The Headhunter's Daughter (9 page)

Cripple’s legs felt exceptionally weak, even more tired than they had the day before after the long trek to and from the village. Without further ado—and really, as befit her rights as the elder of the two—she plopped down on the soft mat. My, but it really was soft. No wonder the whites were unable to perform their own work; they’d been pampered so much by their own inventions that they had lost the ability to do anything labor intensive. Indeed, it was a wonder that their arms could even lift a spoon.

“Is your mother’s friend—this woman, Iron Sliver—is she a slave?”

“
Nasha, Mamu.
But she was a slave until she married. She is the chief’s sister; they were both captured as children.”

“
Aiyee!
If she is a free woman, why does not she leave?”

The white creature smiled licentiously. “We have a saying,
Mamu
. Those who take a Mushilele husband will never leave the tribe of their own accord.”

Cripple felt the urge to jump up and strike the child—along with the urge to laugh. Lacking the energy to do the former, she engaged in the latter. After all, the girl was sporting breasts; true, they were not the round, full breasts of a woman, but
mabele
nonetheless. She would understand soon enough what this loose talk was all about, if she did not already.

“Do your parents also speak my language, strange white one?” she asked.

“Of course they do!”

“
Kah!
”

“Your surprise baffles me,
Mamu
. Your unpleasant language—which frankly grates on my ears like the noise of so many crickets—is the dominant language of this region of the Congo. Therefore a great many in our village have gone to the trouble of learning it because someday it might become useful for our survival.”

“But yesterday neither you nor your father seemed to understand a word of it! And it does
not
grate on your ears.”

“Yesterday I obeyed my father; today he is not here, as you can see. By the way, I have a name, and it is not ‘Strange White One.’ ”

Cripple lay back upon the mat. How soft and welcoming it was. How gently it cradled her twisted frame. With this for a bed, she could sleep like a kitten and wake each morning with a smile on her face.

“I suppose you wish to tell me what your name is,” Cripple said.

“My name is Ugly Eyes.”

“
Kah!
” Cripple sat. “That cannot be!”

“
Eyo
, it is exactly so, just as your name is Cripple.”

“How did you know thus?” Cripple demanded.

“So you were called yesterday,” Ugly Eyes said.

“
Mesu Mabi
is the name of the white woman who brought you here. It is for her that I work—”

“You are her slave?”

“
Aiyee!
” Cripple struggled to her feet. “You are an ignorant child; you have so much to learn. Who will teach you the
Bula Matadi
’s ways?”

“My father says that perhaps it is the spirits of my white ancestors who have come to claim me. They will see to it that I learn the
Bula Matadi
’s ways. To that end, is it not possible that this woman who shares my name wishes also to be my teacher?”

Cripple shook her head in wonder. “You are indeed a strange person, Ugly Eyes, for you have the look of one who is young, but the tongue of one who has survived for many years. Tell me the truth, child; where did you come from? Are you the product of a powerful witch doctor’s curse?”

“There are those who believe this is so, and there are those who believe that I am nothing more than the abandoned offspring of the
Bula Matadi
. At any rate, I was found in the forest, as an infant, by the older son—now dead—of my beloved mother and father.”

“Ah. How old are you now, child? Do you know?”

“
Nasha.
”

“Have you begun to bleed?”

“
Nasha
. But my mother says the time is very near.”

“She is right,” Cripple said. “A mother knows these things. Now back to your name—what do you think of Ugly Skin as your new name? For you must admit, your skin is hideous to the extreme.”

“
Kah!
I think Ugly Skin is a horrible name,” the girl said, “and it does not fit my skin at all. The answer is no; I will not change it. You cannot force me. The
Bula Matadi
cannot force me.”

Now this was a girl who could go far. She was brave, she was headstrong, and she had a powerful self-image; something Cripple had never been privileged to possess. Surely she would make a powerful ally. Possibly even a friend—if one could truly get to the bottom of who she was.

