence, watching the festivities unfold while sharing a quiet meal with Conrad. The realization stung: my ignorance of English had rendered me a mere observer in a moment that deserved so much more.
My quiet contemplation was interrupted by a villager who approached us with a broad smile. Through Nicholas's translation, I learned he was the man who had generously donated the goats for the feast. In a further gesture of hospitality, he offered us unlimited drinks during our stay, of any variety we desired. Regretfully, we declined, mindful of the risks posed by unfamiliar beverages in this environment. He accepted our refusal graciously and departed, leaving me to finish my meal as the sun dipped below the horizon. As I rose to leave, Nicholas shared an update: Arnold had found villagers willing to pose for my paintings. Tomorrow, my work would begin in earnest.
Determined to rise early, I forced myself to retire despite the monotony of waiting for sleep to come. Yet, to my surprise, the night offered me the most restful slumber I had experienced since leaving England. I slept deeply for eleven uninterrupted hours, lulled by the cool breeze that swept through the hills, a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the day.
At the break of dawn, I set out with determination, double-checking my equipment to ensure nothing would fail me mid-session—no loose stand, no forgotten supply. Securing everything on my back, I crossed the hills with a resolute stride, confidence swelling within me. Failure was not an option. Upon sighting the village, I adjusted my course toward the tallest hill we had ascended the day before. Reaching its summit, I carefully assembled my frame, anchoring it securely with my empty bag, before stretching the canvas taut and arranging my paints in readiness.
Soon after setting up, I spotted five figures leaving the village, their forms growing clearer as they approached. Among them were two unfamiliar individuals who immediately drew my attention. The man appeared otherwise ordinary, save for the absence of half his forearm, his hand cruelly taken. The woman, however, bore far more severe injuries: her left arm hung lifelessly at her side, withered and useless, and her face was marred by a long scar that cut across the socket where her left eye should have been.
Arnold must have briefed them beforehand, as the man stepped forward without hesitation and positioned himself in front of my canvas. His pose was both dramatic and dignified: back straight, head held high, one hand resting at his side while the other crossed over his chest in a gesture reminiscent of a courtly bow. It was a striking stance, one that I believed would translate beautifully onto the canvas. Yet, I couldn't help but wonder how long he could maintain it—an hour or two in such a position would surely test anyone's endurance.
As I began sketching the man's figure and proportions with charcoal, Arnold spoke, interrupting my focused silence.
"The man's name is Makasi. He and the woman have only one request: if you are to paint them, you must first understand the stories behind their wounds. Do you agree?"
I nodded immediately, though the request caught me off guard. Those who bear such scars seldom wish to relive the pain that accompanies them. Yet, in some unspoken way, their reasoning resonated with me. To capture their likeness was to capture their truth; their image, their spirit, and their soul. Their stories were to be made inseparable.
Acknowledging Arnold, again with a second nod, I resumed my work, listening intently as he began with a somber tone.
"Makasi became the head of his household at the tender age of nine, following his brother's untimely death. The burden of responsibility fell heavily upon him, as he was expected to contribute to the village's communal rubber quota. The system was cruelly straightforward: a colonial officer would take hostages and set a quota, and the villagers had to comply to secure their release. Despite his youth, Makasi met the demands consistently, never falling short. But on one occasion, he failed—whether due to injury, illness, or some other misfortune, he never revealed. Another villager made up the difference, so it should have been a non-issue, especially in a village as populous as theirs once was."
As Arnold paused briefly, I shifted my attention to blocking out the base colors, ensuring each would harmonize with the final composition.
"Rather than overlooking the incident, someone went to the officer in charge and accused Makasi of being a burden to the village. Makasi never discovered who betrayed him or why. Had the officer sought the truth from others, he would have learned of Makasi's diligence. But no inquiry was made. Instead, the officer saw an opportunity to assert his authority, choosing to make an example of Makasi. The price of discipline, he decreed, would be his hand."
Arnold paused again, his voice growing quieter as he continued. Meanwhile, I turned my focus to the background, carefully layering colors that would provide depth and contrast. Ordinarily, the figure would dominate my attention, but this piece demanded more. Makasi and the remnants of his village were intertwined, their stories inseparable. My task was to capture not just the man, but the world that had shaped and scarred him.
"A few days later, Makasi was summoned to the village center. A crude, weathered table had been placed there, not far from where we had shared our meal. Makasi confessed that, in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to flee. But he did not. He knew that running would not save him; it would only condemn others—five or more—to take his place. Resolute in his duty to protect his community, he approached the table. When commanded to extend his arm, however, his body betrayed him, refusing to obey."
"Seeing Makasi's hesitation, the officer seized his arm and extended it across the table. Makasi recounted how the officer's touch was almost gentle, as though he bore some hidden awareness of the boy's innocence. Yet, this faint hint of compassion was fleeting, for the punishment proceeded without delay. Unable to face the horror, Makasi closed his eyes, bracing for what was to come. When the blow fell, it was as if a tree had crashed down upon him, the pain consuming everything. Instinctively, he clutched the stump with his remaining hand, plunging it into the cool, soft mud. He watched, dazed, as the soil turned crimson before darkness overtook him."
"When Makasi regained consciousness, he believed he had perished. In his world, no one survived such a grievous injury. Yet, against all odds, he had. Weak and frail, he lay in his dwelling, barely able to move for days, subsisting on what little water and food he could manage. How he endured the blood loss was a mystery—even to him. Perhaps it was the cooling mud and the pressure that stemmed the bleeding, or perhaps someone had intervened while he was unconscious. Regardless, what mattered most to him was that he had lived."
Arnold's harrowing recounting of Makasi's ordeal lingered in my mind as I pressed on with the painting. I had already blocked in the background, so I focused on the underpainting, channeling my emotions into each stroke. For the next hour, I worked in silence, my anger smoldering beneath the surface. Local colors gave life to the scene; edges softened and blended seamlessly. Gradually, I refined the finer details—his hair, his clothing, the interplay of light and shadow. And finally, his face.
The face demanded my utmost care, more than any other aspect of the composition. It was the heart of the image, the element that would tie the story together. As I painted, I felt myself slipping into a trance, consumed by the act. Normally, I could think several steps ahead, planning my next move. But with this piece, that clarity dissolved. Each stroke was instinctive, as if guided by an unseen force. Colors appeared on the canvas not because of conscious decision, but because they simply felt right. Like they were destined to belong.
When the painting was finally complete, I stood back and knew, without hesitation, that it was the greatest piece I had ever created. As I stared at the canvas, it seemed to stare back, much like the works of Stuck that had captivated me in my youth. But this was different—this work did not share a questioning worth, or some other obscure emotion. The painting burned its viewer, with a raw, unrelenting hatred, its spirit ignited by purpose. It was not merely a representation; it was a declaration. I had captured something real, something undeniable. In that moment, I knew I had succeeded. I was capable, I was worthy, and I was one step closer to making my mother proud. I was on the path to my final victory. For I had created a piece of true art, more real than reality itself.
When I presented the completed painting to Makasi, he studied it in silence, his gaze lingering on every detail. Then, with a faint yet sincere smile, he nodded. In that moment, I understood that I had done something meaningful—something good.
Makasi took a long, deliberate moment to absorb the painting, as if committing every brushstroke to memory. Then, with quiet dignity, he stepped aside, allowing the woman to take his place before the canvas.