The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 19

"Indeed, you are crying for nothing. Just think, in a few weeks you will be back in Belgium; then this entire African nightmare will be over for you."

Then Madame Cabochon actually-possibly for the first time-looked into the other woman's eyes and saw the same look she'd seen in the eyes of captured monkeys in the village marketplace. Clearly, the woman dreaded returning to Belgium. But why?

"Madame," she said, "excuse me for asking, but are you and Monsieur Faberge having problems?"

"That is an understatement," the OP's wife said, and she proceeded to laugh bitterly. "Monsieur Faberge cannot stand me, and he has told me so on many occasions. Once he even sent his goons to rough me up."

"Goons?"

"Cousins; contacts from within"-she lowered her voice, which was already annoyingly soft-"the Gypsy community. Madame Cabochon, we are Gypsies."

"C'est vrai? Fantastique!"

"Madame, surely you cannot approve. As a true Belgian, you must find us reprehensible."

"A true Belgian? Madame Faberge, do you ever attend Ma.s.s?-no, of course you do not, or else I would have seen you at church."

"I go at Christmas and Easter."

"Bah! But never mind. It is just that if you knew anything about our faith, then you would know that all mankind descends from Adam and Eve, who lived in the Garden of Eden. This was somewhere in Mesopotamia. I believe that today it is called Iraq. At any rate, it certainly was nowhere near Belgium. Therefore, our ancestors migrated to Belgium-to Europe-both your ancestors and my ancestors. While it may be that my ancestors took a more direct path, neither group started out in the area."

Madame Faberge, pitiful creature that she was, let out a brief laugh despite her misery. "Madame Cabochon, just because the goons that Marcel hired to rough me up remain behind in Belgium, it does not make me any safer now than I was before."

"I am not sure that I understand; does this mean that he hits you?"

She twisted her body and pulled up her blouse to expose her back. Then she pulled up a bit of her hem to show Madame Cabochon her right thigh.

"He hits me in places that will not show, although once he accidentally hit me in the face and split my lip. You see this white line. It was during the war, and the only person available to sew it up was a seamstress. Fortunately, we Belgians"-she smiled now-"have always been rather good with the needle and thread."

Madame Cabochon nodded and without giving it much thought put her arm around the slim shoulders. "Madame Faberge, if only I had known why it was that you are your mousy little self, I might have warmed up to you sooner. For you see, we have much in common. My husband also abuses me; oh no, not with his fists-you must put that picture out of your mind-but with his words. Monsieur Cabochon gets drunk every night that the Club Mediterranean is open, which is six nights a week; and when he comes home, his anger knows no bounds. Then I am a wh.o.r.e, a piece of excrement, an African monkey-and always, of course, the most stupid creature ever to walk this earth."

Tears spilled down Madame Faberge's face. "Is this really true?"

"I would not lie about such things," Madame Cabochon said, which wasn't strictly true, because she did lie about such things if it served her purposes. But as it happened, she was not lying at the moment.

"Why do you stay with him then?" Madame Faberge asked.

Madame Cabochon yawned, suddenly feeling the need for a nap. "It is the other way around, really. He stays with me, and the reason is that I am rich. Very rich. My parents made their money off a palm oil plantation up near Coquilhatville. They made tons of money, but they are both dead now.

"The important point is that I have decided to invest in the future of this crazy country and start another palm oil plantation here, as close to the workers' village as I can procure land. You see, already the village has drawn too many people for the jobs available in the Consortium mines, and who knows how long the diamond deposits will last. On the other hand, every African in the Congo consumes palm oil at least once a day-usually twice-so that a working farm, with a processing plant and a distribution center, can be a source of employment for many people long after I'm gone."

Madame Faberge smiled through her tears. "You are a very smart woman, Madame Cabochon. And very brave as well."

"Please, call me Colette."

"Colette," the little Gypsy woman whispered.

"Good. But I have more news to share. You see, I am kicking that drunk out of my life when his current contract with the Consortium expires, which is December thirty-first. At that point, my brother, who is a confirmed bachelor, will be moving down from Coquilhatville to move in with me, and we-well, I will get right to the point. Are you good with numbers, Madame Faberge?"

"Numbers?"

"Adding, dividing, more adding-maybe a little subtraction, but not too much." Madame Cabochon laughed.

"I was number one in my cla.s.s at maths."

"Excellent! Then the job is yours if you want it."

"Job?"

"Vincent and I are looking to hire a Belgian bookkeeper and secretary. She must be a mature, responsible woman who knows her own head and who has at least some acquaintance with the Congo. We will build you a house-"

"I accept," Madame Faberge said as the tears resumed flowing.

Chapter 34.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 The rectory of Saint Mary's Catholic Church contained a small private chapel reserved for whites only. It was used primarily for life-cycle events, such as baptisms and funerals. First Communions, unfortunately, had to be integrated to show that the Body of Christ was one.

Father Reutner shuddered when he recalled the one wedding he'd been forced to perform. A high-ranking Consortium bachelor fell in love with the daughter of a Portuguese merchant from Angola, and since both were Catholics in good standing, he couldn't very well refuse. But the man was of good, blond Flemish stock, and she was the sort of Portuguese who one could tell, by just a quick glance, had Moorish blood coursing through her veins. Say what you will, but it was an interracial marriage.

And then there were the relatives: scores of them. Loud, the women heavily perfumed, everyone crowded in that little cement block room barely larger than a seminarian's cell. Surely that was what h.e.l.l was like-that and what he'd seen in Europe during the war. Oh, and he'd seen plenty of evil here in the Congo as well.

In fact, Father Reutner had seen enough evil-and so little goodness-that he'd slowly, over a lifetime, come to the conclusion that he'd been fed a myth. G.o.d was not good; G.o.d just was not. For in Father Reutner's mind there was a scale, and every time he witnessed an act of cruelty, or the result thereof, that was placed on the left side of the scale, and each time he was privy to an act of kindness, or even heard of one, that he placed on the right side of the scale. Sadly, from almost the very beginning of this experiment, the left dish of the scale never left the ground, while the right dish swung high in the air, its contents sometimes so old that he couldn't even remember what they were.

Nonetheless, Father Reutner had remained true to his vows. Yes, of course, there were times when extenuating circ.u.mstances intervened-he was only human, after all! But he really had done his best to run a good race, as Saint Paul put it so well. And when he stumbled, he made his contrition and then kept on running. After twenty-plus years of tending to people's souls, their health needs, and their educational needs, along came the monsignor with the news that Father Reutner was to retire.

Retire? In the outside world, was not involuntary retirement the same as being fired? And what did retirement for Father Reutner look like? For one thing, it looked like confinement to a cold, drafty dormitory with a bunch of garrulous old men who have never even set one foot out of Europe, yet who would each have a million opinions about Africa-every one of which would be wrong.

Retirement would mean having to look out from time to time and see a world that he had chosen to opt out of, and it would be a constant reminder that he had made the wrong decision. He might find himself in situations where he would see new faces, meet new women, and be acutely aware of the fact that he, and he alone, was responsible for the fact that he was doomed to live out the remainder of his days alone. How was one supposed to live with consequences that severe? Perhaps there were those who could plod ever onward, taking one day at a time, hoping that each morrow would bring a shred of happiness, but such people were fools. Such people were m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.ts.

Having come to the conclusion that G.o.d did not exist, Father Reutner felt a huge burden lift from him, for only then did he truly stop fearing death. For if there was no G.o.d, then there was no eternal d.a.m.nation; there remained just the h.e.l.l we created for ourselves here on earth. And as for heaven, any first-year seminarian would be able to tell you that the Book of Revelation contained detailed descriptions of the hierarchies in that mythical place. Since the church here on earth was one immutable hierarchy, with Father Reutner inexplicably stuck on its bottom rung-well, no thanks, even if it was a real place, heaven no longer held any appeal for him.

Father Reutner missed conversing in German, but he often spoke it. German was both his private language of prayer and the language in which he thought and, with increasing frequency, spoke to himself. Aloud. He had often heard it said that talking to oneself was normal-particularly among clerics living alone. It was only when you answered yourself that one had to worry. Ha-ha. People who said this sort of thing either were not being completely honest or else did not know the first thing there was to know about living alone.

"To h.e.l.l with those people," Father Reutner said as he finished tying off the rope to the heavy wooden beam that was one of six that supported the galvanized iron roof. Then he laughed at the irony of what he had said.

One of things he had always hated about this small chapel was how closed in it was; there were no windows. The point had been that the whites should be able to celebrate their private moments privately. One was forever shooing the natives away from the dining room windows of the rectory, if one desired to eat un.o.bserved. Otherwise, it was like eating in a fishbowl. Rows upon rows of big, dark eyes followed every movement that the strange white man did with his shiny utensils, and the way the white man patted his mouth with his napkin. The blacks marveled vociferously at the amount and sorts of food that the white man ate. Sometimes scuffles would break out as boys-even men-fought for the best vantage place to look at the freak show. Of course the freak show was always Father Reutner.

Besides the door, which opened off his study, the only opening in the chapel walls was a vertical ventilation slit about a meter in height that was positioned just below the peak of the roof. From where he stood atop the stepladder, the bottom ledge of the slit was at eye level with the old priest. About half of the slit was taken up with layers of feathers and gra.s.s and whatever else it was that sparrows wove into their nests. However, through the top half of the slit Father Reutner could see the crown of an oil palm tree. Elaeis guineensis. It was one that he had planted himself from a nut one day during his very first month at Saint Mary's.