“Why is it that your father—this head-hunting savage—wished to keep secret the fact that you speak my civilized tongue?”

The girl had the effrontery to clench her fists as she spoke. “I will remain calm before the
Bula Matadi
, so that I might learn their ways, but you, you Muluba forest monkey, I do not have to act thusly with you.”

“
Aiyee!
Let it be known that this creature has feelings,” Cripple said. She was doing her best to act cavalier, while instead she felt guilty for making the girl feel bad. What’s more, she felt inexplicably maternal.

“I am a person,” the girl said simply.

“And so you are,” Cripple said. She smiled at the girl for the first time.

The girl returned the slightest of smiles. “My father believes that I will learn many additional things if it is believed that I do not understand
Tshiluba
which, as you know, is the main trade language of this region.”

“Your father is right,” Cripple said, without a hint of sarcasm. “Come, let us go greet the
mamu
, whose name is also Ugly Eyes. But do not be afraid, strange one, for I will remain at your side, and I will not give away your secret.”

Chapter Nine

A
manda saw Cripple enter the woodshed to get her uniform. She would have called out to stop her if it would have done any good. But the woodshed—which was really a rather tidy little brick building with a galvanized iron roof—was set well back from the main house, and therefore well back from Amanda’s bedroom. And then there was the noise of the falls. It would have been a waste of breath.

When Amanda first arrived in Belle Vue as the hostess of the Missionary Rest House, she was actually put off by all the racket. What folly it seemed to build a rest house where one could barely carry on a decent conversation, let alone think. But of course it was all about the view; the lawn swept right to the edge of the precipice. It was as if the landscape architect was daring the guests to dash themselves against the rocks far below.

Fortunately, this was not really the case, but merely the state of Amanda’s mind. She had arrived in the Belgian Congo weighed down with a guilty conscience, having been riding in a car full of drunken teenagers when a fatal accident occurred. Although the accident wasn’t Amanda’s fault, the fact that she had escaped with relatively minor injuries, when so many others had died, made her feel like a murderer. But a lot had happened since her arrival, just a few months ago, and by now the roar of the falls was merely a constant in her life, something even to be missed when the time came for her to leave.

It did, however, make calling out to Cripple an exercise in futility. Then again, perhaps it was just as well that she not alert Cripple to the fact that the Mushilele girl and her father were in the shed. It would be amusing to see just how quickly Cripple emerged, and what her expression would be. At home it had become fashionable lately for Northerners to come to the South (even to Rock Hill) and comment on the racism they observed. Jim Crow, they called it. But Amanda had never witnessed ethnic prejudices quite as explicit as that displayed between the various tribes here in the middle of Africa.

“Oh my stars!” she cried aloud. “This just can’t be!”

But it was. Cripple, with a smug smile on her face, and the white Mushilele
,
as impassive as ever, had emerged from the woodshed holding hands. Like schoolgirls! Amanda was at once relieved, overjoyed, and envious. How could she not be? Cripple had been
her
discovery, and introducing this feral child (well, she amounted to one, didn’t she?) to civilization was supposed to be
her
job as well. Now it appeared as if Amanda’s first project had stolen her second project right out from underneath her, and probably all because Amanda had been all too successful.

Amanda dashed through the Missionary Rest House, paying scant attention to her surroundings. Unfortunately for Protruding Navel, she did not see him coming through the kitchen door and into the dining room.

“
Aiyee, Mamu
,” he said, for what else can one say, when it is a white woman who has knocked you to the floor? You cannot give a white woman the back of your hand, and tell her that it is your wish that a male goat will find her attractive and follow her into the bush when she goes off to do her business.

“
Eee
, I am so sorry,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said. “Protruding Navel, please forgive me.”

The apology came immediately, a fact that pleased Protruding Navel immensely. In his position as head houseboy he had served many missionaries—such as the ones who waited for him now on the front patio—and had observed that some of them were more respectful of the African than others. Protruding Navel was not in the mood this particular morning to be poked like a toad with a sharp stick.

