The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  “Forgive me, Monsignor,” she said. “I trust that I did not wake you.”

  “You are forgiven, madame, for indeed you did.”

  Ooh la la. The man was not making this easy. However, he was still a man—and a virile one at that. Madame Cabochon had a knack for smelling things as arcane as a man’s sex drive. Some very young, muscular boys she’d dated had scored a zero in that department, whereas one very scrawny bookish type she’d met on a trip to the Left Bank in Paris had made her bells chime like a Mozart concerto played on a carillon. And just because a man wore the collar didn’t mean he didn’t give off that certain smell. That smell wasn’t something one’s vows could eradicate.

  “You do not attend matins?”

  He smiled sleepily. “It should surprise me if this was your business.”

  Madame Cabochon recoiled at his bluntness. By now, surely, there was no point for her to state the purpose of her visit.

  “Again, I apologize. I will see myself out, Monsignor.” She backed away, head down, and was about to turn when he said her name.

  “Colette?”

  “Naughty Boy Albert?”

  “Ah, it is you! Little Colette Underpants from Stanleyville.”

  Madame Cabochon alternated between laughing and gasping. “I can’t—uh—believe it. Naughty Boy Albert, the boy who made me play the Underpants Game every time I visited my cousins in Belle Vue.”

  “Oui, but it was your cousins who taught me the game. How old were we, four? Five at most?”

  “Six,” she said, “Albert—may I call you that?”

  “I insist.”

  “This is unbelievable! How did you recognize me?”

  “Father Reutner said that you were living here. He described you for me; I must say, his description did not do you justice.”

  “That comes as no surprise to me. And of course I knew that a Monsignor Clemente had come to visit, but I had no idea that it was the naughty little boy who lived up the street from Cousins Jacques and Marie. You know, back then I never even knew your last name. Twenty years later, and just look what happened to you! You’re all grown up.”

  He laughed. “Funny, Colette, how twenty years for you somehow became forty-five years for me.”

  “It could be that you’re just hopelessly bad at math. Although I must say that you’re very good at remembering names. Surely I’ve changed a bit since you saw me last.” She couldn’t resist two more tugs on the kelly green blouse.

  “One could not exaggerate the difference.”

  “Does it please you?”

  “Colette, I too have changed. I’ve taken the vow of celibacy: I am no longer Naughty Boy Albert.” At least he had the decency to wink as he said this.

  “Of course, Monsignor, I was only joking. Life is very boring here, as I’m sure you must remember.”

  His dark eyes twinkled. “I seriously doubt that life anywhere within one hundred kilometers of you is boring. Madame, I was there at the scene of the monstrous snake. I watched as you stood up to that tyrant with all the bravery of a resistance fighter. I can only imagine what you must be like the rest of the time with all that spunk—that energy. May I be so bold as to say: your husband is a lucky man?”

  Mon Dieu! The man of God might not intend to do so, but he was igniting some very dry, flammable kindling. Very well, she would continue with her mission, and let his Boss sort it out! But first she had a thing or too on her mind that needed to be aired.

  “You were pretty brave yourself,” she said. “Maybe too brave.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, you’ve been gone a long time; you’ve missed out on a lot. The rate things have been heating up—young men like that mean what they say. Some of them really are out for blood. I can smell it in the air. It isn’t even 1959 yet, and already some whites with young families are sending their children back to Belgium. By the end of next year there will be a full-blown exodus; just wait and see. Oh—but you won’t be here, will you?”

  “Colette, my superiors—”

  “Oui, the fat old men in Rome in orange capes; what do they care about some poor Belgian housewife living in the heart of darkest Africa? Perhaps if we shipped them some altar boys—”

  “Enough!” he said.

  His sharp tone surprised her. “Bon. Believe it or not, the purpose of this visit was not to offend you. I am here to invite you to our home—that of Monsieur Cabochon and myself—for a dinner party Saturday night at eight P.M. I realize that you have your own chauffeur with you, but to minimize the scandal on your part, I will send my chauffeur to pick you up at half past seven.”

  He said nothing, merely regarded her under long dark lashes. Those lashes would be the envy of any woman.

  “There will be plenty of other people there,” she added, “so you needn’t worry. But our cook is fairly new, so I can’t promise about the food. However, I assure you that the conversation will be absolutely scintillating.”

  “Wonderful. Does this mean then that the American will be there?”

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “I could not miss seeing her at the great muma event—she with the native woman in the wheelbarrow. Tell me, Colette, do you still remember your Tshiluba?”

  “It was never my language,” she snapped. “I was only visiting my cousins. But yes, I speak it now.”

  He merely smiled; it was the irritatingly benevolent smile of a man who had mastered his emotions. Self-righteous smugness, that’s what it really was.

  “Have you even met the American?” she asked.

  “Oui. Like you, she is an accomplished linguist—altogether a very intelligent young woman. Colette, on the surface the two of you are very different; but I think that if you gave each other half a chance, you would find that you really have a lot in common. Who knows, you could even become fast friends.”

