The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  “Good girl,” Pierre whispered. “Just allow me to handle this.”

  The handsome man of her dreams—her real dreams—crossed the room, spoke a few low words to the houseboy, and the two of them disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. It was then that Amanda realized that she hadn’t garnered Pierre’s approval through any action on her part, but through her slowness to respond. Well, perhaps that wasn’t all bad; after all, the Bible does urge its readers to be slow to anger. For Amanda, this was progress.

  The monsignor was at a loss. He’d tried but failed to climb the steep road that led up to the workers’ village and Saint Mary’s Catholic Church. What had once been a smooth expanse of red brown dirt was now a series of ruts so deep that one slip could easily result in a broken leg, and here in the tropics a broken leg with a protruding femur can quickly become septic, resulting in death. No, any attempt to scale the hill would have to wait until the morrow, even though he knew that Reutner would be frantic. Unfortunately, that geriatric Swiss priest had a very active imagination and might well indulge in some carnal supposition, thereby indirectly involving the monsignor in his sin. After all, anyone with two eyes in his head could see how Little Colette Underpants threw herself at him.

  Yes, of course, tomorrow he would try his best again to get up that awful hill—perhaps through that snake-infested tshisuku. Then again, who was he, Alberto Clemente, just because he was now a big-shot monsignor—who was he to desert the little lambs of the flock? What about the pitiful, dark-eyed Madame OP? She with the perpetually haunted look? Didn’t Christ commend his disciple to especially care for those such as she? But screw the OP, the monsignor thought, and then made the sign of the cross to undo this small sin.

  Quickly he filled his mind with something else, this time a spiritually borderline thought—if there could be such a thing. To put it succinctly—as he would pose it to his seminary students—he should be billeted in a Protestant home; most especially the home of a young beautiful single Protestant American missionary. Every one of those adjectives just added to the gravity of the sin. However, at the same time, the word missionary had a very strong pull; if he could manage to convert her to the true church, think of what a victory that would be for Mother Rome!

  So when the vivacious young American (made somewhat less so by the appearance of her housekeeper in a woman’s yellow dress) invited him, for a second time, to spend the night, the monsignor politely accepted. He was careful, however, not to sound too eager.

  “Bon!” cried Madame Cabochon, “for I too have decided to spend the night. Isn’t this exciting?”

  “Exciting?” said the OP. “We are cut off from our town, and I am separated from my diamond mine—let’s face it. We are virtual prisoners here on the black side of the river. Who knows what could happen, here or there?”

  “What do you mean?” his wife said. She was a very plain, timid little thing who seemed, at least on the surface, better suited to life in a Brussels convent than in the Congo as a diamond mine operator’s wife.

  “I mean,” he said, “that those savages could come running down that hill anytime they want to and start hacking at us with their machetes.”

  The OP, Monsieur Fabergé, laughed insanely as he cut the air with his hands. “Chop, chop, chop.” When no one even cracked a smile, he repeated his tasteless performance, and then said, “One must have a sense of humor here to survive, yes?”

  “Yes,” said the monsignor, “but you, monsieur, are not humorous; you are a monstrous fool. And as I have absolutely no doubt that you will not apologize to the lovely ladies here, I shall do so on your behalf. Mesdames et mademoiselle, our Heavenly Father created men, and he created asses. The creation known as Monsieur Fabergé is not a man. Therefore kindly disregard the remarks he just made. Rest assured that the natives in the village are by and large Christians, and far less dangerous than is he.”

  The swarthy little Belgian advanced on him, chest out, fists balled. He looked far more pathetic than he did dangerous. Clearly the man had no idea that Monsignor Clemente worked out regularly in the archbishop’s private gym.

  “Fermez la bouche,” the runt said softly. “Or else.”

  The monsignor smiled, looking past him. “Mademoiselle Brown,” he said, “if you will be so kind as to show me to my quarters, I will take my leave for the evening.”

