by Tamar Myers
“Not only am I a heathen, but I have never been to school.”
“How could I ever forget? But did you not say that you sat outside on the grass while your brother was in school and learned his lessons faster than he did?”
“That is so,” Cripple said.
“Ne?” Husband said.
“Aha!” Cripple said, nodding as the spark of knowledge lit up her eyes. “Jealousy was the motive.”
“E. The headman was envious of the fact that Lazarus Chigger Mite was getting praise for killing the mighty muma. As you know, this would give him great standing in the village—even if there was no goat.” Husband paused and sucked loudly on his teeth. “But perhaps there was, and that goat was indeed stolen by me using my special powers. I am once more a powerful witch doctor, a muena tshihaha.”
“E, but Their Death, you know that your powers—” Cripple grabbed the center pole of the hut and pulled herself clumsily to her feet. “Unh! Their Death, he will kill you next!”
“No—but perhaps he will try.”
“This is terrible; you must go to the police! You must speak with Captain Jardin. You can trust him.”
“Yes, in good time. Do you know this thing called irony, Cripple?”
“I am uneducated, Their Death; I am not ignorant!”
“Indeed, you are not. The irony is that at first the headman probably hoped that I could cast a spell on Lazarus Chigger Mite and thus do his dirty work for him. But of course I refused. You do believe me. Do you not?”
“Their Death, do not my waste time with foolish questions, for the night gourd calls.” Cripple did not speak harshly, for she loved Their Death, and of course she knew a woman’s place—that is, she thought, unlike the white mamu, for whom she worked.
Pierre Jardin hated sleeping during daylight hours. It not only messed up his circadian rhythms, but no matter what time he awoke, there always followed a period of disorientation and lethargy, sometimes even a massive headache. Therefore, when Pierre finally toppled into bed late that Thursday morning, he left strict instructions with his head houseboy not to disturb him. One can understand, therefore, how it might be that Captain Pierre Gerome Jardin was not his most pleasant self upon being roused merely two hours after his head hit the pillow.
“Muambi!”
“Sacré-coeur! Alors, Man with Birthmark, did I not leave strict instructions for you not to bother me?”
“Yes, muambi, you did, but the Belgian woman is here to see you. She will not listen to a black man, even a head housekeeper such as me. She said that she will count to one hundred before coming back here to get you herself.”
Pierre felt his headache get even worse—if indeed that was possible. At the same time, he could feel the corners of his mouth start to tug upward at the thought of Madame Cabochon clicking her way down his cement hallway in her stiletto shoes, her flame-colored hair flowing behind her as if her proudly held head were the Olympic torch. One certainly didn’t have to like the woman to think that she cut quite a sight. By the same token, one could be quite smitten with another woman—a far more innocent type, a lady even—and still appreciate the feminine wiles of Madame Cabochon.
“Which Belgian woman is it?” he asked, just to be sure. God forbid it was the new OP’s sweet, and very religious, young wife.
“Monsieur,” said Man with Birthmark, “it is the woman with big breasts.”
Pierre chuckled. The houseboys, the yardmen, the night watchman, all had crushes on Madame Cabochon—at least on her breasts. Because they could see only the tops of them bobbling above her provocatively low-cut dresses, there was much discussion as to whether or not the rest of the breasts existed out of line of sight.
“Katuka we!” Get out!
The speaker was none other than the woman with big breasts herself, and Pierre had to admit that she was justifiably indignant. Therefore, he did not complain when she strode into the room, threw open the wooden shutters, pushed her way through the mosquito netting, and sprawled across the end of his bed. One of the breasts for which she was so famous came dangerously close to spilling out of the deeply cut scoop neckline of her tightly fitted bodice. It was virtually impossible not to look at it; it was like watching a truck teeter on the edge of a cliff, half its wheels on, half off. There was nothing you could do about it, but you would never forgive yourself if you turned away before the big finale.
“Pierre,” she snapped, “eyes up here.”
“Then perhaps, madame, you would be so kind as to sit up. Might I even suggest that you take the chair in that far corner of the room?”
“Don’t be such a silly boy, Pierre! I am almost twice your age. You couldn’t possibly be bothered by my presence on your bed.” At that she tugged the other side of her bodice down so that both her breasts bobbled on the threshold of premature liberation. She also pulled back the sheet.
Pierre leaped from his bed, pulling his top sheet with him. As a bachelor he had no need to cover up the slumber suit that God had given him at birth. In fact, wearing pajamas during the suicide month was an act of stupidity. The only reason he’d been covered at all was that there was a small hole in the mosquito net in need of mending, and despite the heat, he wasn’t about to have the most sensitive part of his anatomy bitten.
The young police officer was tall and muscular, but he wasn’t particularly graceful, and one foot caught in the netting and delayed his departure. Madame Cabochon laughed wholeheartedly. She had a surprisingly deep laugh, considering that she was not a smoker.
“Why, Captain, I didn’t know that you were Jewish!”
“What?”
“Never mind, it was a small joke about a large item; I forgot that the Bula Matadi have no sense of humor.”