  Madame Cabochon felt like retching. How could Monsignor Clemente, aka Naughty Boy Albert, compare Belle Vue’s most brilliantly colored sunbird, one with iridescent feathers, to a common house sparrow? An American house sparrow?

  “I don’t think that the American would feel comfortable at my dinner party. I will be serving alcohol, and people will be smoking. To the Protestants those are both evil things.”

  “Hmm. Well, I shall have to have a talk with whoever passes as their pope. Perhaps I can get her special dispensation—Protestant style.”

  “She can come,” Madame Cabochon said. She turned and left the rectory without as much as inclining her head. Naughty Boy Albert be damned.

  The suicide month was not a popular time to vacation at the Missionary Rest House. Topographically speaking, Belle Vue was not situated high enough to provide relief from the humidity, which, combined with the temperature, made it feel like you were breathing through a hot wet washcloth. As a consequence, Amanda Brown was without any guests for the first time since her arrival in the Belgian Congo three months ago. This gave her the luxury of taking her meals when she pleased; it did not, however, guarantee that she could eat undisturbed.

  “Mamu Ugly Eyes,” a male voice said, “may I at last get your attention?”

  Amanda looked up from a July issue of the Saturday Evening Post. It was one that she had brought with her and that had miraculously managed to survive the plane crash that was her introduction to this diamond-producing town. She read it now not for information, or to be entertained, but for the connection to home as she scanned the familiar words.

  “Protruding Navel,” she said to her head housekeeper with remarkable patience, “why did you not simply say ‘Excusez mois,’ like the other houseboys in Bell Vue? I do not possess eyes in the top of my head.”

  He snorted. “Mamu, I am the son of a chief, and you are but a woman. It is you who must take into account my presence and inquire as to my purpose for standing here.”

  �
�I see. Very well. In my country, the men are also in charge. They are the chiefs and in most cases their wives are told to obey them.”

  He nodded with apparent approval.

  “Of course then a silly woman like me knows nothing about money. Therefore I am afraid, Protruding Navel, that before I can pay your salary I must write off to America and make arrangements for a man to give me specific instructions. After all, I would hate to make a mistake. At any rate, it may take a couple of months; I thought you might like to know this.”

  Amanda had often heard the expression “like a deer caught in the headlights,” and now she knew exactly what it meant. Was she lying to Protruding Navel? Perhaps—although she preferred to think of it as misleading; anyway, it was to make a point.

  “Mamu Ugly Eyes,” he said quickly, “there is someone at the door who wishes to see you.”

  “Oh? Why did you not say so?”

  “Because you did not ask.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A man.”

  “What sort of man?”

  “It is the Bula Matadi, Mamu.”

  The man in question was the Rock Breaker—the white police captain, the handsome young Belgian whom Amanda was sweet on. Just the mention of him sent a tingle of pleasure running up the young woman’s spine.

  She glanced at her image in what remained of her coffee: unfortunately, the inky liquid was not a flattering reflector. Where did those jowls come from? And how long had she had that pimple on her forehead? It was the humidity that was to blame. In South Carolina, even in the height of the summer, she had never experienced anything like this.

  “Show him in,” she said. “And then please bring another plate.”

  But when Pierre strode in a moment later, he refused to sit. Neither did he kiss Amanda—not even on the cheek. Well, that would certainly have been career suicide if he had, but still, a girl can always dream. After all, a Belgian girl would—a Belgian woman would surely have been kissed. Why must missionaries—Protestant missionaries in particular—always be so proper? Yes, Protruding Navel would have gossiped like nobody’s business, but what would the harm have been in that?

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Brown,” he said and shook her hand. A handshake? Ugh!

  “Bonjour, Capitaine,” she enunciated crisply.

  He scanned the room in all the directions, including both open doorways and what lay beyond. Then he waited.

  “Protruding Navel,” Amanda called. “Please bring some coffee and a croissant for Captain Jardin.”

  A loud snicker was heard from the short hallway that led to the kitchen. Protruding Navel stepped from the shadows where he had hidden, pressed up against the wall.

  “Mamu, you know very well that there are no croissants to be found in this American palace. From you one often hears the complaint that this silly variety of French bread is too messy, too messy even to be eaten in a pig’s house. Is this not the truth?”

  Amanda could feel the color rush to her cheeks. “That will be quite enough,” she said. “You are dismissed. Now please go outside and gather fallen mangoes.”

  “Tshinyi?”

  “You heard; now go.”

  “Tch,” he said, but he sauntered off.

  “Now please, Pierre,” Amanda said, “don’t keep me waiting a second longer. What is it? Is it news from home? What brings you here so early?”

  Pierre scooped up Amanda’s slender hands and held them between his. “There was a murder in the village last night,” he said.

  Amanda gasped softly.

