The Witch Doctor's Wife (20 page)

T
hey were obviously hunters, judging by the pack of basenji dogs at their heels. There were four of them, two in one lane, two in the other. When they got closer, Flanders could see that the men on the right were carrying a dead antelope, which was hanging from a pole slung over their shoulders. By rights they should have been scared out of their wits by the automobile and its headlights, but they didn’t seem the least bit afraid—unlike Monique, who was crouching beneath the dashboard.

To the contrary, the hunters had turned and were facing the car head-on. The two men not burdened had drawn back their
bows. They were the largest bows Flanders had ever seen, possibly even six feet in length, the approximate height of the hunters.

Out of courtesy, Flanders cut the headlights. “What tribe are they?” he asked.

“Bashilele.”

“Then why are you hiding? Isn’t that your tribe?”

“My mother’s tribe, not mine. This is their territory. No one stops here. Not at night.”

Flanders had heard that the Bashilele were territorial, and had been known to kill interlopers. In fact, a boy was required to kill someone of another tribe as a rite of passage. From then on, as a sign of status, the newly minted man had the privilege of wearing one of his victim’s ears on the rope that held up his loincloth. Rumor also had it that the Bashilele men used the skulls of the men they’d killed as drinking cups.

He’d asked Monique about these customs, but she’d refused to confirm or deny anything. Now she was trembling so hard, he could feel the vibrations through the seat.

“But you were going to walk through here,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

“I was going to walk through here
alone
,” she whispered. “Please, back up.”

But it was too late. Two more hunters had joined them from behind. They also carried a pole slung between their shoulders. From it hung the largest baboon Flanders had ever seen.

“I can’t back up,” he said. “They’re behind us as well. They must have come out of the tall grass.”

“If they see us together, they will kill us. Can you not drive around them?”

“I can try.”

It was a waste of breath to say that. On either side of the road were dirt embankments a meter high. The low-riding American
car he’d leased couldn’t begin to scale them. Even a jeep would tip over.

The only thing to do was to convince the men that you were friendly, that your intention was only to pass through their territory. Probably the quickest way to do that was through gifting. Didn’t everybody appreciate gifts? Of course Flanders wasn’t exactly prepared for that, but there might be a few expendable things in the trunk of the car.

The important things to remember were to move slowly and to smile a lot. Don’t panic under any circumstance. Quietly invoking the name of God and that of his mother, Flanders inched open his door.

“What are you doing?” Monique whispered hysterically.

Flanders didn’t answer; he was smiling. And so far so good. See? There could be peaceful interaction between disparate peoples. All it took was…

The arrow traveled so fast, Flanders couldn’t see it coming. It packed so much force that his Adam’s apple was shoved through the back of his neck, severing his spinal chord. His head toppled backwards, connected to his body only by a pencil-thick cord of muscle tissue. His lifeless trunk, however, remained defiantly erect for a moment, spraying blood like a geyser.

Early the next morning a pair of brothers driving a truck, ivory merchants from Northern Rhodesia, happened upon the abandoned car. The keys were still in the ignition. Assuming that the driver was somewhere in the elephant grass relieving himself, the brothers waited patiently for half an hour. This was merely bush courtesy. Besides, anyone obsessed with keeping track of time had no business coming to the Congo.

Two hours was another matter. By then the brothers had shouted themselves hoarse and honked both horns—theirs, and
the car’s—so many times, they feared losing their hearing. Heck, whoever owned that snazzy American-made car didn’t deserve the privilege. It’s not like he—or she—had run out of gas and struck out on foot. There was still plenty of gas. And there was no sign of foul play, either. Okay, so maybe those brown spots on the inside of the driver’s-side door may have been blood, and the dirt in that general area had been disturbed, but what did those two things really prove? Nothing concrete.

One thing was for sure: the car had to be moved in order for them to pass by with their panel truck. And as long as they had to move the car, why not continue to drive it for a while? After all, whoever owned the beautiful machine no longer had a use for it. That was as plain to see as the English noses on their faces.

Cripple was late to work. It might not be so aggravating, except that Amanda had given her an alarm clock—green, with bells on top—and shown her how to use it. She was supposed to show up at six thirty, prepare the coffee, and watch as Protruding Navel made hotcakes and set the table. But here it was almost seven thirty, and still no sign of her.

