by Tamar Myers
“Muoyo wenu,” she said. Life to you.
“Eh, muoyo webe,” the cluster of four said.
“What are you doing here?” Dorcas asked.
“This girl,” Amanda Brown said, gesturing to the child, who should have gone by the name Danielle. “She desires only to go home. The stream that feeds these diamond-bearing gravel pits—uh—many, many miles from here this same stream passes through the valley behind her village. Theoretically, at least, it is possible for her to follow this stream and end up at home. I mean, it’s been done once before.”
“Then I am sure that it can be done again. Just now—mene mene—a leopard with her cubs came to drink at this pool. She would be glad to accompany the girl—at least part of the way. Then too they say that this valley, which may look like paradise to us Europeans, has one of the highest concentrations of black mambas in just about all of the Congo. And let me remind you that the mamba—nyoka wa ntoka—is one of the deadliest snakes there is.”
“With respect, old woman,” the Mushilele girl said, “I will not be made afraid by the likes of you. I will do what I must do.”
“Bimpe,” Dorcas said, with a smile. Good. “And so you must. In that case, if you dare to ride in my machine, I will drive you back to your village as far as the path will take us. Leopards and snakes will not be a problem, I assure you.”
The girl had the courage to look her straight in the eyes. “The beast that belches and moves without legs does not frighten me; it scares only the little children and old women—such as you!”
Dorcas cackled with delight; they were a few precious seconds of blessed relief. “Well said, well said. Ah, how many will be coming with us?”
“I will,” Amanda Brown said.
Dorcas swallowed. Speaking of snakes in Paradise; there was no need for the young American from South Carolina to ride along, now was there? But since Amanda Brown had been involved in the so-called rescue effort of the child whom Dorcas had abducted, then how could Dorcas refuse her?
“Anyone else?” Dorcas asked.
“My wife and I will return to our home,” the African man said. Without wasting another word he turned and began pushing the wheelbarrow containing the housekeeper named Cripple.
Dorcas Middleton, a.k.a. the Mastermind, had never intended that any of the ransom money be used on her; her needs were simple—like those of a nun. No, the diamonds were to be converted into cash, which would be used for the Lord’s work on the mission station of Lubomo. This was the mission station to which she had been temporarily assigned, and the one which was adjacent to Bashilele territory.
The plight of Bashilele girls had weighed heavy on Dorcas’s heart. They were often betrothed before birth, as locally polygamy had reduced the availability of eligible girls. It had even given rise to the noxious custom of polyandry, whereby some women were obliged to take on more than one mate. Imagine that! So Dorcas felt called on by God to create a girls’ boarding school where these child brides might take refuge and learn their ABCs, as well as their Bibles, instead of what it was like to give birth at age twelve or thirteen, when their pelvises had not yet obtained their full size.
To do this she needed money that the Mission Board claimed not to have—however, she knew that they would agree to the school if she were somehow able to finance it. (Perhaps Dorcas was an heiress and had conveniently neglected to mention that fact when she’d signed up to be a missionary or perhaps a favorite aunt had recently passed.)
After many years of faithful service to the Lord, God in His wisdom introduced her to the OP and his evil ways, and showed her the plan for taking back what was really the Africans’ all along! And that’s how she knew it was God and not the Devil speaking to her this time; because everything about the plan was good, just as God was good.
The diamonds belonged to the Africans, and it was the drunken Monsieur OP who was doing the stealing. God’s plan for returning the profits to the natives was so very simple. Briefly, it went like this: she had given the OP’s governess, Last Born Child, a gift of money—a retirement gift, if you will—in exchange for a small favor. In return, Last Born Child would deliver the OP’s baby safely to the gravel pits, where Dorcas Middleton’s houseboy would drive by to pick them both up.
The Gormans were, at the time, on furlough to America, leaving Dorcas alone on the mission station of Mpata. She envisioned keeping the infant girl no more than three or four days—after all, the Belle Vue vault was already bursting with diamonds. So not only would she get the ransom, but she would miraculously “find” the child on her doorstep and perhaps be the beneficiary of a reward as well. As for Last Born Child, she’d already observed so much deviant and abhorrent behavior on the part of Monsieur OP that she couldn’t wait to get out of that house. There was no need to worry about her double-crossing Dorcas.
