by Tamar Myers
When the door slammed behind them, Pierre turned to Birthmark in a more serious vein. “Friend,” he said, “why is that you reported to work so early today?”
“It was the time I always come in, Monsieur Capitain. I must have the first cup of coffee ready for Monsieur Cabochon by five.”
“In the morning?”
“Truly, truly.”
“But that is ridiculous!”
“Monsieur Capitain, you are free to say that; I am not. That is, if I wish to keep my job.”
“I see.” Pierre turned to go. There were so many other people he needed to check on, things that he needed to get done today. “Birthmark,” he said, “you’d better get started on that coffee. Tuite suit. No more looking at the white man’s foolishness.”
“E.”
“And just so you know; if you were ever to visit Belgium, no one would kill you—out of vengeance, I mean.”
“They would have no reason to, monsieur.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was so much Dorcas Middleton needed to confess, she didn’t know where to begin. Amanda had insisted on sitting in the back, along with the OP’s daughter, because Dorcas’s panel truck had only two seats in front. That was when Dorcas pulled out the card of age and rank of senior missionary and practically ground them into the gravel under her high-heeled oxfords.
Now, with a sullen Amanda up front, she had to choose each word carefully. Her task, as she saw it, was not to exonerate herself—oh no, she was far too old to worry about her physical self. Her task was to see, now that there was no hope that the Bashilele could benefit from the OP and his diamond mine, that at least his daughter could.
“Amanda, I have committed a grievous sin.”
“So have I,” the girl said.
Oh my; that wasn’t at all what Dorcas had been expecting. She couldn’t help it if she choked on a few words and snorted—all of them unladylike sounds associated with women who have been living alone for too long.
Amanda ignored Dorcas’s strange utterances. “I was involved in a drunken-driving accident that claimed the lives of eleven people,” she said. “Was yours as grievous a sin as that? Every day I wonder what these people would be doing if they were still alive, because I knew them all—except for two, who were from out of town.
“These two were a middle-aged couple from Vermont that had just gotten married and had driven to the South on their honeymoon. They’d taken the small back roads because they thought they would be more scenic. They just didn’t take into account a couple of cars full of drunken teenagers playing leapfrog with their cars up and down the hills of western York County.”
Dorcas prayed for clear speech. “Amanda, if I understand the Bible correctly, there is no one sin greater than another. But the good news is that all sins can be forgiven—well, that is, all sins but that of rejecting God.”
“What was your sin, Dorcas?”
The old woman resumed speaking again in a clear, strong voice. “The girl in the backseat—the girl you know as Ugly Eyes—I knew her as Danielle. Before she was abducted. I was invited to her christening. All the whites in the sector were invited to her christening in the Belle Vue Roman Catholic Church, and of course, that included all the Protestant missionaries.
“But this particular group of Protestants is a stiff-necked bunch and none of them would go—well, except for me. Thus began a friendship of sorts between myself and a number of the Belgians, the baby’s mother in particular. You see, Heilewid was a very high-strung woman—neurotic even—very unsure of herself. She was in need of a good nanny—a baba—and had heard that the best babas were trained at Protestant mission schools, and could I recommend any. That’s when Satan first put the plot in my mind.”
Amanda turned, suddenly all ears. “What plot?”
“The plot to ease the plight of Bashilele girls—the ones who don’t want to get married before they are physically developed.”
“Please, go on; I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I needed money to do so. A great deal of money. So I kidnapped the daughter of the OP—the Consortium’s OP. But something went terribly wrong, wouldn’t you know, and the child went missing, even though no harm was to come to her.”
Dorcas stopped there because she knew that Amanda was a very bright young woman, bright enough in fact to fill in the blanks. She didn’t have long to wait.
“All this is because of you?” Amanda hissed.
“Yes, all this is because of me. And it gets even worse.”
“It can’t possibly.” Amanda put her hands to her ears, but didn’t cover them tightly. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I can’t believe a missionary is telling me this.”
“Not that it makes any difference—because sin is sin—but I thought that the money that the Consortium was stealing from the natives might as well go to a good cause. The whole thing—my kidnapping plot—was supposed to last less than a week. More like three days.”
Amanda pointed to Ugly Eyes in the backseat, acknowledging her presence for the first time. “And now this girl has to pay the price.”
“Yes, she must pay the price.” And so must I, Dorcas thought. The girl is young; she has a fighter’s spirit. She has it in her to survive, no matter what. But I am old; I will turn eighty next month on American Thanksgiving Day. However, I do not expect to celebrate, for what I have done will pull me down to my grave. The price that I will pay for having listened to Satan and concocting such a foolish plan, the price is my life. I feel it in my bones; I feel it in my soul. Redemption will only come with death.
“Why do you take her back?”
“Because she wills it. She is like a flower that has been uprooted and is wilting for lack of water. Amanda, you know it, and I know it; she is as African as your housekeeper, Cripple.”
