Sacrificed

by Chanette Paul

  The thought itself was bad enough, but now that she knew how Fien had died, did it make her an accomplice? She could report it, of course. Where? What would she say? My sister who isn’t my sister moved forward the death of my mother who isn’t really my mother by a few days, at most. Throw her in prison, even though she sacrificed her whole life for the bitter, demanding old bitch.

  It wouldn’t bring Fien back to life.

  Besides, was Tieneke’s action any worse than Fien’s heartless decision to raise a child in exchange for diamonds? Was it any worse than Ammie Pauwels’s resolve to barter her own child out of her life, heart, and mind?

  She supposed she should be grateful Ammie Pauwels hadn’t left her at the door of an orphanage. Or dumped her in a garbage bin. Well, thanks for nothing.

  And thanks to Tieneke, she wouldn’t find out anything more. All she had heard from Fien was how she regretted the barter, and the name of the woman. Tieneke could have told her the name on the phone.

  Tieneke knew more than she’d been willing to admit at first. She had gained more information from Tieneke than from Fien.

  “Korenmarkt, Mevrouw,” the bus driver interrupted her thoughts.

  Caz got out hastily. She was certainly not much of a tourist, she admitted to herself. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she had not learned a single thing about Ghent since she got on the bus.

  Enough of that. She was going to focus on her surroundings and forget the past.

  When she looked around her, she began to realize where she was. Six thousand miles from home. But that wasn’t the point. She was not only in another country; she was in another world. A world with buildings erected long before Jan van Riebeeck established his little refreshment post at the Cape of Storms.

  She wandered, amazed, without noticing where she was going, where she turned left or right. She marveled at the Oude Vismijn with Neptune towering over the gateway, trident in hand. At a row of buildings, nestled snugly side by side, yet none of them similar. At a medieval castle whose bulky turret could be seen behind the gables of houses that looked as if they had been drawn on graph paper.

  She bought “echte Gentse neuzen” at an odd wooden cart and got only a few of the cone-shaped sweets for two euros. The soft filling under the brittle crust had a raspberry taste—extremely sweet, but delicious.

  At the Café ’t Galgenhuis Caz sat down and ordered a beer. A pilsner, to be on the safe side. She had no knowledge of the myriad beers available.

  From there she wandered on. Around the next corner she came across the Graslei. Not a blade of grass to be seen. It turned out to be a street forming a quay on the right bank of the Leie River.

  It was crowded. There were boats on the river that looked more like a canal, people under umbrellas, a street musician with his guitar case open at his feet, waiters weaving their way between countless tables. She walked across the bridge decorated with baskets of flowering geraniums and petunias. Flat-bottomed boats crammed with tourists passed under the bridge. To the right she spotted the turret of the medieval castle a street or two higher up, keeping vigil over the colorful display. She couldn’t take her eyes off the scene.

  Never mind another country, it felt as if she were on another planet.

  Luc

  Ghent

  Strange that certain people are just so much more conspicuous than others.

  Some for obvious reasons. Like the bearded young man with the guitar on the harbor wall. Or the woman with the shrill, irritating laugh a few tables away. But then someone comes along, like the woman with the long, curly gray hair crossing the bridge at that moment, her head tilted back, her gaze moving from one gable to the next.

  The hair was unusual and she was quite a bit taller than average, but that was not what had caught his attention. Neither was it the slim figure and the pert breasts. It was the visible wonder, the pleasure she took from her surroundings, that made him notice her. As if she was taking everything in, absorbing her surroundings, not just looking around and mentally ticking off sights on a list.

  There was something else too, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something about the way she walked. As if she moved more freely, with a lack of restraint, as if her shoulders were attached more loosely to her body than those of other people.

  He was sorry when she disappeared around the next corner.

  Opposite him Laura was talking about the Eerste Bach- en Ouderavond the VGK was planning for October 1, to provide first-year bachelor students and their parents with information on history as a field of study. It was a follow-up to her story about the VGK’s Godparents’ Evening on September 30. Before she could launch into a story about whatever the VGK was planning next, he ordered their third kriek. The last one, he told himself.

  “What made you decide to specialize in colonialism?” Laura asked, the subject of the VGK mercifully exhausted.

  “My father’s field was medieval history. Contemporary history was the furthest I could get away from that, so I chose it. My stepmother spent a large part of her life in the Belgian Congo. It interested me, hence colonialism.”

  Laura kept the questions coming. He answered where he could and as much as he was prepared to. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman with the long, curly hair return from the direction of the Gravensteen Castle. As his gaze drifted away from Laura, he noticed a young man behind the tall woman. One who looked a lot like that afternoon’s banner carrier.

  Was it his imagination, or was the guy following the woman? When she stopped, he fell back. When she walked on, he moved forward as well.

  The woman moved off in the direction of the Korenmarkt and the young man followed.

  Jean-Claude van Damme might have known what to do, but Luc didn’t. There was no script. And no reason to interfere.

  Opposite him, Laura prattled on.

