Disaster Was My God (32 page)

Moreover, as a Mauté—which was to say, as a person of taste and breeding—she had
la culture, la formation
necessary to understand a psyche so tightly wound. So delicate. Like a watch, actually.

Such were things that one might think when one was seventeen and a presumptive aristocrat ready to sanctify one’s marriage with the birth of one’s first child. Indeed, the child who, she was quite convinced,
would solve everything. Stop the drinking and bad behavior. Seat him at his writing desk. Return the lovely man whom she had married.

Such was the hope of Mathilde Mauté Verlaine when Rimbaud traipsed into her life. Moreover, she would not be denied, for she was not without power or aspirations. Blessed with a weak man and a queen like her mother, she would reign supreme over their marriage. Despite all. Through all. By the sheer force of love she would become that shining thing, a wifely
success
.

V
erlaine, meantime, had managed the incredible in those few minutes—those very few minutes—at his pregnant wife’s bedside. For the fact was, through sheer force of histrionics, he had, in his pathos, utterly reversed the flow of the discussion about his habitual chaos. At issue were not his misdeeds and rampant irresponsibility—
jamais
! It was, rather, his oppression at the hands of her parents; it was, he said, like the Israelites living under the whip of Pharaoh!

Les Mauté!
It was, he charged, their arrogance, their pretensions and low judgments. It was their failure to understand the pressures and doubts—the crucible—of his artistry. It was their inability to grasp—alas, even while fallow—the admittedly strange dance of his artistic “process.” It was their cruel refusal to “believe” in him, to grasp his terrible sufferings and trials as an artist. Still more grievously, it was their ingratitude for, and utter blindness to, and apparent unwillingness to grovel before, the wavelike undertow of his approaching greatness.

“But, love, my love,” whispered Mathilde, afraid her bat-eared mother might hear, “it’s
their
house. And Paul,” she added, now playing the good mother, “Paul, this is all you agreed to,
willingly
, as the cost of your freedom.”

She brightened.

“But, Paul, my sweet … perhaps with Monsieur Rimbaud you will return to writing. But not,” she said, lightly pinching his downcast chin, “not by being irresponsible, as you were last night.”

“I know”—he misted up
—“I know,”
he said, nodding. “I cannot allow your mother to upset me as she does.
I cannot.
” He stood up. A new man. A different man. Then frowned as if it were a chore, entertaining this impossibly young monsieur from the sticks.

“Well, I suppose I’ll take him out a bit—Monsieur Rimbaud.”

“But, Paul,” she said as he kissed her, “
Paul
. Remember, Paul. He is still a
boy.
”

H
e was, in fact, magnificent. And Mathilde’s words had a very salutary effect, for they were not out
all
night. No, indeed, they were back well before 3:00 a.m.

It was then, hearing a small crash, that Madame’s two white bichons frisés, as fluffy as two dandelions on their embroidered satin coverlet, pricked up their mandarin ears. Yapping and snarling, the two floor mops launched themselves down the stairs.

Oaths were heard—the shouts of Verlaine, one foot in the air, brandishing his sword cane, ready to crush one or both.

“Out, you two tarantulas!”

Then drunk, but not
as
drunk—why, almost gravitationally—the kid backed into a pedestal atop which stood a rare Chinese urn. Smashed like a great egg. The kid had struck again.

Gaslights fluttered up. Operatically, Madame gasped, her treasured urn now a fresco on the marble floor.

“My urn!”

“Vicious
rats
!” cried Verlaine, fending dogs. “They bit our guest!”

“I’m all right!” said the kid, bravely hobbling in feigned injury.

“But my urn is not all right!”

How welcome it was, Mme. Mauté’s opprobrium. Why, in a matter of hours, the kid felt utterly at home, once more the subject of an older woman’s wrath.

34
Mercy Spurned

Another day in the desert. Two days. Three, at the maximum. If only his head would not seize up. If only his heart would not give out. If only, with his last ounce of will and courage, he did not collapse and lose his party, proving forever the jinx of the Rimbaud luck.

But the personal embarrassments of his condition! The daily inconveniences. The bleak terrors. Another night of wild shots—of galloping horses and twisted, sucking-stomached waiting. As the MacDonalds sleep, there he sits ready for his last stand, sprawled back against a camel saddle, almost trying to hear through his eyes, thumb rubbing the hammer rasps of his double gun.

And by day, unavoidably, the incidents. The daily little horrors seemingly attracted to him as to a magnet. And so it happened on the tenth day, in a driving downpour, looking for a suitable and defendable camp spot, they came upon a woman sunk to her calves in the rain-sizzling mud, flailing a big stick. Was she mad? To Rimbaud it looked at first as if she were striking the mud, or a snake perhaps. When out of the muck a head rose up, oblong with bladelike ears. It was a donkey sunk to its flanks in a pool of thick black mud, its long neck lashing as it thrashed and kicked, doomed.

In that mud hole, as well Rimbaud knew, was the woman’s life savings—everything she owned. Up, get up. The mud was as thick and black as Persian tobacco, unrelenting. The stick came down. The hooves flailed, the mud jellied. When this did not work, with two hands the woman grabbed the beast’s rope halter and yanked hard, again and again. The exhausted animal jerked. Spasmodically, the animal clawed and struggled, then gave out, its hooves quivering. Forget it. Death had the poor beast by the windpipe, but in her desperation, the woman couldn’t see it. Hit him, help him. It was as if she were resuscitating hope.

“Help me,” she cried, lifting her mud-drenched shawl. To show her predicament, she struck the animal again, then peered under her hand,
through the splattering rain—so desperate she was now begging the
frangi
, “You’re men! Help me! Pull my beast out!”

