1936 September 17 | Running to You

Then – Belgium, Watermael-Boitsfort, Thursday, after lunch

The black dog pulls on his leash, whining, scrabbling on the pavement. That is irregular and highly unusual. Does he sense what is to come? Freedom! 

With an expert tug and jerk, she brings him back to heel. 

Oh yes, we are eager, aren’t we, Boy? She laughs. He is panting now, revelling in the complicity. Suzanne is taking her last long walk in Watermael-Boitsfort. The last before a month of trains, ships and caravans. We are going to see François again, don’t we?, she whispers. At the name, the dog stops, all mischief forgotten; he tracks, sniffs the air, strains to the horizon: could it be…? Mah no, silly, François is not there, he is in Cameroon, and that is where we go!, she tells him. The dog playfully jumps at her, happy to act along.

The weather is wonderful, bright, warm. Unseasonal. Europe’s last trick to make her regretful? Not even close. 

She strides past the old house rue des Épicéas. It is emptied now, boarded shut, planters removed, shutters closed. Seen like that, it gives off an eery feeling, the discarded shell of a bittersweet memory in red bricks. Just this side of ghosts and dark thoughts. She hastens. 

They continue apace down the street, taking in the Sun, nails clacking, rubber soles squealing. 

Suzanne packed everything with a will. Nothing will be left behind, but will it be within weight allowance? That was a worry. She already had to choose the Kakoulima, a faster banana steamer to Douala, leaving the 23^rd, just because they would accept excess luggage, not for the accommodation. And even there, overweight luggage would come at a price. The other ships were certainly more proper, but just would not take anything above the stated allowance. And then there were the dog and the cat. Someone had suggested she leaves them behind, a pox on her! Who did she think she was! And they would not be locked in the hold either, but free to enjoy the air on deck. So, the banana steamer it was. It sure will be something else than the SS Njassa…

Boy whines and tugs at the leash again. Stop daydreaming, we turn into rue des Touristes. Yes, of course. She slows down bobbing to catch a glimpse over the hedge. Maybe…? 

She is so proud of Nanou! Such a good girl. Beautiful, intelligent, smart, reserved and so decent. Happy, smiling, sweet. Well behaved, excellent manners: not a peep when Suzanne left her with Aunt Germaine, the private boarding tutor she will stay at. Nor when she left again after an informal visit. Just to check on her, you know. Well, there had been a bit of whimpering afterwards that time, but that was to be expected and did not last long anyway. That was even slightly reassuring. But little Nanou, Annie could handle it. Of course, Suzanne felt a pinch of emotion herself but both of them had to keep it at arm’s length. Good girls both. That was all for the very best. 

Maybe she is in the small garden of the boarding house? What if I stand on my toes? Suzanne looks left and right. 

If you wanted to go traipsing around in Africa, how would Annie get the best education? No-one decent was lugging around a 4-year-old kid. Staying at Aunt Germaine, Nanou would get the best care, the best attention and the best education. In a stimulating environment. Suzanne was picking up steam now. And boarding schools? Everyone had heard the stories, even the priest had been rather cautious. And Madame Germaine had come with the recommendations of the entire town and parish. Her little house was perfect with a big garden, chickens, rabbits, … and ceramic dwarves. If that was your thing.

There was no-one in the garden to see or hear; they probably were off to the baker. Another t… She catches herself. Next semester then.

Suzanne has all angles covered, and more. She vetted but also checked. She declared in person Nanou’s stay at Aunt Germaine’s at the police station, and had a long and pointed discussion with the constable that would visit every month, unannounced. Annie had even passed last week a full final medical exam with flying colours. She was now 14.5 kgs, and growing every time Suzanne saw her. Poor Chick, no-one truly thought about her; they just worried about their own feelings. 

Boy barks once. Shushing him, Suzanne hastens down the street. To the park then!

Why was everyone so bloody blinded by fear and emotions? You thought, you planned, then did the right thing. It was that simple, she shrugs to herself. For example, she had gone to mass last Sunday at 06h00 AM, even though François would be at best disapproving, if not downright sardonic about it. Preaching pantomime, dress-up bigotry and superstitions, he would say. But she would take no chances. And if he said something, well, that would kick-off a little argument. A good start, actually, no? Her face hardens. Yes, he was very worried about it all; she had had to reassure him so many times! Like most men, he could be such a wimp sometimes, she sighs. Feelings should never get in the way of Life. And so, she had ended up shooting a salvo of 8 pictures of Annie on the 5^th of September. Oyez, oyez, Good People: Nanou is in good hands, safe, happy, glowing and growing. Speak now or forever hold your peace. Just as I thought. Case dismissed, please proceed. 

Suzanne and Boy pass under the tracks through the little tunnel, to the street that stretches between the luxuriant trees. 

Ah, as if she does not know what they all think. No one is happy about any of this. Not about going back to Africa. Not about François going alone first, for a whole year now. Not about Nanou staying behind. And downright incensed that she stays at a private boarding tutor’s. She leaves her behind, she abandons her, they say. Oh, what else? Troyes with her old parents? Marchiennes with his cousins? Why not in Grancey with the crones, while they are at it? And their cheap boarding schools, their backyards, their farms, they all are just another world of social mediocrity. And their tone!! Both men and women!! Straight out of a 19^th century novel. Step into the 20^th century, my dears, why don’t you! She hears her thoughts screaming. How did they dare talk to her like that!

Behind her, the station she used for Brussels and the Department Stores fades away. Innovation and Bon Marché, will she miss them? Who cares.

Oh, and to cap it all, the father of François had come up with a last-minute curve ball, a new job. Last month, of course, so truly believable! No word nor offer for years, and then, suddenly, tadaaa, his Turkish business partner, Zia Bey, wants to build a … dam? She did remember Izmir so very well, the dishevelled “businessmen”, François Senior and the Grand Ideas. Was it not Japan last time round? Or Brazil, just for change of climate? Never mind that his stock portfolio had taken a beating in the Crisis. And he had the gall to declare Africa hopeless? François finally had the job he wanted. No, that he deserved: gold, not rocks. And naturally, François Junior had wobbled at his father’s bait. And so, she had stepped in to swat off the idea to kingdom come. Men.

She glows with fury. Avenue du Bois de La Cambre, the last stretch; she can see the lake from here. The dog whines already. 

The park trail beckons: the wind rustles in the leaves, the lake water splashes, the wood creaks. Boy trots along now. Nature. They are alone today. She breathes in.

Yes, so, the Kakoulima. On the 23^rd September. Fast, but spartan. Hopefully the cabin has a porthole, just imagine being seasick in a metal box. For a month. Even for that she had to negotiate a letter of guarantee with the Compagnie Équatoriale’s headquarters, François’ new company, just to book the trip. After some insistence it had to be said, she nods to herself. She did not stamp her feet, her boldness and sense of entitlement never failed to startle men. She would get her way by simply asking anything as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Simple. As. That. That is why she will make a detour and pass by the Rue du Bac offices to thank them in person. Oh yes, that will be a hoot, she cackles…  

She relaxes her shoulders, warms up to the day, her face basks in the late Sun. 

The rest of the luggage and furniture is already underway. This time, forget tea set, sugar pot, sauce jugs and assorted useless crockery they lugged around in 1929. Pack light for tropical Cameroon, slim down everything to essentials: linen, pillow cases and pillows, the 3 pots they had since Congo, 4 cutlery sets and the repaired rubber shower. The rest to be procured on the spot. It was not the well-oiled Union Minière protocols nor perks, for sure. Still, they would have a bungalow, so their large mirror, the 2 large carpets from Smyrna, a cooker from the Comptoir Congolais and a deck chair were also on their way. 

Equipment and furniture, sorted. 

Oh, to see him again and his little foibles. Did he change much? 

François in his last letter wrote that Cameroon was not Congo, Kissi not Fizi. So, she has packed a discreet Bayard 7.65 automatic. It is a last resort. Why was he afraid? She has a dog and a cat, well enough for 2 nights alone in the bush on the way up North to Bétaré Oya. 

Suzanne is ready and unafraid. So there. Boy growls at the flock of geese; she pulls him back, salvaging his pride. Good Boy. 

She wrote François 51 letters, one for each week. Or was it more …? Long live the airmail! And he had sent pictures. At first, it had been a literal twice-daily diary of the trip from Marseille to Guinea. Every detail covered, every angle photographed. It was just like replaying June-July 1929 shot by shot. So sweet. Then off to Cameroon, the Mitomo camp. She sent him a picture of herself taken at the Bon Marché on the 2^ndSeptember: she truly looked like a movie star on that one! And today, her perm is just magnificent. 

They are so in love, she tssks. Her François, his Zanne. 

Did he change? No! By March he was already sending pictures of tents, huts, all pith helmet, slacks and a broad smile like a banana. Once again Savannah Frans with each passing photo and month. High time for her to bring some balance back in his life: he needed that, he was wayyy too reckless with his health. Oh, she would see to that! Sorry, she would pamper him. And this time, she would be Old Breed as well, not some bright eyed youngster. 

Were there some regrets there? No, there was none. And she knew the drill (ha-ha, what a wit she titters to herself).

There was no mistaking the photo of bore holes every 15 meters: he had found gold! No wonder he had been smug enough to send his first and last self-portrait. How poised, in charge, he looks on it. She had it framed and it would never leave her.  

The weather turns a bit, more chilly, Europe has given up, then. The walk comes to an end, let’s turn back to the room for dinner, shall we. 

There is still time enough for another letter. She may have written already 3 times today, but she can’t wait to finish and send him this last one. Forget about sleeping tonight. So… she will write to him tomorrow just before leaving at 08h00, and drop the letter at Bruxelles Midi! Then the dog, the cat and her are off to him!

What do you think Boy? Ready to go? 

The dog jumps and yaps excitedly. 

Love you love you love you love you

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You read part 23 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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