The Headhunter's Daughter (14 page)

The poor girl was truly a
musenji
, a barbarian. She was completely without the knowledge needed to choose a dress. Cripple had never worn a dress, so she was not exactly an expert herself, but she had seen Mamu Ugly Eyes in the blue dress. She knew that it buttoned in the back. She also remembered that after Mamu Ugly Eyes was all buttoned up in her pretty blue dress, she then stepped into a strange white skirt, and then pulled that strange white skirt up under the skirt of the dress.

Now that white skirt was a puzzle—truly, truly it was. It superficially resembled the costumes that the fertility dancers wore. Like the costumes, the white skirt was stiff and stuck out in all directions; it swayed with every movement Mamu Ugly Eyes made. However, unlike the costumes, the white skirt was not made from straw, but some strange web-like material made by the white man.

“Cripple,” the new Ugly Eyes said, “do you not think that there are too many things to ponder in a place such as this?”

“
E
,” said Cripple, for that was exactly what she was thinking. Of what use were the underskirt and the breast protector? Surely a dress was enough.

But even then the dress was almost more than Cripple could handle. Although she was barely more than a child, this Ugly Eyes had larger breasts than Mamu Ugly Eyes. Stuffing the breasts into the dress so that they were placed properly, and getting the girl to put her arms through the sleeves, was like trying to catch a fish without a hook. Finally Cripple was able to stand back and survey her work.

“Now we must do something about your hair,” she said.

“My
hair
? What about it? Iron Sliver, my mother’s friend, toiled a long time to weave these braids. Do you not admire her handiwork?”

“
Eyo
, my little barbarian, but you are not a basket; you are a white lady. I shall remove the braids and give you the hair that you were born with. In the meantime you must think of a new name.”

“A new name?”

“Yes, of course. Have you ever heard of a white lady called Ugly Eyes?”

“Cripple, until this
mukelenge
came to my village, I had never seen a white woman. Truly, I tell you; I know nothing of their names.”

“Then I must help you select something more dignified.”

“Like what?”

“
Mamu
Mabele Manene
.” Mistress Big Breasts.

“
Bulelela?
Really? Is that more dignified to the white man’s ear?”

“
E
.”

Amanda must have thanked God a dozen times that the other missionaries had decided to spend the morning in town—except for Mr. Gorman. That still left the OP and Pierre to entertain, and of course, entertaining Pierre wasn’t any work at all—not anymore. Amanda flushed just to think of it.

But it was true. It seemed like just being near Pierre was all she needed to have in order to pass the time. Conversation was just a bonus. Then there were those rare moments when his skin brushed up against hers, sending sparks of electricity throughout her body, even to those places she dare not think about—in fact, was told she
shouldn’t
think about until after marriage. Such was the power of Pierre.

So really, that left only the OP that she had to entertain. Why was the Operations Manager even here? After all, the girl was found in a Bashilele village far away from his private little kingdom of Belle Vue. The girl was not his subject, and for that matter, neither was Amanda.

And indeed, Belle Vue was ruled exactly like a feudal state. In the two months that she had been in the Congo, Amanda had become well aware that the OP was in charge of
everything
that had anything to do with what went on in town, both European and native sectors—everything, that is, except for those few hectares that comprised the Missionary Rest House and its environs. Those had been leased directly from His Majesty’s government for a period of ninety-nine years. That was forty-six years ago.

If, and when, the Belgian Congo gained its independence in two years, as some predicted, then the fate of the Missionary Rest House was anybody’s guess. Until then, the Home Mission Board made the rules, and the current Hostess—in this case, Amanda Brown—implemented them. In fact, she even had the power to make rules of her own, although, of course, later they might be overturned by the board. The point being that if she wanted to, Amanda could require the OP to don a paper hat and recite a nursery rhyme before he could enter the Missionary Rest House.

The frustrating thing about this business was the fact, of which the OP was probably blithely unaware, that Amanda was quite possibly risking her very soul by disliking him so much. And it wasn’t even anything personal that he had done to Amanda, but to Cripple.

That racist man had sat calmly in the grandstand, watching Cripple climb the gallows to her certain execution. True, he had lacked the power to commute her sentence, but he could have stood up and protested. He could have done something; but he didn’t. There is always
something
that one can do to make a difference. Amanda knew that from experience.