The Bashilele girls would be spared the horrors of child-marriage. A well-stocked clinic would be established along with the girls’ school, saving an untold number of lives. The Africans would get back what was theirs to begin with.
No crime would have been committed; no sin would have been committed. At last Dorcas Middletown would be able to retire from the rigors of the Belgian Congo missionary field in peace.
* * *
The Gormans left the Missionary Rest House before first light. It was their assumption that both Dorcas Middleton and Amanda Brown were in their respective rooms sleeping off the effects of the party. After all, the noise had been loud enough to wake the dead up on the hill in the white cemetery. Gawd, if they knew what time Peaches had snuck back to her room, they’d have had a cow. Anyway, it was awfully rude of them to wake her up that early, before even the roosters up in the village had begun making their racket.
Now if they would just shut up and let her go back to sleep in the backseat. Mr. Gorman was confident that the quickest way to get back to the United States was through the city of Luluaburg. It was a large enough city to merit daily flights on Sabena Airlines to the capital city of Leopoldville. If memory served him right, he said, prattling on and on, and on, there were also daily flights to Elizabethville—still in the Belgian Congo—but there were twice-weekly flights to Johannesburg, South Africa, as well as to Salisbury, in Southern Rhodesia. Anyway, Mr. Gorman was going to make arrangements for someone at the Luluaburg mission to drive the car back to Mpata for him.
All that stuff was just yakkety-yak-yak except for the mention of Southern Rhodesia and Salisbury. Peaches Gorman had heard—from kids at her boarding school who had been lucky enough to go there—that Southern Rhodesia was practically like America. The whites all spoke English, as did almost all the blacks, there were lots of shops in Salisbury, and best of all, they had television. Oh, and the official religion was Protestant, not Catholic—not that Peaches much cared one way or another. But then again, there was no point really, in going all ape shit over a boy if your parents were just going to make you break up on account of some stupid religious customs made up by men in skirts.
Or on second thought, maybe there was a point after all: maybe there was a kick to be had in watching the old folks go all ape shit. Hmm, that was worth thinking about later, when her brain was sharper.
Oh phooey, look at the night watchman. He was asleep and didn’t move one muscle when they drove by only an inch from his nose.
“Honk, Daddy,” Peaches said. “Honk, please! Scare the pants off that old drunk! No wait; that might not be a pretty sight.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Gorman said. “Why I declare! I never raised you to talk like that.”
“You didn’t exactly raise me, Mama. You sent me off to boarding school when I was just seven years old. Remember?”
“But dear, I had no choice. Not if I was going to set about doing the Lord’s work.”
“Aren’t I part of the Lord’s work?”
“Peaches,” Mr. Gorman roared. “Don’t be a smart-mouth with your mother! If I have to, I’ll pull over to the side of the road and perform a Prove
rbs 23:13 on you.”
Peaches kept her teenage mouth shut for less than ten seconds; then it took on a life of its own and the words just had to come out. They truly did, or else she was going to burst, or perhaps die from a horrible internal itch that was worse than a million African chigger bites, which were, of themselves, a million zillion times worse than the ones in America.
“What’s that stupid old verse say?” she said.
“That does it,” Mr. Gorman snarled, but he didn’t do anything drastic. He didn’t even slow down. He had never intended to do so. Peaches Louise was the most spoiled child in all of Africa, and if she had lived in America, she would have been the most spoiled child in that country too, and she knew it.
“It says: ‘Do not withhold correction from a child, for if you beat him with a rod, he will not die. You shall beat him with a rod, and deliver his soul from hell.’ ”
“That’s just mean,” Peaches said. “I thought the Bible was supposed to be a good book; about love and that kind of stuff.”
“It is,” Mr. Gorman said. “Don’t you ever read it?”
“I’ll have to agree with Peaches on this one,” Mrs. Gorman said. “There are a lot of things in the Book of Proverbs that give me the willies.”
