THE WHITE LETTERS on the bands of the old pooltable formed an incomprehensible combination. I was already on my sixth trip around it; delighted by the words I had obtained with my system, which was nevertheless so simple.
"What gibberish! " I thought. No one would find the key. Even Balancier would be completely baffled by it.
He's an interesting sort, this Balancier. In his youth he had already written some verse pieces of great promise and quality. I had been very much taken with the simplicity and stylistic vigor of his first novel. I had sent him word of my good impression, and the response I received the very next day overflowed with gratitude and congeniality. Then two years with no news of Balancier. But one morning I received a parcel from a publisher, a new book by him, entitled Among the Blacks. At the top of the first page a few dedicatory words doubled, for me, the book's value.
Among the Blacks is about a master mariner named White, who embarks one day from Brest. His wife and five-year-old son weep as they say goodbye, staying on board until the last moment. Finally the time comes. The wife and child return to the dock and the boat sails off into the distance.
Good weather favors the crossing during the first week. But on the eighth day a terrible storm is unleashed. The boat, torn to pieces, is about to founder at any moment. The entire crew takes their places in the longboats. Despite their entreaties, White alone refuses to abandon ship. He watches his companions go off rapidly into the distance, and soon he loses sight of them. A gust of wind breaks the mast, which falls and strikes him on the head. He sinks unconscious to the deck. When he returns to his senses, he finds himself surrounded by Negroes, who are dressing his wounds. His boat, stranded on a beach, is just a heap of wreckage barely held together. Nevertheless, part of the cargo is still good, and other Negroes, more numerous, are carrying away objects of all sorts on their backs.
After several days, White recovers. He goes to find the black chief, a terrible old man they call the "Booltable." By means of a clever pantomime, White makes it understood that he should very much like to leave. The Booltable becomes angry and orders that White be kept under surveillance. And so begins a nomadic life of hardship and danger. With an iron hand, the Booltable rules veritable black hordes, sacking everything he finds in his way. White becomes certain, studying the flora and fauna, that he is crossing Central Africa. He is the object of continuous surveillance, because the Booltable depends on him for his intelligence and education, which he does not fail to use every day.
Without ever getting used to it, White witnesses endless new cruelties. As soon as a village is sighted, the Booltable attacks it with his innumerable troops, who quickly overcome it. Then follow hideous scenes of cannibalism. The old are spared no more than the infants and adults, and the Booltable is the first to make a feast of this human flesh. All those who are spared are taken as recruits. All possible plunder is seized, and fire is set to the four corners of the unfortunate hamlet. What does White do during the hours of respite this trying life sometimes leaves him? He draws from the provision of paper, pens, and ink the Negroes found while stripping his ship; and he writes.... He writes to his wife, whom he will perhaps never see again, the wife who doubtless thinks him already dead. He wants her always to have hope and never to forget him. The pages are quickly filled with details of the deeds and exploits of the Booltable and his savage armies. The project is accelerated only when the poor captive decides to finish it. He places it all in a strong envelope and writes his wife's address on it in thick letters. Then he goes over to a large cage filled with all sorts of birds, which he has caught in a trap. He chooses from them the strongest and most beautiful. After caressing it for a moment, as if to teach it caution, he attaches the envelope to its neck and sets it free. And it is with a heavy beating of his heart that he watches it fly away and disappear.
Almost every day White uses this method to tell his wife of his terrible adventures. It is a sort of diary.
Now, these lively and imaginative accounts form the sole matter of Among the Blacks. In the first account, White spoke of the moment of separation, the crossing, and then of the shipwreck and his "return to life" among the blacks. The second account was devoted to a portrait of the Booltable, "a great old man black as ebony, with a fierce and bloodthirsty face, who with a single gesture terrifies the thousands of savages he drags behind him." Next came the first atrocities White witnessed. And, throughout the volume, one was able to follow him across the unexplored regions where the Booltable was able to satisfy his ferocious instincts. Dating each account helped structure the whole work. As a conclusion, Balancier made his hero escape and undergo new dangers, finally to be welcomed by some European travelers returning to the civilized countries of the coast. White himself recounts this happy denouement in his last epistle. Before signing it, he wrote "See you soon" to his wife and son, because his return could no longer be doubted, now that he was among his own kind.
I had not seen Balancier since more than a month after I had finished Among the Blacks. And so I was delighted to find him with my good friend and colleague Flambeau, who had invited me to spend a week with him at his country house. I was able to thank Balancier again for his parcel and to discuss with him the most minute details of his work.
Now, it was pouring rain that day, and Flambeau, the attentive master of his house, had looked for an agreeable method of passing the afternoon without our going outdoors.
There were about ten of us in the drawing room. Flambeau proposed a game that promised to keep us busy for a good while. It consisted of this. A question in writing was posed to someone, then this person was shut up in an adjoining room; after exactly ten minutes the door was opened again, and the person had to give his response in the form of a riddle. The first to guess the riddle was placed on "the stand" in his turn, and it was to him that the next question was posed.
To begin, lots were drawn. All our names were placed in a hat. Flambeau took charge of drawing one out. He pulled out a card and read: "Débarras."
Dressed in his eternal maroon velvet suit, the poor painter looked shabbier than ever. He was asked in writing if he preferred watercolor or pastel, and the reasons for his preference. In the room adjoining the drawing room, Gauffre and Balancier were in the process of discussing a difficult carom; Gauffre held that one must attack with the red ball; Balancier held to the white. We asked the two players to return to the drawing room so we could isolate Débarras in the billard room. Flambeau checked the time. At the end of the tenth minute, he went to the door and Débarras brought us the riddle, which was immediately handed around. For my part, I didn't understand very much of it. It began with a drawing of a half of a mouth, after which trailed a minus sign with a precise L. Then came a stave with the note re indicated. This was followed by the words "Not dark! " Particularly vexing was the drawing of a man shouting "Eureka! " as he beheld a spinning object that resembled a stomach, with lines emerging from its spout. Then followed a Gothic script that read "Ben --- and gone." Then a drawing of a band around a man's neck; an insect with a large stinger on its bottom; several automobiles; a man's face in the act of shouting; a stick figure with contorted limbs, over which rose a little cloud enclosing the word "foaming"; a rectangle with "The End" in its center; a large, thick S; a hand; the same stinging insect, a plus sign, and a right hand. The entire series was concluded by a stout arrow running back up the page and indicating the band about the neck. It didn't take me long to give up. I handed the paper to Madame Hunch, who was sitting next to me. She took barely two minutes to reach the solution, and in a straightforward manner she read aloud: "I prefer watercolor because of its finesse and bright color."
Débarras nodded and Madame Hunch began again, having us follow on the drawing: "IP RE  FAIR WATT  HUR  COLLAR BEE CARS O FITS  FIN  S hAND BEE-RIGHT COLLAR."
Because Madame Hunch had solved it, it was her turn to be questioned. Flambeau gave her a new piece of paper on which he had just written these words: "Describe a picture you would like to paint."
After eight minutes in isolation, Madame Hunch returned on her own with a second riddle.
When it was passed to me, certain things leaped immediately to my eye. First, there was a man's face, split in half, the right side of which was utterly fiendish and ugly. This was followed by an eyeball, from which hung an L. Then came a skeleton key that was inserting itself into a 2. After this there was a stack of currency in bills; the Greek letter for alpha; the words "The Chrononhotonthologos Man"; a cat; the incomplete group of words "-------- your rocker!"; a table setting that included a prominent frankfurter and a jar; and last, four zebras singing in unison, 'We don't want to 'zzzz!' "
After a moment of reflection, I had the complete sentence and I related it in detail while having the others follow on the drawing: "HYDE  L EYE KE TWO DOugh A CAREY CAT YOU'RE OFF MUSTARD  zEBRAS.."
And I repeated fluently: " I'd like to do a caricature of Mister Débarras."
Everyone started laughing, Débarras the very first. His bizarre expression certainly justified Madame Hunch's wish. But I had forgotten that it was my turn. Flambeau had to remind me while handing me the question he had just formulated.
When I was alone, I looked at my watch and started thinking. Here is what Flambeau had written on the paper:  "What is, according to you, the most impressive book published this year?"
Immediately I thought of Among the Blacks.
"But I don't know how to draw," I said to myself. How could I follow two professionals like Débarras and Madame Hunch?
It was then that the idea of a cryptogram came to me. The three billiard balls were still in their places for the carom shot that Gauffre and Balancier had been discussing when we interrupted them. I picked up one of the small cubes of chalk lying there. I had seen Balancier carefully using it before his shot, during which time he spoke in favor of the white.
Then I began writing handsome capital letters on the green cloth, which was worn and discolored in spots. But, instead of arranging my sentence in the normal order, I wrote a capital letter on the first side, then another on the second, and another on the third and fourth; after which I returned to the first, and so on, which gave a completely unintelligible result. After six times around I had four words, each as preposterous as the other, and the more I went the more jumbled it became.
Finally, after having counted ten and three-quarters turns, I stopped and felt a bit giddy. Taking out my watch, I saw that I was a half minute early; I opened the door and saw Flambeau on his way toward me. I invited everyone in and pointed to where I had placed my answer.
There was plenty of room for everyone to search at the same time. On the first side was:
THLENBSHDLL
On the second:
HIERTAOEBTE
On the third:
ETTSHNFOOA
And on the fourth:
WETOEDTLOB
After walking around the table for a moment, Balancier seemed to have an idea. He took a notebook and pencil out of his pocket and began to copy the four enigmatic words. Then, leaving the others to wrack their brains, he withdrew to a corner to concentrate. Soon his face brightened and I saw his lips carefully articulate several words.
"He has the key," I said to myself, "it's just a matter of seconds now."
In fact, at that moment Balancier shot me a knowing glance and announced that he had solved the riddle.
He showed the four words he had written, one right below the other, while explaining that consequently it sufficed to read from top to bottom to have the true order of the sentence.
Then, addressing himself to Flambeau, he said, "Would you like to refresh our minds with the exact wording of the question?"
Flambeau repeated from memory, "What is, according to you, the most impressive book published this year?"
Everyone had read Among the Blacks. Hence my response was easily understood when Balancier, pencil in hand, slowly spelled out in his notebook:
"THE ... WHITE ... LETTERS ... ON ... THE ... BANDS ... OF ... THE ... OLD ... BOOLTABLE."
--Translated from the French by Ron Padgett