The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 6

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Father Reutner had noticed the lone man enter the rear of the church. He couldn't help but keep an eye on the fellow throughout Ma.s.s if only because he was taller than all the women, and because his white shirt stuck out like a poultice among their colorful wraps. When it came time to receive the Eucharist, however, the stranger remained in his pew, his head bowed.

There was something about the way this man glanced around wildly, like a yearling horse, then bowed his head intently during the prayers-too intently, in fact-that gave Father Reutner the distinct impression he had another Protestant on his hands. Well, a convert from Protestantism was better than none. Lately, for every convert he was able to get on the rolls, the church lost two communicants to the cults.

Ach, the cults! They were getting more and more ridiculous. Why, this latest one was said to revolve around the figure of an African prophet named Kibangu, who, like Jesus, had conquered death. Supposedly he had died in a fire, in a locked house, and had been seen walking unharmed among the flames. His followers numbered among the thousands and called themselves the Apostles. They dressed in white robes and carried staves. But instead of preaching love and redemption, they walked from village to village preaching vengeance against the Belgians.

Three weeks ago this coming Sunday his sermon was interrupted by one of their firebrands shouting that when independence finally came, those Congolese with enough faith to have built a "garage"-a ts.h.i.tanda-would magically receive an automobile. Of course, driving an automobile would require knowledge of European technology, and the best way to get that was from European brains-literally. Osmosis for the ma.s.ses.

"We will kill you, white man," the interloper had shouted. "Then we will take your brains and mix it with palm oil. This salve we will then rub on our heads. After one night's sleep we shall wake the following morning with all the knowledge that you, the white devil, keeps secret from us so that we cannot progress."

"But I keep nothing secret from you-or anyone," Father Reutner had answered. He later decided that his tone had been that of a beggar. He'd been a coward in his own church. How could he expect more souls to convert, to stand up to the old ways, if he, the supposed shepherd, wanted nothing more than to bolt from the flock before the wolves closed in entirely.

It would be different now. For one thing, he'd been praying for strength over the last three weeks. Besides, now there was just him and the lone man in the back pew: it was somehow different if the congregation wasn't there to watch him lose face.

"Muoyo webe," he said cautiously. Life to you.

The African jumped to his feet and extended a calloused hand. "Eh, muoyo webe, muambi."

"What is it that you want?"

"Want, master? I do not want anything-but to know your G.o.d."

Father Reutner reared as if by chance he'd encountered a poisonous snake laid across his path. A direct conversion request like this, especially one coming from a man, was highly unusual.

"Who put you up to this?" The words had tumbled out unbidden.

"Kah!"

"Toh, toh, toh!" No, no, no! "That is not what I meant to say. Please sit and we will discuss this matter."

The African was clearly agitated, but he sat anyway. Father Reutner had seen the same look in a goat's eyes just before the animal's throat was slit. If this was a genuine request on the man's part, the priest was prepared to a.s.sign himself a substantial amount of penance for having been so quick to judge.

"Muambi," the African said even as he sat, "my name is Jonathan Pimple. For many years I have been a Protestant, and I have believed that I was a Christian. However, recently I have heard from others that only you Catholics are the true Christians. Is this so?"

As tired as he was, Father Reutner still felt his heart beat faster at the prospect of s.n.a.t.c.hing a soul away from the compet.i.tion. "Ah-Monsieur Pimple, a Christian is a follower of Jesus Christ, and so I cannot in good conscience make the claim that the Protestants are not Christians. But I can say most emphatically that if it is entry into heaven that you seek, then you have come to the right place. Only a person baptized as a Roman Catholic is eligible for entry into heaven."

"E, muambi, I desire your heaven very much."

"Is that so? What is it about our heaven that you desire, Monsieur Pimple?"

"I have heard it is a place of peace. And rest. And where I will at last get a house that will not fall down in the next big storm."

Father Reutner laughed despite his reservations. "Very well; I will convert you. It will involve much study-unless, hmm. Let us hope that this situation does not arise."

"Unless what, muambi? You must tell me so that I can be prepared."

"Unless the Protestants try to win you back. Then I will convert you at once. Now then, I suppose we can begin our first lesson right here. Tell me everything you know about the One True Faith."

The African shrugged.

"Well, what did they teach you about G.o.d in the Protestant faith?"

"That he had but one son whose name was Jesus Christ, and that Jesus died so that everyone might go to live in heaven with him, even the Catholics-but only if they repent of their sin."

"Gott in Himmel!" Father Reutner felt all the blood in his face rush to the one big vein in his forehead. "What sin is that?"

"It is the sin of being Catholic. But, mukelenge, this I find very confusing as I can see that Jesus Christ and his mother, Mary, live there"-Jonathan Pimple pointed to a pair of statues flanking the dais-"and they would not do so if this was truly as evil a place as the Protestants claim it is."

"Nein, nein," Father Reutner shouted. "That is not true! Jesus was not a Protestant; he was a Catholic!"

"I am sorry, muambi. You see, I truly am an ignorant man in the ways of your church."

Father Reutner took some deep, calming breaths. It would be a grave sin indeed if he let his temper get in the way of snaring this lost sheep and returning it to Christ's fold-especially since, just by looking at the man's mouth, he could tell that the man was a Mupende. Around Belle Vue, they were like the Samaritans of the New Testament: despised.

"Monsieur Pimple," he finally said, "we all make mistakes. That is how we learn. Fortunately Mother Church has given us a process through which we can be forgiven of our mistakes. You recite your mistakes to me, and I will give you spiritual advice on how not to repeat such and such a mistake. In addition, I will give you a small punishment that will help you to remember. This is called confession."

"Muambi, if it pleases you, could you give me an example?"

The old man nodded. Indeed, he was quite pleased to do so.

"Let us say that you tell me that you beat your wife too hard upon occasion-"

"Aiyee, this I do not do!"

"No?"

"I have yet to take a wife, muambi."

"This is not good, for a man without a wife is a man who will entertain impure thoughts. He will then search out the village prost.i.tutes, or he will ditongesha." m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e.

"Muambi, never has a white man spoken to me so directly!"

"E, but that is the nature of this ritual called confession."

"Mukelenge," said Jonathan Pimple-Lord, "are these things-these mistakes that I have made-do they stay with you? For I am told that they do."

The old priest was shocked. "So someone has already been speaking to you about conversion?"

"Absolutely not! Except for this matter of confidentiality. As a Mupende, I had reason to be concerned."

It was truly like a lightbulb went on inside the cleric's head. "Ah! You were perhaps a cannibal in your youth?"

"Eyo. But I was just a small boy, you see, son of the powerful chief Nyanga-Yanga."

Father Reutner rubbed his hands together, as if washing them. "Cannibalism is a grave sin, my son."

"Even for you who are a Catholic?"

The priest raised one of those leathery hands. He wished to strike the impudent Mupende. He had heard this sacrilege more times than he cared to remember: What was so wrong about Africans eating other Africans, if once they converted, they would actually be eating Jesus Christ? Perhaps their question wouldn't be quite so infuriating, if Father Reutner had a pat answer he could give them, something that their simple minds could grasp.

When Jonathan Pimple didn't even have the decency to flinch, Father Reutner resumed symbolically washing away the blood of some anonymous Mupende victim. "Tell me about the man you ate. What do you remember?"

"Mukelenge, I remember very little."

There were certain questions about the practice of cannibalism that Father Reutner had always wanted to ask a Mupende tribesman, someone old enough to remember that barbaric custom. Someday when he retired, if his mind still held up, and the termites hadn't succeeded in eating his copious notes, Father Reutner intended to write a book. It would be a sociological profile of the Congolese tribes among whom he had served. His working t.i.tle was Bringing Light to the Heathen Lands, although during the process of collecting this valuable information, the good priest discovered that very disturbing thoughts had arisen in his own head.

"But the person you ate-it was a man, yes, and not a woman?" Father Reutner was ashamed of himself for thinking thus, but it seemed to him that eating a man was a worse sin than eating a woman.

"E, it was a man; of that I am sure."

"How can you be sure after so many years?"

"Because there is no reason to eat a woman unless one is very hungry, even starving. The flesh of a woman does not bestow special powers upon one; to the contrary, by consuming a woman one might even take on those characteristics that are female. Tell me, Mukelenge, would you wish to develop b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the place from which babies emerge?"

"Silence! You are in the house of G.o.d. Tell me, do the Protestants show no respect for G.o.d?"

The savage was quiet a moment. "They do not," he said at last. "Not in the least. This is yet another reason why I must convert to your way as soon as possible; those wicked Protestants have corrupted me and set me on the broad and winding road to h.e.l.l."

"And yet you have the nerve to sit here and quote that Calvinist John Bunyan to me."

"Aiyee! I do not know this John of which you speak. Does he live in the workers' village?"

Father Reutner took a deep breath and tried to visualize the cover of his book. The photo would depict a traditional Mupende tribesman, one who still wore mud in his hair and filed all his teeth into sharp little points-like a fish! Or a kitten. Yah, a cover like this was guaranteed to make the book a bestseller.

"Monsieur Pimple, I am told that the most tender-and flavorful-part of a person is the hand. That part of the palm which is at the base of the thumb. Is that not the piece traditionally reserved for the chief?"

"Yes, Lord, that is so. But I remember neither the taste, nor the texture of this piece, for the morsel my father shared with me, his heir, was strictly symbolic. It was so small that a mouse would scarcely have noticed this sample of flesh pa.s.sing down its gullet."

"What a shame," Father Reutner cried, "that a mortal sin of such weightiness left so faint a memory. Can you remember nothing else concerning this horrific event? Nothing at all? Did the victim cry out in pain? Was he boiled alive in a large pot? Did he beg for mercy? Please, you must remember more details."

The silly Mupende shook his head. "We were merely cannibals, Lord, not savages. We did not boil anyone alive. The man was first decapitated with a machete and then chopped into pieces. Five pots were filled with the offering of his meat."

"Did you say offering?"

"Eyo. If this man did not intend for us to eat him, then he and his friend would not have first appeared to our women as they bathed along the banks of our river."

Father Reutner had heard enough. It wasn't just enough of that conversation; it was enough African conversation ever. It was exactly this kind of logic that was going to keep Africa-Congo, in particular-perpetually locked in the Dark Ages. The savages bathed naked, were spotted by outsiders, so the outsiders were eaten!

"Ya biebe," he screamed, his gravelly voice rising two octaves. Go!

The man named Jonathan Pimple rose, with his chin jutting out defiantly. "It was a white man," he said. "That much, I remember. He was a Catholic priest just like you."

In Amanda's mind, the words murder and village immediately conjured up the image of Cripple. Today was only Thursday; it wasn't laundry day, so the tiny Muluba woman should already have checked in with her. In a panic she spoke her thoughts aloud.

"Oh G.o.d, please don't let it be Cripple!"

Pierre pulled her close to him, wrapping his strong tanned arms tightly around her neck. "Amanda, no! The murder victim was not Cripple!"

Amanda pulled free. "Then who? And how dare you scare me like that?"

His look of bewilderment restored her equilibrium.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to sound like that. It's just that I care a great deal about Cripple."

He took her in his arms; gently this time, and she went softly, willingly. "The victim of this horrible crime is the same man who laid claim to killing the python last week. His name is-"

"Lazarus Chigger Mite."

"You knew him?"

"No, but he and another fellow were here seeking arbitration from Cripple. I don't normally watch her play magistrate, but it was Sunday morning, and I was at loose ends."

Pierre released Amanda from his embrace and sat rather heavily across the table from where they'd been standing. He shook his handsome blond head.

"That Cripple! Sooner by later she is going to get herself into much trouble."

"Or," Amanda said, feeling surprisingly defensive.

"Pardon?"

"The idiom is 'sooner or later.' You said 'by.' "

Pierre, bless his heart, was so annoyed by the impromptu language lesson that his growled response was something that Amanda would have found quite embarra.s.sing at a dinner party back home in Rock Hill. Surely Mama and her book club friends would have been scandalized.

"Forgive me," Pierre said, raking his strong brown hands through his thick mane of hair. "My boys-my sergeant-woke me at a little past three. Do you have any coffee left?"

"I thought you didn't like the way we Americans make coffee."

"Ah, but there is an old saying: a wise man would do well to eat turnips rather than starve to death."

Amanda laughed. "Is that saying African or Belgian?"

"It is neither; I just now made it up."

She rang the little bra.s.s bell that she kept near her at all times while she ate. "One cup of black turnips coming up. Protruding Navel," she said, without raising her voice a single decibel, "I know that you are listening, so please bring Captain Pierre a cup of coffee."

"I am not listening, Mamu." His emphatic words were followed by a great deal of inexplicable clattering in the kitchen, but by and by he appeared bearing a mahogany and ivory inlaid tray, upon which was a blue enamel mug, filled to the brim with steaming, freshly brewed coffee.

Amanda and Pierre waited for several minutes after he disappeared again before resuming any serious conversation. It was Amanda who spoke first.

"That man is impossible," she said wearily.

Pierre nodded silently.

"I would fire him if I didn't have a hundred guests scheduled to arrive next week."

Pierre's eyes widened, but then narrowed when he saw that Amanda was smiling and shaking her head. "Back to Cripple," he said. "That's why I'm here. And, of course, to see you."