Pierre wrapped the sheet tightly around his waist and stumbled backward to the chair. As both he and his would-be seductress were fluent in English, and the houseboy wasn’t, Pierre switched languages.
“Look, what is it that you want? This better be good. And anyway, you are not almost twice my age; I’m twenty-eight, and you are thirty-eight. Your age is a matter of record, as is that of every other white in Belle Vue, since each of you is registered with me at the police station. Madame, I even have your weight.”
In a flash of blue, Madame Cabochon sat up, pulling her knees in front of her chest. The peep show was over.
“You are a cruel man, Captain Jardin. I have half a mind to leave you off my guest list.”
“Frankly, madame, my dance card is full. I shall be content to sit out on my balcony and contemplate the river.”
“But you haven’t even asked the occasion? What if it is that King Baudouin and Queen Fabiola have decided to tour the Congo one last time before this dreadful impending thing called independence? My grandmother was the youngest daughter of a viscount, so I do have a royal connection, you know. I’m sure it’s more than anyone else in this shitty little hellhole can claim.”
Pierre smiled; the only thing he knew was that Madame Cabochon read too many American novels. That, and if he wasn’t already falling head over heels with the young American, Amanda Brown, and if Madame Cabochon was not already married—albeit to a horrible little Nazi—he would surely throw off his towel and leap back into his bed. After all, Petit Pierre, as his private part was known only to him, was certainly ready to get down to business.
“Well, should Their Majesties wish to visit our little town—then their security would be rather tight, especially now, precisely because of this impending thing called independence. As I am the chief of police of this ‘shitty little hellhole,’ I would be the first to be contacted. But since I have not been contacted, I can safely assume that the most royal ass to be seated at your function will belong to you.”
Madame jumped off the bed, all the better to express her indignation. Again the mosquito netting got in her way, bringing yet another smile to Pie
rre’s face.
“Damn you,” she said. “Must you always be so—so—mon Dieu, I cannot think of a word bad enough in this English!”
A shift in her tone had informed Pierre that it was time to stop teasing her. “All right, Madame Cabochon, what is this occasion?”
She tossed her auburn mane and snorted—quite like a filly, he thought—while she stalled to regain just a little power. “It is a dinner to honor Monsignor Clemente,” she said.
“Is that so? Does he know this?”
“What sort of impertinent question is that? Of course he does! The monsignor and I were childhood friends—right here in Belle Vue. Everyone who is anyone will be there, including that plain little American girl whom you are so fond of.”
“Miss Brown?”
Now Madame Cabochon smiled. “Capitaine Pierre,” she said, switching back to French, “must you be so disingenuous? You know quite well who I mean; there are no other Americans here at the moment.”
“Yes, but what makes you think that I am especially fond of this plain little girl?”
This time the auburn-haired filly stomped the floor with impatience. “What do you think I am, a cabbage? Do you think I’m incapable of observation? Or at the very least of listening to gossip? All everyone talks about is how you’ve been stumbling about like an elephant bull in musk. Don’t you think it’s about time you quit thinking up excuses to visit that dreary Missionary Rest House and escort your little girl out on a real proper date. Who knows, she might even take to Belle Vue’s high society, and they to her. With any luck, she’ll defect from that heretic Protestant cult and the two of you can get married and produce lots of little Jardins. Imagine that—a jardin of Jardins!”
Pierre hoped that his deep tan hid any signs of blushing. “Madame Cabochon, if this were a proper city—such as Luluabourg—your deportment would not be considered necessary entertainment, so I would have tolerated far less of you just now. Here in the bush, however, we must take our amusements whichever way we can. But as all good things must come to end, so must your unwelcome visit. Au revoir, madame.”
The beautiful redhead, however, remained rooted to his cement floor as securely as the granite-embedded pilings of the bridge that spanned the Kasai River. She was nothing but trouble, this one.
“Birthmark!” he called. “Lua, angata mukashi.”
Even though Pierre had suspected that his manservant was lurking about, Birthmark’s reappearance was disturbingly quick. Pierre glared at the man, who didn’t even have the sense to avert his wide-eyed stare. No doubt these crazy Belgians and their highly sexualized ways were going to be the subject of a few hearthside discussions tonight.
The impertinent housekeeper had once asked him how it was possible that such a decadent and fallen race as the whites could have conquered the more numerous Africans with their higher moral values. Had they somehow first managed to cast a spell on all of Africa? he’d asked. If it was indeed true that the airplanes that he saw taking off and landing from Belle Vue’s small commercial airport could fly over all the continent, then perhaps it was from them that the unctuous powders that supported this nefarious spell were unloosed upon his people.
At any rate, Madame Cabochon was even less pleased to witness the speed with which Birthmark materialized. “Boy,” she said in French, although she knew Tshiluba like the native she practically was, “if you worked for me, today would be your last! How dare you spy on us?”
“Madame,” Birthmark said slowly, perhaps insolently as well, “my master has asked me to take you from the room.”
“And what if I refuse to go?”
“Madame Cabochon,” Pierre said quickly in English, “that’s not playing fair, and you know it.”
“Oh, what the hell do I care about playing fair anymore? They’re talking about kicking us out in two years.”