They rode in silence then until they reached the dirt path that led to Ugly Eyes’ secluded village. Much to Dorcas’s great surprise, before stepping out of the truck to say good-bye to her friends, Amanda laid her hand gently on Dorcas’s arm.
“What you did was wrong,” she said. “I’m not saying it wasn’t. But if I had to choose between growing up as the OP’s daughter and having this girl’s father as my daddy, I think that I might pick the latter. Just as long as I didn’t have to eat too many icky things.”
“Or get married when you were ten,” Dorcas said. Oh, why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? But Amanda laughed—although perhaps nervously.
Then, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, for nobody had made a move to disembark, not even Ugly Eyes, Amanda removed her hand from Dorcas’s arm, and then leaning away from her, cocked her head.
“What are you going to do next?” Amanda asked.
Dorcas knew exactly what she meant. “I plan to drive straight to Luluaburg and turn myself in to the provincial authorities there. I was hoping that you would come along so that you could drive the car back.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But why not turn yourself in to Pierre?”
“I’ve known Pierre since he too was a baby, and I am ashamed to face him just now. Please, Amanda, allow an old lady this one piece of vanity.”
“You bet,” Amanda said, and she sounded every bit as sad as Dorcas felt. “Who am I to judge?”
Dorcas had driven as far as she could. From there the only way to reach the Bashilele village was to walk. Amanda couldn’t help but feel relieved when the younger Ugly Eyes, the real Ugly Eyes, refused to allow them to journey with her farther.
It wasn’t just the prospect of returning in the blazing sun, or being rewarded with aching muscles; she had the health of an octogenarian to be concerned about. All right, so there was more to it than that. Amanda shuddered every time she remembered the less-than-stellar reception she’d received her first time to the village. Now to return without the girl’s father and with the girl herself very much changed—why, she would be nothing more than a thief returning damaged goods, and with half of them
missing.
“We laugh and we cry,” Ugly Eyes said to Dorcas. Thank you.
“Mmm,” Dorcas grunted. She shook hands stiffly with the girl and then climbed back in her truck.
“Perhaps we will see each other again,” Amanda said. Her eyes, which were fixed on an acacia tree halfway to the purple horizon, had begun to puddle.”
Ugly Eyes said nothing for a long time and then: “When you see my father, please tell him where I am.”
“Yes, of course.”
Ugly Eyes coughed softly. It was the African’s way of letting the European know that they had to get a move on. It was time to go.
“Yaya bimpe,” Amanda said. Go well.
“Shala bimpe.” Stay well.
You see? Amanda thought. The girl didn’t really resent her. Someday soon, maybe very soon, like when independence came to the colony and the black population began to extract retribution against the whites—well, she’d think about that later. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Excuse me, madame,” Detective Fermat said to Dorcas Middleton. “I mean this as kindly as possible, but has the sun cooked your brain?”
“That is very rude, monsieur,” Amanda interjected. “This woman is eighty years old, for heaven’s sake. Show her some respect!”
Since arriving in Luluaburg, almost three hours ago, Dorcas and Amanda had been put through the wringer—and now this! Yes, Amanda didn’t have to be a part of this; she certainly could have dropped the elderly missionary off at the police headquarters and then driven off, but that was not in her nature. Well, she wished to heck it was now.
For starters, no one believed that an American missionary woman, acting alone, had kidnapped the baby in the famous Belle Vue kidnapping case. They couldn’t even get past the outer lobby for the first hour. They couldn’t even get behind the door marked Les Blancs. Whites.
Finally they were directed to an English-speaking detective, one who’d been educated at Cambridge, no less, but he was an insensitive idiot. Well, he’d underestimated Amanda Brown. Maybe she lacked power, but she was chock full of persistence, and someday, somehow, she would make sure that he was going to get what he deserved.
“You see, mademoiselle,” Detective Fermat said, turning to look directly at Amanda, as if he could read her thoughts, “in the old days, when people of Miss Middleton’s generation—be they missionaries, government, or business, first arrived in the Belgian Congo, they were told that they simply must keep a pith helmet on their heads at all times. Only mad dogs and Englishmen went around bareheaded in the noonday sun, it was said. A tale was circulated of one man who challenged this edict and almost instantaneously dropped dead of heatstroke.
“But now I see that neither you, nor Miss Middleton, are wearing any type of head covering. So tell me, Miss Brown, has the sun cooled by a number of degrees, or have your brains cooked as well? That would certainly explain such a preposterous story.”
“Preposterous?”
“Miss Brown, look here, even if you are telling the truth—I mean, what is the point in having the old gal confess?”
“Because I’m guilty,” Dorcas said through clenched teeth. She’d been sitting quietly throughout Amanda’s exchange with the detective. Her hands were folded in her lap and tears were coursing down the deep creases in her cheeks.
“Aha, so now you speak! Well then, answer my question, Miss Middleton. Have you been faithfully wearing your pith helmet every time you step outside, particularly between the hours of ten in the morning and four in the afternoon?”
