by Tamar Myers
The other woman was fat, like the man who was possibly her husband, except that she had a neck and there was both fear and curiosity in her eyes. Sometimes one, then the other, of the emotions would take over, so that her movements were abrupt and unpredictable, much like those of a cat.
Ugly Eyes had had a cat once; Father had traded three of his own arrows for it from a traveling Mushilele from the much larger village of Badi-Banga. The cat was supposed to hunt the rats in the thatch roofs of the village huts, but it preferred the much easier prey of domestic chicks and ducklings. Later everyone agreed that getting another cat just to eat rats would not be the best use of Father’s much sought-after arrows.
But there was also a girl at the table—maybe not a whole lot older than Ugly Eyes. Of course Ugly Eyes couldn’t even speak one word of this girl’s language, but she understood her perfectly. The girl’s eyes were half closed and her arms were crossed in front of her chest. Her pale thin lips were extended and every now and then she parted them just enough to emit little puffs of air. “Go away,” she was saying, just as clear as if she were speaking Bushilele. “I do not want you here. You do not belong here! This is my village; not yours!”
Fortunately, Ugly Eyes was able to say quite a bit in this girl’s language as well. She let her eyes settle on this girl’s pale face, and then closed them halfway for a millisecond. After that she smiled slowly before looking away and never looking back.
Judging by the anger she heard in the girl’s voice a moment later, Ugly Eyes knew that she’d guessed right; Ugly Eyes was indeed fluent in at least one language spoken by the whites.
Mastermind smiled. Yes, thirteen years had passed since the plan had been put in place, and something had gone terribly wrong, but perhaps it was not too late to salvage something. There are no guarantees when committing a crime of this magnitude; no guarantees at all—except, perhaps, for an eternity spent in hell. Well, that was a risk that came with the trade. The trade—ha! This was the only crime that Mastermind had ever committed. Would ever commit for that matter. Frankly, a life of crime was more work than Mastermind had bargained for.
What a fool the OP was for expecting another reaction. Of course the girl wouldn’t show a hint of recognition. Why should she? There was no reason for him to assume that she was his daughter, except that she was approximately the same age. But she wasn’t even found in the same territory, amongst the same dominant tribe.
It really was ridiculous to think that somehow a three-month-old infant could disappear from her cradle in Belle Vue and then pop up in a remote Bashilele village thirteen years later. This was either something for the anthropology books, or it was a fairy tale, but it couldn’t be happening to him. It could not be his child.
And she had just proved it. Had it been his, there would have been at least a spark in her eyes—a glimmer that reminded him of Heilewid. But these eyes regarded him with the same impersonal cautiousness with which a lizard would look upon him. He wasn’t sure, but was that the tip of her tongue flicking through the space where her two front teeth ought to be? Mon Dieu! Was she trying to seduce him?
“She doesn’t speak anything intelligible,” Mr. Gorman said in perfect, unaccented Flemish.
The OP nearly fell backward in his chair. He was a Walloon, and French was his mother tongue, not Flemish. Still, he was a Belgian, and had been forced to learn Flemish in school. That, and the fact that he had been married to a Jewish woman from Antwerp, who had grown up speaking Flemish—all these things combined made the OP a fair judge of Flemish accents. If it were not for the fact that he knew—or thought he knew—that Mr. Gorman was an American, he would have assumed by just this one sentence that the man was a native-born Fleming.
“Where did you learn to speak like that?” the OP demanded.
“As you know, sir,” Mr. Gorman said, continuing on in Flemish, “we missionaries are required to spend six months in Belgium studying French before coming out to the colony. As the colony is ruled by two ethnic groups, I elected to learn Flemish as well.”
“And your French, monsieur? How is that?”
“Passable, I hope,” Mr. Gorman said, switching to that language. “I wish I’d had more time in your lovely country, but alas, there was a war brewing, and I did not wish to get caught up in it.”
“Incredible!” the OP exclaimed. “And yet you do not speak Bushilele?” he asked, switching to English, so that everyone at the breakfast table could understand.
