Impressions of Africa (French Literature Series) (10 page)

A blow from the batten onto the new shoot was followed by an ample movement of the heddles, which prepared the return path for the shuttle as it shot rapidly back to its socket.

The process continued, following an invariable path. Thanks to its marvelous mobility, the shuttle-box positioned shuttle after shuttle opposite the fixed compartments, their two-way voyage coinciding perfectly with the work of the batten and heddles.

Gradually the warp increased on one side, pulled by the slow rotation of the
warp beam
, a large transversal cylinder to which all the threads were attached. The weaving happened quickly, and soon a rich textile started appearing before our eyes, in the form of a thin, even band with finely gradated tonalities.

Down below, the paddles kept everything moving with their complex and precise operation—some remaining almost constantly immersed while others dipped for only a few moments in the current; the smallest paddles, for their part, merely brushed the waves with their blades for a second before rising again, only to lower in the same fleeting way after a short pause. Their number, the staggering of the various sizes, the disparity or simultaneity of the brief or lengthy dips, provided an infinite number of combinations, allowing for the creation of the boldest motifs. It was like some mute instrument plucking chords or arpeggios, sometimes slight and sometimes phenomenally lush, their rhythm and harmony constantly renewed. The driving belts, owing to their supple elasticity, lent themselves to these constant alternations between expansion and contraction. The entire apparatus, a wonder of design and lubrication, operated in silent perfection, suggesting a flawless mechanical marvel.

Bedu directed our attention to the heddles, activated solely by the paddles, which were themselves powered by an electromagnet that transmitted energy from the chest to the ceiling; the wires were hidden in one of the two rear supports, and this method dispensed with the use of punch cards as on Jacquard looms. There was no limit to the variations that could be obtained by the alternate raising and lowering of certain groups of threads. In combination with the parti-colored army of shuttles, this infinity of successive figures in the spacing of the warp allowed for the creation of fabulous textiles on a par with master paintings.

Manufactured in situ by an anomaly of this extraordinary machine, which was specially designed to perform for an attentive audience, the band of fabric grew rapidly, its details powerfully lit by the beacon. The tableau depicted a vast waterway, at the surface of which men, women, and children, eyes bulging in terror, clung desperately to bits of flotsam in a sea of wreckage; and so ingenious were the machine’s fabulous gears that the result could have with-stood comparison with the most artful watercolor. The fiercely expressive faces displayed admirable flesh tones, from the weathered brown of the old man and milky pallor of the young woman to the fresh pink of the child; the waves, running the gamut of blues, were covered in shimmering reflections, their degree of transparency varying with location.

Moved by a driving belt that rose from an opening in the huge chest, to which it was clinched by two supports, the warp beam pulled the textile that was already wrapping around it. The other end of the warp offered stiff resistance because of a steel rod that, acting as a selvage for the silk threads, was fixed between two parallel barriers attached to the chest by a series of vertical bars. Bolted to the left barrier was the immovable compartment in which each shuttle made a brief halt.

The textile motif gradually took shape, and we saw emerge a mountain toward which groups of humans and animals of all species swam for safety. A host of transparent, diagonal zigzags streaked the entire area and allowed us to grasp the subject, borrowed from the biblical description of the Flood. Calm and majestic at the surface of the waves, Noah’s Ark soon lifted its regular, massive silhouette, embellished with finely wrought figures circulating amid a copious menagerie.

The shuttle-box drew our rapt attention by the marvelous steadiness of its alert, captivating gymnastics. One after another, the most varied hues were launched across the warp in the form of shoots, and all the threads together resembled some infinitely rich palette. Sometimes the shuttle-box made a wide movement so that two very distant shuttles could be used sequentially; at other times, several successive shoots belonging to the same area required only minimal shifts. The tip of the given shuttle always found its passage through the other threads, which, parting from nearby pigeonholes and stretched in a single direction, offered it a clear path with no possible obstacle.

