The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  “We will grow old together,” he had told the seedling when it germinated.

  Now he was old—and scheduled to be shipped back to cold northern pastures where oil palms couldn’t grow (although he had seen windmill palms growing along Lakes Lugarno and Como). The oil palm still produced large bunches of palm nuts, but each year it grew taller. Eventually the day would come when its great height would make the palm too intimidating to climb, and for this reason or that, the palm would be declared “inconvenient,” and then subsequently it would be chopped down. Chop, chop, chop. In one way or another, that was the fate that awaited everything slated to die in Africa.

  “Eventually we are all no longer wanted,” Father Reutner said to the palm through the slit in the wall.

  He was not mad, of course. He realized that the palm could not hear; he even felt a bit foolish for having spoken to it. But every man deserves a witness to his passing, even if that witness is only a palm that he has planted from a seed.

  Then just to cover his bases, for he was truly a rational being, Father Reutner addressed the Almighty: “Have mercy on me, a sinner,” he said as he kicked the stepladder out from beneath his feet.

  Their Death was not a foolish young man who gave no thought to consequences. When his wife, Cripple, came to him with the problem of the Mupende cannibal, Jonathan Pimple, he gave the matter much thought before offering a solution. When the old Roman Catholic priest approached him, likewise, it was not a situation to be treated lightly.

  All witch doctors—even the mediocre ones—descend from men with prodigious memories, and Their Death was no exception. As Their Death recalled it, the priest’s visit happened exactly like this:

  “Life to you,” the old priest said as he entered the family compound unbidden and unannounced.

  Of course, such a visit is truly never a surprise, for even a white man who lives among the Congolese in the workers’ village, such as this priest, cannot move about beyond the grounds of Saint Mary’s Church without children announcing his whereabouts. Some of the noisy children were laughing at him, others were begging, yet others screaming in terror at his advance. Nevertheless, Their Death’s heart beat faster when he realized that the man in the black dress had come to see him, and not one of his neighbors.

  “E, life to you,” he said politely.

  “May I sit with you and talk?” the priest asked.

  Their Death’s heart raced even faster. Although some of the children who had followed the priest were his, not all his little ones could be accounted for. Second Wife had yet to return from the spectacle at the marketplace, nor was Cripple anywhere in sight. Had anything happened to his family? Had anyone in his family violated the white man’s laws?

  “You have nothing to fear,” the old priest said. “I wish only to speak with you—man to man.”

  Their Death nodded and pointed to a hand-carved chair. It was formed of two pieces of wood, one that intersected the other at a forty-five-degree angle. Their Death had carved it himself and then rubbed it with red palm oil and ashes to give it the rich dark color that others so admired.

  By the way in which the priest seated himself, for the first time Their Death appreciated just how old the man might be. He had always found it puzzling, this matter of whites and the number of years that they claimed. Once, when he was a schoolboy, he had pulled weeds for a Belgian who claimed to be seventy-plus-three years old—an impossible number of years for any human being. Their Death had never known anyone in the village to live past the age of sixty-three.

  It was out of respect, as much as fear, that Their Death waited in silence for the priest to speak. However, the entire time he wished fervently that his family would stay far away from the compound. If he had had the time, he would have made medicine (an incantation) to that effect.

  “I understand that you are a witch doctor,” the priest said at last.

  “Eyo. But I am also a Roman Catholic, muambi.”

  “Kah! That is blasphemous! You cannot be both a Christian and a witch doctor. Perhaps you are a Protestant and a witch doctor.”

  “Nasha, muambi. I was educated at the Roman Catholic school right here at Saint Mary’s Church. Although my father was a witch doctor, I was baptized along with all the other students in my class, and together we made our First Communion.”

  “That is impossible,” the old man said. “There will not be a witch doctor in heaven.”

  “Muambi,” Their Death was quick to assure him, “I have no desire to go to this heaven of yours. I have been beaten many times by white men who will also go to heaven. My grandfather had his hand chopped off with a machete because he could not fulfill the rubber quota.”

  The priest was silent for a long time; too long. Their Death listened for the sounds of his family. He could hear the shrieks of children at play, the rhythmic pounding as women prepared tshiombe flour in mortars, and the squabble of weaverbirds overhead. In a moment such as this, and in the absence of bodily pain, it was possible to imagine the world as it was supposed to be—except for the foul-smelling white man in the black dress.

  Finally the priest spoke. “You are a Muluba, a member of the Baluba tribe. In my opinion this is the greatest tribe. In Europe we also have many tribes. For instance, I am a Swiss; my tribe occupies that part of Europe known as Switzerland. We are not Belgians. I am not a Belgian. We do not cut off the hands of any sort of man, be he black or white—or any other color for that matter.”

  Their Death was a self-educated man. His employer at the post office had lent him many books, covering many subjects. To look at the witch doctor in his patched khaki shorts, short-sleeve white cotton shirt with two missing buttons, and necklace of leopard claws, one might not suspect that here was a man with such a broad understanding of the world. How wrong that person would be. Their Death had read of trolls that live among the hot springs in Iceland, he had read of the Battle of Hastings, he had read a very bad French translation of Hiawatha, he had read that if you meet the Buddha on the road, that you should kill him.

