The Witch Doctor's Wife (15 page)

W
ilhelm Van Derhoef, as of late known as “Flanders,” made it a point to be the first one at the office each morning. The OP seemed to appreciate this—he could spend more time with that cold, shriveled wife of his—and Flanders didn’t mind. What else was he going to do with his time? There wasn’t a single European he considered a friend, and since he wasn’t fond of reading, he was in bed most evenings by eight.
Most
evenings.

Flanders was, after all, a virile young man. When late one afternoon a very attractive village girl showed up at his door on the pretext of selling bananas, Flanders invited her inside. She’d come to the door before, selling mangoes and pineapples, but the houseboys soon clued him in on the fact that selling fruit was not
the main source of her income. When he’d first invited her in, as on all subsequent occasions, the houseboys were gone for the day.

The woman said her name was Monique. She told him she was the daughter of a Belgian surveyor and his
Bashilele
mistress, but her father refused to acknowledge her existence. Although her mother’s people, who were very traditional, were kind to her, they didn’t consider her one of the tribe. One day, when she was about fourteen, Monique walked away from the village of her birth and to the nearest town, where she hoped to find a mingling of tribes. That town was Belle Vue.

Monique was tall, with prominent cheekbones and a long, slender neck. Her flawless skin was the color of toffee, and the light blue clothes she favored flattered her immensely. To Flanders she was the most beautiful woman to walk the face of the earth, and he promptly fell head over heels in love with her.

As smitten as he was, Flanders was very much aware that he had come to Belle Vue for a specific reason: to gather information for the top brass in Brussels. A
spy
. That’s what Flanders really was, and in the beginning he had reveled in that knowledge. He’d come to spy for the corporate office, and even if he was found out—or just failed to uncover anything newsworthy—what did he really have to lose? He was still young enough and bright enough to start over again. Possibly even in America. But the day he realized he was in love with Monique was the day everything changed.

Now he
had
to succeed. If he was successful, he might be able to take Monique back to Belgium with him and not have it matter so much. That was the best he could hope for. If he kept Monique very much in the background, there was a remote chance that his personal life might be ignored—not accepted, of course, but ignored. His mother, however, would never accept the woman he loved.

Enough worrying about the future; it was time to act. Yesterday he’d heard snatches of conversation revolving around a huge diamond of exceptional size and brilliance. Then this morning as he was driving to work, he’d spotted the store manager’s truck parked in the postmaster’s driveway. It was often there in the mornings, so at first Flanders didn’t give it a second thought. Whatever was going on between the store manager—or his wife—and the postmaster wasn’t his business. His business was ousting the OP.

He had a good feeling about today.

Amanda Brown took her second cup of coffee out to the terrace. Although Protruding Navel had whined about the intense cold, Amanda found it bracing. Of course, she was wearing a sweater over her blouse and had on shoes and socks. The housekeeper had none of those, a situation Amanda would rectify—even though she was planning to let him go.

But it could have been minus forty degrees instead of forty above, and Amanda would still have wanted to take her coffee outside. It was absurd. Back in South Carolina, she couldn’t have imagined spending a chilly morning in the Congo sipping coffee beside a waterfall, but being outside here was pure magic.

She settled her cup on the retaining wall and leaned over as far as she dared. This was Amanda’s favorite spot to view the falls. Her parents had recently purchased their first television set, but even it wasn’t as interesting as this.

Once she’d seen an uprooted tree sweep over the edge, only to disappear in the roiling water. Yesterday she’d thought she’d seen a crocodile on the other side of the basin—yes, there it still was, propped against a jumble of boulders, to the left of a sandy beach.

But wait, what was that? Something was moving directly beneath her on the wet rocks. It was black, and looked small from here, but it was so far down to the water that the distance was
deceiving. Perhaps it was an otter. She’d read there were giant otters in some African rivers. Maybe this one was stranded on her side of the pool, afraid to go back into the water because of the crocodile. Well, whatever it was, it was gone now.

Ah, but something was happening across the gorge at Branca’s house. A sleek sedan had apparently just pulled into the drive, and two men—it looked like they were white men—were moving at a fast clip to the front door. Was there an emergency? Could the Nunez family be in some sort of trouble?