On the textile, the half-submerged mountain was now visible to its peak. Everywhere, against its flanks, the condemned wretches, prostrate on this last refuge that would soon be taken from them, implored the heavens with great gestures of distress. The diluvial rain flowed in cataracts over every part of the image, littered with wreckage and islets where the same scenes of despair and supplication were being played out.

The sky progressively expanded toward the zenith, and huge clouds suddenly emerged, thanks to an amalgam of gray threads subtly assorted from the brightest to the murkiest shades. Thick curls of vapor unfurled majestically in the air, harboring inexhaustible reserves to endlessly replenish the horrific deluge.

At that moment, Bedu halted the apparatus by pressing another switch on the chest. Immediately the paddles fell silent, no longer transmitting life to the various components that now lay stiff and inert.

Turning the warp beam over, Bedu, with a finely honed blade, trimmed all the threads hanging loose from the soon detached cloth; then, with a needle previously threaded with silk, he made short work of gathering the upper portion with its border of streaming clouds. The fabric, wider than it was long, took the form of a simple, loose cloak.

Bedu approached Sirdah and draped the marvelous garment over her shoulders, its length enveloping the delighted and grateful girl to her feet.

The sculptor Fuxier had just approached the beacon, showing us in his open hand several lozenges of a uniform blue, which, as we knew, contained a host of potential images of his own devising. He took one and tossed it into the river, slightly downstream from the now inactive loom.

Soon, on the surface lit by the acetylene glow, swirls clearly took shape, tracing in relief a well determined silhouette, which each of us could recognize as Perseus holding the head of Medusa.

The lozenge alone, in melting, had briefly provoked this premeditated, artistic disturbance.

The apparition lasted for a few seconds, then the water, gradually growing calmer, regained its mirrorlike unity.

Skillfully thrown by Fuxier, a second lozenge sank into the current. The concentric circles engendered by its fall had barely dissipated when a new image emerged in fine, ample swirls. This time, dancers in mantillas, standing on a heavily laden table, performed amid the plates and tankards a rousing step punctuated by their castanets, to the cheers of the revelers. The liquid drawing was so detailed that in places one could make out the shadows of crumbs on the tablecloth.

When this convivial scene vanished, Fuxier continued the experiment by sinking a third lozenge, whose effect was not long in coming. The water, suddenly rippling, evoked—upon a rather large canvas—a certain dreamer who, sitting beside a stream, was jotting in a notebook the fruit of some inspiration; behind him, resting against the boulders of the nascent waterfall, an old man with long beard, like the personification of a river, leaned toward the fellow as if to read over his shoulder.

“The poet Giapalù allowing the old Var to rob him of the admirable verses his own genius had wrought,” explained Fuxier, who soon tossed yet another lozenge into the newly calm waters.

The roiling settled to depict half a huge clock face with unusual markings. The word “
NOON
,” clearly traced in relief by the water, occupied the place normally reserved for 3 o’clock; then came, on a single quarter-circle near the bottom, every division from 1 to 11 o’clock; at the lowest point, in place of the figure “
VI
,” one could read “
MIDNIGHT
” spelled out in the diametrical axis; then, to the left, eleven more divisions ended with a second iteration of the word “
NOON
” replacing 9 o’clock. Acting as the clock’s single hand, a long scrap of cloth, looking like the flame of a pennant, was attached to the point that would have been the exact center of the complete clock face; supposedly pushed by the wind, the supple banderole stretched rightward, marking 5
P.M
. with its thin, streaming point. The clock, sitting at the top of a solidly planted pedestal, decorated an open landscape through which several people strolled, and the entire liquid tableau was astoundingly precise and accurate.

“The wind clock from the Land of Cockaigne,” Fuxier resumed, amplifying his statement with the following commentary:

“In the blissful land in question, the perfectly regular wind took it upon itself to tell the time for the inhabitants. At high noon it blew violently from the west and gradually died down until midnight, a poetic moment when everything was utterly calm. Soon a light breeze from the east gradually rose and kept growing until the following noon, which marked its apogee. An abrupt shift then occurred, and once more the tempest rushed in from the west to resume its evolution of the day before. Remarkably adapted to these unvarying fluctuations, the clock here submitted in effigy for our appreciation fulfilled its functions far better than the ordinary sundial, its solely diurnal task further hampered no doubt by passing clouds.”