  At first Amanda thought that the previous night’s happenings had all been a bad dream. The nightmare was almost as bad as one of many she’d experienced following the accident—that defining moment back in the Unites States when her entire universe had irrevocably turned on a dime. But unlike those mornings, when she’d awaken to find her sheets soaked with perspiration, and then gradually realize that she’d been dreaming, this morning her bedding was dry, and she knew at once that the horrifying sound of steel girders shearing apart was no dream.

  Amanda sprang to her window. From here she normally enjoyed a breathtaking view of the falls, and the bridge that spanned it. A visiting missionary had once remarked that when Belgians chose to site the bridge over the most spectacular waterfall in the province—if not the colony—they were tugging playfully on God’s beard. When the Belgians went ahead and actually built the bridge, they gave the beard a hard yank, laughed, and then sat back to wait and see what would happen next. Well, now they had their answer; the Good Lord didn’t like his facial hair abused.

  In the daylight, the first thing Amanda noticed was the color of the water. For much of its length the Kasai River runs through red clay hills and the runoff reflects this. Today, however, the water was gunmetal gray. The next thing puzzled her; the bridge appeared to be intact.

  It was only after removing the screen and leaning out the window a good deal that Amanda was able to get a visual of the entire length of the bridge. The closest end, the one nearest the Missionary Rest House, remained fastened securely to its concrete pad. However, shortly beyond that, a gap of over three meters existed where once there had been metal girders covered by wood planks. Beneath that, crammed between the cliff face and next concrete piling, was a tree, the likes of which Amanda had never seen before.

  The tree was one of a species that grew buttresses—wooden wings, Amanda liked to refer to them. These natural supports for the tree extended a dozen feet in every direction at head height, so that the trunk, which by itself had a radius of ten feet, seemed even more massive than that of the ancient live oaks Amanda had often observed growing along the Carolina coasts. In addition, the height of the trunk rose untapered and limb-free for at least sixty feet, whereupon it exploded, virtually forming its own little forest. Even from this great distance the young missionary from Rock Hill, South Carolina, thought she beheld a troop of black-and-white monkeys leaping about in its still leafy boughs.

  It was a mesmerizing scene, and the avoidance aspect of her personality (which was quite considerable, actually) was willing to pull up a chair and watch, when movement to her right caught her eye. Oh my gosh! There, on the back patio, was Monsignor Clemente, all decked out in his spotless black robes. He appeared to be serving coffee to the OP and his wife. Seated next to them on the back patio was Pierre, one brawny tanned leg crossed over the other at the knee. For some reason he’d already been served and was looking down at his cup. Then suddenly he looked up and waved at her, just as calmly as could be.

  Amanda ducked back behind a curtain. What was going on in the world? Had everyone gone mad, including herself? Or were these people truly so adaptable, so used to calamity, that they could sit and enjoy a cup of coffee outdoors while surveying so much damage to the infrastructure that shored up their lives?

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Brown!”

  Amanda whirled. Madame Cabochon stood in the doorway, swathed in a diaphanous peach robe that covered a matching baby doll pajama set. The pajama set belonged to Amanda and was something that she regarded as intensely personal. It was part of her tr
ousseau, but now, as she felt her cheeks burning, she could not remember why she had decided to bring it to Africa.

  Her extra pair of cotton pajamas had gone to Madame Fabergé, who had nonetheless complained that she had never worn sleepwear with “legs.” Then it was either lend Madame Cabochon the baby doll pajama set or allow her to sleep in the nude. For the record, Madame Cabochon had been all for the latter.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Amanda said.

  “But I am,” Madame Cabochon responded cheerily. “Come, there is something you must see.”

  The younger woman took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Perhaps you should come see this instead.”

  Madame Cabochon strode to the window, trailing her chiffon robe and a heady scent behind her. A cursory glance in either direction elicited merely a Gallic shrug.

  “What fools they are, non? One would think that they are English, and that they are drinking tea, instead of coffee. Tell me, do you find their calmness admirable?”

  “I most certainly do not! Why, in America we would be—”

  “You would be screwing around like ants, yes?”

  “The word is scurrying.”

  “And the bridge would be half rebuilt, am I correct?”

  “Well—”

  “You must remember, Mademoiselle Brown, that in America you have access to better technology and better means of communication. Here we live much like you did fifty—maybe one hundred—years ago. This means that there are many times when one must be happy to wait in the present.”

  Frankly, Amanda did not cotton to taking spiritual advice from a floozy, especially one wearing the baby doll set she’d bought and put aside for her wedding night—should that ever happen!

  “Madame Cabochon,” she began through clenched teeth, “I hardly think that—”

  “Non, non! Now is not the time to think; you must come with me now.” Madame Cabochon grabbed Amanda’s hand and literally pulled her from her bedroom, through the living room, and out into the dazzling sunlight that invaded the front porch at that hour of the morning.

  “Voilà!” she said, pointing to the dirt parking area in front of the Missionary Rest House. Overnight the muddy red space had erupted into a carpet of tiny yellow daisies that were quivering in a gentle morning breeze. It was a sight so beautiful that Amanda felt tears in her eyes, and her throat began to tighten. It was a miracle; it was truly a gift from heaven.

  “Oh, thank you,” she cried. “Thank you for insisting that I see this first thing—although I can’t imagine how flowers can grow and bloom so fast. I mean, yesterday, it was a sea of mud. I must go get my box Brownie camera and photograph this sight. Someday, Madame Cabochon—mark my words—someday they will invent an affordable camera that photographs in color. If only I had such a thing, I could capture the true essence of these gorgeous flowers.”

  “But mademoiselle, those are not flowers! Those are—how do you say in English? ‘Butter that flies’? Yes, I am sure of it, butter that flies!”

  “What? Do you mean butterflies?”

  “Alors, is that not what I just said?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Madame Cabochon, still clutching Amanda’s hand, pulled the girl down the front steps. “Come, mademoiselle. We must dance with these butterflies! It is good luck, non?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ah, this is a game that my sister and I played when we were little girls. Always we pretended that we were like Tinker Bell, non?”

  “Like fairies?”

  “Oui, that is the word! Come, you will enjoy; it is a harmless game.”

  As much as Amanda wished to dance among the yellow butterflies, in the golden sunlight with Madame Cabochon in her borrowed swirling chiffon, there was one rather major problem; Southern Baptists of Amanda Brown’s ilk did not dance. Dancing was of the devil, for it brought on sexual thoughts. Dancing with the extravagantly endowed Colette Cabochon—well, God only knew to what abomination that might lead.

  “Madame Cabochon,” Amanda said, pulling her hand away from Colette’s. “Dancing would not set a good example for the natives. They might confuse it with their heathen practices.”

  The Belgian woman laughed. It wasn’t that she seemed to be mocking Amanda, so much as she appeared to be thoroughly amused. It was as if Amanda had told her a good joke.

  “I am serious,” Amanda said as she stamped back up the steps.

  “But truly not!”

  “Madame Cabochon, I am going back inside now.”

  “Ah, so it is also true that you Protestants are forbidden to have any pleasure in life!”

  Amanda turned and glared. “Who said this?”

  “Father Reutner. He is the priest—”

  “I know who he is! But how dare he say that? What else did he say?”

  Madame Cabochon shrugged, causing her large breasts to bobble in a way that was practically seductive. “He said that this philosophy is what makes you Protestants always look so angry. Like angry mother hens, oui?”

  The nerve of that woman to use Amanda’s own thoughts against her! How dare she compare her to a hen! Amanda would show her!

  “Non!” Amanda said. “We are not all like angry mother hens!” She grabbed Madame Cabochon’s hands and pulled her down the steps and into a sea of quivering yellow butterflies. “Let’s dance!” she said.

  Madame Cabochon smiled. “Oui, chérie.”

  Chapter 27

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  Chigger Mite felt such extreme pressure clamping his head from all directions that his vision was blurred. Therefore, when he addressed the man he knew by the name Jonathan Pimple yet another time, he was actually facing his friend.

  “Torment?” he said. “And you a twin. This is a very strange story, the likes of which I have never heard. Tell me, Torment, son of the great chief Nyanga-Yanga, does your brother yet live?”

  The new worker’s eyes seemed to take him to a faraway place. His jaw muscles twitched.

  “Of that I cannot be certain; I can only hope. When I was yet the slave of the fat Mujembe, I heard that the Mushilele who captured me was but a scout for a large raiding party that shortly afterward descended on the men’s camp, slaughtering many and taking the rest as slaves. The women and children in the village were said to have suffered the same fate.

  “I know for certain only that my father, the great chief, Nyanga-Yanga, was sold as a slave to work in the house of another great chief in the land of Alabia [Arabia]. A chief turned into a slave! Can you imagine that, my brothers? Yala! Such a thing has never happened since the beginning of our tribe, since the days that the gods pushed us out of the spirit world and into this dream world of hardship and suffering.”

  “Enough of this sentimentality,” snapped the man with the knife. “What do you know of your mother?”

  Jonathan Pimple returned from his memory place. “Kah? What business is this of yours?”

  “Do you recall a timid boy by the name of Tshibia?” said Chigger Mite.

  Jonathan Pimple stared openmouthed at the man whose name meant “burden.” “Eyo,” he said, after a long pause. “Tshibia was the name of my brother. Tell me, please, do you have word of him? Is he alive?”

  Chigger Mite smiled, revealing every one of his pointed teeth. “E, your twin brother is very much alive; for I am your brother!”

  “Bulelela?” Really?

  “E!”

  The men embraced. So great was their joy that they fell to the ground, still locked in their embrace, and rolled on the ground, like schoolboys in a schoolyard tussle. Then Chigger Mite prevailed upon his friend not to reveal that they were twins, lest those villagers who were superstitious (sadly, there were many) react to the men in a negative way, such as making bad medicine against them with a witch doctor.

  In the end, it was agreed t
hat nothing should be said of their past—even that they were brothers, because the people in the Belle Vue workers’ village were not of the sort to mind their own business. To the contrary, many among their number delighted in stirring up trouble. Would not these troublemakers feed like a pack of hungry hyenas on the knowledge that the brothers had once partaken of the flesh of a white man? Not only a Mutoka—a white—but a Roman Catholic priest?

  As for news of their mother, Chigger Mite was unable to tell his brother anything except that he had heard that all the women in the village over a certain age had been butchered by the raiding party. Was their mother of such an age at the time? Neither man could remember, for neither of them could draw forth her face.

  Chapter 28

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Alberto Clemente was of the opinion that much in this world was accomplished by people sitting back and doing nothing. Unfortunately, the net result of this was also often nothing. Others were given to wringing their hands, still others to barking out orders. One could expect only wrinkled hands from the former, and no more from the latter than a sore throat—unless one had the manpower to back up those commands.

  At the Missionary Rest House there were only hand wringers and barkers, and, of course, the ever-alluring Colette Cabochon—formerly known to him as Little Colette Underpants. Although some Belgians had been brave enough to venture out onto the bridge on the other side, none had dared get close enough to the massive tree to do battle with it by using a machete or some other sharp tool. And while Belgians are usually quite good at screaming their houseboys into submission, none had succeeded in convincing their servants (those unlucky few marooned on the white side of the river) that it was safe to hack into a tree from the sacred Island of Seven Ghost Sisters. As for that handsome, strong young police captain with the bulging muscles, all it took was for him to discover the beautiful American virgin frolicking in a field of golden butterflies with Little Colette Underpants, and he was rendered utterly useless.