  Chapter 11

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  The chief held his ceremonial staff in the air, signaling silence. The wood was smooth and dark from generations of hands and hearth fires; it was impossible now to tell the type of tree from which it had come. From the top of the pole dangled the skull of a rhesus monkey, the flowing black-and-white tail of a colobus monkey, and a cluster of porcupine quills. A topknot of bright red feathers from the tail of an African gray parrot had been glued to the tip of the rod, just for show.

  Immediately the men fell silent; it is quite possible even that some were afraid that ill fortune might befall them next. For at a feast such as this, where one man falls upon the other, only the fool would not be so dull as to think that he was entirely safe from mischief.

  Chapter 12

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Father Reutner had noticed the lone man enter the rear of the church. He couldn’t help but keep an eye on the fellow throughout Mass if only because he was taller than all the women, and because his white shirt stuck out like a poultice among their colorful wraps. When it came time to receive the Eucharist, however, the stranger remained in his pew, his head bowed.

  There was something about the way this man glanced around wildly, like a yearling horse, then bowed his head intently during the prayers—too intently, in fact—that gave Father Reutner the distinct impression he had another Protestant on his hands. Well, a convert from Protestantism was better than none. Lately, for every convert he was able to get on the rolls, the church lost two communicants to the cults.

  Ach, the cults! They were getting more and more ridiculous. Why, this latest one was said to revolve around the figure of an African prophet named Kibangu, who, like Jesus, had conquered death. Supposedly he had died in a fire, in a locked house, and had been seen walking unharmed among the flames. His followers numbered among the thousands and called themselves the Apostles. They dressed in white robes and carried staves. But instead of preaching love and redemption, they walked from village to village preaching vengeance against the Belgians.

  Three weeks ago this coming Sunday his sermon was interrupted by one of their firebrands shouting that when independence finally came, those Congolese with enough faith to have built a “garage”—a tshitanda—would magically receive an automobile. Of course, driving an automobile would require knowledge of European technology, and the best way to get that was from European brains—literally. Osmosis for the masses.

  “We will kill you, white man,” the interloper had shouted. “Then we will take your brains and mix it with palm oil. This salve we will then rub on our heads. After one night’s sleep we shall wake the following morning with all the knowledge that you, the white devil, keeps secret from us so that we cannot progress.”

  “But I keep nothing secret from you—or anyone,” Father Reutner had answered. He later decided that his tone had been that of a beggar. He’d been a coward in his own church. How could he expect more souls to convert, to stand up to the old ways, if he, the supposed shepherd, wanted nothing more than to bolt from the flock before the wolves closed in entirely.

  It would be different now. For one thing, he’d been praying for strength over the last three weeks. Besides, now there was just him and the lone man in the back pew: it was somehow different if the congregation wasn’t there to watch him lose face.

  “Muoyo webe,” he said cautiously. Life to you.

  The African jumped to his feet and extended a calloused hand. “Eh, muoyo webe, muambi.”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “Want, master? I do not want anything—but to know your God.”

  Father Reutner reared as if by chance he’d encountered a poisonous snake laid across his path. A direct conversion request like this, especially one coming from a man, was highly unusual.

  “Who put you up to this?” The words had tumbled out unbidden.

  “Kah!”

  “Toh, toh, toh!” No, no, no! “That is not what I meant to say. Please sit and we will discuss this matter.”

  The African was clearly agitated, but he sat anyway. Father Reutner had seen the same look in a goat’s eyes just before the animal’s throat was slit. If this was a genuine request on the man’s part, the priest was prepared to assign himself a substantial amount of penance fo
r having been so quick to judge.

  “Muambi,” the African said even as he sat, “my name is Jonathan Pimple. For many years I have been a Protestant, and I have believed that I was a Christian. However, recently I have heard from others that only you Catholics are the true Christians. Is this so?”

  As tired as he was, Father Reutner still felt his heart beat faster at the prospect of snatching a soul away from the competition. “Ah—Monsieur Pimple, a Christian is a follower of Jesus Christ, and so I cannot in good conscience make the claim that the Protestants are not Christians. But I can say most emphatically that if it is entry into heaven that you seek, then you have come to the right place. Only a person baptized as a Roman Catholic is eligible for entry into heaven.”

  “E, muambi, I desire your heaven very much.”

  “Is that so? What is it about our heaven that you desire, Monsieur Pimple?”

  “I have heard it is a place of peace. And rest. And where I will at last get a house that will not fall down in the next big storm.”

  Father Reutner laughed despite his reservations. “Very well; I will convert you. It will involve much study—unless, hmm. Let us hope that this situation does not arise.”

  “Unless what, muambi? You must tell me so that I can be prepared.”

  “Unless the Protestants try to win you back. Then I will convert you at once. Now then, I suppose we can begin our first lesson right here. Tell me everything you know about the One True Faith.”

  The African shrugged.

  “Well, what did they teach you about God in the Protestant faith?”

  “That he had but one son whose name was Jesus Christ, and that Jesus died so that everyone might go to live in heaven with him, even the Catholics—but only if they repent of their sin.”

  “Gott in Himmel!” Father Reutner felt all the blood in his face rush to the one big vein in his forehead. “What sin is that?”