The Dream of the Celt: A Novel by Mario Vargas Llosa

feel well. He was certain that if he tasted even a single mouthful, he would vomit on his hosts.
    “If what you have seen has upset you, perhaps it isn’t prudent for you to interview Captain Massard,” advised the head of the mission. “Listening to him is a good experience, I would say, for strong stomachs.”
    “That’s why I’ve come to the Middle Congo, my friends.”
    Captain Pierre Massard, of the Force Publique, was not stationed in Bolobo but in Mbongo, where there was a garrison and training camp for the Africans who would be soldiers in the force charged with maintaining order and security. He was on an inspection tour and had set up a small campaign tent near the mission. The ministers invited him to speak with the consul, warning Roger that the officer was famous for his irascible character. The natives had nicknamed him “Malu Malu,” and one of the sinister deeds attributed to him was having killed three intractable Africans, whom he had placed in a row, with a single shot. It wasn’t prudent to provoke him, because he was capable of anything.
    He was a powerful, rather short man, with a square face, hair cut very close, nicotine-stained teeth, and an icy little smile. He had small, somewhat slanted eyes, and a high-pitched, almost feminine voice. The ministers had prepared a table with cassava pastries and mango juice. They didn’t drink alcohol but had no objection to Casement bringing a bottle of brandy and another of claret from the Henry Reed. The captain ceremoniously shook hands with everyone and greeted Roger by making a baroque bow, calling him “ son excellence, Monsieur le Consul .” They toasted, drank, and lit cigarettes.
    “If you’ll permit me, Captain Massard, I’d like to ask you a question,” said Roger.
    “How well you speak French, Monsieur le Consul . Where did you learn it?”
    “I began to study it when I was young, in Britain. But above all here, in the Congo, where I’ve been for many years. I imagine I speak it with a Belgian accent.”
    “Ask me all the questions you wish,” said Massard, taking another drink. “Your brandy is excellent, by the way.”
    The four Baptist ministers were there, still and silent, as if petrified. They were North Americans, two young men and two old. Dr. de Hailes had gone to the hospital. Night began to fall and the buzz of nocturnal insects could already be heard. To chase away mosquitoes, they had lit a fire that crackled gently and smoked at times.
    “I’m going to tell you with utter frankness, Captain Massard,” said Roger, not raising his voice, very slowly. “I think the crushed hands and cut-off penises that I’ve seen in the Bolobo hospital are unacceptable savagery.”
    “They are, of course they are,” the officer admitted immediately, with an expression of disgust. “And something worse than that, Monsieur le Consul : a waste. Those mutilated men won’t be able to work any more, or they’ll do it badly, and their yield will be minimal. With the lack of labor we have here, it’s a real crime. Bring me the soldiers who cut off those hands and penises and I’ll thrash their backs until there’s no blood left in their veins.”
    He sighed, overwhelmed by the degrees of imbecility the world suffered from. He took another sip of brandy and inhaled his cigarette deeply.
    “Do the laws or regulations permit the mutilation of indigenous people?” asked Roger.
    Captain Massard guffawed, and when he laughed his square face rounded and comic dimples appeared.
    “They prohibit it categorically,” he declared, waving away something in the air. “Make those two-legged animals understand what laws and regulations are. Don’t you know them? If you’ve spent so many years in the Congo, you must. It’s easier to make a hyena or a tick understand things than a Congolese.”
    He laughed again, but then immediately became enraged. Now his expression was hard and his slanted little eyes had almost disappeared beneath