There was something very odd about the Nunez couple. The senhora seemed to spend most of her time sitting on the terrace, writing something. Maybe her journal? Letters? Senhor Nunez, on the other hand, was almost never home. The grocery store closed promptly at six every evening, six nights a week. But the senhor was seldom home before ten. That was not the kind of marriage Amanda hoped to build someday—unless the Lord required it of her.

That was the most difficult part of being a missionary; doing what the Lord wanted, while you wanted to do something entirely different. Something like—well, anything but run a missionary guesthouse. Still, it was infinitely better than being in prison. There was much for which to be thankful.

Their Death had heard descriptions of the white man’s house—their servants were highly regarded gossipers—but he’d never actually been in one. Like the post office, the walls were made of concrete block and the roof of corrugated galvanized iron. The window openings were filled with sheets of glass, and not only was the floor paved, but colorful mats had been strewn about to enhance its beauty.

There was a room just for eating, if you can imagine that, which contained a large table and chairs. In the main room there were soft chairs of such great size that Their Death entertained
the thought that they’d been created specifically for giants. On one wall hung a rectangle of bright colors, which Their Death supposed was meant to be decorative, although it was certainly not like any of the paintings he’d read about in novels.

But the most remarkable feature of the house was that it had a room devoted entirely to the body and its natural functions. It was just as Cripple had said. Their Death listened with great interest as Monsieur Dupree explained that the long white trough was used for bathing (imagine sitting in one’s dirty bathwater), the large bowl with the lid was for waste (one actually sat where others had sat before), while the third water feature was for washing hands and scrubbing teeth.

There was even a room just for cooking. Instead of an open fire, one cooked on a large metal box that was attached to heat-producing wires. Uneaten food could be stored in another box, this one cooled by wires that looked to be very much the same as the heat-producing ones. When asked for details about the wires, Monsieur Dupree merely shrugged, as if such magic was to be taken for granted.

Their Death was perplexed. Why did the Europeans need so many servants if there were machines available to do the work for them? Someday they might even invent a machine that could cut grass and whitewash trees. If that day ever came—and it was beginning to look like it might—what would Their Death do about a job?

But speaking of servants, the three in the kitchen appeared not to believe their eyes. An African as a guest? And a primitive witch doctor at that! Would he eat off the same dishes as the white man?
What
would he eat? The youngest, still very much a boy, actually laughed when M. Dupree told them to serve the African the same dishes they’d planned to serve their employer. Just wait until Cripple heard about this. Even
she
did not get to eat at the same table as the American woman.

The postmaster took him back to the living room and pointed to a chair. “Sit—if you please.”

“
Merci, monsieur
.” Their Death had never sat on anything nearly this comfortable. If the white man could build something this comfortable, what might they do with their beds?

“We shall eat shortly, Their Death. In the meantime, how about something to drink?”

Their Death popped to his feet. “
Oui, monsieur
, I will get you some water.”

“Sit down again. Please. I’m asking if
you
would like something to drink. Maybe whiskey—or gin? Water?”

“
S’il vous plait, monsieur
, but I am unfamiliar with these words.” French was a lot more difficult than any of the African languages Their Death spoke—which was five, although his Kipende was only so-so.

“Whiskey and gin are types of alcohol. Like your palm wine—only stronger, I believe.”

In that case, Their Death longed to try one of the alcoholic drinks offered. He was, of course, curious, but he was also in need of relaxation. Palm wine always relaxed him—not that he drank it on a regular basis. Men who habitually drank palm wine or smoked hemp tended to lose their jobs and didn’t make very good husbands or fathers.

But now was not the time to indulge himself in a foreign pleasure. More than ever, Their Death needed his wits about him. Monsieur Dupree was up to something devious, that much he knew for sure.

“No, merci,”
he said, trying not to inject a bit of wistful regret into the words.

“In that case, I hope you don’t mind if I
do
indulge. I’ve been thinking, Monsieur Their Death. Thinking very hard.” Mr. Dupree paused, the drama of which was not lost on Their Death. Neither did his use of the formal “monsieur” go unnoticed. “You
see, I believe it is a crime the way that we Belgians do nothing but take, take, take, and take some more from your beautiful country, and put very little back. Where were you educated, Monsieur Their Death?”