They hadn’t waited on her, of course. The whole purpose of this week without guests was to serve as a dress rehearsal, and a play has to start on time. So Protruding Navel had made the hotcakes by himself, grumbling as usual. Fortunately his bad mood did not affect his cooking.

“Protruding Navel,” Amanda said, trying her best to sound pleasant, “these are the best hotcakes I’ve ever eaten.”

“Does that mean you want more,
mamu
?”

“Oh no, this is quite enough.”

“Then you do not like them.”

“But I do!”

“If you like them,
mamu
, you will eat until your stomach hurts, and then still you will continue to eat.”

“Is this how you eat, Protruding Navel? Until your stomach hurts?”

“Does the
mamu
mock me?”

“What? I mean, of course not.”

“
Mamu
, tell me, have you seen many fat Africans?”

“No, I guess not.”

“That is because we do not eat until our stomachs hurt.”

“That’s very sensible.”

“No,
mamu
. It is not a choice we make; we do not have the food to waste. If I were rich, I would like to become very fat—like an American.”

Like an American! Well, she, for one, wasn’t fat, although she knew what Protruding Navel meant. It seemed like more and more Americans were living to eat, rather than the other way around. At church potlucks people joked about how much food they had piled on their plates. She’d even heard of a dessert called “girdle-buster pie.”

“Do you ever go hungry?” she asked softly.

“No, Mamu Ugly Eyes. Because of this job I am able feed myself and my family.”

Suddenly Amanda felt ashamed. How could she fire him after that? Just because he was annoying—make that extremely aggravating—didn’t mean that his family had to suffer. It was frightening to think of how close she’d come to making them suffer, just because she had thin skin—although there were the rumors that he was a wife beater. But what proof did she have of that? Just stories from someone with a very active imagination.

Starting now she would not listen to the gossip about him, although she would make an effort to visit his wife. Starting now she would let his cutting remarks roll off her back. She would let his grumbling go in one ear and out the other. She would try very hard not to respond in any manner to his goading; she would not purse her lips, roll her eyes, or shake her head. Starting now she
would respect the man who dreamed, not of owning a television, or even an electric washing machine, but of one day being fat.

The longer the day wore on, the cheekier Protruding Navel became. Still there was no sign of Cripple. Amanda began to feel as if Protruding Navel was hell-bent on destroying her newfound equanimity. At one point she caught him hobbling about in the kitchen like a cripple.

Unable to take any more, Amanda fled to her room to read her Bible and pray, activities that always seemed to have a calming affect on her. “A peace that surpasses all understanding,” as Amanda had heard others describe this feeling. But her solitude lasted only minutes. Somebody was pounding on the door.

“Protruding Navel!” she called, and then realizing it was a lost cause, went to answer the door herself.

What an agreeable surprise to find Captain Jardin standing there. “
Bonjour
, Amanda,” he said politely. Too politely.

“Please come in,” she said.

He stepped briskly past her. When she invited him to sit, he did so at once, barely waiting for her to do likewise.

“Would you care for some coffee?” she asked graciously, although it felt like she’d tried to swallow a stone, which was now caught in her throat.

“
Non, merci
. I am afraid I am here on police business.”

The stone—actually more like a large rock—dislodged and landed in her stomach. “Is it my parents? Is something wrong back home?”

“No, Amanda. I am sorry to say this, but one of your employees has been arrested for murder.”

Amanda’s blood ran cold. “How can that be,” she whispered, “when he’s here now? He’s supposed to be making dinner, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has his ear pressed to the kitchen door.”

T
he handsome Belgian appeared puzzled by her question, but only for a second. “Ah, but not
that
employee! This is a woman who gives her name as Cripple.”

Amanda jumped to her feet. “Cripple? Arrested for murder? I can’t believe it! There has to be a mistake. A short woman, maybe in her late thirties? And she’s uh—uh—”

“Crippled?”

“Yes. But it’s not her, right?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

Amanda sat again as her legs refused to support her. “I don’t believe this. Who is she accused of killing?”

“Here, in the Congo, we call it murder—especially when it concerns a white person. This may not sound fair to you, but I am just telling you how it is.”

“I understand. But what you’re saying is impossible. Cripple didn’t murder anyone. She’s not capable of that—I mean spiritually. Although she’s most probably physically incapable of it as well.”