If only she could tell him off face-to-face. Pierre, however, absolutely forbade that tactic. Even though the OP had no power over Amanda, and there was virtually nothing he could do to her that either Pierre or Amanda could think of, the captain would not back her up. Yes, this felt like a form of betrayal, although Amanda was doing her best to compartmentalize those feelings.

Now the time had come for the great unveiling. So to speak. Cripple—bless her heart, the woman was as slow as molasses on a cold day in January—had finally signaled that the girl was ready to come out. It had taken Cripple an hour and a half to bathe and dress the girl, plus many whispered conversations through a cracked door.

Amanda had approved the use of her royal blue cotton dress with the scoop neck and the dropped waist. She’d given Cripple permission to use her hairbrush even though she couldn’t imagine why, given that the girl had rows of tightly woven braids.

What about shoes? Cripple hadn’t asked about shoes. My goodness, what a mistake Amanda had made to turn the girl over to Cripple; there had been no conversations at all about leg shaving, or anti-perspirants, or all the other necessary things a white girl needs to know.

“Cripple, come on out,” Amanda said. She sounded far gayer than she felt.

Much to Amanda’s surprise a white woman stepped out of the room first. Amanda’s first thought was, Where did she come from? Her second thought was, What is this woman doing in my dress?

It wasn’t until after she heard the OP say: “
Mon Dieu, c’est ma fille! Ma fille est belle!
” that she realized the young woman standing before her was none other than the Headhunter’s Daughter.

Her hair now sprung loose in golden curls, some of them reaching as far as her shoulders. Her developing figure, stuffed into a dress a size too small for her, was almost shockingly buxom. Funny, Amanda thought, but she looks sexier now than when she was topless. If I was her mother, I wouldn’t let her out of the house in that dress.

“
Voila
,” Cripple said proudly, “
elle est magnifique!
”

“Yes, she is magnificent,” Amanda said.

She turned to the OP, who stood staring with his mouth open and his eyes glazed. Unfortunately, Amanda was acquainted with the “dirty old man” syndrome, thanks to “Uncle” Casey at church back home, who sat next to her in the choir and performed lewd acts under his choir robe that were meant to get her attention.

“What do you mean by saying, ‘She’s my daughter’?” Amanda snapped.

“Yes, what did you mean?” Pierre said.

The OP glanced at them and then turned back to the girl.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he Headhunter could have grabbed the clumsy white man, flung him to the ground, and then slit his throat with the homemade blade he kept in its monkey-skin scabbard. The man had a big head; his skull would have made a fine wine mug. One of his hairy ears, even when dried and shriveled, would have made an impressive addition to the thirteen already on his belt.

This is not to say that this Mushilele was an immoral man.
Au contraire
; never had the Headhunter taken the life of a fellow Mushilele, whether man, woman, or child. All thirteen of these ears represented men who had dared encroach upon Bashilele territory. Since he was not now on Bashilele territory, and his daughter was not in any immediate danger, the Headhunter allowed the missionary to creep up behind him. But only so far.

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

The big white man recoiled. “You speak Tshiluba?”

“
Eyo
,” the Headhunter said. “I am a Mushilele; not ignorant.”

“But they said you couldn’t,” Harry said, still speaking in Tshiluba.

“Perhaps they are right,” the Headhunter said. “Perhaps this is all a dream.”

“
Really?
” Harry said.

The headhunter couldn’t help but laugh and then immediately realized he had taken the joke too far. The big white man was furious for having been made the fool.

“You heathen,” Harry exploded. “What are you even doing here?”

“My daughter is here,” the Headhunter said, his face ridged. “I am here to see that she is safe.”

“
Safe?
Of course she’s safe,” Harry said. “She’s with her own people.”

“They are
not
her people,” the Headhunter said.

“And you heathens are? You live like dogs, like naked monkeys. What do you know about raising a white girl?”

The Headhunter tried to lean his bow against the trunk of the mango tree, but it wouldn’t stay. Recalling that he still had his knife strapped to his waist, he let the bow slide to the ground. Then he stepped away from the tree and held his hands out in front of him. He hoped that Harry recognized that this was a peaceful gesture.

“
Muambi
, you are a father, are you not?”

“
E
.”

“I have seen your daughter. She will bring a good dowry, but you must act quickly. She will soon no longer be desirable.”

“
Mona buhote buebe
,” Harry said. Behold your stupidity.