“At the Catholic mission school.”

“Exactly. A mission school. Do you realize that all the schools in this country—excuse me, this colony—are run by missionaries? Catholic, Protestant, what have you. But not by the government. In other countries the government pays for the schools and so they are everywhere.
Everywhere
. Other countries supply buses—uh, like very long cars but with many seats—to transport the children. Sometimes they can be at school within minutes, even if they live some miles away. Monsieur Their Death, how long does it take for your children to walk to school?”

Husband didn’t own a watch—only the alarm clock he used to wake himself—but he’d timed the trip so as to be aware of his children’s whereabouts, like any good father. Now he was ashamed to speak.”

“Two hours,” he said softly.

“Excuse me? I didn’t hear that.”

“Two hours.”

“But that’s terrible!” The postmaster shook his head. “Do you have electricity, Monsieur Their Death?”

“
Mais, non!
” Now that was a silly question. Of course he didn’t have electricity. Even the village chief didn’t have electricity.

“Ah, but in Belgium even the poorest family has electricity. At night the parents can read many newspapers and books, and the children can study. I tell you, Monsieur Their Death, that is why I am sitting here today, having this conversation. Because of electricity. Every nation that colonizes has electricity, whereas every nation that
is
colonized, does not have electricity. Or at least it did not have electricity when it was colonized. I’m telling you, Monsieur Their Death, that the man who invented electricity was a genius.”

“
Oui
, but monsieur, I hear it is very expensive. That is why even the chief cannot afford it.”

“Too true! But, if you agree to my plan, you will not only have electricity, you will own a shiny new automobile, a house with many rooms, and even shoes for all your children.”

Their Death leaned forward, every cell in his body yearning for a better life. “What is your plan, monsieur?”

L
uluaburg seemed as large as Lisbon—compared to Bell Vue, that is. It always impressed Cezar. That such a metropolis should exist in the heart of the Congo was something to be marveled at. Leopoldville was, of course, much more cosmopolitan, and Elizabethville enjoyed a better climate, but Luluaburg had everything a man really needed,
if
he knew where to look.

Cezar Nunez knew exactly where to look for most things. He’d been to Luluaburg a number of times on business, and like many other red-blooded businessmen, had assuaged his after-hours boredom by seeking out the pleasures to be had in the seamier part of the city. On one of these forays into Babylon, Cezar had made the acquaintance of a man whom he knew only as “the Syrian.” Whatever items could not be supplied legitimately in Lu
luaburg—a quick loan, an abortion, agreeable substances, women prostitutes, even men—all could be had, as long as enough money eventually passed hands. And if the Syrian couldn’t provide the service himself, he knew someone who could.

An old customer by now, Cezar didn’t waste any time telephoning when he reached the city outskirts. A block from the Syrian’s office he left the truck in the care of some street urchins (it was better to pay for their protection than have them trash the vehicle). And anyway, the Syrian refused to conduct business with anyone who parked in front of his shop.

His shop! Each time Cezar entered the Syrian’s shop, he was both horrified and amused. Ostensibly it was like a hundred other little shops in the Congo that catered exclusively to Africans. The wares included bolts of brightly colored cloth, half-meter-long bars of blue and white soap, pans filled with glass beads, pans filled with pocket-size mirrors bearing the king’s portrait on the back, crates filled with bottles of a sugary red drink called
bakamoosa
, sacks of dried yellow-and-black-striped caterpillars, stacks of small tins of sweetened condensed milk, bottles of rank perfume, plastic sandals, and a large wooden box with the salted remnants of a fish called
makayabo
. The difference between the Syrian’s store and any other of its kind was that everything in this shop was covered with a thick layer of dust—including the fish.

Even the stupidest Fleming authority could not mistake this as a viable business, but then the stupidest Flemings were never assigned a beat that included Rue de Vole. Just as long as appearances were maintained and the Syrian paid well for the privileges extended to him, who cared if the store’s inventory remained untouched?

Cezar knew better than to knock. The protocol was to step behind the counter, push aside the sagging curtain, and see if the Syrian was occupied. If he was, he let you know in no uncertain terms. In fact, that seemed to be his chief pleasure: yelling at the
imbeciles who dare disturb his opium-induced reverie. This particular morning the Syrian was alone, hunched over an elaborately carved rosewood table eating a plate of rice and beans.

“Pardon, monsieur,” Cezar said quickly, “I did not expect to interrupt your lunch.”

“My lunch? Does this look like lunch? This is my breakfast, you idiot. I just woke up.”

Silly Cezar. Of course. A man whose business catered to creatures of the night would not rise at the same time as a grocery-store manager.

“Pardon,” he said again.

The Syrian pushed aside his food and stared at Cezar. “Do I know you?”

“
Oui, monsieur
. I’ve been here many times.”

“Then tell me,” the Syrian said, tapping his cheek, “how did I come by this scar?”

Scar
was almost an understatement. The livid red streak ran from his left temple, across his forehead and right cheek, and ended just in front of his right ear. It reminded Cezar of a Venetian mask, the ones that are half black and half white.

“Monsieur, the scar was inflicted on you by a drunken Corsican in Marseilles. He mistakenly thought you’d insulted his wife. But the man was a pig, and so was his wife, so how could one insult either of them?”

“
Bien
,” the Syrian grunted. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

Cezar withdrew the packet from his trouser pocket and immediately handed it to the man. The Syrian didn’t play games.

“It’s a diamond,” Cezar said. “A diamond of exceptional size and beauty, as you will see. I need to sell it as fast as possible.”

The Syrian’s hands seemed to move with deliberate slowness. Cezar found himself holding his breath while the stone was uncovered and then held to the light of a wall lamp. The Syrian turned it all directions and just as deliberately placed it on the table.

Cezar gasped for oxygen. “Well?”

The Syrian picked up an enamel coffee mug and brought it sharply down the gem, shattering it into a million little pieces.

“Madre de dios,”
Cezar cried, his French momentarily forsaking him. “What have you done to my diamond?”

The Syrian ground the mug into the shards, turning them into powder. “You ignorant fool! Wasting my time with a piece of glass.”

Glass?

“Monsieur, you are mistaken. I have it on the best authority—a former diamond cutter—that this”—Cezar gestured helplessly at the pile of dust—“was one of the best diamonds he had ever seen.”

“
Merde!
You imbecile! Get out of my office.”

Unable to fathom what had just happened, Cezar stepped forward and brushed the powder into his hand.

“My plan is to make us both very, very, rich. Beyond your wildest dreams. You and your family will soon be able to live in a house like this, with electricity, and servants. Your wives will no longer have to toil in the manioc fields and your children will have the finest shoes—made from leather, not canvas like the ones you are wearing now. And all your children, even the girls, can ride to school in your own automobile, which you will drive, because you will no longer need to work for me. Or even at all, for that matter.”

Dupree smiled to himself as he watched the expression on Their Death’s face change from one of skepticism to one of intense longing. He’d obviously kicked a goal. Call it altruism, or even being a loving father, but it was still greed. That’s what really ran the world, wasn’t it? Greed for money, greed for power, greed for the most converts. Hitler, Rockefeller, missionaries—the one thing they all had in common was numbers. The more countries
you conquered, the larger your bank account, the more souls you saved, the greater your reward in heaven. More, more, more. That’s all anybody really wanted.

“But Monsieur Dupree—”

“Please! Call me Julian.”

The fellow stared openmouthed. No doubt this was the first time a white had made such an offer of intimacy. A shame, that. But if one wanted to establish the type of rapport needed to pull this off, it was absolutely necessary. And of course the bonding had to go both ways.

“So if you please, Monsieur Their Death, may I have the honor of calling you by your Christian name?”

The poor man looked like a caged animal. “I have no Christian name.”

“
Ce n’est pas possible!
You went to a Catholic school. Surely the fathers turned you into a proper Christian.”

“No. But yes, I went to their school. What I mean to say is that I am not a Christian; I am a witch doctor, monsieur.”

“This is a joke?”

“No, monsieur.”

“But you can’t be a witch doctor! You’re my yardman.”

“
Oui
, but I am a witch doctor as well. It is something I got from my father.”

