The Witch Doctor's Wife (16 page)

C
ezar Nunez pounded the steering wheel of his 1946 Chevy pickup truck and between sobs, cursed God, cursed the Syrian, and cursed himself. What a fool he had been—
again!
He was always screwing up, always making life-altering mistakes, and never really learning anything. Sobbing babies learned every minute that they were awake, but not Cezar.

How many times had he been poised to accomplish something really big, really meaningful, and then sabotaged himself? For instance, he’d known better than to marry the aristocratic Branca. Even back then he’d known enough about himself to realize that he could not function as the husband she wanted and perhaps
deserved. And he never should have come to the Congo. What was wrong with living his life, true to himself, in a city as cosmopolitan and full of opportunity as Lisbon?

And what was it that had made him so greedy that he would not only betray his wife, but his lover as well? Dupree was a good man—perhaps a little boring, but kind, and not unattractive. But that was it, wasn’t it? Cezar craved something more than average; he wanted it all. And why not? You only live once, and he’d paid his dues supporting a family, helping to raise two children—and he couldn’t be even be sure they were his.

Now it was time for Cezar, wasn’t it? Yes, some might say that he was going through a midlife crisis, that he was trying to recapture his youth, but they were wrong. Cezar deserved to live well, and if that meant hurting a few people—well, that really wasn’t his fault, now was it? It was the so-called victims who were at fault, for allowing themselves to be hurt in the first place. Besides, they would eventually get over it. Then everyone would be happy.

But damn that African who’d convinced Dupree he had a diamond, when it was only glass. And shame on Dupree for being duped like that—of course, Dupree would probably have instantly spotted it as a fake. The man knew his diamonds, Cezar had no doubt about that. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be pounding the steering wheel and sobbing like a toddler who’d had a lollipop wrenched from his tight little fist. What did the Americans who visited his grocery call lollipops? Suckers! And that’s exactly what he was; a sucker. Well, he’d just have to fix that.

The OP loved birds. The long-tailed ones were his favorite, but he was also very fond of the cattle egrets that stalked the dry lawn, searching intently for grasshoppers. He even loved sparrows. Funny, but sparrows had seemed so common in Belgium. Trash birds. The alley cats of the avian kingdom. Here, just because
they were in Africa, they were exotic. And indeed some really were. Recently the OP had seen a pair that bore yellow streaks on their wings. Could they possible be wild canaries? They were definitely opportunistic seed eaters, whichever species they were. He needed to get a good bird book on Central Africa—someday maybe even he’d write one himself.

He’d just parked his car in the reserved space labeled with his name, when, through the windshield, he glimpsed a bit of yellow disappear under the eave. It was just outside his office window. The common sparrows loved to nest under the overhanging eaves, and although the office staff found the incessant chirping of their chicks annoying, it was music to the OP’s ears. How exciting if the yellow-winged birds had taken to nesting there as well.

The OP got out and shut his door quietly and then, as silently as a cattle egret, crept toward the window. He was three meters away, eyes trained on the overhang, looking for a breach in the plywood covering, when his peripheral vision caught something moving
inside
his office. The OP turned, and there, his back to the window, was Flanders. The son of a bitch was rooting through one of his filing cabinets.

The Nigerian could only hope that the white woman hadn’t seen him. He’d been stupid to take that risk, but what other choice did he have? At last he’d found an exit from the cave that put him on her side of the river. Although this side of the gorge was just as steep, the cliff showed more erosion, more potential for handholds and footholds. But he couldn’t climb it at night, not without scouting during the day for a possible route.

Surely if the white woman had seen him, there would soon have been activity along the cliff. That hadn’t happened. The woman was there one minute, and then gone—not that he’d stayed in the open to watch her leave. In fact, he’d skinned his leg
and twisted his ankle in his haste to drop out of sight. Fortunately nothing was broken and he was still able to walk, albeit painfully. Just before dusk, when the shadows were deep and the bats were emerging from their subterranean home, he’d try again.

