Vesper for a Commandant
By HUGO CHARTERIS Senegal THE pink haze of fire spreads in the dark sky; to left and right in front. Now, suddenly, there is a patch behind.
New explosions deafen and shake the groundi a figure is outlined, running, in the distance— with the speed of frantic intention.
The haze becomes a glare, still without sources , and the silhouettes of the beehive huts have the regularity of things turned out of one mould.
Shouting starts again—but is drowned at once in a clattering rhythmic volley.
The near fence which seemed to screen nothing but desertion suddenly coughs attentively. The next explosion is so close that an old reflex waits for the cry `Stretcher-bearers'—but instead there is another volley and then roars of laughter— for this is a wedding in Senegal.
The bridegroom's sisters are slowly taking the bride to her new bed—with a pause at each junction of paths for song, clapping, dance and salute from home-made one-inch-bore guns. The single carbide lamp, slung high on a crook, is tcot enough, so grass has been lit all round the village perimeter.
Somewhere the local ruler and sole resident European is sitting unshaved in a kimono, drink- ing iced beer, reading Paris Match after a hard day. Tonight he gave permission for `tamtain jusqu'it onze heures?
Renewed laughter of women and inspired clapping, as instantly tutu/ as a section of demoni stration Vickers machine-guns, means a new dancer has pitted her feet against the hands of the chief drummer.
Bowed slightly forward, she looks at them ob- jectively to sec how they're doing. They are invisible with speed—but above the waist she is loose as a weed in a stream and her arms swing slowly. The drummer's face gleams with sweat and he comes closer, arches over her, brow- beating and straining, but her face reflects nothing but the calm of concentration. Excited laughter sounds above the syncopated clapping and a brilliant scarf arrives on her shoulder. But at eleven the lonely, feverish hum dies itto suddenly down. The lights go out. Then the big queen termites bundle their impossible bodies up the sides of the oil-lamps and in the distance the clapping drums and laughter go on like the noise of the sea after a running tap. Paris Match is put away. Le Monde was never unfolded.
Said one young adjoint-administrateur: 'Folks suits d'Afrique—don't you believe it. I'm a bachelor—and one isn't a monk. All the women can be bought. But they're like planks. Partly because of excision.'
Something, however, has not been excised and 1> if the nights aren't folks, they are troublantes- full of remote gaiety that is nostalgic, like some- thing lost for good.
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