The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 21

"Certainement," Amanda said. Perhaps she had overstepped her bounds, but there was no need to make her feel like a schoolgirl. Not in front of her former housekeeper.

"We will stop," the monsignor said.

"Mamu," said Cripple, just a bit too loudly for normal conversation. "Please tell your friend that I am a woman in the family way and, as such, I must return to the village."

"There will be no returning," the monsignor said. "Now get out, please."

They stumbled once more into the unforgiving sun, but Cripple would not be stilled. "Mamu, please tell this man in a dress that a woman in my condition must frequently use the bush."

"Monsignor, uh-what she means," Amanda said, "is that-"

"She should have thought to use the toilet earlier," Monsignor Clemente said. "Now, walk this way down to the canoes."

Clouds of b.u.t.terflies rose with every step they took. Even with the weight of suicide month pressing down upon them, the lifting bank of yellow and black was an ethereal experience. In her heart Amanda believed that this was a gift from heaven at the hour of her death, something to make the impending suffering more bearable. Because even though no words had been spoken to that effect, the young American knew that she and Cripple had guessed wrong, and that it was the charming Monsignor Clemente, and not the abrasive Father Reutner, who had murdered Chigger Mite.

"Cripple," she said softly in Tshiluba, although she knew the monsignor could still hear and understand her, "I know that you do not share my beliefs, but-"

"Mamu Ugly Eyes, you need not worry about my soul; if I am wrong about my beliefs and you are right, and if your G.o.d is truly merciful, then he and I will have a palaver after I am dead."

"But, Cripple, by then it will be too late."

"Aiyee, Mamu, then that is most unfortunate for your G.o.d, is it not?"

"Cripple, this is no time to joke!"

"I do not joke, Mamu. Nor am I afraid. Does this disappoint you?"

"Surely you must be afraid," the monsignor said sharply. "It is impossible to approach death without fear; one does unimaginable things in order to escape death. Everyone does!"

"Tch."

"I was young," the monsignor said. He'd begun to ramble in English, his eyes darting from one woman to the other, like he was looking for sympathy or understanding. "I was barely out of seminary. Yes, I wanted to be a missionary to the Congo-I love this country-but you get teamed up with another priest, you see. That is supposed to keep one out of trouble. But tell me, how is that supposed to work if they team you up with a pedophile?

"Our first a.s.signment was a Bapende village-some of them were still cannibals back then-and Father Eugene's target happened to be one of the chief's twin sons-"

"Yala," Cripple said. "This cannot be true. The Bapende do not permit such abnormalities as twins to exist!"

"All children are gifts from Yehowah Nzambi," Amanda said.

The monsignor waved his arms impatiently. "This chief was strong-willed. The twins were born to his favorite wife who had remained barren up to perhaps her fortieth year. The chief broke all the rules for those two boys. Then we came along, we who were doing G.o.d's work, and then one day when I was away from the village-I had gone off to fetch some medicines for a woman with a badly infected leg-Father Eugene undid all that work."

"I do not understand," Cripple whined. "How does one undo something that has not been done?"

"Stop making noise," Amanda said gently.

The monsignor resumed speaking immediately. "Their witch doctor said that the only way that the twin who had been molested could take back that which was stolen from him-his soul, I presume-was for everyone present at this feast to-well, you know what I mean."

"We do not," Amanda said, although she really did.

"So I tasted. That is all they made me do-taste-although looking back on it now, I should have chosen death. How could I confess such a sin as eating human flesh? To whom could I confess it? Not to another human being. I could not confess to a priest that the man I had eaten was also a priest! I could confess this only to G.o.d."

"Isn't that enough?" Amanda said. But therein lay the great divide between their two faiths, and with the monsignor about to kill her, it was hard to dredge up any ec.u.menical feelings at that moment.