“
Aa!
” The Headhunter started to laugh. It startled him to learn that a white man knew such an insult. “You speak Tshiluba very well,
Muambi.
But now I wish to return to the matter of my daughter. Even a blind mudfish can see that her skin and my skin do not match, but I held her in my arms when her mind was not yet formed, and she did not see the difference between her skin and mine.”

“
Tatu
,” Harry said. Father. “I am sure that the Belgians will give you a
matabisha
. A reward. But listen closely to me, for I speak the truth. The
Bula Matadi
are not to be trusted. They will say that their reward is very generous, when for a fact it will be like one ear of corn for an elephant. Instead of accepting such an insult, you should allow me to conduct proper negotiations on your behalf. Of course you and I will consult privately so that these sons of Flemish monkeys will never know that I am the real mastermind behind this scheme.”

“I do not want a reward! I do not wish to negotiate away my only child! I only want her safety and—”

“Nonsense. You would be happy to sell her for a handful of goats and some fat ducks, would you not? As for her happiness? I’m sure that she will be well taken care of.”

The Headhunter felt his toes curl in the thick grass, so great was his frustration. “Forgive me, master,” he said, “but to guarantee her happiness is foolishness. I can wish only that she is safe, and well fed, and healthy. To wish for more is to tempt the spirits.”

“
Tch
,” said Harry, sounding deceptively like an African. “There are no spirits; only
Nzambi, tatu wetu mu diulu
.”

The Headhunter had no wish to discuss theology at the moment, even though he was mildly curious about this father god in the skies. Perhaps such a god could be persuaded to hold off a severe thunderstorm while a hunt was underway. Last season two hunters in their prime had been struck by lightning, and both of them had been wearing protective leopards’ teeth around their necks.

To indicate that he had heard but did not necessarily agree, the Headhunter grunted.

“Eh? said Harry. “What must I do to get you to leave? Call the
Bula Matadi
?”

It crossed the Headhunter’s mind again how easy it would be to kill the white man. If he slit his throat, there would be too much blood. Far better for the Headhunter to bring the knife up behind the ear and enter the skull at the soft spot there. Then, even though the white man was fat, the Headhunter could carry him to the edge of the precipice and throw him to the crocodile. Of course, before doing that, the Headhunter would take a moment to separate the grinning head from its corpulent owner. He would then take the head into the
tshisuku
and bury it somewhere deep enough that hyenas and jackals would be discouraged from digging it up.

“No, master, I do not wish to speak to the
Bula Matadi
,” he said.

Mastermind couldn’t help but rejoice. The plan, like a puzzle, had been composed of distinct pieces. Unfortunately, the pieces had been scattered for thirteen years, but now all of them were accounted for. Now it was simply a matter of fitting the pieces back into their proper places. In fact, with the child’s
baba
out of the picture—one could only presume the Bashilele were responsible—there was one less loose end to worry about. But oh, the payoff! In the intervening years new mines had been discovered, and the ransom, when delivered, would be ten times the amount it would have been all those years ago.

The OP’s eyes must have radiated pride, shame, joy, wonder, love—surely too many things to explain. And of course he had no proof—except a feeling, like an invisible web that connected him to the girl, a web that had always been there, just never had been spoken about.

“Thirteen years ago,” he said, “almost fourteen years ago, I was assigned to Belle Vue as Operations Manager. Shortly afterwards my wife, Heilewid, became pregnant. It was a very difficult pregnancy and we had to make many trips into Luluaburg to see the doctor—as we had none here. But then when the baby was born—I mean soon after—she went missing. This girl”—he pointed directly at her—“this is she. I know it. I feel it. Besides, there have been no other reports of European girls gone missing in all these years.”

“What was your daughter’s name?” Amanda asked.

“
What?
She was a baby, just three weeks old. She wouldn’t remember it!”

It was Captain Jardin who put a hand on the OP’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. “Monsieur OP,” he said, “I think that the Mademoiselle Brown is merely curious—in addition to being perhaps a touch rude.”

“
Oui, oui,
she is very rude,” the OP said. Fat hot tears filled his eyes as he recalled the morning of the abduction. “Her name is Danielle Louise.” She was named after her grandmother—Heilewid’s mother.”

The OP heard the black housekeeper whisper something to his daughter, something that he couldn’t understand. After an adult lifetime in the Congo the OP still couldn’t understand the local language, which was fine with him, because the natives all spoke French. That is, either they did speak French, or found someone who did. But what was the point of the maid whispering to his daughter, if the girl couldn’t speak the language either?