"We will grow old together," he had told the seedling when it germinated.

Now he was old-and scheduled to be shipped back to cold northern pastures where oil palms couldn't grow (although he had seen windmill palms growing along Lakes Lugarno and Como). The oil palm still produced large bunches of palm nuts, but each year it grew taller. Eventually the day would come when its great height would make the palm too intimidating to climb, and for this reason or that, the palm would be declared "inconvenient," and then subsequently it would be chopped down. Chop, chop, chop. In one way or another, that was the fate that awaited everything slated to die in Africa.

"Eventually we are all no longer wanted," Father Reutner said to the palm through the slit in the wall.

He was not mad, of course. He realized that the palm could not hear; he even felt a bit foolish for having spoken to it. But every man deserves a witness to his pa.s.sing, even if that witness is only a palm that he has planted from a seed.

Then just to cover his bases, for he was truly a rational being, Father Reutner addressed the Almighty: "Have mercy on me, a sinner," he said as he kicked the stepladder out from beneath his feet.

Their Death was not a foolish young man who gave no thought to consequences. When his wife, Cripple, came to him with the problem of the Mupende cannibal, Jonathan Pimple, he gave the matter much thought before offering a solution. When the old Roman Catholic priest approached him, likewise, it was not a situation to be treated lightly.

All witch doctors-even the mediocre ones-descend from men with prodigious memories, and Their Death was no exception. As Their Death recalled it, the priest's visit happened exactly like this: "Life to you," the old priest said as he entered the family compound unbidden and unannounced.

Of course, such a visit is truly never a surprise, for even a white man who lives among the Congolese in the workers' village, such as this priest, cannot move about beyond the grounds of Saint Mary's Church without children announcing his whereabouts. Some of the noisy children were laughing at him, others were begging, yet others screaming in terror at his advance. Nevertheless, Their Death's heart beat faster when he realized that the man in the black dress had come to see him, and not one of his neighbors.

"E, life to you," he said politely.

"May I sit with you and talk?" the priest asked.

Their Death's heart raced even faster. Although some of the children who had followed the priest were his, not all his little ones could be accounted for. Second Wife had yet to return from the spectacle at the marketplace, nor was Cripple anywhere in sight. Had anything happened to his family? Had anyone in his family violated the white man's laws?

"You have nothing to fear," the old priest said. "I wish only to speak with you-man to man."

Their Death nodded and pointed to a hand-carved chair. It was formed of two pieces of wood, one that intersected the other at a forty-five-degree angle. Their Death had carved it himself and then rubbed it with red palm oil and ashes to give it the rich dark color that others so admired.

By the way in which the priest seated himself, for the first time Their Death appreciated just how old the man might be. He had always found it puzzling, this matter of whites and the number of years that they claimed. Once, when he was a schoolboy, he had pulled weeds for a Belgian who claimed to be seventy-plus-three years old-an impossible number of years for any human being. Their Death had never known anyone in the village to live past the age of sixty-three.

It was out of respect, as much as fear, that Their Death waited in silence for the priest to speak. However, the entire time he wished fervently that his family would stay far away from the compound. If he had had the time, he would have made medicine (an incantation) to that effect.

"I understand that you are a witch doctor," the priest said at last.

"Eyo. But I am also a Roman Catholic, muambi."

"Kah! That is blasphemous! You cannot be both a Christian and a witch doctor. Perhaps you are a Protestant and a witch doctor."

"Nasha, muambi. I was educated at the Roman Catholic school right here at Saint Mary's Church. Although my father was a witch doctor, I was baptized along with all the other students in my cla.s.s, and together we made our First Communion."

"That is impossible," the old man said. "There will not be a witch doctor in heaven."

"Muambi," Their Death was quick to a.s.sure him, "I have no desire to go to this heaven of yours. I have been beaten many times by white men who will also go to heaven. My grandfather had his hand chopped off with a machete because he could not fulfill the rubber quota."

The priest was silent for a long time; too long. Their Death listened for the sounds of his family. He could hear the shrieks of children at play, the rhythmic pounding as women prepared tshiombe flour in mortars, and the squabble of weaverbirds overhead. In a moment such as this, and in the absence of bodily pain, it was possible to imagine the world as it was supposed to be-except for the foul-smelling white man in the black dress.

Finally the priest spoke. "You are a Muluba, a member of the Baluba tribe. In my opinion this is the greatest tribe. In Europe we also have many tribes. For instance, I am a Swiss; my tribe occupies that part of Europe known as Switzerland. We are not Belgians. I am not a Belgian. We do not cut off the hands of any sort of man, be he black or white-or any other color for that matter."