At that point Captain Pierre Gerome Jardin had had all he could stomach from any one person in one day. He leaped to his feet, grabbed the exasperating seductress, and threw her over his shoulder. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way to the front verandah to drop her off, he stepped on his sheet.
Chapter 15
The Belgian Congo, 1935
The younger brother slept, but the older brother could not because the clever man and white man would not shut up. Whose god or gods were better—what nonsense when one had a terrible headache.
“You people are barbaric!” the white man said.
One might question how a boy so young—or anyone for that matter—could remember so much, but this was no ordinary boy. All that he witnessed and heard was carved into his memory. Of course he did not understand every word that was spoken by these men, but surely the gist of what they said was seared into his young soul.
So exceptionally clever was he that already he could recite his clan’s complete lineage, beginning with the great flood seventy-two generations ago and extending, unbroken, down through his mother’s side to this very day. On his father’s side, it was nearly the same, but for the fact that in the sixty-third generation past his father’s people were said to have been slaves captured from the primitive Bakuba people who kept no records.
“You are barbaric!” said the clever Mupende. “Do you not partake of your God on a regular basis? We, the Bapende, do no such thing. To consume our gods would be abhorrent to us.”
The white man laughed foolishly. “Your gods? Your gods are made of wood and animal bone. You would break your pointed teeth consuming them!”
“Those are not our gods, Barbaric One. Those are merely representations that remind us of our gods. Our gods are invisible; they are spirits that inhabit trees, rocks, and rivers. They cause the clouds to rain and the sun to shine. They drive the animals to our arrows and spear points when we hunt. Believe me when I say that we would never eat our gods!”
“That is still idolatry. There is only one God; not one god for—for everything that you see.”
“Yet you have three gods, do you not?”
“You cannot offend me, Mupende.”
“Good. Nor is it my wish to offend you when speaking of your gods. In fact, never has a Mupende approached a white man and asked him to change his belief concerning his gods.” The clever man paused. “Why do you think that is?”
“Because your beliefs are wrong,” the white man with dark eyes answered without any hesitation.
The clever man’s nostrils flared.
“What did he say?” the chief demanded.
“He said that he has observed that you are a chief who is greatly admired by his people. He said that your leadership qualities are of such high caliber that you deserve to be chief of not only this little village, but in fact, you should be made a king—like the one that Bakuba people have!”
The chief frowned. “Eh? I did not hear him say the word Bakuba; surely it is not so different in the language of Belgique.”
“Truly my king, it is very different.” He turned to the white man again. “Tell me, did you also perpetrate this crime upon the one boy?”
“Mon Dieu, I did not! It is not in my nature.”
“That is what the boy said; that is why they did not kill you so far. However, it was something that I needed to know for myself. Listen, white man, is it important to you that you live? Perhaps you might wish to preach about your god to other Congolese? I hear that the people in the Zappo Zapps tribe are very easy to persuade.”
“Yes, I would like that,” the white man said without any hesitation.
“In that case, and since you have lived up to the condition set before you, then you are free to go.”
“But how? Where? I am naked. I can’t even find my way back to your village in the dark.”
Unlike the Bula Matadi, the boy’s father was a man of his word, but he was not a man of unlimited patience. Sensing that the clever man had given the captive his freedom,
the chief pointed at the thick bush with his staff.
“It would be wise to hurry, white man, before my elders change their minds.”
Instead of dashing for freedom, the strange, bewitching man stood tall and straight, and although he was quite naked, nonetheless he possessed an air every bit as regal as that of the boy’s father. If it were not for the unbelievable color of his male parts, one might have thought him to be totally human.
“Every one of you, with the possible exception of the boy—but only if he is baptized as a Roman Catholic—will surely burn in a place of eternal flames, yet you will not die. Your bodies will feel horrible pain, and you will scream out in your pain. You will beg to die, but you will not. This will be your punishment for what you have done tonight to my friend.”
“You must go now,” the boy said and pointed to the bush. Not only was he clever, but he was also wise beyond his years.
Chapter 16
The Belgian Congo, 1958
Jonathan Pimple had yet to take a wife, so he was often alone. But unlike many men, Jonathan Pimple was seldom lonely, for he needed to be free to ponder whichever matter struck his fancy at any particular time; after all, Jonathan Pimple was a thinking man.
Why, he wondered, did some people eat human flesh just as easily as if it were goat meat, yet others were horrified at the very thought of it? On the other hand, the same people who were the most repulsed by the custom of consuming human flesh were the Catholic priests. Did not these men dispense small bits of a white man’s body in their services to their faithful each week?
True, it was flesh like none other that Jonathan had ever seen, but the white man was full of surprises, was he not? Therefore it was necessary that Jonathan Pimple, who had an inquiring mind, examine a piece of this flesh closely.
A woman named Firefly was Jonathan Pimple’s next-door neighbor. She lived beneath the giant mango tree that was infested with red ants, and which, therefore, no one could climb to harvest its ever-bountiful crop of blushing fruit. Firefly was a faithful Roman Catholic, as well as a good friend. A woman friend is an unusual thing for a man to have, but Firefly had a keen mind; this is what qualified her as one of Jonathan Pimple’s many blessings.