  Twelve

  Caz

  Ghent

  Caz jumped when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Good afternoon, Caz. It’s just me. My apologies if I frightened you. I didn’t mean to.” His formal way of speaking still surprised her; the smile was still gleaming white.

  “It’s fine. I was lost in thought. What a coincidence ...” She searched her mind for his name.

  “Njiwa,” he helped her. “Not really. When the weather is like this, all of Ghent is here at the Leie. It’s the best place to be. Did you manage to find your way after Dampoort?”

  “Yes, no problem.” She wasn’t going to bore him with the details of the exhausting final leg of her trip. It felt like years ago instead of only a few days. Hell no, not even days, she realized, just yesterday.

  Nijwa dug in his pocket and took out a five-euro note. “I’ve been looking out for you. I hoped I’d run into you.” He held out the money.

  Caz shook her head. “I told you, you earned every cent.”

  He returned the note to the pocket of his jeans. “Okay, at least I tried to repay you.”

  “I never asked, what are you doing in Ghent? Just a visit to your grandpa?” Caz asked when he made no attempt to leave.

  He laughed. “It’s going to be a long visit. I enrolled at the university. First year. Today was the official opening of the academic year.”

  “Why here?”

  “My mother went to school in Ghent and studied here as well before she got a job in South Africa. She was only seventeen when I was born, so my grandpa decided to send her here. Lubumbashi isn’t a good place to get an education, and she was smart. He also wanted to get her away from my father, who didn’t have much ambition. He later died in the civil war. In 1996, when I was barely a year old.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  Nijwa shrugged. “My grandpa was there for me. He raised me until my mother could get her life back on track. A process that included a brief marriage here in Belgi
um.”

  “Where is Lubumbashi?” She steered the conversation away from his tragic past.

  “In the DRC. It’s where my grandpa is from. His father was Belgian. It was in the time when it was still the Belgian Congo, or shortly afterwards. His mother, my great-grandmother, belonged to an indigenous ethnic group.”

  The Congo again. Yet it was understandable. Belgians were historically linked to the Congo. “How did you end up in South Africa?”

  “After her studies, my mother got a job at the DRC Embassy in Brussels. It helped that she could speak Lingala and French. Besides Flemish, of course, which she learned over here.

  “Anyway, after a year or so she wanted to return to Africa. Anywhere but the Congo. It was rough there. As a Belgian citizen, she was transferred to the Belgian Embassy in Johannesburg. She brought me from Lubumbashi when I was about ten and I continued my schooling there. Luckily we both missed the whole apartheid debacle.” He winked. “But wait, I was actually looking for a friend.”

  Caz nodded. “Well, a first-year student has a lot on his plate. What are you studying, by the way?”

  “I’m starting with a BA, but my real interest is politics.” He grinned. “Someone has to knock the Congo into shape. It might as well be me.” He gave one of his mock salutes and, with a “have to run,” he vanished into the crowd.

  Luc

  Ghent

  Luc gave a wry smile. He had definitely read too many crime novels and watched too many action movies. What did he think was happening, here, among hundreds of people?

  As it turned out, there had been nothing sinister about the dark-skinned fellow following the attractive woman. She clearly knew him. Her friendly smile while they were talking was proof enough, even though she had been visibly startled when he tapped her on the shoulder.

  And off she went. A pity. He’d enjoyed watching her—the way she walked, taking in the scenery, the way her hair moved. He’d been trying to discover what was so different, so fresh about her.

  Verdorie. If anyone was guilty of anything, it was he. Of voyeurism.

  Perhaps to make up for his secret indiscretion, he suggested to Laura that they should eat something. They both ordered waterzooi, hers with chicken and his with fish. At least he wouldn’t have to cook and wash up at home.

  Thinking of which, he still had to drive. He would have to stay on the wagon from here on, even if he was dying for a glass of wine with his supper.

  Caz

  Ghent

  Caz headed off in a new direction, not quite sure what she was looking at. The buildings she passed spoke of the craftsmanship of centuries ago. One was obviously a cathedral, there were statues and fountains to pick and choose from, but she didn’t know what a single one was called or what it represented.

  She should have picked up a map of the city with details of the various tourist attractions, but in a strange way she enjoyed not being able to attach names and functions to the city’s architectural treasures.

  Tomorrow was another day, as was the day after. For now she was just enjoying the spectacle of human genius. So many visual images to absorb, so many impressions, lines, angles, arches, textures to take in.

  Around her was a throng of pedestrians and cyclists, but they seemed remote. She was alone with her inner camera. Her cellphone was hardly state-of-the-art and she had left her camera in the attic room. A sure sign that she was not a dedicated tourist.

  While she was enjoying the scene, she thought about Njiwa. Why did she feel so uncomfortable in his presence? His behavior was impeccable. He was evidently well educated. Yet ...

  He reminded her of a poorly translated paragraph. The words and sentences were exactly right, but as a whole they failed to convey the message.

  It was as if his eyes never really made contact. As if there was the Njiwa who was talking to her and the one who was an onlooker—measuring and reflecting on everything that was being said and placing it in another, secret context. As if he were testing every reaction and allocating marks.