“No, monsieur. Our mission considers it a minority language. I speak only Tshiluba, Kipende, Tshokwe, Lingala, Kituba, and Swahili.”
“You have tried all these languages on her, I presume?”
Meanwhile, the girl in question was sitting an arm’s reach away, just as still as a golden honey-covered statue.
“Yes, a few words of each. She showed no reaction, monsieur.”
“Of course not,” Dorcas said. “The poor thing is scared to death.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Gorman said. “She looks fine to me. Mother,” he said to his wife, “how does she look to you?”
“She looks almost normal,” Mrs. Gorman said, “except for those awful tribal markings on her face. It’s a good thing they just got started and did just one on each cheek.”
“I think that a plastic surgeon could take care of that,” Mademoiselle Amanda Brown said quickly.
“A what, dear?”
“She means a movie-star doctor,” the Gormans’ daughter said. “Geez, Mama, don’t you know anything?”
As much as the OP disliked all three of the Gormans, he felt a twinge of pity for the mother. Children showed their parents no respect these days. It was as if in facing up to the atrocities of the war, today’s youth had not only lost their innocence, but their manners as well.
“Don’t worry about her hair, sir,” the mademoiselle said. “After breakfast I plan to undo the cornrows and wash it—with real shampoo. That is, if she’ll let me. So far she hasn’t allowed me to touch her.”
“I like them corn things,” the teenager said. “Makes her look like a native, and ain’t that what she is? Ooh boy, can’t you just smell her? I can hardly eat my breakfast.”
“Peaches!” Mrs. Gorman said with surprising sharpness.
“If she were my child,” Dorcas Middleton said, “I’d send her to her room.”
“But Peaches isn’t your child,” Mrs. Gorman said softly. “You chose not to have children, remember? And oh, how you’ve made me suffer for my decision to have one—just one. ‘You’re not devoting enough time to the Lord’s work,’ you said. You must have said that a million times.”
“To be fair,” Mr. Gorman said, “she’s backed off in recent years.”
Apparently, Mrs. Gorman had managed to work herself into a state of tears over this issue. “That’s only because the mission board finally separated us; now that we’re serving on different mission stations I don’t feel quite as picked on.”
“May God guard my tongue from speaking evil,” Dorcas Middleton said. Now she too had tears in her eyes.
“Well,” the OP said, “you Americans certainly know how to—what is the word—upset, maybe, a welcome party.”
“I think the word is upstage,” the mademoiselle said. She smiled at Pierre, and the little shit smiled back, which annoyed the OP immensely. So much for hoping that his friend was no longer infatuated by the nubile young woman from the American South.
It wasn’t that the OP disliked the mademoiselle—it was nothing personal, at least—but she still employed that woman, Cripple, who’d been implicated in the death of Senor Nunez, manager of the Consortium company store. Yes, Cripple had been vindicated, but—in a very strange, deus ex machina sort of way. From here on out the OP would just as soon have no further dealings with Cripple—or her American employer.
It was a very strange breakfast, with insubstantial foods by and large, although a ball of bidia—manioc mush—was provided, seemingly for Ugly Eyes’ benefit. Only the young ma
le Bula Matadi ate from it; he cut a large slab and put it on his very own plate first. Imagine that, each person having their own plate! What riches the white man possessed, and to think that someday they would all belong to the Bashilele.
Ah yes, Father, she related to him silently, we do indeed each have our own plates. And cups! Even the female persons. And we have miniature spears, and small paddles with which to scoop up another mush—this one not cooked until it is stiff, as it should be. It is called ohta-meela.
Over this ohta-meela one is to sprinkle something very sweet—something sweeter than the juice of the cane. Also, over this thinner mush, one pours milk—but it is not goat’s milk, nor is it the milk from any known animal. Father, this concoction tastes as awful as you can imagine, but when they set a bowl in front of me they smack their lips like apes and go “mmm, mmm.” I must try hard not to laugh, because it reminds me so much of little Kahinga when she strains to have a bowel movement and it will not come.