It would be a shame if he had to kill the white woman. He didn’t particularly enjoy killing women; there was no sport to it. Besides, it seemed disrespectful to the memory of his mother, whom he’d adored, and who’d died when the Nigerian was still a small boy.

But he would kill this woman if he had to. He’d come this far, survived too much in the last few days, to fail in his quest. Perhaps there was something in the white woman’s house that he could wear. Maybe she had a husband who was tall. She most certainly had a blanket or some sheets. All he needed was something to cover his nakedness long enough to get him to the village. There he was sure to find something more suitable.

He knew the village—at least he used to know it. He was born in Belle Vue village and had grown up there. His father, a native Nigerian and an educated man, had worked for the Consortium as their first African diamond cutter. He’d been brought in from Nigeria, as a single man, specifically for the job. His mother was a local woman of the Lulua tribe.

It hadn’t been easy growing up with a foreign father, especially one with such a high position in the white man’s company. Of course it was out of the question for the Ogundes to live on the Belgian side of the river, nor was it seemly for them to live in a village of backward tribesmen. As a solution to the conundrum, the family built a modest—although opulent by local standards—house near the forest, next to a massive baobab tree. There they lived a happy, if lonely, existence until Mrs. Ogunde was bitten by a mamba. At least that is the version of history the Nigerian preferred to remember.

Two years after his mother’s tragic death, when the boy was
about ten, his father decided that such an isolated existence was not healthy for the boy’s emotional well-being. Mr. Ogunde quit his well-paying job and took his son home with him to Lagos, Nigeria. Neither of them ever returned—until now.

It was shortly before they left when the lad had discovered the large, clear stone with the flashes of brilliant light. When he presented his find to his father, Mr. Ogunde dropped to his knees and emitted a low, haunting cry, like one of the animals they heard every night in the forest.

The child was confused and frightened, but his father refused to explain his reaction. He told the boy only to put the stone back where he’d found it, and made him promise never to speak of it again. Many years later, when Mr. Ogunde was dying of pancreatic cancer, it was he who brought up the topic of the stone.

“It was the finest diamond I had ever seen,” he told his son, now a grown man. “But there was nothing I could have done about it. If I’d been caught, I’d have been thrown into prison for life, then what would have become of you? Forgive me, son, if I failed you. After so much time has passed, you couldn’t possibly remember where you found that stone.”

Now, in his cave behind the waterfall, the Nigerian shivered with anticipation. He knew exactly where he’d found the stone, and where he’d been forced to return it. How could he forget that baobab tree?

When the second wave of nausea hit Cripple, she leaned against the kitchen table and closed her eyes. If she didn’t try to fight it, this one would pass as well. No harm done. It was probably just the stress of the morning’s events. She couldn’t possibly be pregnant. After her miscarriage, the missionary doctor Husband had taken her to see told her in no uncertain terms that she would never be pregnant again.

Besides, this wasn’t the same sort of nausea. This nausea was
accompanied by dizziness and weakness of the knees. Were it not for the fact that it was almost the end of the dry season, Cripple might have diagnosed herself as having a bout of malaria.

The door to the kitchen swung open and Protruding Navel entered carrying an armful of soiled clothes. Without giving her a second look, he thrust the clothes at her. They all fell to the floor, and when they did, the stench concealed by them was released. Cripple thought she would pass out. Surely there was nothing in the world that smelled quite as bad as the sweat of a white person.

“Here,” the arrogant man said. “Take them to the washstand out back and give them a good scrub.”

“I am sick.”

“Sick of work, is that it?”

“Where is Mamu Ugly Eyes? I must speak with her.”

“You can speak to her after you wash the clothes.”

Cripple straightened to her fullest possible height, although it was painful to do so. It had always been thus. Not only was one leg shorter, but her spine curved like the letter S. Snake Spine is what the village children sometimes called her, when none of her sister children were around to defend her.

“You are not my boss, Protruding Navel. You cannot tell me what to do. I will not take orders from a—” She stopped abruptly, realizing she’d gone too far.

“From a what? Go ahead and say it.”

