The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 8

"Birthmark!" he called. "Lua, angata mukashi."

Even though Pierre had suspected that his manservant was lurking about, Birthmark's reappearance was disturbingly quick. Pierre glared at the man, who didn't even have the sense to avert his wide-eyed stare. No doubt these crazy Belgians and their highly s.e.xualized ways were going to be the subject of a few hearthside discussions tonight.

The impertinent housekeeper had once asked him how it was possible that such a decadent and fallen race as the whites could have conquered the more numerous Africans with their higher moral values. Had they somehow first managed to cast a spell on all of Africa? he'd asked. If it was indeed true that the airplanes that he saw taking off and landing from Belle Vue's small commercial airport could fly over all the continent, then perhaps it was from them that the unctuous powders that supported this nefarious spell were unloosed upon his people.

At any rate, Madame Cabochon was even less pleased to witness the speed with which Birthmark materialized. "Boy," she said in French, although she knew Tshiluba like the native she practically was, "if you worked for me, today would be your last! How dare you spy on us?"

"Madame," Birthmark said slowly, perhaps insolently as well, "my master has asked me to take you from the room."

"And what if I refuse to go?"

"Madame Cabochon," Pierre said quickly in English, "that's not playing fair, and you know it."

"Oh, what the h.e.l.l do I care about playing fair anymore? They're talking about kicking us out in two years."

At that point Captain Pierre Gerome Jardin had had all he could stomach from any one person in one day. He leaped to his feet, grabbed the exasperating seductress, and threw her over his shoulder. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way to the front verandah to drop her off, he stepped on his sheet.

Chapter 15.

The Belgian Congo, 1935 The younger brother slept, but the older brother could not because the clever man and white man would not shut up. Whose G.o.d or G.o.ds were better-what nonsense when one had a terrible headache.

"You people are barbaric!" the white man said.

One might question how a boy so young-or anyone for that matter-could remember so much, but this was no ordinary boy. All that he witnessed and heard was carved into his memory. Of course he did not understand every word that was spoken by these men, but surely the gist of what they said was seared into his young soul.

So exceptionally clever was he that already he could recite his clan's complete lineage, beginning with the great flood seventy-two generations ago and extending, unbroken, down through his mother's side to this very day. On his father's side, it was nearly the same, but for the fact that in the sixty-third generation past his father's people were said to have been slaves captured from the primitive Bakuba people who kept no records.

"You are barbaric!" said the clever Mupende. "Do you not partake of your G.o.d on a regular basis? We, the Bapende, do no such thing. To consume our G.o.ds would be abhorrent to us."

The white man laughed foolishly. "Your G.o.ds? Your G.o.ds are made of wood and animal bone. You would break your pointed teeth consuming them!"

"Those are not our G.o.ds, Barbaric One. Those are merely representations that remind us of our G.o.ds. Our G.o.ds are invisible; they are spirits that inhabit trees, rocks, and rivers. They cause the clouds to rain and the sun to shine. They drive the animals to our arrows and spear points when we hunt. Believe me when I say that we would never eat our G.o.ds!"

"That is still idolatry. There is only one G.o.d; not one G.o.d for-for everything that you see."

"Yet you have three G.o.ds, do you not?"

"You cannot offend me, Mupende."

"Good. Nor is it my wish to offend you when speaking of your G.o.ds. In fact, never has a Mupende approached a white man and asked him to change his belief concerning his G.o.ds." The clever man paused. "Why do you think that is?"

"Because your beliefs are wrong," the white man with dark eyes answered without any hesitation.

The clever man's nostrils flared.

"What did he say?" the chief demanded.

"He said that he has observed that you are a chief who is greatly admired by his people. He said that your leadership qualities are of such high caliber that you deserve to be chief of not only this little village, but in fact, you should be made a king-like the one that Bakuba people have!"

The chief frowned. "Eh? I did not hear him say the word Bakuba; surely it is not so different in the language of Belgique."

"Truly my king, it is very different." He turned to the white man again. "Tell me, did you also perpetrate this crime upon the one boy?"

"Mon Dieu, I did not! It is not in my nature."

"That is what the boy said; that is why they did not kill you so far. However, it was something that I needed to know for myself. Listen, white man, is it important to you that you live? Perhaps you might wish to preach about your G.o.d to other Congolese? I hear that the people in the Zappo Zapps tribe are very easy to persuade."