What was that? Ugly Eyes clapped twice with happiness when Father stepped suddenly from behind the trunk of a thick mango tree that shaded the outdoor eating table. Where were his bow and his monkey-hide quiver of arrows? Where was his machete? Never mind those things for now. For now he was holding a cone that was shaped from banana leaves. The smells that escaped from the cone made Ugly Eyes’ nose want to dance.
Father cautiously approached the group, then as befitting her status, he offered the delicacies first to the ancient crone. She peered into the leaves, but shook her head.
“Nasha kakese,” she said, which was a Tshiluba phrase meaning, “not even a little bit.” From this Ugly Eyes concluded that the crone was rude, and not wise.
Everyone else reacted similarly except for the young Bula Matadi, who carefully removed something from the leaves and put it on his plate. He even remembered to say tuasakidila.
Then, with much apparent pleasure, he ate it, and another one like it. He even persuaded the other Ugly Eyes, the young white woman from the day before, to take a bite. Everyone laughed at that, even the rude crone.
Father, then you spoiled it all by speaking.
Chapter Eleven
Wowee,” the Headhunter said. That’s all. It was just a greeting. Like bon jour in French, or muoyo webe in Tshiluba.
Then that horrible Gorman girl had to spoil the morning by mocking the poor man. It was bad enough that he was about to have his daughter torn from his bosom, but to then have that creature taunting him, why that was simply beyond the pale. If Dorcas had her way, even the Protestant missionaries would take a vow of celibacy, because really, when you thought about it, the Belgian Congo was no place for children. Especially white children.
“Wowee kazowee,” the girl said. “It’s the funniest sounding language there is, isn’t it, Mama?”
“I suppose so, dear,” Mrs. Gorman said. “But remember what I said about being kind.”
“But Daddy, you think it sounds funny, don’t you? You said so just the other day!”
Mr. Gorman held a fat finger aloft as if recalling something of grave importance. “Funny,” he pronounced, “is a nun, a priest and a rabbi showing up at heaven’s gates and expecting admittance. Imagine the looks on their faces when Saint Peter tells them you have to be saved first, and that it is too late for them.”
Dorcas Middleton frowned at the gluttonous man. “Do tread carefully, Mr. Gorman. There are, after all, two RCs present at the table.”
“What is an RC?” asked the OP.
“Why, Monsieur OP,” Dorcas said, “all these years in the Congo, and you’ve never heard anyone mention RC?”
“It stands for Roman Catholic,” their young hostess, Amanda, said. “Actually, I think it’s rather a pejorative.”
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” the OP said, “but what does that mean?”
Amanda tossed her lovely blond hair to the other side of her neck. “In a word: disrespectful. Dorcas,” she said, “would you mind terribly scooching your chair over so that we can fit another one in? I think that the girl’s father would like to join us.”
“Yes, I do mind terribly,” Dorcas said. “I suppose that ‘scooching’ is one of the new slang words you brought with you from America—oh never mind that—but you can’t seriously expect us to acquiesce to the presence of an unwashed native. Besides, he isn’t her real father.”
“But he is. My friend Beth back in Rock Hill, South Carolina, is adopted, and her dad is as much her real father as that man who got her mother”—she paused and looked at Peaches—“well, you know.”
“He’s not even wearing a shirt,” Mrs. Gorman said. “I think I’m about to get sick. As if these horrible birds this Belgian has been eating haven’t been enough.”
“Excusez moi, madame,” Pierre said, not without sarcasm. “These horrible little birds are what you missionaries refer to as quail, although they are really francolin. In Tshiluba they are called nkuadi. They are to be seen all the time on the roads, especially in the early morning and late afternoon.”
“Yes, yes, nkuadi,” said Mr. Gorman. “Dear, I’ve shot hundreds of those; you cook them all the time.”
Mrs. Gorman pursed her lips. “Oh. Well, they don’t look the same. What did he do? Roast them?”
“Yes,” Pierre said. “They were quite delicious.”
“It’s against the law for him to fraternize with us anyway,” the OP said.
“Is that true?” the pretty American asked of Pierre.