  She tried to push the thoughts aside. Surely she was imagining it. The exhaustion of the trip, Tieneke’s behavior and Fien’s death had made her overly sensitive. Or maybe she was just suffering from typical South African paranoia.

  And maybe low blood sugar as well. She had to get some food inside her.

  Erevu

  Ghent

  “Why did you tell her so much?” Erevu felt like shaking his grandson.

  “If you mix the truth with the lie, the lie is more credible. Now she believes I have a good reason to be here. Besides, I had to think of something. The professor was there too. I think he noticed I was following her. I had to do something to set his mind at rest. I couldn’t just say hello.”

  “I thought they didn’t know each other?” Erevu ran his hand over his shaved head. Dove mustn’t spoil things with his youthful indiscretion. When he let Dove know the Caz woman had boarded the bus, he could only guess she would be heading for Ghent’s tourist hub. Dove was supposed to follow her to see if she met anyone, not make contact with her again.

  “They don’t know each other. She never once looked in his direction. He must have been watching me after he recognized me.”

  “You’re playing with fire, Dove. The time for games is over. The old woman is dead. The hearse came earlier. Things can start happening now.”

  “Like what, Nkoko? Surely we must find out first where the other old woman is?”

  “She, this Caz, will hopefully look for her. The old Colijn woman probably told this Caz where she actually comes from. Approaching death and fear of what lies on the other side work like truth serum. My mother, too, unburdened herself on her deathbed.

  “We must just stay on the Caz woman’s trail. We don’t know who has the nkísi, or who knows where they are. One of the two old women must know. If it’s the one who has just died, it will soon become known. One of her daughters will inherit them. If it’s the other old woman, we’ll get it by staying one step behind this Caz woman, wherever she goes.” If he kept believing it, it would be true.

  Ammie

  Leuven

  Ammie gave a sigh of relief when the door clicked shut behind Lieve, glad that they had managed to clear the air. What was the use of staying annoyed? It wouldn’t change anything. Only complicate things between her and the carer she couldn’t get along without. A dear woman with the patience of Job.

  It wasn’t Lieve’s fault that she had made such a mess of things.

  When she was writing Fien that letter, she had known she was making a mistake, but she had to find out what had become of the wooden mask and figurine. Tabia’s nkísi. If, for some reason, Fien had held on to them, she couldn’t run the risk of having them lying about in Fien’s home. Not after she had become aware of their value.

  The article had been in the Gazet van Antwerpen Jacq subscribed to. Aron Matari, an artist from Zaire, was exhibiting his work in an art gallery, Ammie read. The year was 1982, and Mobutu was still in control of the country she had known as the Belgian Congo.

  The name struck her like a thunderbolt. Aron Matari. Tabia’s nephew.

  Aron, who had made the mask with Ammie’s features, and the figurine of the pregnant Tabia. Both with the scarifications so typical of the Tetela.

  The same Aron who had taken her over the Angolan border, later to Southern Rhodesia, to Bulawayo, where other Belgian refugees from the Congo had agreed to take her to South Africa, to Nylstroom, where they had relatives.

  During their flight Aron had looked out for her safety. Found her food and water. Bandaged her injured feet when they had to walk long distances before he could arrange some form of transport. On donkey carts, trailers, once even a bulldozer. Sometimes they managed to hitch a ride on a train.

  During all that time he never spoke to her, except when absolutely necessary. Maybe because h
e stuttered, or maybe he simply had no wish to speak to the white woman in his care.

  Just before the people from Nylstroom sent her to Pretoria because they had no room for her in their home, Aron found her again and asked her to help him find work. The Nylstroom people refused. She gave him her address in Pretoria and told him to ask for work there, promising she would try to help.

  But she couldn’t. When Aron turned up in Pretoria a few weeks after her own arrival, Fien wouldn’t listen to reason, though she tried to explain that she owed Aron her life. No black savage would be tolerated on her property, Fien had said.

  She should have expected it after she had unwisely confided in Fien, sharing her fears about the birth with her. About who the baby’s father might be. The confession had completely changed Fien’s attitude toward Ammie.

  Ammie had never heard from Aron again. Then she read the article in the Gazet.

  A few days later she went to Antwerp. Though there was no sign of Aron at the gallery, his art did the talking. His touch was mature now, more artistic. In a distinctive nkísi-nkondi style, he told the tale of a country where violence was the norm. There were also two smallish sculpted harps. The soundboxes were in the shape of full-breasted women, their backs arched, the strings attached to their heads and feet.

  His artistry was undeniable, and the gallery realized it. The prices took her breath away.

  On her way out, someone held her back by the arm. When she turned, she thought at first it was Aron himself, but then she realized the young man standing before her had to be at least twenty years his junior.

  “My father sends message,” he said in broken Congo-French. “He asks if his mask and statue protected you. If it brought you blessing.”

  “It must have. I’m here, aren’t I?” she replied.

  He was silent for a moment. Pensive. “He wants to know what you did with Tabia’s gift to you.”