“Like an inheritance?”

“Exactly. But you see, I am not very good at it and my people, the Baluba, no longer have much need of one. Therefore I must work cutting grass and whitewashing tree trunks.”

“How interesting. Well, in that case, is Their Death your personal name, or your family name?”

“My personal name. We have no family names such as you have, but are known by our clans.”

“Fascinating. I would love to hear more.” Just not today, when
there was a priceless diamond to chase down. “Their Death, do you know how diamonds are made?”

“They are not made, monsieur; they come from the earth—ah, it is you who jokes now, yes?”

“Not at all. You see, Their Death, diamonds are indeed made; they are made by time. They begin as carbon—do you know the word?”

“No.”

“Then never mind. It is enough to know that diamonds are never found alone. Where there is one, there is bound to be another. Possibly even many. There may even be other stones similar to the one you described to me yesterday.” Dupree locked eyes with Their Death. “I propose that you and I find as many diamonds as we can—secretly, of course—and remove them far from the clutches of the greedy Consortium.”

“
Monsieur?
”

“Don’t look so scared. Once the diamonds are out of the Congo, I will personally cut and mount them into jewelry, and once that is done, we can sell them directly to customers. There will be no middle man, and no way to trace the stones back here, because”—Dupree forced a conspiratorial laugh—“no stones this large have ever been found in the Belle Vue mine.”

“But they have!”

“So there are
more
?”

“No, I mean that one such stone was found and—”

“And now it is gone, so there is no proof. You don’t honestly think Senhor Nunez will report the origin of his stolen gem, do you?”

“No, monsieur. But isn’t what you propose also stealing?”

Dupree couldn’t help but laugh. “
Stealing?
From whom? All the diamonds in the Congo rightfully belong to the Congolese, not to Belgians, who forced the chiefs to cede their lands so that
we whites could steal from you. Tell me, Their Death, how much money does the Consortium pay you directly for your children’s shoes? For manioc, so your wives don’t need to risk being bitten by mambas every time they tend the fields? How did you get here this morning? In your own car? And what about that crippled wife of yours? Did she have to walk to work as well?”

Dupree could see that the battle was 90 percent won. Just as long as he remained calm and addressed Their Death’s concerns, not his own. He took another much-needed sip of whiskey.

“Monsieur Dupree,” Their Death finally said, “I may not be a Christian, but neither am I a thief.”

“Excellent point! I always knew you were a man of principles. Unfortunately, however, the Consortium has no principles. They are stealing from your people, and no one is stopping them.”

“Oui, mais—”

“Do not make excuses for them, Their Death. It is your obligation, as a Congolese, to stop the Belgians from stealing your country’s resources. And if you have some resources—that is to say, a great deal of money—not only can you buy an automobile for your crippled wife and clothes for your children, you also can spend some of that money on effecting a political change right here in the Congo.”

Their Death glanced widely around the room. Dupree had seen an antelope, trapped by the savanna fires, with the same crazed look in its eyes. It was the fear of entrapment, of horrible consequences, that had put this look in Their Death’s eyes. He had to try harder, talk faster, before his employee bolted.

“Yes, go ahead and look around you, Their Death. Is this what your house looks like? I think not. Yet, how is it that I, a greedy Belgian, should be sitting in this luxury while you, a native of this land, must live in the village across the river? Why is it that I am your boss, and not the other way around? The Consortium
should, by rights, belong to the Congolese. Of course that will never happen.”

“Until we get our independence.” Despite this brave assertion, Their Death averted his eyes, as if what he’d said was going too far.

“Ha! Independence! For whom, I ask? Yes, someday the Congo will become independent, but the citizens of Belle Vue village will not be the beneficiaries. The money will stay in the big cities where the politicians live—unless, of course, the average man can find a way to empower himself. And do you know what money is, Their Death?
Really
is? Money is power. Believe me, you will be able to accomplish far more with your life if you take what is already yours. Not only can your family live in comfort, but you can help the others in your village, maybe even help your entire tribe. To say no to this would be stealing their health and happiness. Do you understand now?”

Their Death’s long sigh was like the letting of stale air out of a tire. At that moment Dupree knew that he had won.