The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 7

"Of course."

"There are rumors circulating about the village that the night the python was killed-and for the following day-Cripple and her husband feasted on goat stew."

"So? I mean, I pay her a compet.i.tive salary, don't I? And it's only goat; it's not like it's filet mignon."

Pierre chuckled. "I love how you Americans p.r.o.nounce that word. Like you are putting gas in your car, no?"

Amanda flushed. "Perhaps it is just I who misp.r.o.nounces it; I haven't had a lot of practice ordering that particular cut of steak, mind you."

"And permit me to remind you, Miss Brown, that I was raised in this country, where good beef is a rarity-no pun intended, yes-but please, permit me once again to apologize. I do not mean for us to get sidetracked. I wish only to convey the information that some of the villagers suspect Cripple and her husband of-well, of stealing the goat from under the nose of Lazarus Chigger Mite."

"But that is ridiculous! You saw for yourself: Cripple arrived riding on my shoulders, and as for her husband-why, he was off in the forest collecting sap for palm beer."

"That is his story, and c'est vrai, I did not see him in the crowd. But the rumors have it that he extricted"-he paused and shrugged-"is that how you say the word?

"I don't know," Amanda said. She wasn't being difficult; she really couldn't tell what he was driving at.

"To remove. The snake's belly was filled with bushes, no? This means that someone extricted the goat and replaced it with the bushes."

"Extracted!"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Listen, Pierre, the fact that the python's belly was filled with branches doesn't mean anything. For all we know, Chigger Mite could well have put them in there himself before summoning an audience. How do we know he didn't take his precious goat to another village the day before and sell it? To pin this on Cripple's husband is nothing but superst.i.tion."

"Oui, but it is very good for his business, no?"

"Come again?"

"Then you have not heard; those same people who believe that Cripple's husband can magically transfer a goat from a snake's belly to a cooking pot are now flocking to him to buy potions and pay to have spells cast on their behalf. It seems that Their Death's career as a witch doctor has been revived."

"Lord have mercy!" Amanda said. It was surprising how much she felt betrayed-but by whom?

Perhaps it was by Their Death, whose career might make it unnecessary for Cripple to work, and then she would seldom see her friend-her only friend in Belle Vue-again. On the other hand, maybe it was simply the fact that Cripple had been holding back from her. Friends are supposed to share news. Then again, what hubris to think that she and Cripple were such good buddies. Given the world they inhabited, where they occupied opposite sides of such an uneven power structure, true friendship wasn't even possible.

Yes, she'd carried Cripple in the wheelbarrow through the ca.s.sava field, all the way to the forest's edge, to where the great muma lay slain, a modern-day dragon. However, just a few months ago she'd witnessed Cripple being carried on the shoulders of angry young men shouting "Independence!" at the top of their lungs, when what they really meant was "Kill the whites!"

Chapter 13.

The Belgian Congo, 1935 The chief beckoned to one of his younger warriors. This was a man who knew the Bula Matadi quite well, having been caught by soldiers and pressed into physical labor for building a road. During this time-which was almost double the time it takes a woman to grow a baby-this man had learned a great deal of the French, for he was a clever man, and skilled as a mimic as well. The chief bade this man speak to the remaining captive, and so he did. Although the words were those of the great Mupende chief, the voice was that of a white man-a Belgian overseer of low social rank.

"Look at me, you stupid monkey," the clever Mupende said, "for I am about to make you a very attractive offer."

The white man turned his head slowly. "Mon Dieu," he said quietly. "I thought you were-"

"A white? Like you?" The clever man laughed. Few among the a.s.sembled cannibals understood what was being said; nonetheless, many other men laughed as well.

"You have no accent," said the white man.

"Oui, I am like a parrot. Now listen up, you filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, here is our offer: the chief has decided to let you go."

"Go?"

"Yes, go! What an ignorant bunch of savages you are; jungle bunnies, really, not understanding even any basic French."

The white man with the dark hair lowered his dark eyes. "I never called your people those names. Not ever."

At this point the chief started waving his staff and speaking in rapid Kipende. "He says I should get on with my offer," the clever man said. "So anyway, you must surely be aware-even a baboon like you-that this offer comes with a condition."

"This baboon understands," the white man with the dark eyes said. He spoke calmly and without fear.

Chapter 14.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 When the drums announced that Lazarus Chigger Mite was dead-murdered, in fact-Their Death forbade Cripple to leave the family compound. Even to use the communal privy, he said; for the time being, the night gourd would have to do for her needs.

"Their Death," Cripple said, not fully awake, and thus not fully comprehending the complexity of the situation, "what does Lazarus Chigger Mite's unfortunate death have to do with me? Or with you, for that matter?"

Their Death looked lovingly into his wife's eyes, and then down at the growing belly that contained their ripening child. "Wife," he said, "the headman has been here twice to see me since the day that Lazarus Chigger Mite killed the great muma. Both times were to purchase my services.