He nodded. “Oui, Amanda. We do, in fact, insist on separation of the races—so that they don’t get the wrong ideas, you understand. But I suppose we could make an exception just this once. Although frankly, I don’t think that he would be comfortable sitting with us.”
Even though she was from South Carolina, Amanda Brown was just too young and naïve to accept the fact that in the Congo, customs were different. That didn’t make them right; it was merely a fact, rather like rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s. To force the Mushilele to join them at the table would, in fact, be an act of genteel cruelty.
“We should at least give him the opportunity to refuse us,” Amanda Brown said. She then displayed her naiveté by giving up her own chair. “Sit,” she said and began to gesticulate like a traffic cop. “Asseyez vous.”
It was as plain as the buttons on her dress that the poor man was terrified. His dark eyes darted from the rescued child to Pierce and back to the girl again.
“Somba,” she said in Tshiluba.
“Perhaps you speak yet another language,” Mrs. Gorman said.
“Do you know Spanish?” Mr. Gorman said.
“I would like to marry a Spaniard,” Peaches said.
“Over my dead body,” Mr. Gorman said. “Papists, every one of them, just like the Portuguese, and the Bel—well, you know.”
The OP cleared his throat loudly and looked Mr. Gorman straight in the eyes. “My deceased wife, Heilewid—may she rest in peace—was of the Jewish faith.”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Gorman said.
“Monsieur, she was my wife; I am quite sure.”
“What I meant to say was: a Jewish Belgian sounds like such an oddity. That’s like saying there’s such a thing as a Jewish Irishman, or a Protestant Frenchman.”
“Monsieur, I believe there are.”
“Hmm. Well, if you insist.”
“Which I do,” said the OP.
“Monsieur OP,” Dorcas Middleton said, “as fascinating as this conversation is, it is doing nothing to address this dilemma. Look, the poor man is becoming more agitated by the second.”
“It’s his daughter I’d worry about,” said Mrs. Gorman.
If Father had not spoken, then the silly girl could not have mocked him. As for the others, who knew if they were mocking him as well? That was less clear. One did not have to be able to understand the white man’s tongue, however, to understand that with one exception, the whites did not appreciate Father’s gift, and did not want him there.
The whites! Yes, Ugly Eyes would continue to think that she was not one of them. Even the crippled Muluba agreed.
“Your skin is the color of a manioc pancake,” she had said. “And your eyes are indeed ugly, but you are truly one of us.” Kadi wewe udi muan’etu mene mene.
It was too much to bear. Surely these people (who comported themselves no better than baboons) could see that Father was a dignified man, one who commanded respect in his village. It was said that if one were to assign a long dry season to each finger and one to each toe, and then count these long dry seasons, one would still not reach Father’s age.
Did these monkey people know how to dig their own iron ore and smelt it into metal? Did they know how to grind that metal on a stone wheel until they had achieved arrowheads for every purpose: fish, small birds, large birds, rodents, small antelopes, monkeys, large antelopes that were to be chased until they bled out, and even insects? Did they know that there was even a special arrowhead for fools such as themselves?
Jabber, jabber in their strange tongue that seemed to have no clear beginning or end to the words that comprised the discordant phrases. Such a language would be impossible to learn unless one was born into it. Whatever the circumstances were that surrounded her birth, Ugly Eyes knew that she was not, and could never be, ever be a part of those people gathered around the table there that morning in the shade of the mango tree.
Although Amanda Brown was the official manager of the Missionary Rest House, and she was, for all intents and purposes, the hostess at this rather historic breakfast, she certainly did not feel in charge. If she had to blame any one person it would be the annoying teenage girl who had tried to imitate the Headhunter’s speech. Really, everything had gone pretty smoothly up until then.
But that girl! She was going to give her parents trouble big-time when she got back to the States! Just you wait and see. That loose talk about pregnancy, and then wanting to marry a Spaniard—Peaches was going to do anything she could to push the envelope, and Amanda doubted that the naïve Mrs. Gorman was going to be up to it. Things were undoubtedly a whole lot different in the States these days than the last time the teenager was there; that had to be one of the difficulties of raising a kid in the Congo bush. How do you get them to adjust once you get them back into civilization?