"Yes, I would like that," the white man said without any hesitation.

"In that case, and since you have lived up to the condition set before you, then you are free to go."

"But how? Where? I am naked. I can't even find my way back to your village in the dark."

Unlike the Bula Matadi, the boy's father was a man of his word, but he was not a man of unlimited patience. Sensing that the clever man had given the captive his freedom, the chief pointed at the thick bush with his staff.

"It would be wise to hurry, white man, before my elders change their minds."

Instead of dashing for freedom, the strange, bewitching man stood tall and straight, and although he was quite naked, nonetheless he possessed an air every bit as regal as that of the boy's father. If it were not for the unbelievable color of his male parts, one might have thought him to be totally human.

"Every one of you, with the possible exception of the boy-but only if he is baptized as a Roman Catholic-will surely burn in a place of eternal flames, yet you will not die. Your bodies will feel horrible pain, and you will scream out in your pain. You will beg to die, but you will not. This will be your punishment for what you have done tonight to my friend."

"You must go now," the boy said and pointed to the bush. Not only was he clever, but he was also wise beyond his years.

Chapter 16.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Jonathan Pimple had yet to take a wife, so he was often alone. But unlike many men, Jonathan Pimple was seldom lonely, for he needed to be free to ponder whichever matter struck his fancy at any particular time; after all, Jonathan Pimple was a thinking man.

Why, he wondered, did some people eat human flesh just as easily as if it were goat meat, yet others were horrified at the very thought of it? On the other hand, the same people who were the most repulsed by the custom of consuming human flesh were the Catholic priests. Did not these men dispense small bits of a white man's body in their services to their faithful each week?

True, it was flesh like none other that Jonathan had ever seen, but the white man was full of surprises, was he not? Therefore it was necessary that Jonathan Pimple, who had an inquiring mind, examine a piece of this flesh closely.

A woman named Firefly was Jonathan Pimple's next-door neighbor. She lived beneath the giant mango tree that was infested with red ants, and which, therefore, no one could climb to harvest its ever-bountiful crop of blushing fruit. Firefly was a faithful Roman Catholic, as well as a good friend. A woman friend is an unusual thing for a man to have, but Firefly had a keen mind; this is what qualified her as one of Jonathan Pimple's many blessings.

So it was that when Jonathan Pimple expressed his strong interest in examining a piece of flesh, Firefly only pretended to swallow the host. Instead she deftly managed to palm it before it made contact with her tongue. Just how she accomplished this, she would tell no one, not even Jonathan, lest anyone else attempt-and manage to succeed-at what was surely a desecration.

For Firefly knew that taking a wafer home with her would be considered a grave sin-maybe even an unforgivable one, if the priest ever found out. Yet how could a just G.o.d condemn her for such an action when it was Jonathan Pimple who had put the idea in her head? He had also raised several other questions that needed answering.

This is how Jonathan Pimple convinced his good friend. "Consider," he said, "that this Jesus Christ lived almost two thousand years ago, yet the missionaries have been here less than one hundred years. Now then, they insist that unless we believe that this Jesus Christ became a ghost after he died, and that he lives now somewhere above the stars-but in a place that they have never seen-when we die we will burn in a great fire. There we will be consumed by unbearable pain for all time. But if we believe, then when we die, we will be given unimaginable riches-although we will no longer have a yearning for women, so we will not be given women."

Firefly had a most pleasant laugh. "Nor will I be given any men. But yours is the Protestant view, I think-although the Catholic view is somewhat similar."

"E. No matter the interpretation of their book, why should they be the ones who possess the truth? Perhaps it is our witch doctors and our elders who should be instructing them in the path of the unseen world."

"Aiyee! Enough of this foolish talk, my friend. I, for one, am not about to give up my unimaginable riches."

Jonathan Pimple smiled and grunted his agreement. He was all for unimaginable riches; too bad that they were not promised for this life. He had a secret desire to study medicine at the university in Brussels. Even if the Belgian government sponsored him, the cost for "incidentals" was staggering. In fact, Jonathan Pimple had never even heard of most of the items: deodorant, toothpaste, shaving cream-the list went on and on.

"So then let us now examine this bit of flesh that you have stolen from the white man," Jonathan Pimple said.