“Mamu Ugly Eyes,” he said expansively, “I am on my way to take the breakfast orders from the guests. They have already been served their juice—although the
mukelenge
did not like his; he poured it on the ground.”

“
Nasha!
”

“
Mamu
, do you call me a liar?”

“I do not! I am merely saying that such behavior is hard to believe. What was wrong with the juice? I made it myself.”

There it was, was it not? Had the juice been squeezed by Cripple or by Protruding Navel, then perhaps it could be easier to understand why it was that the fat missionary from the distant mission should pour it wastefully on the ground. In retrospect, Mamu Ugly Eyes was not so different from the others; she was just better at disguising her true feelings—for a while.

Protruding Navel hung his head provocatively. “
Mamu
, it is not my place to repeat such things.”

“
Feedlesteeks!
” It was an English word that Mamu Ugly Eyes said when she was frustrated—which, it seemed, was very often. “Protruding Navel, you will repeat this; I demand it.”

Is it only a white woman who could dare demand that a man do such a thing—or anything? Among the
Bakuba
people there is said to be a great queen; perhaps she too could demand obedience from her male subjects. However, such was not the case with Protruding Navel’s more sensible tribe, the Bena Lulua.

“
Mamu
,” Protruding Navel said, “does not the
Book of God
forbid gossip?”

“It is not gossip if it is true,” the
mamu
snapped.

Protruding Navel resisted the urge to laugh. He had the
mamu
right where he wanted her. She was so easy to manipulate sometimes; she was so much like a child.

“He said your juice was weak,
Mamu
. Bitter water, he called it. But this was after he spat it on the grass; the very grass that I myself must cut since the yard boy is not permitted that close to the patio. And as I said, he poured out what was in his glass, and as he did thus he had a terrible expression on his face, perhaps like that of a dying monkey—although I must hasten to assure you,
Mamu
, that as I am not a heathen forest dweller, but instead a citizen of the workers’ village of the great city of Belle Vue, I have not seen many dying monkeys.” Protruding Navel paused to catch his breath. “Of course I would not tell you any of this, except that you forced me to,
Mamu
.”

“
Eyo
. Indeed, I did. Now please get back to work—”

“
Mamu
, there is much talk in the village about this strange European.”

Protruding Navel observed his employer straighten and cross her arms. “So fast?”

“
E
, like a
tshisuku
fire in the dry season. They think it is a bad omen. Some go so far to say that you have brought a curse to Belle Vue.”

“A curse? What kind of curse?”

“Perhaps an illness, like the sleeping sickness, or boils, maybe even smallpox.”

“And what do you think, Protruding Navel?”

It is the fool who answers quickly. “Mamu Ugly Eyes, you know that I am a Protestant—like you—and therefore a true Christian, and as such I do not believe in these primitive superstitions. But
if
I were to believe in such nonsense, I suppose I might believe that you have brought a
mukishi
—a ghost—into this house. It will make this house its base,
Mamu
, but it will also sneak into the village at night and steal the lives of babies, as well as the elderly, and even some of the people’s livestock.”

“Protruding Navel, this is absolutely preposterous! Surely you cannot believe this.
Babies?
The
elderly
? Here they die on a regular basis. Their deaths cannot be blamed on this girl. I will not allow you to blame her. I forbid it! As for the livestock—why, if I did not know you to be a good Christian, this would sound to me like a clever way for you to steal goats and pigs while putting the blame on an innocent child.”

Protruding Navel felt the veins along his temple throb. Never had a woman spoken to him thusly. How fortunate for Mamu Ugly Eyes that she wore the skin of the oppressors. But the world had begun to tip; Protruding Navel could feel the destinies of nations sliding beneath his feet to opposing poles. Someday soon everything would be upside down. Black would be the new white, and white the new black. That is what the Communists taught.

