by Tamar Myers
Madame Cabochon checked her reflection in a car window one last time. It was important that she present a flawless appearance; after all, she was the most beautiful woman in Belle Vue—bar none. It was a fact even, not just an opinion. Everyone thought so; you could see it in their eyes. In the men’s eyes you could see lust, whereas in the women’s eyes it was envy or hate. Yes, there were a couple of men who were unaffected by her great beauty in a sexual sort of way, and perhaps one woman who was, but even these individuals still made it clear that they too worshipped at the altar of Madame Cabochon’s perfection. Surely Madame Cabochon was worthy of being encased in glass and exhibited in a museum somewhere.
She was like an alabaster vase clothed in purple silks and satins. Her flaming hair spilled down her back like a miniature replica of the Belle Vue falls, drawing attention to the shockingly low V cut of her dress. It was virtually impossible to tear one’s eyes away from Madame Cabochon. That’s what they would say when they recalled the party that the OP threw for that savage daughter of his.
So what was an exquisite beauty like the madame doing in the Congo in the first place? She had the good fortune of being born in Coquilhatville, in the north of the country, on a palm oil plantation. Like Captain Pierre Jardin, she had the Belgian Congo in her blood. So rather than “return” to Belgium when she reached the age of majority, she married a member of the Consortium and moved to Belle Vue, where she was perfectly miserable. Except for events like tonight.
“Francois,” she said, having approved of her reflection long enough, “do you hear the music? I don’t recognize it. American, no?”
“Screw American,” her husband growled—in French, of course. Francois was not in the mood for anything American. When he’d heard that missionaries had been invited, he’d almost refused to come. Almost, because he really had no choice, without arousing suspicion. After all, it wasn’t common knowledge that Francois’s mother was German, and as far as he knew, nobody was aware of the fact that just before the Germans marched into Brussels, the Cabochon household had hung a large flag of the Third Reich from their second-story windows.
It was indeed toe-tapping rock ’n’ roll from America that the gorgeous Madame Cabochon heard. She couldn’t wait to get down into the thick of things, shed her husband, and start shaking it up a bit—perhaps with that cute Captain Pierre Jardin. Mais oui, so he had eyes for the young American hostess of the Missionary Rest House, but so what? The word missionary said it all, did it not? No missionary could compete with Madame Cabochon. That was like having a nun compete with Cleopatra.
“Ah Francois,” she said, succumbing to the beat. “Promise me, you won’t be a drag.” She said the last word in English. She’d learned it on the shortwave, along with “rock ’n’ roll.” Congo born and bred, but still up on things, eh?
But Francois was not altogether pleasant. Instead of answering, he forged ahead. What a pity that he didn’t care for her; what fun they could have had as a couple just getting to where the real action took place. Because to reach the terrace where the phonograph and buffet tables were set up, one must wend one’s way down the hillside through a series of gardens and terraces lit by torches. It was so dramatic! Really a lot of fun! And with servants in full livery to point the way at every turn.
“Excuse me.” At a dark turn in the path, where the torch was unlit, and there was no servant to point the way, a figure stepped forward and thrust an envelope in her hands.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Give this to the OP,” the figure said. Then it was gone.
It had happened so fast, that recreating it in her mind was really pointless. The messenger was African, male, but so what? That could have been any of the servants, or none of them. As for the envelope—damn! It was sealed.
Madame Cabochon, her heart pounding from the encounter, slowed her descent as she pondered the ramifications of her two choices. If she withheld the envelope, so that she could read its contents, she might find herself with a powerful possession. On the other hand, the contents could spell trouble, something that only the OP could avert. At the very least, by delivering the document to its rightful owner she would cement her husband’s position in the company, if only by the smallest fraction, and every little bit helped these days.
Alors, she would do the right thing!
Cripple reached the workers’ village just as the first of the jackals came bounding out of the tshisuku and onto the road behind her. What wondrous news there was to share with Husband. Who but Husband would believe what strange things Cripple had seen and heard in the white woman’s house that day? Yala, it would be an evening of recounting like no other.
But when Cripple finally hobbled into the family compound, she found no fire, no bubbling pot of bidia calling to be stirred, no laughing children—no crying ones for that matter—only Husband sitting in the dark on his slant-back wooden chair, his head in his hands.
“Husband!” Cripple cried. “What is it? What has happened?”
“It is Second Wife,” he said. “Her brother came to take her home.”
“What? I do not understand.”
But Cripple did understand. Ever since Husband had allowed himself to be caught up in a white man’s plot to smuggle an enormous diamond out of Belle Vue, the family had had less luck than a stewing hen. First Husband lost his job at the post office, and then a windstorm blew their hut’s roof halfway to Angola. In a culture where a brother had more rights to his sister’s children than did their biological father, it was time to step in.
“It is only temporary,” Husband said. “There were no discussions about returning the dowry.”
“Of course not,” Cripple said. She bit the inside of her cheek. How much had Husband paid for Second Wife? Five goats? More than that? Aiyee, she must not think of such things. The girl Morning Joy was truly a joy to be around. And the baby, the one Second Wife had recently named Amanda, who could not help but love that cheerful little boy?