“Excuse me,” he said in French, “what were you saying to my daughter just now?”

The African woman was certainly not one to be intimidated. She even stepped forward—hobbled, to be more exact—and did her best to straighten her bent frame.

“Monsieur OP,” she said, “do you not recognize me? I am the Muluba woman who gazed down upon you from high up on your gallows. You may feel free to address me as madame, or you may use my name, which is Cripple.”

The OP felt a pang of loathing. “You were arrested for my wife’s murder.”

“The governor set her free,” Amanda said.

“Mademoiselle,” the OP said, “I recall that this was really your doing.”

“
Mon ami
,” Pierre said, “the past is past,
non
? Now you have an exciting future to look forward to.”

“Perhaps,” said the OP. After all, his daughter looked every bit as happy to be there as the crippled one had looked on the day of her scheduled execution. “
Alors
,” he said, “
j’ai une idée merveilleuse!
”

Husband knew his place. That did not mean that he liked it. He certainly did not approve of it, but there was only so much that one man alone could do. After all, by himself, Husband was not a movement; he was not Cripple.

He was not even master of his own feet. Now, as he waited at the back door of the Missionary Rest House for someone to answer his knock, Husband shifted nervously from foot to foot. Like a small boy he rubbed the soles of his shoes against his shins in turn. Husband could feel the calloused pads of his feet against his hairy legs, but not vice versa.

At last the screen door was flung open by Protruding Navel, the head houseboy. This man of the Bena Lulua tribe was in Husband’s eyes of less worth than a caterpillar; at least the caterpillar could be eaten.

“
Tch
,” the houseboy said, rolling his eyes in disgust. “What does this disgraced Muluba witch doctor want?”

“I have come to see my wife,” Husband said.

“Your
wife
? This is the house of an American missionary. Does she know that she is married to the likes of you?”

“My wife is Cripple, a fact which you know very well. As for your joke,
Monsieur
Tablier
—Mr. Apron—it was not funny. Intermarriage is against the law.”

The man named Protruding Navel clutched the once white apron with both hands. “It is a job, the pay is good, and there are many nights when I am sent home with extra food for my family.”

“Eh, that is so. Cripple too returns with food—but what we are to make of it, that is often a great puzzle. This
sow-wah-clout!”
Husband spat on the grass to the side of the back steps. “
Aiyee
, I once tasted monkey brains that had been left too long in the sun. Believe me; the brains tasted better.”

The houseboy roared with laugher. “Yes, yes, they have some very strange flavors. The
mamu
must eat small quantities of a thing called
cho-co-laht
or she will become very unhappy; she will even whip us.”

“
Aiyee!
Even Cripple?”

“Especially Cripple.”

“Then I must speak to her at once.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Protruding Navel said. “She is working. Did you not see all the whites in their cars on the front road? They have all come to see this strange creature plucked from the midst of the heathen Bashilele.”

“You will fetch my wife, Muena Lulua,” Husband said to Protruding Navel. He chose to address him as an individual of the Bena Lulua tribe, rather than by his given name. It was meant as an insult.

However, the man in the apron—he who did woman’s work—this man had the gall to gaze with insolence into Husband’s eyes. During that length of time a good wife could have fried caterpillars in palm oil until they crunched between the teeth, launching waves of pleasure that seemed to sweep beyond the mouth even, causing the entire body to shiver with ecstasy.

Protruding Navel was a man without prejudices. The Belgians, the Americans, the Baluba, the Bashilele—all of them were equal in his sight. That is to say, they were equal to each other, but not, of course, to the Bena Lulua. It mattered not to Protruding Navel if these aforementioned tribes fought amongst each other, just as long as he still had a job that paid him every Saturday evening, and that his hut was still standing at the end of each and every day.

Therefore, was not Protruding Navel a progressive man? Some might even consider him an evolved man, worthy of receiving special status by the colonial government, given only to those blacks who had managed to lift themselves up above the level of savagery. One must also never forget that Protruding Navel was the legitimate son of a Bena Lulua chief—a minor chief, and of a small village—but a real chief nonetheless.

Tch!
Still, as important as he was, Protruding Navel could not ignore the fact that he was fond of the American with the meaningless name, Amanda Brown—but now called Mamu Ugly Eyes—and that stubborn Muluba woman named Cripple. That annoying little woman was supposed to be Protruding Navel’s assistant, but she seemed to do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased.