1929 June 29 | A Rain of Stars

Then – Congo, Fizi, Saturday

The day had been hot and frantic, the rest well earned. The village started to yawn and settle for the night. Around the corner, the sunset is set at 17h55 sharp, so much so that you can set your watch to it. Let Nature do its daily thing! 

A red dusk, another stunning twilight.

Ragged clouds of birds heedlessly swirl between the trees, tiny tornadoes of shadows. Each tribe frantically jumps to the next tree, shoving aside the pretentious previous tenant in a storm of screams. And to the next, more desirable tree. And the noise builds up, ever more urgent, ever more desperate as the night falls. Now squashed on every twig available, there is no time to lose screaming the news of the day. All at once for maximum effect. 

The light hesitates, peeps up one last time, and, to the ear-splitting noise of the birds grand finale, and switches off in a pumpkin sunset. 

Silence. 

On goes the storm lamp. Shadows now flicker at the corner of their eyes. A fitting conclusion to a romantic dinner, if you forget the foldable table, crates and trunks. They sit outside, under the school porch. Torches and gas lights go up across the village, some distance away, their own conversation entwined with the greetings, calls to supper and debriefings of the villagers. The cutlery does not grate nor clank anymore on plates, the sound of metal stops stabbing at the wooded peace, settling down like snow. 

They stare out at the mighty trees from the patio for a moment, taking in the leaves rustling, breathing in the quiet. Saturday. Tomorrow Sunday. 

They recline in the deck chairs laid out in front of the school under the mango tree. It is one of the private jokes they devised on the boat: “let us retire for the evening”. A pointed, maybe funny, but finally personal memory. They sit and read for a while. It is important to keep up with the news, at least the latest literature, to discuss with… whom? when? Yes, at some point, they rationalise. But even that goes away fast, and they soon look up from their books and manuals. They revel in the sudden silence and the patter of bare feet over there, in the village. Suzanne and François smile and try to talk for a little about the events of the day. Not much, not many, and soon even that is over.

All of this feels awkward here, out of place. They feel like rude guests. Out of sync with Time itself. 

Maybe they should try living and enjoying the moment then. They narrow the discussion to now, here, just to make it more relevant. So, tonight, she asks? They both laugh without prompt: how could they engage in … anything, really… There are no walls, just some canvas between them and eager locals for whom they are the event of the year. The villagers keep on bumping into them, “inadvertently”, apologising profusely and theatrically, maybe chasing for a juicy gossip, a shocking anecdote or a funny soundbite to pass on. 

No, intimacy will have to wait, it just felt out of place.

So, maybe, discuss next day Sunday, tomorrow? Perhaps that would ground them. François leans forward and conspiratorially whispers: I scouted some promising spoor this week, up in the forgotten hills, I marked the trail. Maybe we could go and find something to shoot? I know you are good with canned beef, but,… he innocently shrugs. She does not betray anything. Warming up to the subject, he talks about the hills, broken ground so remote even spirits do not bother to dwell there. Harsh land, empty land. 

That is how his guides had defined the desolation he was charting. 

She sits up. Yes. Something in these flickering shadows at the edge of vision. Now, she knows a thing or two about this: all of the Aunties had been in spiritism, hedge witchery and bonesetting. The Unexplained. Superstition to use the polite word. All she could say was that she would not hold a séance, here. Probably, the table would not just knock, but start a jig. She stares; he knows as well that some things should not be talked about. Not here, not now. But tomorrow? Yes, somehow they felt reloaded walking across unbroken ground. 

And they fall silent and just start listening. They lift their eyes to the sky.

In the deep Dark, Life shakes itself awake. A lion stakes its claims on all the land in a roar. I am about to go hunting, hear ye, hear ye; François smiles. Suzanne thinks of the birds rustling in the trees. Starlings? Thrushes? Both recline a bit more in their deck chairs. They know the real show is about to start in a few minutes: even the Pharaohs painted it on the ceiling of their tombs. 

As the torches and lamps are snuffed out in the village, they dim their own. 

And so, one light at a time, human society fades away, until nothing but Nature whispers and shines. 

Their eyes grow familiar with the darkness, their ears pluck out of the darkness a snapped twig and a brushed leaf. Sights, sounds and smells become more pressing, more urgent, more threatening; more vital. 

The gibbous Moon paints the forest silver, just enough to look like a film negative. Mesmerised, they cautiously step around the grey light beams, shuffle towards the edge of the trees. 

They stand silently under the mango tree and crane their neck to the night. 

The sky above twinkles so much that even the familiar Zodiac melts into the lights of thousands, millions of stars. They sparkle just out of reach; a ladder and you could pluck them out. 

An optical illusion, of course. And yet, why not feel in awe at Eternity?  

It is not only their world, it is The World: at their back, the known, human universe. Above them, the welcoming unknown, the lights of an eternal First Age. 

The small Itombwe owl nesting above the tent hoots and flaps away into the night.

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You read part 9 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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