“Cripple,” Husband said without looking up.
“Yes, Husband.”
“Do you think that your missionary might have a job for me?”
Cripple sighed softly and then carefully considered the question. Meanwhile, the village noises of happy families, laughing women, crying babies, bleating livestock and soft beating of drums filled the void that seemed to suddenly exist between Cripple and Husband.
“I will ask,” she finally said. “But remember, Husband, that you are a witchdoctor, and she is a Christian. The same might be asked, what need does a snake have of an eagle?”
“Which am I?” Husband asked.
“It was a white man’s question, of the sort not meant to be answered.” She paused long enough to let him know that she was on to something new. “Husband?”
“Yes, Cripple?”
“Is it only money that we lack?”
“Tch. No. It is face. Second Wife’s brother cannot allow her children to live in the house of a failed witch doctor, one who can not even keep his job with the Bula Matadi.”
“You are not a failed witch doctor! How many potions did you prescribe this week? How many curses did you put in place, or lift?”
“Two people came to see me, an old man and a woman with a baby. I sold the woman a small antelope horn for the baby to wear as an amulet against the night spirits, and I prepared a potion for the old man to drink so that his tree might once again become firm and hard, such as it once was, and no longer the soft useless sapling that it is now—”
“Husband,” Cripple said, not caring that she interrupted, because Husband almost never beat her, “does this tree of which you speak press its foliage against his groin, so that it grows upside down?”
“Kah!” Husband slapped his thighs, he laughed so hard. “Cripple, the priest at my Catholic school would not approve of you.”
“Husband, nor would I approve of him.”
“Nevertheless, Cripple, we cannot stay in this house, for when the rains
come to stay we shall drown like the toads that fall in the privy. And as we do not own this land, we have nothing to sell or trade that is of any value except for a few useless potions and bits of animals tied on to raffia strings.”
Cripple sank to her haunches. “But Husband, what are you saying? These things—these potions and animal parts—they are full of magic. Surely they have value.”
Husband sighed, and suddenly the village sounds were far less soothing. Cripple thought that she already knew the answer—at least part of it. For many years already it had troubled her mind that such ordinary things, items gathered by Husband’s own hands, should somehow become magic simply because he declared them to be so. An antelope horn was a horn—simply that. Yet there were indeed herbs and potions—such as the aphrodisiac—that did appear to work.
“Wife,” Husband said, “I have powders that soothe, and some to ease pain, and the one of which we spoke that makes the male member hard, but as for the spirit world, it is you, the heathen, who seems to be better connected than I.”
“Aiyee,” Cripple said, “now that it is dark, let us not speak of that world.” She struggled to her feet. “Come, rise if you wish and light the kerosene lantern. Meanwhile I will look for food in what remains of the hut. Surely Second Wife will have left us something.”
“E, Cripple,” Husband said, rising quickly from his chair. “You are a good wife. I need not worry.”
“Kah! Husband, indeed you must worry, for I have become as forgetful as an old man of fifty years!” Cripple hastily unwrapped her head cloth. “Look what the white mamu has generously supplied for our supper!”
She proudly displayed a feast of two chicken legs, four boiled eggs, a third of a loaf of homemade bread, a slab of Blue Band margarine, and two very ripe, somewhat spotted bananas. Husband squatted to better examine the goods.
“Wife,” said Husband, “truly I am astounded. What is the meaning of this? What is it that the white mamu desires of you?”
“Husband, it is not what she desires; it is something else that she offers.”
Husband looked longingly at the chicken legs and then back into his wife’s eyes. “Cripple, you are a very wise woman. But a wise woman seldom marries a fool. I know that you find her offer most attractive, am I right?”
“Very much so.”
“At the same time, you dare not refuse her demand—for indeed there is a demand as well. Am I right again?”
“Yes, Husband. You are so often right,” Cripple said, in just the right tone to make Husband smile with satisfaction.
“Then please explain.”
“There is to be a fete given in honor of the new white mamu tonight. I am to be there as—ah—”
“Servant?”
“Nasha! I am there to give her comfort should she need it; she is just a child, after all, and the ways of the white man are still very strange to her.”
“Where is this fete? At the Missionary Rest House?”
“Nasha. It is at the house of the OP.”
“Kah! Cripple, that man would have seen you dead!”
“Then think, Husband. Is this not the perfect revenge? The Muluba woman, Cripple, alive in his very own house and with his white Mushilele daughter?”
Husband jumped to his feet. “What dangerous words leave your mouth, my wife? Behold, the night has ears!”
“No, husband, it is true! You will see; you will hear. All Belle Vue will hear of this, for tonight all the servants will bring back this news. Believe me; Protruding Navel’s tongue is now more tired than a bitch in heat.”
“How will you get there, my wife? Will you walk all the way down the hill, and across the bridge in the dark with the jackals and hyenas nipping at your heels? And you a cripple?”
“E.”
“You will not.”