Although he had spoken lightly, with amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice, Firefly was much aggrieved. "No! Do not say that I have stolen this," she cried. "It was merely borrowed."

Jonathan Pimple took the wafer from her trembling hand and held it up to the sun. "This does not resemble the white man's flesh that I ate," he announced.

Firefly gasped softly. "Tell me more, Jonathan Pimple."

"I was just a boy, Firefly, I remember very little. But it was the same as eating any other kind of meat that walks on the earth or flies through the air. Only fish is different-fish and insects."

"I am a Muluba, Jonathan Pimple; my tribe does not eat the flesh of others. There must be a reason for that fact." She laughed her pleasant laugh. "Ah yes! There are many more Baluba than there are Bapende. Perhaps that is the reason!"

Jonathan laughed as well. "That would be a result, not a cause, Firefly. Besides, we never ate members of our own tribe; we only ate captives taken during war, or people that we captured who were trespa.s.sing in our territory-and that includes the white man."

"E. Tell me, confidentially, does a white man taste differently than a black person?"

The truth was not nearly as much fun to say as a good story, and probably not what she wanted to hear anyway. Therefore, without any guilt whatsoever, Jonathan Pimple gave in to temptation.

"A white man is very bitter to the tongue." He shuddered dramatically. "He is like a tart, unripened guava. One must add the juice of ten long stalks of sugarcane to the pot, or he is virtually inedible. Salt as well."

"Salt?"

"Eyo. Salt intensifies the flavor of all that it is added to, and in addition to being bitter, the white man is essentially flavorless. What little flavor he possesses can be accessed only with salt. But never be fooled by the leg made from wood, for it will leave splinters in your mouth."

"Kah?"

It was a story that had been a favorite of his when he'd been a small child. He had heard it many times, and he had always a.s.sumed it was true. Then again, perhaps like many other tribal tales, this was a story, the value of which was in the entertainment-and not because it contained some great eternal truth.

"A great many years ago, long before I was born, a white man-a great explorer-"

Firefly clapped her hands, which were long and delicate, despite being rough from her toil as a wife who performed her ch.o.r.es well. "Wait! How can this be? This has been our land since even before the great flood; at no time has a white man set foot on even as much as a grain of sand that has not been seen by one of our people."

"Bulelela, Firefly." Truly. "Nonetheless, that is the t.i.tle by which this man went. When he was taken captive by my people and shown the pot in which he would be cooked, he became very much afraid."

"It is only natural," Firefly said.

Jonathan Pimple pretended his face was carved from wood. Firefly had a soft heart, which meant she would make a good mother, but she already had a husband. For her sake-and for his-he would be careful to remember that.

"Yes, fear is natural, but at that point some men in that situation simply give up; they cry out for mercy as if they were-"

"Women?"

"Kah! Small children! Or else they struggle until their last breath, which is most unfortunate, as it causes nodules to form in the muscle tissue and gives the meat a most unpleasant taste. It is the same with pigs."

Firefly looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "E, it is so with pigs. My father beat me once for running too close to a sow that was tied beneath our mango tree. Truly, the meat was full of nodules, and I was beaten again and again."

"Now what was I about to say-yes, this man behaved in neither of these two ways; instead he smiled! Yes, Firefly, you heard me speak the truth! This white man smiled and then asked the chief to cut off his leg"-he gestured-"right here, just below his manhood. Not only that, but the white man indicated that the chief must cut the leg off right through his pants!"

"Aiyee! But that is such a waste of good pants! If this happened as long ago as you said, it must have taken a tailor a very long time to sew them. Perhaps the machine for sewing was not yet discovered by this time."

Jonathan Pimple was deeply offended. "Do you mock me, Firefly? Ask around to the other Bapende in this village, for I am sure that you will find more than a few who have heard the story of the white man's leg that tasted of wood."

Firefly gave him her full attention. "Was it of a different flesh? One that tasted of wood?"

"Eyo; it was in fact wood. Just like that tree over there, so that no matter how long it cooked, wood it remained. Then the chief ordered the white man stripped of his clothes and it was discovered that his second leg was indeed real flesh-such as that of a human, but belonging to a white. Then the white man confessed that his leg had suffered disease and had been removed and replaced by the wooden one."

"Was the chief angry to be deceived in this manner?"

"No, the chief was a simple man and he marveled at the stunt. In the end, he let the white man go free."

