The elephant rifle was hung on the fleur-de-lis papered wall pointing up the stairs. Its rich mahogany butt was spiraled like a snail house. The blackened metal bolt's surface was rough and ornate at the same time. The whole wood and metal work was very ornate, crafted in hours of hand labor, yet the factory made barrel part was a crude tube. It was my grandfather's, who stoically looked out into the lobby with the chandelier from the oil painting with the heavy frame.
I smelled the black powder residue on the gun -- burnt metal, dirt, a hint of banana, the stink of sulfur -- and dreamt of his adventures in the bush of Africa and the forests of India, as he looked into the distance with his beige safari hat tropical suit. He was always groomed impeccable on the paintings. In person, he was a sweaty, bellied man with his hair tussled, always packing or unpacking for another trip. The country home in Fontainebleau was merely the storage space for his trophies.
And so I walked down the stairs, across the thick carpet made Persia. My hands caressed the multi-colored glass ball made by a Berber prince. Compulsory, I made a move on the true ivory chess board, a family habit of a long running chess game. Whosoever passed the board made the next move. The maid in her black and white uniform watched my reminiscing silently, motionlessly from the distance of the hall. When I was younger, she had admonished me without scruple. She knew that today was another day, a day where she kept her place.
With one hand on each door, I swung open the heavy double door to the circular driveway. The pure and rich air of the famous Fontainebleau forest hit my nostrils. Birds were chirping on the trees that lined the driveway. Three deer and a baby deer with black and white spots were peacefully eating the grass, their wet, black noses diving into the boot deep bouquet of wild flowers. The soft scent of the flowers had a way of clearing the palate. I could taste my saliva cleaner, clearer, freer.
My heart skipped a beat, when I walked up to the tree house. Muscle memory made me sling my foot around the smooth, white, arm-thick branch. As I pulled myself up onto the next branch, my thighs slipped around the branch. My body was larger now, yet the feel of the smooth bark gliding under me and my body twisting was deeply familiar. Reaching the nailed together wood boards, I slid my belly across them. All the dust and dirt rubbed on my clean, white shirt and pleated pants. This is the way it always was. This is the way it had to be.
My father had spent many hours with me laying belly down, chin propped on the palms. He taught me to recognize the woodpecker, the chiffchaff, and the blackcap. Most of all, I liked his hunting stories. All of our family hunted. However, my father was another kind of hunter.
One time, he had travelled to Dakar in Senegal by boat. The harbor was a tangled mess of sail boats. Chests were carried off and onto boats. A camel was patiently re-chewing its food with the jaw lazily grinding left to ride and the big lip hanging out. It was his first sight of a camel. The fur was all messy. Green grass marks were rubbed onto its cheeks, nothing like the clean, picturesque camel paintings.
"Dakar," announced the captain unceremoniously after the deckhand had tied the ship to the land. There was no gangway. My father seized up the jump to the land. The sliver of water beneath the boat and the land was a medley of rotten food, dead fish, and indescribable garbage. The stench filled him with disgust. The common streets of Paris smelled of sweaty armpits and horse shit. The hot African sun had baked and rotted the refuse into a horrific stench.
The harbor street was yellow, hard baked dirt, no pavement. Lines of muscular, black man with twisted cotton loin clothes would carry crates on their head. Their back muscles were thick and strong. Their chests were round pillows of muscle with even blacker nipples. Scrawny poor black men with wilted muscles and squinted eyes were trying to beg and steal from the riches passing by. Occasionally, a black man dressed in purple and golden garment would address the Frenchmen. Pouches of many would change hands with opulent rings with rubies over big smiles. The white Frenchmen in Western clothes were pressed into the throng of people, traders. Since the opening of the second rail road to Bamako, Dakar had become the premier trading post in Africa.
He put his foot on the railing, carefully getting a good grip to push off and onto dry land. His head was dizzy at first, land sickness. His sense of balance had become used to the constant motion of the ocean. The motion continued on dry land. Wavering, he entered the throng of people. His hands were pushing roughhewn clothed backs out of the way. Powerful man pushed into him. The constant motion of the people around him made him even sicker.