Cripple’s heart pounded. This was her one opportunity to see a Belgian fete. In fact, she hadn’t ever been in a Belgian house, and the only group of Belgians she had ever been around were the ones who had come to watch her hang. Husband was not going to stop her from attending, and neither were the hyenas. If she had to, she would feed Husband to the hyenas, or vice versa.
“Husband,” she said, careful to not raise her voice, “if I do not show up tonight, I will lose my job. Then we will have even less to eat, which, as you know, will not be good for that which now grows inside me.”
“Eyo. But you will not walk there, because I will carry you. Now, shut up—please—and eat a chicken leg and at least one egg before we start out on your adventure.”
The OP was as proud as one of the long-tailed birds that flitted about on the lawn in front of his office. It was only the males that had these ridiculously, dangerously long tales, and they used them to impress their mates. What the OP had was a gorgeous daughter, if you overlooked the fact that she was missing her two front teeth and had a raised scar that slashed across each cheekbone.
The Bashilele had a natural grace, and she was a quick study, this one, so if you made it past her hair—which the American girl had further managed to tame—and the girl’s mouth was closed, you were in for a bit of a shock when she did smile. The feedback was universal: she was breathtakingly beautiful except for her teeth. Well now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? That could be fixed. Assuming, of course that fatherhood was something he really wanted. Perhaps that had been the case at one time, but even if so, he’d outgrown those feelings years ago.
This creature before him—well, she was just that: a bizarre creature. A chimera. Half savage, half the ideal of European perfection. But as for her being his daughter for longer than it took for his plan to work—
“Monsieur OP,” Madame Cabochon said, lightly touching his elbow.
The OP turned, his troubled thoughts suddenly soothed. Now here was a real beauty, through and through. As stupid as a draft horse, of course, and about as graceful on the dance floor, but what did that matter? When Madame Cabochon missed a dance step she had a habit of falling into her partner’s arms like an invalid stolen from her sick bed. With Madame Cabochon’s charms draped across one’s body, adherence to form was no longer the burning issue.
“Ah, you are a vision in purple,” the OP murmured, his words rendered indecipherable by proximity to the gramophone.
“I believe this is yours,” she said, and made a great show of placing the envelope in his hand. One or two people actually applauded at her fine performance.
“What is it?” he asked.
“How should I know? One of the blacks passed it off.”
“Which one?”
“Which one? You can’t be serious.”
The OP ripped the thick, creamy white envelope open with a calloused forefinger. Well, whoever wrote it certainly had good taste.
“Undoubtedly an invitation,” the OP said grimly. “Dinner with someone I see every day. Someone with the wit of a stone, and a wife like a cabbage, and a cook who studied in an English boarding school. Just because I’m a recent widower, every hausfrau in town—pardon me, madame—thinks I’m fair game.”
Madame Cabochon reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair back off the OP’s forehead. “I’m more than just a pretty face, Monsieur OP; I’m also rather well educated. My advanced degrees were in Ancient Greek and Latin—although I minored in Aramaic.”
For just a second or two the OP fanaticized pushing Monsieur Cabochon over one of the low stone walls that traced his many breathtaking terraces. A couple of spots were remote enough that no one would hear the man’s screams over the sound of the falls and the phonograph.
“Ah, if only you were single, Madame Cabochon,” he said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek that held promise. At the same time he gave her a gentle push that sent her in the direction of one of the many liveried waiters bearing trays of fancy hors d’oeuvres. Since the OP was the Consortium’s top dog in Belle Vue, and the town’s only grocery store was company owned, one could bet that the food being served was of the finest quality available.
When it was clear that her attention was diverted, the OP opened the paper. The writing had been executed in India ink. The lettering was perfect—almost too perfect. It was, not surprisingly, in French.
Dear Monsieur OP,
This note will undoubtedly come as a surprise to you, so take a moment to digest what I am about to say. And that is this: I have proof that you were involved in the kidnapping of your daughter back in 1945. I kept careful records of all our conversations and every scrap of correspondence. In fact, I was able to record two of those conversations—the most crucial, I believe—and I am keeping them in a safe place.
Should something untoward happen to me, every bit of this information will be released to the police—both here, and at the provincial level. After all, at that point, what will I have to lose?
So what are my demands, you might ask? Well, they are much like our original demands—but adjusted for the price of inflation. In other words, I am asking for the equivalent of $1,000,000 in uncut diamonds to be delivered, via special courier, to my agent across the border in Angola. You have three days to get this parcel together.
Sincerely yours,
Mastermind.
The OP felt sick. He staggered to the nearest terrace wall, and then, bracing himself by placing his hands on his knees, he retched into the hibiscus shrubs immediately below. At least such was his intention. Specks of his stomach contents, however, became airborne by an updraft and wafted across the terrace, creating an unpleasant moment for the revelers.
“My apologies,” the OP shouted down at his disgruntled inferiors.
What an unfortunate turn of events; one must never debase oneself in front of one’s employees, for if the curtain of mystique is rent, the peasants might revolt. The OP shoved the offending piece of paper deep into the pocket of his dinner jacket, where he found a silk handkerchief just right for dabbing at his mouth. The trick now was to dab casually. There, like that. Because he was top dog and he willed it to be so, his dignity was now restored.