"And what would you have done, Jonathan Pimple?"

He shrugged. The chief had lost face, had he not? And what business did a white person have in Bapende territory anyway except to look for slaves, or perhaps force new beliefs upon the people. Besides, a one-legged white man had no chance of surviving on his own. Would not even a white man prefer a few quick whacks of a machete over being mauled by a lion?

He was still thinking over his answer when the sky opened and began to dump the first rain of the season on the residents of Belle Vue's workers' village. It was the likes of which no one had ever seen. Jonathan Pimple and Firefly parted without speaking another word.

Those white residents of Belle Vue not invited to the Cabochon dinner party were missing out on an occasion as grand as anything the town had ever seen. That is the mantra Madame Cabochon repeated to herself as preparations for the evening went from bad to worse, and then descended into the realm of disaster.

Rain was to be expected during suicide month, but the lightning that accompanied this storm blew out the transformer that supplied electric power to the homes on the European side of the river. Not even a year earlier Madame Cabochon had, in a great show of modernity, been the first housewife in town to dispose of her wood-burning stove in favor of an all-electric model. One could not be any more modern than that!

When her new electric stove stopped working, Madame Cabochon had an undercooked pork loin in the oven, two pans of yeast rolls yet to bake, potatoes to boil, and vegetables to simmer-completing dinner was impossible! Impossible! What was she to do? She couldn't ask anyone for help; none of her nearby neighbors had been invited.

However, Monsieur Cabochon, who had at first been against the idea of entertaining a clergyman, turned out to be surprisingly helpful. He drove his half-German derriere over to the Club Mediterranean, where he drank Johnnie Walker Red by the light of a Pullman lantern.

There were two things Madame Cabochon did not lack: a sense of drama, and-as a Jewish friend of hers back in Coquilhatville once described it-chutzpah. When the guests were dropped off under the portico that evening by their uniformed chauffeurs, they found their car doors opened by a colossal Sudanese man dressed in a starched white jacket bearing gold epaulets. His left earlobe sported a large hoop that appeared to be gold as well. Appearances are everything, are they not?

This giant ushered the guests to French doors that were opened by a pair of servants, similarly outfitted. Only then did one get a glimpse of the divine Madame Cabochon, arrayed in a swirl of pink chiffon that was more toga than it was gown, and which was held together by antique cameos, some spit, and a bit of luck. As to the whereabouts of Monsieur Cabochon: it was murmured that he had crossed the river to deliver some much-needed medicines to some poor child stricken with malaria. At any rate, continuing the grand deception that this was a grand evening-one for the record books, even-was the fact that every candle in the house was lit, and every kerosene lamp and lantern pressed into service.

Somewhere-perhaps it was at her Swiss finishing school-the hostess had learned a little decorating tip involving aluminum foil. When used as a backdrop for candles, it multiplied their presence, and so although the metal wrap was scarce as snow in the jungle, and had to be ordered months in advance, Madame Cabochon used every roll she had and turned her dining room into what she imagined the tsar's winter palace in Saint Petersburg might have looked like-in miniature, of course-for a gala event. Those were but just two examples of Madame Cabochon's flare for the dramatique.

As to her legendary chutzpah-well, displaying that was just plain fun. Really, she had no choice, so why not pull out all the stops? The only item on her original menu that she could still serve was some canned baby green peas. These, however, would have to be served cold. Madame Cabochon, who had ever so cleverly hand lettered ten paper menus, gently folded some real mayonnaise, a bit of chopped red onion, and some thinly sliced celery into the legumes and served them atop leaves of fresh Bibb lettuce. She t.i.tled this dish: Pet.i.ts Pois Americains.

"Alors, Mademoiselle Brown," said the OP, Marcel Faberge, without either a hint of playfulness or irony, "how does Madame Cabochon's interpretation of this dish compare with the way it is prepared in your native America?"

The OP was a swarthy little Walloon-a French-speaking Belgian-with a neck like a sink drain, and ears that stood at right angles to his head, and with cartilage so thin as to be translucent. A more ridiculous-looking little man for the job, Madame Cabochon could not imagine. Yet there was something crafty about this man-perhaps even devious-that kept all his European employees on their toes. That was the only reason he'd been included on the evening's guest list. One wouldn't want to snub this OP, no matter how much one despised him.