Pass on, thought Rimbaud. Don’t start some native row or invite dangers when there are dangers enough. Soldier on. That was the rule.

Not this time, though. There were children behind him, English children. The English so humane. Rooting for the fox, lovers of dogs, born to confront the brute. Inwardly, Rimbaud laid it on them, the MacDonalds, his new resolve to be good, or at least
something
. But then something still deeper jolted him as he watched the little beast kicking and panting, muddy water spewing out its nose.

“Bring me up!” Rimbaud ordered the men carrying him.

It was extraordinary. The woman looked up at the
frangi
looming above her on his sopping dais. Speaking her language, too. It was as if God Himself had come down.

“Enough!” he cried. “Stand back. Your beast is almost dead.”

“I know my animal.” The woman was defiant. “Just pull him out and you’ll see. He’ll be fine.”

“Closer!”
Rimbaud gestured to his bearers, weaving blindly in the downpour. It was crazy. Even he knew it was crazy. They were on the edge of a village.

“Woman,” he barked, “do you hear me? Now stand back! Stand aside.”

“Why? Pull him out! You have men.”

Ignore it, Rimbaud
. The donkey would be dead soon enough. Even his men were puzzled.

“Shaheed, do as I tell you. Grab her. Pull that woman away.”

That tripped it, for strange men to touch her, any woman. This was now a
deal
. Twisting and screaming in his grip, the woman fell to her knees in the muck. When through the rain, here were other women. Five, then ten, yelling at the party.

“It is her beast!”

“What do you do here,
frangi
?”

Then it was a bigger deal, as armed men appeared—spears, shields, swords. But once he was committed, the danger was almost abstract in
Rimbaud’s mind. He raised the fat double gun. Yellow fire blurted through the rain. Nine fat hailstones—done.

Merde
. People screaming and jabbering. Rain ran down his face as he lowered the double gun. He felt his hands trembling.
Merde, merde
. For here were more people, a crowd.
Fool
. Furiously, he broke the gun. Rammed in, awkwardly, another fat shell. Now, every gun was raised and cocked. As for the aggrieved woman, she was Electra, Iphigenia beseeching the crowd—a fury on this stage of flashes and thunder and bulleting rain.

“The
frangi
killed my animal. Now I have nothing.”

Spears shook—warriors. Don’t back up, thought Rimbaud. Make it big. And so he shook the gun in
their
faces. No pain now. His fear and rage were exhilarating, propulsive. Overpowering, in fact.

“Hakim,”
he said, now exalted, to the killer closest, “step forward. Show these bastards what they’re going to get.”

The woman was unimpressed. She had the crowd behind her.

“Kill my beast! You pay!
Frangi
, you will pay me!”

“Here!” Trembling with rage, Rimbaud produced a fistful of coins. Thalers. Double the worth of the little brute. More than fair.

“This is not enough,” she cried. “He shoots my animal, my only animal. Now I cannot feed my children.”

“Nonsense!” He waved his arm. “Go home, woman! Go before people get hurt!”

“No!” cried an old man, clearly the headman, stepping to the fore. “
Frangi
, you will pay her more. The village also.”

Extorters. Bloodsuckers
. Here was every open palm, every bribe and mendacity he’d ever tolerated in this shithole. In contempt, he shoved more coins at her, then glared down at the old man.

“There—that’s
it.
” Hell was in his hand. Death shook in the headman’s face. “And I’m not paying your village, old man. Now, out! All of you. Out of my goddamn way.”

Cursing, he loosed a blast. Yellow flame, screams. Now every gun was leveled and the crowd was chanting, one touch from a massacre.
Reload. He broke the smoking breech. His arms were twitching, electric. Never had he felt more alive.

“Go!” he cried to the column. “Bloody let’s go.
Come on.
”

And his gamble worked. The village did not attack, not against repeating guns—they were not crazy. Chanting, the women flung mud. The men shook spears, and in the intoxication of that moment, perversely, this thrilled him.
Now
they saw what he was made of, by God. But his exhilaration was short lived. Clutching her soaked shawl around her face, Mrs. MacDonald shouted up at him:

“
Menace
, eh? Wasn’t that your accusation of my husband the other night, you bloody maniac? That
he
was a menace?”

“And what would you have done?” he said with a glance at the very silent Mr. MacDonald. “Watched it?
What?
”

Mrs. MacDonald did not deign to reply. He’d snapped, bloody snapped. A near massacre, and for what? Two crooked hooves poking out of the mud and the woman screaming at them, screaming in the driving rain.

35
Left to God

And another man lost.

That same night, rising up out of the blear, blowing darkness, three avengers took him down, older, hardened warriors, their best. Two with spears mortally gored his horse while the third, wielding his dagger like an axe, half hacked his leg off. Never kill a man outright if possible. And so, even as he screamed, the two with spears held him fast, like a pig, one spear through his thigh and the other just inside his collar bone. Using the spear like a pry bar, the man who had him through the collarbone sharply drew the trunk back, then put one foot on his windpipe, choking off his hoarse scream. Opposite him, the second man held the leg, while the third, kneeling, blade in hand, swiftly went to work. Yanked down the wounded man’s breeches, then seized his privates like the
neck of a chicken—up that he might see, forever, his balls and the face of the warrior in whose hut they would hang. But before he could harvest his prize, horses were heard, then shots, including the shot that killed the knife man outright. The two remaining spearmen were as lucky as they were skilled. Dodging bullets, slippery as fish, they dove into the black pools of night—gone.