  These were but some of the books Their Death read, and he read them aloud to Cripple and, when they were present, Second Wife and the children. After reading many and various things written by the white man and the brown man and the yellow man, Their Death had come to the conclusion that all of them were crazy; every tribe on the earth was crazy save one, and that was the Baluba. His tribe. However, the Swiss priest seemed to be making a point; the Swiss tribe did not cut off hands, and therefore the Swiss priest was worthy of an audience.

  “Tell me what is truly in your heart,” Their Death said to the priest. “Speak as if we are brothers.”

  “We laugh and we cry,” the old man said, for that is the traditional way of saying thank you. He plunged on. “I have heard that great witch doctors such as you have the power to bring on a sleep so deep that it can reunite a man with his ancestors.”

  Their Death struggled to keep his composure. “If that were so, and were I to engage in such a practice, the Bula Matadi would hang me without even asking questions. Such buanga is strictly forbidden.”

  “E. Of course. But what if by selling some to a very discreet individual, you could help that person end a miserable life? A worthless life of needless suffering?”

  Their Death was nobody’s fool. He had not just hatched from the egg; his down was already dry and he could eat and run with the best of the chicks.

  “Does this person suffer from elephantiasis of the scrotum like Nzevu, he who must sit at the marketplace all day and beg as he awaits his death? Is this person as miserable as Mutokatoh, the albino, who cannot step outside her hut lest she get burned by the sun and her eyes be blinded, yet she must toil in the fields because her husband is cruel and will not listen to reason? Is this person’s life as worthless as that woodcarver from Djoka Punda—”

  “Enough,” the priest said. “Enough! Biwaswa.”
Please.

  “It is like this,” the witch doctor explained, his heart softening, for he too was a man and not a beast. “I cannot risk the lives of those whom I love to ease your pain. And I want you to know in your heart that it is not because of the color of your skin or because you have ruined many simple minds with your perverted teachings.

  “You see, even if I were a bachelor, with no family to protect, I do not believe that a man has a right to end his own life. Life is a gift that we are given, and in the end it is taken back; we ourselves do not take it.”

  “Do not lecture me!” the old man sputtered.

  Their Death smiled. “You are afraid, priest. But I tell you, there is nothing to fear. All of life is like a swinging rope bridge over the waterfalls; the secret to crossing is not to be afraid. Do not be afraid at all. Hear my words, priest; there no use to living a life of fear.”

  The priest did not appreciate these words. He called Their Death a heathen and a son of a heathen. He told the witch doctor that he would be having words with the OP at his earliest convenience, and that soldiers would come and burn down Their Death’s family’s hut, his medicine hut, and that his children would be taken to the Roman Catholic orphanage in Luluabourg. When Their Death protested, saying that his children had two mothers, the priest said: “Not after the soldiers are through with them.”

  A wise man must not take angry words at their face value, and so it was that Their Death managed to wear a calm face when Second Wife and the children returned from hearing Jonathan Pimple preach in the marketplace.

  “Tatu,” gushed Brings Happiness, “we heard the most amazing story.”

  “E,” Second Wife said as she switched Baby Amanda from her right breast to her left breast, “it was a story of much imagination.”

  “Tell me all about it,” Their Death said, settling back into his favorite chair again. Something powerful was stirring up the currents of his emotions, but he would heed his own words and not be afraid.

  Chapter 35

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Pierre Jardin was nowhere to be found—at least no longer in the vicinity of the marketplace—which meant that he was probably well on his way to check out the old ferry landing. Amanda realized that she could make far better progress without her lame companion, but she was more concerned with the toll all that brisk walking would take on Cripple, so she urged her to stay behind. In fact, she even ordered Cripple to stay back in the workers’ village, which turned out to be a huge mistake. Not only did the little Muluba woman refuse, but she was mightily offended and wasted valuable time railing about the indignity she had just suffered at the hand of her oppressor.

  “I am not your oppressor,” Amanda said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I am your friend who cares very much for you.”

  “If you are indeed my friend,” Cripple said, “then you will respect me as a woman, and not treat me as a child just because I am small and twisted. I am quite capable of making my own decisions, Mamu.”

  “Eyo.” Amanda nodded, but she kept walking.

  “Walk faster,” Cripple said. “Or are you an old duck headed to the meat pot?”

  “Kah?” Amanda said. “I am not an old duck!”

  No matter how fast Amanda walked, Cripple kept up. First it was astonishing, then slightly amusing, and then eventually infuriating. Finally, she could no longer contain the question that burned within her like the wick on a Coleman lantern.

  “Cripple, if you can keep up so well, why did you make me push you in a wheelbarrow to see the giant snake the other day?”

  “Mamu?”

  “Come on, Cripple, it is a simple question; just answer it. Please.”

  “E.” Cripple shrugged. “Mamu, Their Death reads to me many books, and some of these describe a sort of cart—ah, a chariot—that is pulled by a large beast called a horse.”

  “I know what a horse is,” Amanda said crossly.