"The first time he wished to buy a spell to be put on a relative in Leopoldville who was healthy but who does not work. This man lives in the family compound of the headman and has been a financial drain for many years. The spell is only to cause this young man to seek employment."

"And the second spell?"

Their Death shook his head. "Tch," he said, and spat just outside the door of the hut. "He asked me-no, he ordered me-to cast a spell on the dead man, Lazarus Chigger Mite. For that one, he said he would pay me nothing until the man was four days dead in his grave. Longer even than Jesus Christ-those were his very words!"

Cripple was as fully awake as she had been the night savannah fires burned right up to the eastern edge of the workers' village and ignited their huts with wayward sparks.

"Aiyee!" she exclaimed. "Those were awful words; and this I say as a heathen. Tell me, Their Death, why would a powerful man from Leopoldville, a member of the elite, want Lazarus Chigger Mite dead? The muma slayer was but a lowly Mupende. When the headman's ancestors, the Bakongo, were kings, feted by the king of Portugal, Lazarus Chigger Mite's ancestors were serving up their enemies for dinner."

Their Death laughed heartily. "Wife, you joke, but it is the truth. As for what his motive could be, think back to the first murder in Mukanda wa Nzambi." The Holy Bible.

"Not only am I a heathen, but I have never been to school."

"How could I ever forget? But did you not say that you sat outside on the gra.s.s while your brother was in school and learned his lessons faster than he did?"

"That is so," Cripple said.

"Ne?" Husband said.

"Aha!" Cripple said, nodding as the spark of knowledge lit up her eyes. "Jealousy was the motive."

"E. The headman was envious of the fact that Lazarus Chigger Mite was getting praise for killing the mighty muma. As you know, this would give him great standing in the village-even if there was no goat." Husband paused and sucked loudly on his teeth. "But perhaps there was, and that goat was indeed stolen by me using my special powers. I am once more a powerful witch doctor, a muena tshihaha."

"E, but Their Death, you know that your powers-" Cripple grabbed the center pole of the hut and pulled herself clumsily to her feet. "Unh! Their Death, he will kill you next!"

"No-but perhaps he will try."

"This is terrible; you must go to the police! You must speak with Captain Jardin. You can trust him."

"Yes, in good time. Do you know this thing called irony, Cripple?"

"I am uneducated, Their Death; I am not ignorant!"

"Indeed, you are not. The irony is that at first the headman probably hoped that I could cast a spell on Lazarus Chigger Mite and thus do his dirty work for him. But of course I refused. You do believe me. Do you not?"

"Their Death, do not my waste time with foolish questions, for the night gourd calls." Cripple did not speak harshly, for she loved Their Death, and of course she knew a woman's place-that is, she thought, unlike the white mamu, for whom she worked.

Pierre Jardin hated sleeping during daylight hours. It not only messed up his circadian rhythms, but no matter what time he awoke, there always followed a period of disorientation and lethargy, sometimes even a ma.s.sive headache. Therefore, when Pierre finally toppled into bed late that Thursday morning, he left strict instructions with his head houseboy not to disturb him. One can understand, therefore, how it might be that Captain Pierre Gerome Jardin was not his most pleasant self upon being roused merely two hours after his head hit the pillow.

"Muambi!"

"Sacre-coeur! Alors, Man with Birthmark, did I not leave strict instructions for you not to bother me?"

"Yes, muambi, you did, but the Belgian woman is here to see you. She will not listen to a black man, even a head housekeeper such as me. She said that she will count to one hundred before coming back here to get you herself."

Pierre felt his headache get even worse-if indeed that was possible. At the same time, he could feel the corners of his mouth start to tug upward at the thought of Madame Cabochon clicking her way down his cement hallway in her stiletto shoes, her flame-colored hair flowing behind her as if her proudly held head were the Olympic torch. One certainly didn't have to like the woman to think that she cut quite a sight. By the same token, one could be quite smitten with another woman-a far more innocent type, a lady even-and still appreciate the feminine wiles of Madame Cabochon.

"Which Belgian woman is it?" he asked, just to be sure. G.o.d forbid it was the new OP's sweet, and very religious, young wife.

"Monsieur," said Man with Birthmark, "it is the woman with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

Pierre chuckled. The houseboys, the yardmen, the night watchman, all had crushes on Madame Cabochon-at least on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Because they could see only the tops of them bobbling above her provocatively low-cut dresses, there was much discussion as to whether or not the rest of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s existed out of line of sight.

"Katuka we!" Get out!

The speaker was none other than the woman with big b.r.e.a.s.t.s herself, and Pierre had to admit that she was justifiably indignant. Therefore, he did not complain when she strode into the room, threw open the wooden shutters, pushed her way through the mosquito netting, and sprawled across the end of his bed. One of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s for which she was so famous came dangerously close to spilling out of the deeply cut scoop neckline of her tightly fitted bodice. It was virtually impossible not to look at it; it was like watching a truck teeter on the edge of a cliff, half its wheels on, half off. There was nothing you could do about it, but you would never forgive yourself if you turned away before the big finale.

"Pierre," she snapped, "eyes up here."

"Then perhaps, madame, you would be so kind as to sit up. Might I even suggest that you take the chair in that far corner of the room?"

"Don't be such a silly boy, Pierre! I am almost twice your age. You couldn't possibly be bothered by my presence on your bed." At that she tugged the other side of her bodice down so that both her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bobbled on the threshold of premature liberation. She also pulled back the sheet.

Pierre leaped from his bed, pulling his top sheet with him. As a bachelor he had no need to cover up the slumber suit that G.o.d had given him at birth. In fact, wearing pajamas during the suicide month was an act of stupidity. The only reason he'd been covered at all was that there was a small hole in the mosquito net in need of mending, and despite the heat, he wasn't about to have the most sensitive part of his anatomy bitten.

The young police officer was tall and muscular, but he wasn't particularly graceful, and one foot caught in the netting and delayed his departure. Madame Cabochon laughed wholeheartedly. She had a surprisingly deep laugh, considering that she was not a smoker.

"Why, Captain, I didn't know that you were Jewish!"

"What?"

"Never mind, it was a small joke about a large item; I forgot that the Bula Matadi have no sense of humor."

Pierre wrapped the sheet tightly around his waist and stumbled backward to the chair. As both he and his would-be seductress were fluent in English, and the houseboy wasn't, Pierre switched languages.

"Look, what is it that you want? This better be good. And anyway, you are not almost twice my age; I'm twenty-eight, and you are thirty-eight. Your age is a matter of record, as is that of every other white in Belle Vue, since each of you is registered with me at the police station. Madame, I even have your weight."

In a flash of blue, Madame Cabochon sat up, pulling her knees in front of her chest. The peep show was over.

"You are a cruel man, Captain Jardin. I have half a mind to leave you off my guest list."

"Frankly, madame, my dance card is full. I shall be content to sit out on my balcony and contemplate the river."

"But you haven't even asked the occasion? What if it is that King Baudouin and Queen Fabiola have decided to tour the Congo one last time before this dreadful impending thing called independence? My grandmother was the youngest daughter of a viscount, so I do have a royal connection, you know. I'm sure it's more than anyone else in this s.h.i.tty little h.e.l.lhole can claim."

Pierre smiled; the only thing he knew was that Madame Cabochon read too many American novels. That, and if he wasn't already falling head over heels with the young American, Amanda Brown, and if Madame Cabochon was not already married-albeit to a horrible little n.a.z.i-he would surely throw off his towel and leap back into his bed. After all, Pet.i.t Pierre, as his private part was known only to him, was certainly ready to get down to business.

"Well, should Their Majesties wish to visit our little town-then their security would be rather tight, especially now, precisely because of this impending thing called independence. As I am the chief of police of this 's.h.i.tty little h.e.l.lhole,' I would be the first to be contacted. But since I have not been contacted, I can safely a.s.sume that the most royal a.s.s to be seated at your function will belong to you."

Madame jumped off the bed, all the better to express her indignation. Again the mosquito netting got in her way, bringing yet another smile to Pierre's face.

"d.a.m.n you," she said. "Must you always be so-so-mon Dieu, I cannot think of a word bad enough in this English!"

A shift in her tone had informed Pierre that it was time to stop teasing her. "All right, Madame Cabochon, what is this occasion?"

She tossed her auburn mane and snorted-quite like a filly, he thought-while she stalled to regain just a little power. "It is a dinner to honor Monsignor Clemente," she said.

"Is that so? Does he know this?"

"What sort of impertinent question is that? Of course he does! The monsignor and I were childhood friends-right here in Belle Vue. Everyone who is anyone will be there, including that plain little American girl whom you are so fond of."

"Miss Brown?"

Now Madame Cabochon smiled. "Capitaine Pierre," she said, switching back to French, "must you be so disingenuous? You know quite well who I mean; there are no other Americans here at the moment."

"Yes, but what makes you think that I am especially fond of this plain little girl?"

This time the auburn-haired filly stomped the floor with impatience. "What do you think I am, a cabbage? Do you think I'm incapable of observation? Or at the very least of listening to gossip? All everyone talks about is how you've been stumbling about like an elephant bull in musk. Don't you think it's about time you quit thinking up excuses to visit that dreary Missionary Rest House and escort your little girl out on a real proper date. Who knows, she might even take to Belle Vue's high society, and they to her. With any luck, she'll defect from that heretic Protestant cult and the two of you can get married and produce lots of little Jardins. Imagine that-a jardin of Jardins!"

Pierre hoped that his deep tan hid any signs of blushing. "Madame Cabochon, if this were a proper city-such as Luluabourg-your deportment would not be considered necessary entertainment, so I would have tolerated far less of you just now. Here in the bush, however, we must take our amus.e.m.e.nts whichever way we can. But as all good things must come to end, so must your unwelcome visit. Au revoir, madame."

The beautiful redhead, however, remained rooted to his cement floor as securely as the granite-embedded pilings of the bridge that spanned the Kasai River. She was nothing but trouble, this one.