Cripple shook her head, her eyes still closed. She was no longer in the white
mamu
’s kitchen, but with her own mother on the riverbank. She was a little girl, perhaps five dry seasons in age. Mother and her sister wives and their friends had discovered a new inlet. One created by a recent flood. Here the waters flowed beneath a tumble of boulders that prevented crocodiles from entering the pool. The women had brought laundry to wash, but soon they were stripped to the skin, washing themselves and
splashing with glee. Many of the children had never had the pleasure of playing in water, and although they were extremely cautious at first, soon they too joined in the fun.

It took several weeks for the pool to recede, but by then Cripple had learned to swim. That was magical. Buoyed by the water, she was no longer Cripple. Or Snake Spine. For those few, very special, days Cripple was Fish Girl. None of the other children learned as fast, or as competently. For those few days Fish Girl dominated the playing field. She was especially adept at swimming under the muddy red water, where she played “crocodile,” terrorizing the same girls who’d tormented her from the moment they could speak.

“Say it!” Protruding Navel shouted, his eyes bulging like palm nuts.

Cripple sighed and opened her eyes reluctantly. “You are correct in your assumption; I was about to say that I will not take orders from a Bena Lulua.”

“
Eyo, baba
, that is the truth.” Suddenly, Protruding Navel sounded sad, instead of angry. “But you are a woman, and a cripple, and yet you place yourself above me, and simply because you are of the Baluba tribe? I did not choose to be born into my tribe.”

“And neither can I help that I am female and deformed.”

“Then perhaps we should talk the
mamu
into hiring a Chokwe woman. One with breasts shaped like melons—although since she is Chokwe, they will be no larger than tangerines. Then we can both boss her around.” A hint of a smile flickered across Protruding Navel’s face. When he wasn’t angry, he was almost handsome.

“Let us not forget a Bapende man,” Cripple said. “One with lots of mud in his hair and a loincloth that hangs low on the hips.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. Cripple laughed so hard she thought her already pain
ful stomach would burst. Every time she tried to stop, Protruding Navel mentioned the name of yet another tribe, each more loathsome than the one that proceeded it. With two hundred tribes at their disposal, who knew how long they would have kept it up, had not the white
mamu
stepped through the swinging doors.

“What is going on here?”

“We laugh,” Cripple said, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes, I see that. What about?”

“Nothing,
mamu
,” Protruding Navel said quickly. “Cripple does not feel well.”

“That’s what’s so funny?”

“Oh, no,
mamu
,” Cripple said. “I really am sick. Protruding Navel was telling me jokes, in order to distract me.”

Ugly Eyes was an American, with quick American ways. She stepped up and put her hand on Cripple’s forehead, without even asking permission.

“You don’t feel warm,” she said.

“No,
mamu
, but—”

“Stay right here.” She disappeared through the swinging doors, but was back in a few seconds. “Here, put this under your tongue. Please.”

Cripple stared at the object. “
Mamu
, it is a glass stick.”

“It is called a thermometer. It will tell me how hot you are.”

“I am not hot,
mamu
. It is only my stomach that hurts.”

“Open!”

Cripple did what she was told. And to think the missionaries were always putting down the ways of the witch doctor, ways that had been proven over a thousand generations. Herbs and potions, and yes, magic, these were things one could put their trust in, not gods who walked on water and rose from the dead like ghosts. Nor could one put their trust in glass sticks under the tongue.

Mamu Ugly Eyes made Cripple stand with the tube in her
mouth for many lifetimes, and it would have been unbearable except for one thing. When the white
mamu
saw that Protruding Navel was staring at her with a smirk on his face, she ordered him to pick up the fallen laundry and take it outside.

“But
mamu
, why must I be the one who does all the work? Besides, laundry is women’s work.”

“Hush, Protruding Navel.”

Cripple marveled at a woman who could tell a man to hush, until it occurred to her that Mamu Ugly Eyes might not be exhibiting such courage if she were talking to someone other than a Congolese. Nonetheless, Protruding Navel took the laundry outside—but not without mumbling under his breath.