"You don't understand, Amanda Brown. For a Catholic, for a priest, the secret I lived with was an intolerable burden. It ate away at my soul. It turned me into an empty, hollow man. I thought that by returning to the Congo, to the place where I was born and where I grew up, I might find some little bits of my soul that I could begin to piece back together. But then my first day here, I happened to see Chigger Mite, and just the opposite thing happened."

"E," said Cripple. "He recognized you from when he was a boy, so you killed him. Now you will kill us."

"What?" The monsignor threw his hands in the air and then clamped them to the sides of his head. "Is that what you think?"

Amanda stepped forward, unconsciously protecting her friend from the sudden explosion of emotion. "It's a reasonable supposition, isn't it? You drove us here, down this deserted road. Then you made us get out. Now all this talk of death."

"Mon Dieu," the monsignor said as he shook his head, still clutching it. "I offered to drive you here to look for Captain Jardin. I had you get out so that I could talk to you in private, away from my chauffeur, who is like a gossipy old woman-no offense intended to Cripple."

Cripple scowled. "It should be obvious even to a man that I am not old; for behold, I am with child."

"But still," Amanda said, pointing an index finger at the monsignor's chest, "you did kill Chigger Mite."

The monsignor sank to his knees in the mud, amid a cloud of b.u.t.terflies. "Yes, of that I am surely guilty. That very day, when I saw him with the snake, I knew that he recognized me-just as Madame Cripple said. I inquired as to where he lived and paid him a visit late that night, when the natives believe that only the spirits walk freely about. I saw the fear in his eyes. Why? I do not know, but I played off it. I told Chigger Mite that I was putting a white man's curse on him-one even more powerful than the curse that had brought the white man to Africa so many centuries ago. I told him that the curse would go into effect only if he told anyone that I was the same priest he had seen at his restoration ceremony those many years ago."

"Was it Jonathan Pimple he told?"

The monsignor raked his hands through the mud and then smeared it into his hair. It wasn't an act Amanda was witnessing; the man was truly distraught. If ever there was a man who regretted what he'd done, this man fit the bill.

"Yes, he must have. You see, mademoiselle-although I'm sure you know by now-the belief in curses can be so strong that some people will actually die when one is placed on them. But as G.o.d is my witness, I did not intend to kill Chigger Mite; I meant only to silence him, to keep him from revealing what happened that night."

"You swear to me that you did not touch him?"

"What difference does that make, mademoiselle? I am guilty, all the same!"

Undoubtedly the sun had broiled Amanda's brain beyond the point of functioning properly. What other explanation could there be for what came out of her mouth next?

"Do you swear to me that you did not touch Chigger Mite?"

"I did not touch Chigger Mite."

"Did you poison him?"

"As G.o.d is my witness, mademoiselle, I did not poison Chigger Mite."

"Then, Monsignor, you did not kill him. If you are truly a Christian, you cannot believe in superst.i.tion."

"Witchcraft is not superst.i.tion," Cripple said.

"Tell me then, Cripple, do you think that the monsignor should be arrested and hanged for the murder of the Mupende named Chigger Mite?"

"Tch, Mamu Ugly Eyes, must you always jump to conclusions? This white man did not kill Chigger Mite with a curse, for a white man is incapable of speaking such a curse. The white man conquered Africa with guns, not curses! Now, let us return to the village or I shall be forced to urinate in front of this man." She turned at once and commenced hobbling back to the sedan. Midway back she paused and turned again, this time to wag a finger. "Kah! You must move, both of you! Lubilu!"

Madam Cabochon was determined to enjoy her breakfast out on the terrace and get to church early. This morning it was doable, because she'd managed to both get a full night's sleep and get up extra early! This was all thanks to a husband who came home so drunk that he fell asleep just inside the front door, and who didn't even bother to get off the floor at any time during the night to bring his snores into bed.

It had been just six weeks since the storm to end all storms, the one that had washed away the Island of Seven Ghost Sisters, but much had changed since then. For one thing, the bridge that spanned the mighty Kasai River connecting Belle Vue to the workers' village was now repaired. That had taken a little more than three weeks, if one can believe that! The big steel replacement girders had been manufactured in Luluabourg and then driven down to Belle Vue on a caravan of enormous trucks. These monstrous vehicles had to pa.s.s right through the heart of Bashilele territory.