“Woman!” Mr. Gorman thundered. “I turn your attention now to Proverbs 25:24: ‘It is better to dwell in a corner of a housetop than a house shared with a contentious woman.’ In my case, better make that two contentious women.”
“Mr. Gorman,” said Mrs. Gorman, “need I remind you that you are currently in a vulnerable position?”
Much to Peaches’ utter astonishment, Mr. Gorman burst into tears. His shoulders shook and he started sputtering things about being sorry.
It was so embarrassing that Peaches wanted to die, except that there wasn’t anyone around to see it except a man pushing his wife in a wheelbarrow. (At that moment they happened to be passing the turnoff to Belle Vue’s fabled gravel pits, with its storied ghosts.)
Now wait just one Alabama minute, as Grandma Gorman would say. Wasn’t that woman in the wheelbarrow the same one who worked at the Missionary Rest House? Yes, for sure it was Tshijeku—Cripple.
One thing that set Peaches apart from her parents was that Peaches did not grow up thinking that all black people looked alike. It was probably safe to say that she had seen more black people in her short life than many much older black people in America had seen, or would ever see. Not only did she recognize individual traits, but she could often spot tribal similarities between groups of related clans.
So when Peaches Gorman thought she saw Cripple in the dawn’s early light, she was undoubtedly right. However, she saw no reason to tell her parents this rather interesting tidbit of information. Absolutely no reason at all.
And then something even more interesting happened, and because her parents were so embarrassing and so very mean, she certainly wouldn’t tell them about this. Although you would think that they would notice that there was a car waiting at the turnoff to the gravel pit, and that there were three people inside. After all, it wasn’t like the Congo was overrun with cars, especially once you got out of town.
Now if they had been as attuned to their surroundings as they were always hollering at her to be, then they would have seen the old lady, Aunt Dorcas, the kind of cool young one, Aunt Amanda, and the really strange Mushilele, Ugly Eyes. They would have also seen that about two Alabama minutes after they passed the turnoff, Aunt Dorcas—she was the driver—turned on to the Luluaburg/Belle Vue Road and appeared to be following them. Now how cool was that?
Peaches giggled softly while Mr. Gorman blubbered in the front seat and Mrs. Gorman alternated between words of comfort for her husband and prayers of strength for herself. What had begun as a long boring trip with two of the dullest people you could ever hope to meet on planet Earth had suddenly gotten a lot more interesting. Who cared anymore about Southern Rhodesia?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monsieur Capitain,” the houseboy said, gasping for breath. “You must come to see this!”
The man had been tapping on Pierre’s window like a lunatic woodpecker. He was breathless, not from running so much as from laughing—laughing drunk. Every now and then the brazen fellow actually lost his balance and fell down in the bushes. Of course that set him off even more.
Finally, having ascertained that the houseboy was merely annoying rather than threatening, Pierre flung open the windows of his bedroom. “Go away,” he growled in French. “I could arrest you for drunkenness, you know.”
“But Capitain,” the houseboy protested, “I am not drunk. I am merely amused beyond belief!”
“Pardon?”
“Capitain, I cannot to explain in this French. You must come and see.”
“Do you speak Tshiluba?” Pierre asked in Tshiluba.
“Eyo. That is the language of my mother. But I cannot explain in Tshiluba either. Truly, truly. This is something that the eyes must see for themselves.”
After firing off a string of invectives in a multitude of languages and dialects, Pierre pulled on his work khakis and a pair of shoes, and then vaulted out the window. This stunt of athleticism apparently delighted the houseboy to no end.
“Monsieur Capitain,” he said in awe, “I have heard that you are not like the other Bula Matadi.”
“In what way?”
“You are like a real person, Capitain.”
Pierre couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.”
“They say that you were born in the Congo and that you speak Tshiluba. Is that true?”
“Yes, I was born in Luluaburg.”
“And do you speak Tshiluba?”
“What is your name?”
“Musangu.”
“Listen to me well, Birthmark, what is the language that I am speaking now?”