  “Mamu, since you are large like a horse—”

  Amanda smiled, turning her head as she did so. “You do realize, I’m sure, that the chariot is pulled by the horse, and not pushed.”

  “Mamu,” Cripple said, “one cannot know everything. Besides, you are a very clever horse.”

  “Indeed. And I am a horse much in need of exercising. So then perhaps you will not mind if I run; after all, the kabalu is a beast that is made for running.” Instantly Amanda regretted saying that, fearing that perhaps she had gone too far in her teasing.

  It was so hard to tell where the line was that one shouldn’t cross. This was particularly true with Protruding Navel, the head housekeeper. They would be discussing some subject amicably, laughing, seemingly bantering, then suddenly and without warning Protruding Navel would look like he’d been slapped across the face.

  “You offended me,” he’d accuse her. “You offended me with great strength.”

  But how? What she had said had been completely innocuous. So it was with tremendous relief that Amanda saw Cripple literally collapse with laughter. The tiny woman rocked back and forth, practically choking on it.

  An outside observer might even draw the conclusion that she was ill—because that is exactly what one did. As Amanda stood watching Cripple, feeling both amused and embarrassed, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows barreled up and lurched to a stop. Almost simultaneously from the rear, with his skirts drawn up in one hand, out jumped the very handsome Monsignor Clemente.

  “What has happened?” he said. He spoke in French, which seemed to be his default language, given that he had grown up in the Congo.

  “She is laughing,” Amanda said. “We were making jokes.”

  “Jokes? With an African? Mademoiselle, is this wise?”

  “I may be a devout heathen,” Cripple said, struggling to her feet, “but I am not a savage! I speak the language of my oppressors.”

  “Is that so?” the monsignor said.

  He looked quizzically at Amanda, as if he were actually waiting for an introduction. For an African, if you can imagine that! Talk about being a hypocrite. Very well then, what was good for the goose was good for the gander.

  “This is Madame Cripple,” Amanda said. “Of course, the two of you have already met. She is the woman who reminded you about the old ferry landing. She is my former housekeeper. Together we are looking for Captain Pierre Jardin. Do you know his whereabouts?”

  “This time it is truly a pleasure to see you, madame,” the monsignor said, with a mysterious twinkle in his eye.

  “E,” Cripple said. She laughed inappropriately. “Now here is a white man like no other,” she said in her native Tshiluba.

  “Cripple,” Amanda warned her, “he grew up in Belle Vue, so he speaks Tshiluba quite well.”

  “As well as he does Latin?” Cripple said, and then she said something else intended just to show off to the cleric in that very language—at least presumably so, because Amanda spoke nary a word of it, having almost failed Latin at Rock Hill High School. Needless to say, the poor girl was both extremely proud of her former housekeeper, and justifiably most annoyed.

  Fortunately, the monsignor was practiced in reading the feelings of others, and he turned the conversation right back to the question she’d asked him a moment earlier. “No, I have not spoken with Captain Pierre Jardin. Is there something that you wish to tell him?”

  Amanda thought fast and hard. Yes, she was compulsive by nature, but she also had good instincts—that is, unless she’d been drinking, and she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since coming to the Congo three months ago. Actually, not since applying for her post at the Missionary Rest House and undertaking her language training in Brussels. Add it all together and she’d been sober longer than a year. She prayed about her decision now and had an immediate sense of peace. The monsignor could be trusted.

  “I—I mean, we—are convinced that the old priest at Sai
nt Mary’s Church poisoned a man by the name of Chigger Mite.”

  “Kah!” Monsignor Clemente shook his head. “These African names are so amusing,” he whispered as an aside in English to Amanda.

  “Chigger Mite was a Mupende, not a Muluba,” Cripple said archly.

  “Then I am mistaken,” Monsignor Clemente said, for there is no direct way of saying “oops” or “I’m sorry” in Tshiluba.

  “Why is it that you are not surprised by our suspicions?” Cripple demanded to know. “Is there yet something else?”

  Again Monsignor Clemente shook his head. “Madame, you are not a Roman Catholic, or else you would understand.”

  “What he means,” Amanda said, “is that if a member of the Roman Catholic Church tells the priest something in confidence, it cannot be repeated. Ever.”

  “Kashide, mene, mene?”

  “E.”

  Cripple placed her hands on her crooked hips, a stance that emphasized her condition. “Mamu Ugly Eyes, although this white man in a woman’s dress refuses to talk, in his silence he speaks much about the old priest.”

  “This is not a woman’s dress,” Monsignor Clemente said through clenched teeth. “It is what Jesus wore.”

  “Nasha,” Cripple said, and wagged a finger at him in a scolding manner. “I have been to Saint Mary’s Church to see the idols, and I know for a fact that the idol of Jesus does not wear this blackest of blacks. To the contrary, the dress of your Jesus idol is the whitest of whites.”

  The monsignor turned to Amanda, his eyes dancing with laughter. “Madame, I tell you, if I were to remain in the Congo, I would surely attempt to hire this woman away from you. Seldom have I encountered an individual who is so—so sure of herself. Your friend Cripple is intelligent, articulate, and extremely perceptive.”