The Bashilele had a reputation as headhunters, but they must have been scared out of their wits at this bizarre sight, because they kept shooting out the tires of those trucks with their powerful longbows. Madame Cabochon chuckled over her thick black coffee while dwelling on that image. She'd always found the Bashilele men to be very enticing, in their low-slung loincloths, and one of her favorite jokes-shared by bored Belgian housewives of similar taste-had to do with equating a hunter's bow length with the length of his manhood.

Madame Cabochon shook her head enviously; one Bashilele village now had an actual white girl, a Belgian, as their chief. Oui, Madame Cabochon had been given more than her fair share of beauty, but overall, life was still unfair. The enigmatic, devilishly attractive Monsignor Clemente was married to his church. The somewhat plain American missionary and the handsome Belgian police captain had eyes only for each other. There was not even a chance of a menage a trois, should one be so inclined-ooh la la, shame on you, Colette, to have such a thought as that, especially on the Sabbath.

"Madame Cabochon, are you all right?"

Madame Cabochon was so startled that she threw the contents of her bone china cup straight up into the air. The thick black coffee splattered all over her silk fuchsia blouse. Being that Madame Cabochon was scarcely more talented than Jackson Pollock, and her blouse sported a deep scoop neckline, much of the hot liquid landed on bare skin.

"Sacre-coeur!" Madame Cabochon said as she jumped to her feet.

"Pardonnez-moi. Did I scare you?"

There you see! The person who had so rudely intruded on Madame Cabochon's inner life was that most despicable of all men, Marcel Faberge. Oui, somehow the most incompetent OP in the history of the Consortium had managed to keep his job. The coward hadn't walked to Luluabourg after all; he hadn't even made it out of the village!

Several hours after leaving his mousy wife to dissolve in tears, the big shot returned. He was shouting then, huffing and puffing, and waving a stick-a "cudgel" he called it in English, even though Amanda Brown politely informed him that this word was not often used. At any rate, the pigeon-chested OP claimed to have been chased by a pack of vicious dogs. "Curs," he called them. That was another word he must have picked up from a novel. He wanted Pierre to start shooting these curs on sight.

The really sad thing is that it wasn't dogs that attacked the little man with the big chip on his shoulder; it was a male turkey-how do you say this in English? Ah yes, a tomboy. He was chased by a tomboy with its tail spread wide and its wings sc.r.a.ping the ground. Madame Cabochon had several times been chased by territorial tomboys, and she knew just how intimidating they could be. She couldn't blame the OP for backing down from the turkey, just as she couldn't blame the fifty-plus natives who had witnessed the sight for laughing their heads off. But the next day when the OP's mousy wife, Helene Faberge, sported a black eye and a bruised lip, she knew who to blame for that, and she did.

"Get off my terrace, you toad!" she said.

"Oui, madame," the OP said, but he didn't move a muscle.

"I said to go," she said.

"Should I first bring you some b.u.t.ter?" the OP said.

"b.u.t.ter?" Madame Cabochon said.

"To apply to the burns," the OP said. He leaned forward, as if inspecting the damage. "Is that not what one does in this situation?"

"I am not a roast, you idiot! You just want to get your hands on my considerable charms." Madame Cabochon was both flattered and repulsed, and, yes, she was disgusted with herself for having been flattered.

"Absolutely not, Madame Cabochon," the OP said. "I am here because my wife, Helene, wishes to ask if you will give her a ride to Ma.s.s."

"Why don't you drive her there yourself?" she said.

"I no longer wish to go to church, madame," the OP said.

The coffee drops no longer stung Madame Cabochon's chest, and since she was genuinely curious as to why the OP no longer wished to attend church, she decided to risk a brief conversation.

"You may sit," she said. It was an order; it was not an offer.

The OP sat. "The weather is much more bearable now," he said almost pleasantly. "I am given to understand that it is the daily rains that keep the humidity from building up."

She tried not to smile at his clumsy attempt at deflection. "Why do you no longer wish to go to church?"

"It's the hypocrisy, madame. Surely you understand that."

She had been standing, but now she pulled a chair up next to his and grabbed his left hand, his dominant one, in both hers. Had she been a dragon, there would have been smoke pouring from her nostrils and her blazing red hair would have been real flames.

"Is that an insult, Marcel?"

"Mais non! I am not accusing you of hypocrisy, Madame Cabochon; I am merely suggesting that you have witnessed it firsthand."

She shrugged. "Oui. But perhaps you can give me an example."

"Bien," the OP said. "For instance, take the case of a certain priest who ate another priest-I mean literally-and then on top of that, this certain priest scared a poor man to death, but no one seems to care because-well, you tell me." He took a deep breath before jerking his hand away from Madame Cabochon's grip.

Madame Cabochon jumped up again. She could feel the tiny golden hairs on her arms stand on end, like the quills of a porcupine in defense mode. Mostly, however, she felt confused. She'd heard the OP's disgusting words, but she wasn't sure what they meant-not for sure. She'd heard similar stories-actually several versions of it-floating around the kitchen and yard.

Her employees always shut up immediately when they noticed her lurking about, but she'd caught enough to get the gist of the story. That was one of the reasons she wanted to get to church early today: to do a little investigative work. To be sure, she'd already tried the direct approach, but neither Pierre, Amanda, nor her sidekick the delightful little Muluba woman, Cripple, would even comment on the matter.

The injustice of it all! He was her Alberto Clemente; she was his Little Colette Underpants. They had been childhood friends, and now they were nothing? The fact that his return to Belle Vue was completely unrelated to her was the most painful thing she had ever had to face in her entire life. Plus, he didn't even care enough to say good-bye. It was one thing to skip out on an explanation-perhaps he didn't owe her that-but he should have at least come back to the Missionary Rest House and given her a chance to say her good-byes. But no, apparently, as soon as he learned of the whereabouts of a fisherman's dugout canoe, he braved the raging river so that he could race back to Luluabourg and catch a flight out of the country.

But what did this hurtful behavior have to do with a priest eating a priest? Was it a parable of some sort? Frankly, Madame Cabochon had always had trouble understanding the biblical parables. If Jesus had wanted to get his message across, why didn't he just come straight out and say it? Speak like an American! Mon Dieu, now she was going to have to go to confession again for thinking these blasphemous thoughts.

Nonetheless, this priest-eating-a-priest riddle was dangerous, salacious talk. It was just these sort of rumors that gave rise to new cults, and then those in turn gave birth to new religions that kept pragmatic folks, such as herself, in a constant state of turmoil. One was not supposed to find the answers, just to seek them.

Well, Madame Cabochon was in too much pain, and too confused, to care about sorting things out. Today, tomorrow, for the rest of her life, she would take in only good things; from now she would only enjoy. From this moment on, there was no room or time for ugliness, pain, or sadness.

"Et, voila!" she said, as she pointed at the river. "There, you see? Already the river is building up a new island-branch by branch, mud bank by mud bank." She sighed deeply, joyfully. Nothing could dispel this mood. "This fills me with great happiness and hope. Listen, you despicable little wife-beater, go tell your wife, Helene, that it will be my pleasure to take her to church with me today."

The OP stared up at her angrily. "Who are you to talk to me like that?"

"I am someone bigger than you, that's who, and if you don't get a move on, I will box your ears."

Acknowledgments.

Many thanks to the teachers throughout my life who nurtured and encouraged me to write. In particular I remember, in order of their appearance, Miss Anna Entz, Mr. John J. Jester, Mr. J. D. Sodt, Mrs. Seibert, and Mr. Oren Odell, Ph.D.

P. S.

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