Gladly, he found emptier streets away from the harbor. The midday sun had driven all but the scrawny dogs into the shade. White washed African houses were made from clay with doors and windows having neither glass nor doors, simply openings. Savory smell of lamb meat and bread permeated the air. Despite the heat, the skin felt dry. The dry air soaked up any sweat immediately. His mouth was parched.
Happily did he enter the Rai d'Or, a French sign above the entrance. Coming from the blinding sunlight, the inside was completely black. Fearing his blind helplessness, he clutched the dagger in his pants tighter. Subtle ding sounds of cups and silverware calmed his nerves. Laughter emanated from a table far away. The kisses sounded from somewhere else. The smell of lamb made his dried out tongue salivate again.
The blackness differentiated into shades of dark gray. Female hands touched his hands. They were larger and rougher than he was used to. With an African accent and a deeper, more guttural voice, a black woman asked him to follow her. She guided him by the hand like a little child into the womb of the tavern. She made him half lie, half sit down on the carpet ringed by pillows. There was a low table in front of him.
She left him there for a moment to return with a thick bottomed shot glass. She placed it down on the low table.
"Drink, the hot tea will make you sweat. That will cool you down."
She gestured him to pin the glass by the bottom and top to avoid the hot side. He took it down in one swig. The tongue and throat burned from the heat. The taste was intense and delicious. Waiting for the heat pain to subside in his belly, his brows formed thick sweat drops. The sweaty skin left him in refreshing respite.
The scene around him had grown clearer. A Frenchman was passed out on the blankets with his arms sprawled out, chasing the dragon. A group of Frenchmen were dividing opium on a little table. Another sole Frenchmen was slowly kissing the bare breast of a black woman lying across his lap. A young couple was speaking low to each other. The darkness obscured everyone and gave them a sense of privacy. A chef was bringing out plates of stew.
He ate his stew and indulged in hot tea freely. What drew his attention over and over was the a side room. There was no door. The side room was brighter. Every once in a while, he saw a female silhouette moving about in there. There was a softness about the small woman. Her movements were fast and business like unlike the hazy, lazy movements in the den.
With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth after the meal. He rose from the comfortable pillows and carefully wondered to the side room. The half-light made it hard to see the abandoned cups, pillows, and limbs of passed out opium users. He carefully stepped with his left foot leading and the right foot dragging behind.
There was a woman in the side room, a French woman, dressed in a business suit, the face lightly made with makeup, the hair arranged properly. Binders were neatly piled on a standing desk. She tallied lines. She jumped a little, when she saw him.
"Monsieur, this room is off limits. Please, return to the den."
She spoke in perfect French with precise enunciation.
"Mademoiselle, I am intrigued to find someone as studied as you here."
"I am not a prostitute like the others. I am the accountant."
"How does a studied woman like you end up here?"
"My father was a missionary. He took me to Dakar. After a few months, he succumbed to the dragon and disappeared. What was I supposed to do? I had to pay for food. So, I took this position to do accounting for a merchant. What do you do here?"
"I read people. I am looking for a special kind of people."
"Are you a psychologist? Would you analyze me?"
"I am not a psychologist. I am more of a mystique. I see the spirit animal in people. Every person looks human on the outside. Yet on the inside, they have a spirit animal that describes their nature."
"What is my spirit animal?"
"I'd have to get to know you. Would you take me on a walk to a place that is special to you?"
"You are not like the other man? The other men only want to slip their penis in me."
She looked at him pensively. Her facial features were small. She had thin, pink lips and small blue eyes. Her skin was pale from being indoors all the time. She wore a shirt business skirt that showed her legs unashamed. She was a flapper. She wore a blouse from a louse material that made the ventilation better in the heat. The buttons were casually unbuttoned to expose her décolleté. The contour of the blouse suggested bare breast, the size of an apple each hanging there. Her fingers were smooth and porcelain like.
She tapped the pencil more rapidly on the standing desk as her thoughts neared conclusion. A soft strand of hair fell onto hair angelic face a moment, before she rounded her mouth into a seductive O to begin speaking.
"Monsieur, I am very much intrigued to discover that spirit animal of mine. Would you be able to wait until an hour to sunset?"
He tapped his hat, "Obliged," and slung back into the darkness of the den.
Near nightfall, he was glad to step in front of the den and out of the heavy scent of unwashed sex and burned opium. The air was cool. Her greeting was refreshing with her high-pitched cordial voice.