The Land of Cockaigne had abandoned the watery surface, and the currents, smooth once again, swallowed a final lozenge immersed by Fuxier.

The surface, wrinkling artfully, sketched out a half-naked man holding a bird on his finger.

“The Prince of Conti and his jay,” said Fuxier, showing us his empty hand.

When the undulations had flattened out one last time, the parade again took the path to Ejur, plunging into the pitch-blackness that the light from the beacon no longer dissipated, Rao having abruptly extinguished it.

We had been walking for several minutes when suddenly, to our right, a bouquet of fireworks lit up the night sky, producing a host of detonations.

A spray of rockets climbed into the air, and soon, reaching the peak of their ascent, the incandescent nuclei exploded with a loud bang to form many luminous portraits of the young Baron Ballesteros, in place of the habitual and banal showers of fire and stars. Each image, bursting from its envelope, emerged independently then floated in the darkness with a gentle sway.

These remarkably executed drawings, sketched in fire, depicted the elegant bon vivant in the most varied poses, each one attributed a specific color.

Here the rich Argentine, in sapphire blue from head to foot, appeared in evening dress, gloves in his hand and a flower in his lapel; there a ruby-colored likeness showed him in his officer’s uniform, ready to launch an attack; elsewhere a single bust of colossal dimensions, in frontal view and traced in lines of gold, appeared alongside a dazzling violet design in which the young noble, in top hat and buttoned frock coat, was captured in profile to mid-calf. Farther on, a diamond-colored rendering evoked the brilliant sportsman in tennis garb, gracefully brandishing, at an angle, his racket. Other irradiant portraits blossomed on all sides, but the pièce de résistance was, without question, a certain large tableau in emerald green, in which the hero of this phantasmagoria, an impeccable horseman mounted on a trotting steed, gallantly greeted a passing female rider.

The cortege had stopped to ponder this attractive spectacle at its leisure.

The portraits, falling slowly and projecting their powerful polychromatic illumination over a vast expanse, hung in the air for some time without sacrificing any of their brilliance. Then they faded out noiselessly, one by one, and gradually the shadows spread once more over the plain.

Just as the last trace of fireworks vaporized in the night, the entrepreneur Luxo came to join us, proud of the superb effect produced by the pyrotechnical masterpiece he had personally engineered.

Suddenly a distant rumbling could be heard, long and dull; apparently the detonations of the fireworks had provoked a storm brewing in the muggy atmosphere. Immediately the same thought occurred in everyone’s mind: “Jizme is about to die!”

At a sign from Talou, the cortege started up again and, swiftly crossing the southern part of Ejur, emerged once more onto Trophy Square.

The storm had already drawn near; bolts of lighting followed each other in quick succession, followed by increasingly loud bursts of thunder.

Rao, who had gone on ahead, soon reappeared with his men, who were straining under the weight of a curious litter that they set down in the middle of the esplanade. By the flashes of lightning, we could examine the strange composition of this object, which looked at once comfortable and terrifying.

A bed frame, raised off the ground by four wooden feet, supported a soft white mattress entirely covered in fine individuated designs, in shape and size not unlike the tailpieces that close the chapters of certain books. The most varied subjects were gathered in this collection of minuscule, independent, isolated images; landscapes, portraits, starstruck couples, groups dancing, ships in distress, and sunsets were treated with a naïve and conscientious art by no means lacking charm or interest. A cushion was slipped under one end of the mattress, raising it to support the sleeper’s head; behind the place nominally reserved for the occiput stood a lightning rod, its shining stem rising high above the long berth. A metal skullcap, connected by a wire to the base of the tall vertical needle, was apparently intended to encircle the forehead of some convict sentenced to perish on the lethal couch; at the other end, two metal shoes, placed side by side, communicated with the earth by means of another wire, the tip of which had just been sunken into the ground by Rao himself.