Perhaps even this very place would be his, and Mamu Ugly Eyes would be his housekeeper. In that case, because she was a young woman, there would be no need to use the title
mamu
. Just her name would suffice.

“Ugly Eyes,” he could say, “I do not care for this jam; bring me a different flavor at once!” Then he would clap his hands like the whites always did when they were impatient. “Chop, chop,” they always added in their own language.

“Protruding Navel,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said, breaking through his daydream, “are you even listening to me?”

“Yes,
Mamu
, I have heard every word, and you have deeply offended me. Did I not say that I was a Christian, a follower of
Yesu Clisto
?”

“Yes, of course. I am so sorry, Protruding Navel. It is just that I feel so strongly about the heathen superstitions that some of the villagers believe in.”

“Do you refer to Cripple,
Mamu
?”

“
Eh?
”

“Is she not a heathen? Please remember,
Mamu
, that these are her own words; not mine.”

“
Eyo, eyo!
Cripple is a heathen! Now I really must go, Protruding Navel, because I hear Cripple and the ghost girl in the kitchen now.”

“Very well,” Protruding Navel said. “Perhaps we will talk again soon.” He waited until she turned her back on him before smiling. Indeed, there were many things that he had yet to say to her.

The OP’s binoculars had gotten quite a workout, both the night before and this morning. That was certainly one of the advantages of living in the official quarters of the Director of Mines; the view across the river to the Missionary Rest House was unparalleled. If the OP felt the slightest twinge of guilt for spying on the white girl who’d been rescued from the ferocious Bashilele, it was far outweighed by his sense of duty fulfilled.

Yes, of course Captain Pierre Jardin had been a part of this; there was no getting around that. It simply wouldn’t do to have someone as important as the OP wandering around in the jungle—or wherever those savages lived. Who knows what could have happened? The very fact that the rescue party had been charged by a mad bull elephant was proof enough just how dangerous that excursion had been. And let’s not forget the driver ants—
sacre coeur
! There was that young upstart now!

The binoculars! The OP jumped to his feet, whipped his helmet off, put the glasses down on his chair and did his best to cover them with his helmet. Thank God he had a large head.

“
Bon jour
, Monsieur OP,” Captain Jardin said with a smart bow. After all, the army, the police—all were here to back up the Consortium. As to whom the Consortium ultimately answered to—well, one might consider taking up philately for the answer.

“
Bon jour
, Pierre. Would you like some coffee before we go?”

“
Oui, merci
.”

Merde!
That son of a bitch had the intuition of a woman and was probably already onto him. He could feel it. Better to confess now than to make it seem really strange later.

“Ha, ha, these binoculars are a joke,” he said as he reclaimed them and at the same time donned his helmet. “But not these helmets, eh? Of course you don’t wear one, what with your regulation police captain’s hat, but I find that this thing is a lifesaver. Did you know that I get a new one every year?”

Captain Jardin glanced at the white cork helmet with what appeared to be admiration. “They are very attractive, sir. The coffee?
S’il vous plait
.”

“
Ah, oui! Garcon
,” he called
.
Boy! He had a new table boy since the move—some fellow by the name of Laurent, or Lucifer, or something pompous and European. The OP couldn’t be bothered to learn the man’s name just yet; not until he was sure the fellow would work out.

With the fresh coffee now just a memory—as well as some warm croissants and butter produced by Consortium-owned cows—the OP insisted that he and Captain Jardin get right down to business. The morning had wings, after all. Then again, didn’t all the mornings in Belle Vue? Money, money, money, that’s what the ticking minutes represented. In less than two years the day of independence would dawn and then the land would stop hemorrhaging diamonds—well, at least into European coffers.

He let the captain drive—the better to appreciate the experience. Everything seemed more intense: colors brighter, sounds clearer—for a moment he felt an odd, intense sort of love for the Congo, even though his deceased wife Heilewid was eternally trapped somewhere beneath the falls, and all that remained of her sister was the burned stump that was buried in the white cemetery up on the hill straight ahead.