Emulsion

Emulsion

Thierry Massihians

Kenya, Eastern Rift Valley, today.

The big cat suddenly lifted his head, his eyes scanning his surroundings, his muzzle red with the blood of his fallen prey. He froze, absolutely motionless in the soft breeze caressing the high grass of the savanna. The young antelope hadn't had a chance. Inexperienced in the art of survival, she'd seen the cheetah at the very last moment, too late, as he was already accelerating. The run was short, dramatically so, culminating into the oldest ritual on earth. Arnaud Ferrand and his guide had watched it from afar, mesmerized. They were conveniently located on a slight eminence, under a shady tree. It was pure luck that the animal had chosen such a close spot to catch his breath and start feeding. He was a beautiful hunter whose fur had the sheen of the well fed. Nervous though not afraid, he had the situational awareness proper to his species. Arnaud belonged to the staff of the french magazine Animan, an acclaimed publication, recognized for the seriousness of their articles and the high quality of their pictures. He was in his early forties, not exactly handsome but interestingly rugged, with green eyes sparkling with childish intensity. His goal in Kenya wasn't to show the tourist's point of view. He wanted to get the feel of the land, and to achieve that, he'd been living for two months with the Poqot tribe, far from the excursion groups and the resorts on the coast of the Indian Ocean. Of course, there were no commodities at all. He bathed when he could, ate the same food as the natives and slept in a smelly hut. He'd renounced shaving and had simply abandoned the idea of fresh laundry. He was tolerating the flies, the heat and the people's body odors with incredible patience. His only luxury was a beautiful Aussie felt hat that worked wonders in the African heat. The truth is that he thoroughly enjoyed being there. He was a nostalgic, longing for Dr Livingstone's days, when the savanna was bustling with life. He believed in the communion with nature and deeply respected her. He'd never touch a rifle. There was no need. Mwamba took care of defense and the very thought of taking an animal's life revolted him to the point of despair. Mwamba had come with him from Nairobi, and had proved to be more than just a guide. The ritual markings on his face made him look more terrible than he was. A giant of a man, his strides were so wide that even Arnaud who wasn't exactly short always had the impression that he had to walk almost twice as fast to keep up with him. His rough friendship was like a sacred bonding. Beyond the gap of different cultures, they understood each other and they made an excellent team. Arnaud would miss him when he returned to Paris, when he returned to his wife. He would especially miss Kenya when he returned to his wife.

Arnaud had the distinct impression that the cat was looking straight at him, yet he was at least 200 meters away. His pride could be felt through the lens. It was a posture of challenge. Mwamba said:

" He probably saw the reflection of the sun in the lens."

" Right." Arnaud said. " we're almost backlighting."

" Don't worry." Said Mwamba. " He won't be bothering us. He knows that if he leaves, he's likely to lose his hunt to a scavenger or another predator. He's actually checking for any real interference to his dinner"

" Right." Said Arnaud again. " I don't blame him. There are a lot of hyenas around here."

He took advantage of the cheetah's beautiful posture to shoot another ten frames through the big telelens. Arnaud used a heavy 800mm onto his Nikons at that distance. The rest of the equipment was neatly set to his right. There was more than 25 kilos of it, not including the tripods, the standard gear of a wildlife photographer. A cool breeze was now slowly washing away the heat of the afternoon. It gently bent the high grass and slightly rippled the animal's fur. Or perhaps was it only the tremor of his muscles. He went back to his feeding. It was five pm, forty-five minutes before sunset. Incredible how fast the day melts into the night, this close to the equator. The sky was quickly shifting to orange and the scene was warming into ochre tones. Soon, it would be too dark to even see the cat. Arnaud decided to use a higher sensitivity film and he quickly finished the roll that was in the camera. As the twilight went darker and darker, Arnaud lifted the tripod's column to its highest position and set the flash onto the camera. Of course, he didn't expect to light up the scene at such a great distance. He just wanted to get the glint into the cheetah's eyes. Arnaud shot several frames for the ambient light, the flash set for a medium-low output. And he knew that he had the cover. The animal would show almost dark blue in the aftersunset's soft glow and his eyes would spark as a twin green beacon in the night.

***

Paris, the same time.

Brigitte Ferrand slowly lifted the glass to her lips and made a sophisticated gesture to show her appreciation. It was a St Emilion. A good year. She was a tall curly blonde with clear blue eyes and thin pale lips that always seem to twist in disdain.

" Well, what are you going to do now?" She asked her friend.

" I don't know yet." Annabella said, fidgeting in her chair. " I'll probably file for a divorce, I can't stand living with him anymore."

A plump woman of forty, she was overpainted and overdressed. Her hands were a very important component of her conversation. She was very insecure and it showed. Brigitte casually fished for a cigarette in the open pack and lit it with yet another sophisticated gesture.

" How much are you filing for?" She asked.

" Well..."

" What, well?... You have a number in mind, don't you?"

" I... I'm still thinking about it." Annabella fidgeted a little more. "Listen, you shouldn't smoke here, it's forbidden."

Under the whiffs of smoke, the other clients in the restaurant were already frowning in reproach and were staring in Brigitte's direction. As if on purpose, she crossed her legs and exhaled an even denser blue cloud in their general direction.

" Don't change the subject, honey." She said. " There is nothing to think about! Are you out of your mind? You should squeeze the guy as much as possible! This is a unique opportunity, for christsake!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Brigitte saw the waiter charging towards her from the other side of the dining room and, not even once looking in his direction, put out the stub to frustrate him from the comment.

" I don't know..." Said Annabella, shifting again uncomfortably in her chair. " Maybe I'll start wo..."

The waiter obviously decided to go for the comment anyway.

"I'm sorry, madame." He said icily, interrupting them. " You cannot smoke here..."

Brigitte exhaled her last puff in his face and, raising her voice a full octave, she said:

" Can't you see that I already put it out?... What's wrong with you?..."

Annabella put her hand on her arm.

" Please Brigitte, don't make a scandal, he's just doing his job."

Brigitte set her arm free with a twist of her wrist.

" That's the problem with you!" She leaned on the table and pointed her finger towards Annabella. " Always weak! If you think you'll get your divorce that way, you're sorely mistaken... Stop playing the bleeding heart, honey…Grab!…"

The waiter decided for a prudent retreat while the offender set her attention towards her friend.

" Brigitte! Please! Calm down... Can't you understand me? Your marriage is not that happy either but it's always a difficult thing to consider a divorce, isn't it?"

Brigitte uncrossed her legs and took another sip of wine. She was smiling now, but it didn't make Annabella feel any better. Somehow, it didn't seem to be a smile at all, it was more like a rictus."

" And what makes you think that my marriage is not a happy one?"

Annabella stayed silent. Answering was not a good option.

Kenya.

The fire was sending a cloud of sparks into the night, short-lived fireflies briefly but relentlessly assaulting the darkness, unconscious of their fruitless attempt to reach the stars. The silence was unreal. It was a luxury. There never was silence in the savanna. Between the cries of the predators and their dying preys, the crawling of unidentified life in the bushes and the constant chirping of insects, the world was very much alive. This time however, it seemed that nature herself had decided to show respect to the ceremony that was taking place around the fire. The Poqot were waiting... Arnaud wasn't sure what they were waiting for but he showed respect all the same, sensing that it was expected. When the shaman entered the circle formed by the people, a huge collective sigh emerged from the crowd. His dark, shiny face reflected the light of the flames. He was draped in a deep red cloth from which hung all sorts of pendants of obscure destination. Dignity exuded from his chiseled features. He stopped by the fire and froze for what seemed to be an eternity. Then he slowly lifted his arms as high as he could and the crowd stood, lifting also their arms slowly in unison. A deep hum filled the clear... When he dropped his arms by his side, an explosion of sound filled the silence. The drums started pounding, the men started dancing and every single throat yelled its existence to the Cosmos. Spears appeared from nowhere and seemed to rip through the air, sending glints of light from every direction. Arnaud jumped in spite of himself at the sheer volume of noise that assaulted him. He turned to Mwamba, sitting beside him, and asked something that got lost in the tumult. He smiled and seemed to understand. His hand squeezed Arnaud's arm as if to tell him that everything was fine. The ritual went on and on into the night. Time became a forgotten entity. At the first sign of weakening, more dry wood was thrown into the flames, and each time the surge of light seemed to give a fresh energy to the dancers. They thrust their spears towards an invisible enemy, jumped forward and made some complicated steps, then jumped again, perfectly choreographed. The dust flew and covered their legs up to their hips. The women shuffled among them, their heads held low, never in their way, and handed some beverage that was gulped down in one swift motion. All the bodies were now glistening with sweat. The atmosphere was heavy with animal scent. It was a powerful ritual indeed. When finally the dance reached an apex, the drums adopted a different rhythm and seemed to slow down. The gestures of the dancers became less vehement and the spears waved in a less threatening way. After a while, the shaman rose to his feet and made a sharp sign with his right hand. The drums stopped. All the dancers dropped to the floor, breathing heavily.

***

Paris. Two months later.

When Arnaud opened the door, the apartment looked alien to him. After having lived in the wild for four months, the cleanliness of the place assaulted him. Everything was neat. Everything was immaculate. There were some artifacts from all over the world, from places where he had been sent at one time or another. But in this setting, they seemed fake and somehow, out of place. Though he'd shaved before boarding the plane, he still had a faraway look on his face. He was deeply tanned and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes gave him a rugged, if not handsome appearance. He was still wearing the clothes he'd used during his assignment. They were rumpled and faded, ripped in some places. He dropped his bags on the floor. Brigitte came out of the boudoir, alerted by the intrusion. She was wearing a short silk kimono that let her legs bare. Their eyes met and parted. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms, looking him over.

" Have you debugged yet?" She asked.

Arnaud sighed. " Oh, please! I just came from the airport, for christsake!" He opened his hands in a powerless gesture. " Can't you say something nice for a change?"

" Then go wash yourself before you touch anything" She said, pointing her finger at him. " I don't want fleas or any exotic parasite in my house. Please go to the hospital as soon as you can and have yourself checked out."

" This happens to be my house too!…" If you don't like it, you should just move out. After all, I'm the one who's paying the bills…"

She turned around and walked away. " We've had this conversation before." She said, not even looking back. " And you know what I think about it. I'm within my rights. Now get yourself checked out." She entered the boudoir again and closed the door behind her. Her disappearance was actually welcome to Arnaud. He didn't need a fight, right now. What he needed was a good bath and his bed. A bath!… And a bed!… Luxury of all luxuries!… He grabbed his bags and walked to his room. When he opened the door, a stale smell assaulted him. Nobody had entered this place in four months and there was dust everywhere. He sighed… He threw the bags on the bed and stepped into the bathroom. There where dead insects in the tub and there was no water left in the toilet. He sighed again… He opened the tub's tap and an ominous gurgling came out, then a stream of brown water that quickly became transparent coughed out. He washed the accumulated dirt and started to fill the tub with deliciously hot water…

***

" That can be arranged." The shaman had said. " That can be arranged." The words were repeating over and over again in his head. " That can be arranged." He turned on his side on the bed, trying to escape from the voice, but instead he heard the old man speaking in his head again. Sleep came reluctantly and he started dreaming…Memories came back to the surface. The moon was up. The dance was a throbbing memory in everyone's bones. The shaman was speaking and Mwamba translated. It started innocently enough, talking about the Earth and the Heavens. About places and ideas. And then about life and death. The shaman seemed to have developed a liking for Arnaud, probably because of his respect for another culture's traditions. Things shifted a little when Arnaud was asked why he was so bitter at the idea of going back to France. He was reluctant to explain, not sure of how someone raised in the wisdom of this land could understand.

" This isn't your culture." The shaman said. " You should rejoice at the idea of going back to your land. What is it that makes you so sad about it?"

Arnaud shifted on the ground, it was a painful subject for him. He didn't like to become too personal during his assignments but the expression on the expectant faces around him were benign and truly open. A deep benevolence seemed to exude from the wise man sitting beside him. Finally Arnaud began to speak. It came in waves. He told him that his marriage had become a nightmare. He didn't understand how it had happened. The bitterness, the infidelities, the harsh words, the disdain, the fights. He seemed to have married another person, long ago. He now jumped onto any assignment in order to be away as much as possible. He wanted a divorce, but she wouldn't have it, she seemed to enjoy being a thorn in his side. He uncovered everything for all to see, most of all for himself. He talked and talked. Tears came out uncontrollably. It was like a release to let out the flow of words, to open to this wise old man. It was like a confession. When he finished speaking, his throat hurt. The silence took possession of the area. He had spoken for a long time. The sky was lightening up in the east. Arnaud took notice of the world around him and sighed heavily. The embers of the fire were dying and a cool breeze ruffled his hair. The shaman was still squatting and slowly rocked on his heels.

When the sun finally leaped from behind the mountains and pierced the remaining shadows the shaman said: " That can be arranged."

Arnaud looked at him, puzzled. " What do you mean?" He asked.

" It means" The old man said, " that you don't have to live like that anymore. Look around you. A powerful magic exists in this land, a magic that can change events, that can change life, that can give or take a life or… take a soul." He paused. " In our culture, women are obedient. They must. You may think that this is bad, but it is our tradition and this way of life works for us. It has worked for as long as there has been humans in this land."

The old man looked deep into Arnaud's eyes. " You can take her soul, and you'll be free."

This couldn't be for real… An uncomfortable buzz filled Arnaud's head. He could see the shaman's lips moving but he couldn't seem to hear him.

But the dictaphone didn't lose a word…

***

Brigitte came into the living room. She was ready to go out. She wore extensive jewelry and her dress was as short as the current decency would allow without becoming vulgar. Arnaud looked at her over his bowl of cereals. Even though her body was still well proportioned, there was no mistaking the wrinkles of bitterness at the corner of her mouth. She bitched some more about imaginary parasites and asked him when his next assignment would be so she could get rid of him for another four months. He knew that he was in her way, that while he was here her lover couldn't come as she pleased. She wouldn't leave him but didn't want him around.

" How have we ever come to this?" He asked.

" Oh, please! Don't give me the romantic bullshit!" She said. " You should have thought about that a long time ago when you started to work for your half-assed magazine. You know I was against it and now you want to share the blame. Go kiss someone else's ass! Maybe some third-world bitch in Africa or Nepal… you seem to like them so much!"

That was too much, even for him. He slapped her. Hard. Hate flashed in her eyes. She grabbed the first thing that her hand found. It was a precious old pottery from Syria. She threw it to his face. It shattered on his temple and he fell heavily, breaking a small table under his weight. When he lifted his eyes from his bloodied fingers, she already had stormed from the room. This was as far as he could take it.

***

In the subsequent weeks, he rented a small flat under a false name in the suburbs of Paris and made several trips to Kenya. The magazine wouldn't need him before January for a paper about Madagascar, so he wasn't worried about disappearing for a while. Each time, he would come back with some special item given to him by the old Poqot. Shards of wood, herbs, essences, small bones, and even some rare secretions from fungi and little known animals. He didn't sleep in the flat for fear of alerting Brigitte with a change of behavior but they avoided each other anyway. He spent a good deal of time working on his project. And it was slowly taking form. According to the shaman, one could make a crude painting of the victim, or a statuette could be fashioned, mixing the pigments or the clay with the right amount of the substances he brought.

When shown to the victim, its soul would then be sucked into the makeshift copy for as long as the duplicate existed. At first, it had seemed hard to believe, these sorcery rites seemed fit around the campfire among the Poqot. But here in Paris, he had listened to the conversation with the shaman recorded by the dictaphone and his blood has chilled. It all seemed like something taken from a dark fantasy book. Still, he'd let himself into it. Maybe it was the ambience of the wild that permeated him still, or maybe it was the old man's voice, so wise and so persuasive. It could well have been desperation. Arnaud didn't want anything as crude as a statue or a painting. maybe his unconscious could not relate to something that didn't at least include some sort of technology. So he made something directly related to his specialty: a camera. Not any camera though. A pinhole camera. One complication, had said the shaman, was that glass prevented the process of the soul's capture, so he had to go back to basics. One of the first cameras ever invented was a pinhole design. It was a wooden box with a small hole at one end. The light coming from a scene would go through this small hole and an image could be achieved on a light sensitive material set at the other end of the box. The Kenyan wood let itself work beautifully. Arnaud assembled it and treated it according to the old man's instructions. Then he varnished it, careful of not letting any tiny crack present itself into the smooth surfaces and tested it several times in the city to check on the exposure. He was rewarded with everyday scenes, perfectly normal if for the absence of people in the pictures; the amount of light entering the box was so weak that a very long exposure was required, hence anything moving wasn't recorded. About twenty five minutes was needed on average with ambient exterior light. Then one night he began working on the magic emulsion. He had designed a way to mix a liquid photographic emulsion with the magic from Kenya. He didn't need a high quality reproduction so he wasn't worried about the chemical contamination. To his surprise, he found most of the substances odorless. Surrounded by bunzens and glass tubes, he suddenly saw himself as some sort of mythical alchemist on a quest for gold. He smiled, picturing himself with a high conical hat and a dark blue robe embroidered with suns and moons and stars. When he achieved the proper melting and mixing, he let it cool down before going to the darkroom and pour it into the sensitive liquid emulsion. Finally, he prepared several sheets ready to use. He couldn't test them on anybody of course. But he checked their response to the light in comparison to other emulsions and calculated the amount of compensation. When the morning came, he was ready.

***

At ten-thirty, Arnaud went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and there it was. The open bottle of Sauthernes. It was half full. His heart began to beat faster. It was today, then. By now the barbituric that he had injected through the cork should have put her to sleep deeply. He went back to his room and grabbed the camera. It was already loaded. Funny, he'd never thought of a camera as a weapon before… He stopped before Brigitte's bedroom, trying to think when was the last time he'd gone in there. A long time. So long he even had lost count. He slowly pushed the door open. She was asleep. Good. She'd thrashed a little in her sleep and her bare leg showed from under the futon. He switched the light on. His heart was thundering. Brigitte never moved. The camera was quickly set. Arnaud adjusted the angle so that the whole bed would fit on the frame. He hesitated. This felt wrong. Suddenly, he saw her in his mind's eye when they first met. He saw her in a dozen different scenes, happier than today. His heart melted. He looked at the camera on its tripod, then looked at her again. Then Brigitte made a rictus in her sleep. And Arnaud knew that the person he had just seen in his memories was no longer. All was left was this bitter and evil mind. His resolve came back, stronger than ever. He switched the bedside lamp on to get even more light and lifted the blankets to expose the whole body. She was wearing a blue nightgown. Then he went behind the camera. His wristwatch indicated 10h45. He removed the cap from the hole. The exposure had begun. The chair beckoned to him, there was nothing more to do than sit and watch. He imagined her image slowly forming on the plate, taking away her soul, tiny morsel by tiny morsel. He wondered what she felt if she felt anything. Time was passing, his watch said. 11h47. 11h52. 12H01… He decided to give it a little more time, just to be sure. Then Brigitte suddenly opened her eyes. She sat in the bed in an awkward, disjointed motion of the hips and looked straight at him. She opened her mouth to scream. Arnaud leaped from the chair and replaced the cap on the camera's hole to end the exposure. When his eyes went back to her, she still had her mouth open but she didn't seem to be breathing anymore. No air was reaching her lungs. The scream on her lips never disturbed the confined atmosphere. Then, suddenly, she seemed to be lit from within and slowly became evanescent. This was unexpected. She was disintegrating before his eyes. Arnaud couldn't take his eyes off her. He knew that this vision would haunt him for the rest of his life. This was the weirdest thing he had ever witnessed. And even worse was the fact that he had engineered it. When there was nothing left in the bed than the rumpled sheets and the abandoned blue nightgown, he sat in the chair again like an automaton, his heart thumping against his rib cage, eyes wild and his mind boggled. When the pale Parisian sun rose in the new day, he hadn't moved.

***

For a little more than a year, Arnaud kept on working for Animan. He went to Madagascar, then to Peru, then to Tasmania. Always, he came back with a huge selection of beautiful pictures. The investigation about the disappearance of his wife had been short but efficient. The flat where he'd made the emulsion had long been rented to someone else. He'd had to answer hundreds of questions, but nobody had ever managed to incriminate him more than to establish the vaguest circumstantial motives. There was no body, no weapon, and no traces of struggle. Nothing. A total disappearance. Neither the police nor her friends found an explanation, and Arnaud kept silent, feigning ignorance. He lived alone and dedicated himself to his passion, traveling. He had never felt better in his life.

***

Then one day he decided to process the enchanted emulsion. He was afraid that the plate would lose its integrity if not processed and that, on weakening, would release Brigitte from wherever she might be. That would be totally unacceptable. So he went into his darkroom and prepared the chemicals. He felt a little apprehensive about the kind of image that would appear in the chemical bath, and the necessary darkness didn't help in alleviating the feeling. But he proceeded anyway, convinced of the necessity of going through the motions. When the timer chimed, he emptied the tank from the revelator and poured the fixator. The feeling of uneasiness grew and crept over him. When the timer chimed for the second time, he pulled the negative from the tank and watched the picture. He could feel gooseflesh in places where he didn't think gooseflesh possible. This was like reviving a corpse. When he bent to examine the picture a little closer, and saw that something was strange. There was Brigitte on her bed, the way he saw her for the last time. She seemed to be resting peacefully, but… There it was. Her eyes were missing! Instead of showing her eyes closed, the picture revealed two black pits. The emulsion hadn't registered anything. He walked into the studio and lit up the light table. He set the negative onto the luminescent surface and grabbed the 10X loupe. The area around Brigitte's eyes were perfectly exposed but the eyes themselves were like twin black holes. There was no exposure at all. God only knew where these eyes had gone but it didn't make any difference. If the picture was incomplete, that was all right with Arnaud providing that Brigitte was gone. He left the negative on the living room's table on his way to the kitchen and made a sandwich with whatever he could find in the fridge. Sleep came fast. But it didn't seem to bring him any rest.

***

Something woke him up. His eyes flew open but he couldn't see a thing. The room was pitch black. The only light available was coming from the faintly fluorescent numbers on the alarm-clock. He felt uncomfortable and he didn't know why. He threw the blankets to the side and stood up, naked, wide awake. The light from the bedside lamp hurt his eyes went he switched it on. He squinted. The alarm-clock's dial was shouting: 3:23AM. Nothing was out of the ordinary in the room. There was no movement and no noise whatsoever. He went to the bathroom to relieve himself and watched his reflection in the big mirror. A shiver ran down his spine. There was something behind him, at about an arm's length behind his head. A pair of faintly visible... eyes?… Yes. Two ethereal eyes were looking straight at his reflection in the mirror. He whirled on the ball of his feet, but there was nothing to see. He waved his arms in front of him. His hands grasped nothing. He turned towards the mirror again and there they were. His throat emitted an alien cry, high pitched and painful. He ran out of the bathroom, his need for relief forgotten.

" No!" He whispered. " This can't be possible!"

He began pacing the room, oblivious of the cold on his naked flesh. His hands were clasping and unclasping. He folded his arms. Grabbed his head.

The stare on his neck was like a burning iron.

"What have I done wrong?" He thought.

He ran to the living room, where he'd left Brigitte's last picture and grabbed it, almost crumpling it in his haste. Then he knew. It came as a shock. He took her picture when she was asleep. That's why her eyes never showed on the emulsion. So her mind hadn't been there either. The eyes are the mirrors of the soul and he took a picture of her when her soul was not in her body. And during all the time the film had not been revealed she had stayed in a limbo, not aware but not flesh either.

" God! How stupid! How unforgivably stupid!"

He could feel her presence now.

Brigitte was back. He had brought her back.

***

Kenya. Nairobi. Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, fifteen days later.

The man that came out the Air France flight was a shadow of what he'd once been. He was thin to the point of being frail, his eyes were bloodshot, sunk deep into his skull, and his movements were jerky. Like a puppet hanging from the hands of a trembling old man. His luggage, a bag that had certainly seen better days, was sagging heavily from his tired shoulder. When he reached the immigration checkpoint under the stifling heat, the officer, a huge man fat to the point of obesity and wearing a rumpled uniform, lowered his huge sunglasses and looked at him with a suspicious stare, then without an explanation asked Arnaud to follow him. He tried to protest but the officer grabbed his arm and all but dragged him towards the administration offices. They passed several doors before pushing one that seemed in better shape than the others. They entered a small office with no windows. The officer let go of Arnaud's arm and sat behind a diminutive desk. He didn't offer a seat.

" What is your name?" He asked in English.

" Arnaud Ferrand." Said the man with a heavy French accent. " I'm a wildlife photographer with the French magazine Animan. I've been in your country several times to make documentaries."

" That so?" Asked the officer with a little tilt of the head. " Where is your equipment?"

Arnaud fidgeted a little and said: " I'm not on assignment right now. I came for personal reasons."

" Oh!" Said the officer, leaning on his desk. He seemed to bore his eyes into Arnaud's own. " And what may they be?"

" Uh… I came to see a friend." Said Arnaud.

" I see." The officer said, but he didn't see anything more than a suspicious person under his jurisdiction.

" Please undress." He said.

" What!" Said Arnaud. " But… What have I done? Why?"

" You will be searched for drugs, and you'd better make sure we don't find any." Said the officer sternly. " I don't think that our jails would be to your liking."

Resigned, Arnaud began to undress. Someone entered behind him and started to check his clothes and then his luggage. He was pushed forward without ceremony and felt a hand on his buttocks, then a gloved finger entered his rectum. He almost vomited on the desk.

" Look…" He said. " I've been working a lot, lately. And I haven't slept much… This is not what it seems."

" If you're clean, you've got nothing to fear." Said the one behind him.

Arnaud turned around and saw that he was a military doctor. At least he was dressed like one. He was asked to sit down and they prepared him for a blood test. Finally they let him dress again and he was placed under confinement. Two hours later, he was informed that, due to the high percentage of amphetamines in his bloodstream, his visa had been revoked. He was placed on the return flight for Paris the next day.

***

When he got to his apartment again, he sunk onto the bed. His neck ached terribly. Her stare was still there and it was burning more than ever. It bored like a red-hot iron into his flesh. He felt like cattle being marked, over and over and over… He turned and turned on the bed but sleep wouldn't come. At first he thought that he just could live with it. After all, Brigitte's eyes didn't seem to have any material power, they seem just to nag at his conscience like a modern Cain. He'd even been able to find sleep during the first days. But slowly, he appeared to lose his stamina. Sleep began to elude him. His energy was drained out like blood sucked by a leech. After two weeks it had become a nightmare. He had lost weight and his once strong built was now drooping at the joints. She was killing him and he didn't even understand how. More, his unconscious felt that it was deserved, he'd d tried to kill her, after all. When he couldn't take it anymore, he flew to Kenya, but the incident at the airport had struck a cruel blow. He began hallucinating. He seemed to hear her snickering. A cruel and bitter laugh that pierced his brain like a dagger. He grabbed some valium and laid on his bed, his eyes shut tight. Exhaustion finally carried him to a world full of screams and frightful images, where Brigitte seemed to be at home among ruins and deformed creatures. He woke up in sweat ten hours later, more exhausted than before. This had to end. The next day, he bought several items of make-up and turned on his laptop. The digital atlas showed the area around Nairobi. He couldn't go back there after the incident at the Jomo Kenyatta International airport. So he began to search for an alternative. The closest airport to the Eastern Rift Valley was across the border in Tanzania: Kilimanjaro International. He laboriously fixed a route from there to his destination across the border. If he couldn't go through customs in Kenya anymore, he could enter Kenya illegally from Tanzania. The border was as porous as sandstone. About 240 kilometers of rough terrain. Nothing impossible for a Land Rover. He connected to his usual travel agency and bought a ticket to Tanzania. Then he called Mwamba in Nairobi.

***

Arnaud suffered. The hostess was obviously worried about him, especially since they were flying at night and that he was the only passenger awake. She probably thought that he had this fear of flying and, with her training, anticipated any hints that he might try a crackpot move like opening the door at cruising altitude. So she fussed over him and tried to make him feel comfortable. She was obviously relieved when the plane finally landed after a very long flight. The Kilimanjaro International Airport was radically different from the Jomo Kenyatta Airport. It was almost exclusively a tourist destination, already popularized into mass tourism, so the Tanzanian officials were used to see less than optimally looking people flooding through their gates. Arnaud made a tremendous effort to look healthy while passing the checkpoints and, to his surprise, made it through without problem. It was 7h30 in the morning when he got out of customs. Mwamba was there, waiting for him. The look on his face went a long way to tell Arnaud about his appearance. For the first time in a month, he became conscious of the 15 kilos he had lost. Without knowing why, he suddenly felt ashamed.

They went to the parking lot under a rising heat but Arnaud mustered all his will to walk without help. Mwamba saw this, so he walked slowly, allowing Arnaud to regain a semblance of dignity. The green Land Rover was old but, as Mwamba assured, in good mechanic condition. He loaded Arnaud's light baggage in the back and started the car. As they headed towards Arusha the land rose gently, from almost sea level to more than 1,500 meters.

"What are we going to do in Arusha?" asked Arnaud.

We'll get some stuff I didn't have time to buy, you kinda called me on short notice." Said Mwamba. "It's a town of about a hundred thousand, the last we're going to see of a city for a while. It's not very far, about 40 kilometers, and the road is paved so we'll make a good time… It's in the right direction in any case."

"Oh!… Okay…" Said Arnaud, weakly. And he fell into silence.

Fabled Mount Kilimanjaro was gradually fading behind them while Mount Meru, an old crater 5,000 meters high loomed over them from the right, its flanks covered up to half its height with dense vegetation. As the sun rose in the morning sky, so did the temperature. When they plunged into the busy streets of Arusha, Mwamba managed not to let the traffic trap him. He was driving hard, manhandling the wheel as he would a reluctant donkey, shouting in Swahili by the side window at the top of his lungs and honking all he could. He finally found a spot in the shade of a tree to allow Arnaud to rest a little. They couldn't afford to attract attention with his condition, especially since there were not too many white people in that area. Mwamba checked on his friend and left, one large stride after the other. He returned quickly, his arms sagging with a heavy load. He offered some food to Arnaud, without success.

"You must eat". Said Mwamba.

"I'm just not hungry." Arnaud sighed feebly.

Mwamba made a frown. "You won't see many restaurants where we're going, so you should eat now to give as many healthy nutrients as possible to your body. You're going to need them."

Arnaud grimaced but reluctantly accepted the food. He munched on it with visible discomfort. As soon as Mwamba finished eating, he gunned the engine to life and the Land Rover took the road. He hadn't reached the outskirts of the city when Arnaud threw up violently through the open window. Then his body sagged onto the seat. His forehead was damp and his chest was heaving. Mwamba had a worried expression on his face. Arnaud tried to explain as best as possible what was happening to him, but it was more than what Mwamba could take at once so there was silence in the car for a while. Then Mwamba saw Arnaud's head lolling from left to right with the curves, he was snoring lightly. He stopped and laid his friend down in the back of the car and drove on, a dark purpose knitting his brow. The little towns grew sparse as they inched north towards the border. First Olmotoni then Lariboro which became memories as soon as they left them behind. The asphalt ended at Longido. It was 1h00 pm. The sun was at its zenith, the heat was stifling… They could have followed the main road towards Namanga, but they would have found a guard's post at the border. Arnaud's custom report from Nairobi would stop him short. Instead, they took a dirt road towards Lake Natron.

As soon as the car tasted the first potholes, the dust raised by the tires started seeping through the smallest orifices of the Land Rover's body. Mwamba swore under his breath, then sneezed loudly. They finally arrived to Engare Naibor, a dirty border town, small enough to be nothing but a smudge on the ground from the air, but big enough to offer something close to a hotel. They checked in, viewed suspiciously by the owner. Arnaud was delirious and had to be washed, his strength gone. He hadn't said a word since the outskirts of Arusha. Mwamba put him to bed, hoping that rest would do him good. But Arnaud wasn't really sleeping, he was just lethargic. His limbs would jerk now and then, an awkward movement seemingly unbidden. Mwamba didn't manage to sleep well. The night was eerie. There was an abnormal amount of animal activity in the bushes around the hotel and he walked several times to the window to see if there'd been a kill close by. He never saw anything. But there was something there. Twigs snapped, short barks and whines erupted periodically in the darkness. He finally collapsed into slumber late into the night.

In the morning, Mwamba learned how strange the night had been when he saw how many mosquito bites Arnaud had suffered. The insects had concentrated their attention on him with a vengeance, his chest was so covered with bites that they were impossible to count. But Arnaud was so exhausted that he didn't even scratch himself. It motivated Mwamba to get moving as soon as possible. He used an almost impracticable dirt track to reach the lakeshore, thirty kilometers away. Lake Natron was a large brown expanse of water, mainly on Tanzanian territory, but the northernmost tip was Kenyan. That's where Arnaud had planned to enter the country. The border with Uganda on lake Victoria would have been another story, heavily patrolled as it was to try and counter the smuggling. But lake Natron was peaceful and Mwamba didn't expect trouble either. It was noon when they got there. Any hot blooded life was resting in the treeshade while the insects blindly but deafeningly clamored their courting to whichever awaiting female. As soon as the car stopped close to the muddy banks, it became into an oven set on broiler. The sun was like an impossible forge breathing heat on the landscape, making it shimmer, deforming the treeline into a chirping saraband.

Mwamba waited for the night to come again, then loaded the Land Rover on a raft owned by a fisherman with whom he'd made a deal. They started stealthily northward. The water clapped gently at the boards, darker than a sinner's soul. There were no lights on the banks so the lake seemed to have no boundaries. The stars twinkled overhead and the surrounding darkness brought out the Milky Way seemingly close enough to touch. Four hours later the car landed safely near Olengarua in Kenyan territory. The lights of a reluctant border patrol appeared briefly, faintly, reflected by the water but they were too far away to allow detection and the raft wasn't bothered. There was no road close by so Mwamba decided to wait until dawn to move on. With the fisherman gone, all was calm. It didn't last. At this time of the night, the fauna´s presence at the lake shore should have abated somewhat. Drinking at night was always a perilous operation for herbivores because water holes were a favorite kill zone, so they tended to be as quick as possible about it. Still, Mwamba had decided to wait in the car. Predators tended to be unpredictable. Suddenly there was movement around the car. Then the vehicle dipped from the weight of a male lion climbing on the hood, the thin metal protesting under the treatment and it bent where it could. The animal's growl made the whole car vibrate. His face was so close to the wind shield that Mwamba could actually count the teeth in his maw. They seemed to sense acutely Arnaud's unconscious presence. This wasn't a normal behavior for a lion, especially at night. As he jumped onto the roof, another followed the first onto the hood. They were sniffing and growling, probably trying to identify the canned meat inside. The car lurched and jumped under the shifting weight. Mwamba started to horn and switched the headlights on to have a better look. Instead of frightening the lions, the light revealed that a flock of baboons had joined them, banging at the windows. Then came hyenas which came into spitting distance of the scene. This was unheard of. The instinctive behavior of these animals were to never mix together. In the kill area, there was always precedence to the most numerous or the strongest. The cacophony became unbearable. Mwamba started the car and made it move. Back and forth… Back and forth…Horning all he could. Soon the scene degenerated into slaughter. But even that was frighteningly bizarre. The baboons threw themselves at the lions and bit were they could as they were being ripped apart. Even the hyenas were attacking anything that moved including their own. After 10 minutes of gory frenzy, one lion had died and the other was standing victor among dozens of slain animals. He limped away, drenched in blood. Arnaud had stayed unconscious during the whole incident. Soon the Eastern sky paled and the sun rose, but Mwamba's hands were still painfully clutching the wheel, his eyes exorbitated. He nervously set the Land Rover in motion and the gears protested loudly. What had Arnaud done?… This was undoubtedly the work of a demon. He prayed to the ancient spirits of the land. Spirits almost forgotten with the arrival of the white people on the continent. He should have said to Arnaud that all the shaman's sorcery talk was just superstition. Instead, Arnaud awoke forces beyond anyone's understanding. Forces that had been sleeping for a long time and should have stayed that way. Mwamba was more in a hurry to reach their destination now. He still had to cross the Eastern Rift Valley, the same place where, a little more than a year ago they took pictures of the cheetah that had been published on the cover of Animan Magazine. There were no road to Olmesutye but Mwamba had a detailed map and a GPS on the passenger seat. Anyway, there were plenty of hunters' trails that allowed them to move in the right direction. The landscape became more broken as they inched towards the little town. A pack of hyenas followed the Land-Rover for awhile, then turned back when the terrain became too steep. He feared for his friend. And he feared for himself. Every hour or so, he rubbed a wet sponge on Arnaud's face. He felt that something worse than haunting was happening, it was more like… an attempt at possession. By nightfall, they were at Olmesutye. He had found the road again. Mwamba should have stopped for the night but Arnaud was totally unconscious now. No effort could wake him up. So he kept on driving in the night. He was also afraid of stopping. Who knew what could happen!?… The moon rose and brushed silver on the edges of things. The mountains were bathed in this otherworldly light but huge chunks of rocks stayed in the shadows. They were like black pits in the world's fabric. Shortly before reaching Entasekera, the mountains rose even more. The terrain became more broken. Mwamba was exhausted but he was determined to keep on moving. The headlights jumped with every dip in the path, and his arms hurt with every jerk of the steering wheel. When he got to the little town, he woke up the gas station tenant to fill up. Mwamba drove all night. He couldn't go very fast because of the state of the road, but he wasn't sure that he could have driven faster anyway. As the dawn of another day scared away the last wisps of darkness, Mwamba saw the river. In his state of tiredness, it beckoned to him. There were a handful of huts agglutinated to a primitive wharf. When they saw Arnaud being carried out of the car, the locals backed off. Arnaud had soiled himself and Mwamba had to wash him yet again. No one would approach. The men pointed trembing callous fingers at them as they recognized the presence of something evil. A frightened chant rose in the throat of the women. Their eyes were huge in their faces. After two hours of futile attempts at hiring a guide and his boat, Mwamba bought a small raft from one of the men, it was too small to load the Land Rover. So he unloaded everything from the car onto the raft and laid Arnaud under a dais to protect him from the sun. The village dwellers were happy to see them go. Then, things began to go a little more smoothly. The current wasn't strong but it took them fast enough to travel swiftly downriver. It took them eight hours to go down the forty kilometers river and finally reach the Poqot camp. Arnaud's skin was waxen. He hadn't opened his eyes for fifteen hours. Mwamba carried Arnaud as fast as he could to the Shaman's hut. He was waiting for them by the entrance, his expression solemn.

" The eyes are the mirror of the soul." Said the old man as if he knew exactly what was happening. " I thought he'd understood it."

" What are you going to do?" Asked Mwamba. " Will you be able to save him?"

The shaman said: "I need whatever he used as recipient for his wife's soul and then you should leave me alone with him."

Mwamba went to the raft and opened Arnaud's bags in search of the cursed portrait. When he returned to the hut with the items, he found Arnaud lying naked on the ground, surrounded by several small oil lamps and several bowls filled with arcane potions.

" Leave now." Said the old man. " It will be all right."

Mwamba hesitated, but the look on the shaman's face didn't allow discussion. Anyhow, the trek had exhausted him, so he went to get some food and some sleep, confident that Arnaud was now in good hands.

***

The scream was like nothing he had ever heard. It woke him right up. He was on his feet and running before he knew it. His heart was pumping adrenaline fast into his system. When he got to the shaman's hut, a strong, cold wind was blowing in circles around the dwelling and it tore at the thatched roof. Mwamba could partly see inside through the openings. The flames twisted in the squalls and the bowls were upturned on the ground. Mwamba froze and took in the scene. The shaman was holding Brigitte's last picture in front of him. The gusts of wind attempted to snatch it from his hands, but to no avail. The scream appeared to come from nowhere and everywhere. It now seemed to grow weaker. A sickening laugh made itself heard. It was cruel yet pitiful. There was desperation in its tone. The wind progressively abated and melted into the savanna's air. The laugh became a sad snicker. It was over.

Mwamba finally asked the shaman: " How?… How did you?…"

He smiled. " I painted her eyes on the picture, where they should have been." He said. " I could see them clearly."

"Could it have been that simple" asked Mwamba?

"Well, the paint contained a few special ingredients" replied the sorcerer.

" What about him?" Said Mwamba, pointing at Arnaud.

" He'll recover soon. The only thing he needs is a long rest now. She was attempting to steal his body, and she would have succeeded, if not for you. She almost did. You showed a tremendous loyalty towards your friend."

Mwamba lowered his head.

"Will she ever come back?"

The shaman looked at him with an enigmatic smile and said: " I seriously doubt it."

For a moment, he had the expression of a little boy that had just made a prank.

"How can you be so sure?"

The shaman turned around and opened the curtain that was behind him. There was a hyena in a cage. She was standing on trembing legs, snickering through her teeth. Her head swiveled on the side as if she was trying to understand something way too complicated for her animal brain, then looked directly at them with a malevolence that was more than instinctive.

"She wanted a body" Said the shaman. "I gave her one."

The old man swiftly opened the cage and the hyena that was Brigitte came out. He brandished a torch and showed it to the animal. It cast a glint into the beast's eyes. She snickered again, then stepped promptly outside and ran into the night with an awkward gait.