Birthmark slapped his thighs with mirth. “Capitain, do you not see? You even have a sense of humor, unlike the white man!”
“What is it that you find humorous now, Birthmark?”
“Capitain, just now you started speaking in Tshiluba, but pretended that you did so all along.”
“No, Birthmark, I truly was speaking in Tshiluba all along.”
“Aiyee, Monsieur Capitain, so well do you speak, that I did not hear. On that account, when the revolution comes, I will not kill you, for truly you are one of us.”
For the first time since meeting him, Pierre sensed that Birthmark was deadly serious.
“Thank you,” Pierre said. “Now, is there not something you wish to show me?”
“E, Capitain. Come.”
Birthmark started off at a trot toward the pretentiously named Boulevard des Allies, and then turned left along the boulevard, until just before it merged with the thick tshisuku and brush at the southern end of town. At that hour the almost unbroken canopy of dark green mango leaves overhead gave one the impression of being in a tunnel—that is to say, a tunnel with a dirt floor, and one which had hundreds of squeaking fruit bats returning to roost high in its rafters.
Pierre prided himself on being in shape, but he was no match for Birthmark. If, after the revolution, Birthmark reneged on his promise and decided to come after Monsieur Capitain, he was going to catch him, at this rate. He was huffing and puffing, and sweating like a Flemish whore when they arrived at the Cabochon residence.
“This is the home of my master,” said Birthmark. “I will have no problem killing him.”
“Attention!” Pierre barked in French. “You are speaking to a policeman.”
“So?” said Birthmark with a grin and a shrug. “It will be our country then, will it not?” He lapsed back into his native tongue. “The Bula Matadi will be ours to do with as we please. Some we will put to work for us, as we have worked for them—as slaves in the past—and some we will kill—as they have killed so many of us. But as for this woman, and her enormous breasts and childbearing hips, she will be mine. Now come and see what I have brought you to see. It is very, very h
umorous.”
He switched on a flashlight and led Pierre through a hibiscus hedge and behind the outbuildings to the side yard that bordered on the wilderness. There, supine upon a mattress, and as intertwined as two copulating snakes, lay the stark naked forms of the Cabochons. Their alabaster skin was dotted with angry red welts, many of which had heads of driver ants still attached to them. Beside the mattress, on the short lawn grass, lay a rifle, a double-barreled shotgun, and two empty bottles of Johnnie Walker Black.
It was a scene straight out of one of his worst nightmares. Mon Dieu, he thought, what a waste! Two lives—just because of some damn ants. And that lovely body; it was a sin surely to look a second longer, but her right breast was splayed in his direction, her nipple erect in the cool morning air. And what was that tuft of hair peeking out from beneath Monsieur’s leg? No! Madame Cabochon was not a natural redhead; she was barely even a brunette anymore. The graying sands of time were catching up with her.
Next, still acting Police Capitain, mind you, Pierre gave Monsieur Cabochon a cursory glance. The man was lying on his side with one leg and arm over his wife. His flaccid buttocks were concave, while his shriveled member was so short that it appeared to have gotten lost somewhere in his impressive black bush. Birthmark caught Pierre’s eye and he burst into knowing laughter. “Monsieur Capitain,” he said, when he could finally speak. “I have always wanted to know what a Bula Matadi looked like beneath his clothes. Do all white men have a lubola as short as this?”
Pierre was both amused and annoyed. “These people are dead, Birthmark. Do you want their spirits to follow you home?”
“But Monsieur Capitain, they are not dead; they are only drunk. See?” Birthmark poked at the outstretched hand of Madame Cabochon with what passed for a shoe. Madame Cabochon opened one eye, closed it, and then let out a belch that literally sent into flight a pair of purple plantain eaters that had spent the night in a breadfruit tree on the south edge of the lawn. Pierre found that he was so relieved that his mirth knew no bounds. He pounded the ground, he laughed so hard. In fact, between the pair of them—that is to say, Birthmark and Pierre—their rude behavior was at last responsible for rousing the soused couple and getting them into the house and possibly into some clothes.