Their Death was a self-educated man. His employer at the post office had lent him many books, covering many subjects. To look at the witch doctor in his patched khaki shorts, short-sleeve white cotton shirt with two missing b.u.t.tons, and necklace of leopard claws, one might not suspect that here was a man with such a broad understanding of the world. How wrong that person would be. Their Death had read of trolls that live among the hot springs in Iceland, he had read of the Battle of Hastings, he had read a very bad French translation of Hiawatha, he had read that if you meet the Buddha on the road, that you should kill him.

These were but some of the books Their Death read, and he read them aloud to Cripple and, when they were present, Second Wife and the children. After reading many and various things written by the white man and the brown man and the yellow man, Their Death had come to the conclusion that all of them were crazy; every tribe on the earth was crazy save one, and that was the Baluba. His tribe. However, the Swiss priest seemed to be making a point; the Swiss tribe did not cut off hands, and therefore the Swiss priest was worthy of an audience.

"Tell me what is truly in your heart," Their Death said to the priest. "Speak as if we are brothers."

"We laugh and we cry," the old man said, for that is the traditional way of saying thank you. He plunged on. "I have heard that great witch doctors such as you have the power to bring on a sleep so deep that it can reunite a man with his ancestors."

Their Death struggled to keep his composure. "If that were so, and were I to engage in such a practice, the Bula Matadi would hang me without even asking questions. Such buanga is strictly forbidden."

"E. Of course. But what if by selling some to a very discreet individual, you could help that person end a miserable life? A worthless life of needless suffering?"

Their Death was n.o.body's fool. He had not just hatched from the egg; his down was already dry and he could eat and run with the best of the chicks.

"Does this person suffer from elephantiasis of the s.c.r.o.t.u.m like Nzevu, he who must sit at the marketplace all day and beg as he awaits his death? Is this person as miserable as Mutokatoh, the albino, who cannot step outside her hut lest she get burned by the sun and her eyes be blinded, yet she must toil in the fields because her husband is cruel and will not listen to reason? Is this person's life as worthless as that woodcarver from Djoka Punda-"

"Enough," the priest said. "Enough! Biwaswa." Please.

"It is like this," the witch doctor explained, his heart softening, for he too was a man and not a beast. "I cannot risk the lives of those whom I love to ease your pain. And I want you to know in your heart that it is not because of the color of your skin or because you have ruined many simple minds with your perverted teachings.

"You see, even if I were a bachelor, with no family to protect, I do not believe that a man has a right to end his own life. Life is a gift that we are given, and in the end it is taken back; we ourselves do not take it."

"Do not lecture me!" the old man sputtered.

Their Death smiled. "You are afraid, priest. But I tell you, there is nothing to fear. All of life is like a swinging rope bridge over the waterfalls; the secret to crossing is not to be afraid. Do not be afraid at all. Hear my words, priest; there no use to living a life of fear."

The priest did not appreciate these words. He called Their Death a heathen and a son of a heathen. He told the witch doctor that he would be having words with the OP at his earliest convenience, and that soldiers would come and burn down Their Death's family's hut, his medicine hut, and that his children would be taken to the Roman Catholic orphanage in Luluabourg. When Their Death protested, saying that his children had two mothers, the priest said: "Not after the soldiers are through with them."

A wise man must not take angry words at their face value, and so it was that Their Death managed to wear a calm face when Second Wife and the children returned from hearing Jonathan Pimple preach in the marketplace.

"Tatu," gushed Brings Happiness, "we heard the most amazing story."

"E," Second Wife said as she switched Baby Amanda from her right breast to her left breast, "it was a story of much imagination."

"Tell me all about it," Their Death said, settling back into his favorite chair again. Something powerful was stirring up the currents of his emotions, but he would heed his own words and not be afraid.

Chapter 35.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Pierre Jardin was nowhere to be found-at least no longer in the vicinity of the marketplace-which meant that he was probably well on his way to check out the old ferry landing. Amanda realized that she could make far better progress without her lame companion, but she was more concerned with the toll all that brisk walking would take on Cripple, so she urged her to stay behind. In fact, she even ordered Cripple to stay back in the workers' village, which turned out to be a huge mistake. Not only did the little Muluba woman refuse, but she was mightily offended and wasted valuable time railing about the indignity she had just suffered at the hand of her oppressor.

"I am not your oppressor," Amanda said, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. "I am your friend who cares very much for you."

"If you are indeed my friend," Cripple said, "then you will respect me as a woman, and not treat me as a child just because I am small and twisted. I am quite capable of making my own decisions, Mamu."

"Eyo." Amanda nodded, but she kept walking.

"Walk faster," Cripple said. "Or are you an old duck headed to the meat pot?"