“No, sir, I have not. But I have lived in the Congo so many years that—”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? You have lived in the Congo too many years. This type of dementia is very common amongst members of the Caucasian race who have lived too long in equatorial lands, especially those who have not bothered to cover their heads. Madame, I cannot take your confession seriously. I will, however, make reference to your visit in my notes. In the meantime, I suggest that you see a doctor for treatment.”
“Treatment?” Dorcas cried. “For what?”
“My dear, for heat-induced dementia.” Detective Fermat turned to Amanda. “Perhaps I should be speaking to you.”
“This is outrageous,” Amanda said, her voice rising a full octave.
Detective Fermat cocked his head, a sad smile appeared briefly on a face lined by cares far more important than the bizarre tale spun by two crazy American missionaries. “What would you have me do?” he said. “Shall I call in a magistrate? Shall I arrange for a trial and send this old woman to prison for the rest of her life? No? Oh, that’s right, because here, in the Belgian Congo, we hang kidnappers.”
“I—I—well, I originally came just to give her comfort,” Mademoiselle Amanda Brown said. She began to cry.
“That’s what I thought,” Detective Fermat said. It was absolutely impossible for an American missionary to even contemplate kidnapping the infant daughter of an important Belgian company official like the Operations Manager of the Consortium Mining Company of Belle Vue. Therefore, these women were utterly confused, did not belong in his office, and were both wasting his valuable time. “Please see yourselves out,” he said tiredly.
“Yes sir,” Amanda said. It was difficult to say who was crying harder at this point: Mademoiselle Brown, or Mademoiselle Middleton.
“Just one last detail, Mademoiselle Brown.”
“Yes,” Mademoiselle Brown blubbered.
“Captain Pierre Jardin of Belle Vue called in via shortwave radio this morning.”
The young woman blushed. “Oui?”
“He was worried about you. He said there was no one at the missionary residence except a man with an enlarged navel”—the detective glanced down at his scribbles on a piece of yellow paper—“and he spoke to a crippled woman. At any rate, he had a hunch that you might be headed here, so I wasn’t exactly unprepared.”
“Pierre knows? I don’t see how—”
“Mademoiselle, this is a man you may wish to keep—if you know what I mean.”
“She does, and she will,” Mademoiselle Middleton said. She didn’t sound the least bit addled then.
The sun was warm on Ugly Eyes’ back as she topped the last rise. Ahead lay her village, just as she remembered it, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the last few days. Of course for the village, nothing untoward had happened. Roosters crowed, hens clucked, goats bleated, smoke rose from cook fires, babies cried, and women laughed. Women laughed.
The laughter of women as they set about doing their daily chores. Next to her mother, that is what Ugly Eyes had missed the most about village life. White people were so serious, their mouths perpetually pulled down at the corners, their foreheads so quick to pucker. Ugly Eyes did not know of a single village woman who bore a vertical crease between her eyes, yet almost every woman at the party the night before had at least the beginnings of one.
Although she had not so much as closed her eyes the night before, the sight of her village filled her with new energy and her feet became light and swift like that of a gazelle. As she neared the first houses children ran out to greet her and follow along, as did their dogs, and soon, there was a great pack, composed of dozens of young, strong legs pounding the smooth packed earth, practically in unison.
“What is it?” this woman or that would ask in a startled voice.
“It is only Ugly Eyes, the Headhunter’s Daughter. She returns by herself.”
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
“He is dead,” another answered.
And so by the time Ugly Eyes wound her way around the spiral and into the heart of the village, where her parents’ hut stood, Mother had heard the word that Father was dead. The message had rung true to her heart, but she waited until she saw her daughter before dropping to the ground in order that they might express their grief together.
“Wait!” Ugly Eyes pulled at her mother’s
arms. “Mother, from whom did you hear this news?”
Mother rose to her knees. She wished to bury her face in her daughter’s familiar scent, but it was no longer there. Instead, her daughter had no smell; at best she smelled like springwater.
“Listen, the cry goes up throughout the village; your father is dead.”
“That is because I have returned alone. These people know nothing.”
“Eyo, but my heart knows. News of your father’s death was carried by the unseen spirits that accompanied you. At first it was a whisper so soft that I could not be sure of what was said, but now I hear the spirits clearly, and they are shouting your father’s name alongside the voices of our people.”
“Aiyee,” Ugly Eyes cried. “This cannot be so!”
“But it is so, my daughter. For why else would you leave the village of the white man and return here without your father?”
“I do not know, Mother. Truly, I do not know! There was an opportunity which presented itself, and Father could not be found—”
Mother remained kneeling and clasped her odorless, weeping daughter tightly to her bosom. “Listen to me,” she said, “for this is a matter of great importance.”
“E.”
“Yesterday the slave chief ordered the village to move, but I would not, because I feared that your father might have difficulty in finding us. On my account Iron Sliver would not leave, and soon another would not leave, and then another, and then so on, until it was decided by the village council that we would all remain here waiting for word from either you or your father. After all, the manioc has already been planted, and the game is plentiful, now that rains have come and the new grass sprouts forth.”