He chewed on his lower lip. Amanda found that—well, seductive. She would have slapped herself, had she been alone. Except that then there would be no reason to do so. Why on earth, when Cripple had just been accused of a heinous crime, was her mind steering her on that course? What was wrong with her?

Thank heavens Captain Jardin was unaware of her shameful thoughts. “Amanda,” he said gently, “how long have you known the woman?”

“Okay, so I haven’t know her very long, but I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so!”

“Ah, but just a minute ago you jumped to the conclusion that it was Monsieur Protruding Navel whom I’d arrested for murder. Am I not correct?”

When proven wrong, change the subject. It was a tactic Amanda had learned from her mother, who’d learned it from her mother before her. Even the most charming Southern lady could get only so far by arguing.

“Captain Jardin, I hate to be rude, but I simply must ask you about Cripple. Whom did she kill? And why? And where? This is all so hard to take in.”

“
Oui
, but of course. Let us begin with whom. I am sorry to say that she killed your neighbor across the river, Senhor Nunez.”

“But that’s ridiculous—I mean impossible. Senhor Nunez was killed in the bridge accident yesterday. Or maybe it was suicide. But I assure you, Cripple had nothing to do with it. She was in her village when it happened.”

“You sound very sure of this.”

“I am, because I accompanied her there myself. Just before the accident. She wasn’t feeling well.”

“And then what?”

“And then I returned, of course. Or tried to. You see, by then Senhor Nunez’s truck had gone over the falls and the entire village had come out to see what was going on. It took me longer to get down the hill, than it did up.”

“
Oui, oui
. Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did you know Senhor Nunez?”

“Oh, I never met him. But just yesterday his wife was here for tea. She wants us to be friends.”

Captain Jardin removed a small spiral-bound notebook from the pocket of his khaki shirt and began to scribble furiously in it. Handsome or not, he was taking an inordinate amount of time to answer her questions.

“I repeat myself, Captain Jardin,” she said, adopting a formal tone. “Where did this alleged murder take place?”

He pointed to the window. “On the bridge, of course.”

“
How
did she kill him? She is, as you’ve noted, a tiny handicapped woman.”

“She disconnected the brake cable on his truck, as well as compromised the steering. As the truck came down the hill it gained speed, and without the ability to steer, the curve at the bottom of the hill sent him straight through the railing, and then over the falls. We expect his body to appear quite a bit downstream—if the crocodiles don’t get to him first. If it’s the crocs, we may never know. Then again, last year a hunter shot a crocodile several kilometers down river. The beast had eleven copper bracelets in its
stomach. Most probably the victims were women washing clothes along the riverbank.”

Amanda shuddered. “That’s awful.”

“
Oui
. It was a terrible fate for Senhor Nunez, and it remains a terrible loss for his wife, as well as for his children back in Portugal.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Pierre. But I still say that to blame this on Cripple is ludicrous. How would a simple village woman, one who has never even been to school—not officially at least—know how to disable a car?” But before her last word was uttered, she recalled something Cripple had told her the day before, as they walked up the hill, but before they’d been mobbed by the kids.

The inspector seemed to have read her mind. “Her father was a mechanic’s assistant, and she claims to have spent much of her childhood watching him repair cars and trucks. When one knows how to repair, then one also knows how to destroy, yes?”

“Perhaps. But what would be her motive? Every murder has to have a motive, right? Otherwise, it’s called an accident.”

“
Touché
. But you see, the woman has already confessed to disabling the truck, with the intention of sending Senhor Nunez through the railing and over the falls. However, she will not give a reason. I am hoping that you will be able to help in this matter.”

“Where is she?”

“She is in prison. I will take you to her if you wish.”

“Yes, of course. Does Branca—Senhor Nunez’s wife—know you are conducting a murder investigation?”

“
Oui
. I was just there. She is understandably very—how shall I put it—”

“Upset? Distraught?”

“
Oui
. She asks that you visit her.”

Amanda’s head reeled. Barely more than a week into what should have been a cushy assignment, and suddenly she was in
volved with an alleged murderess
and
the murder victim’s wife. Was this any better than living back home in South Carolina? Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire? If so, this was so unfair. All she’d asked for was a chance to make up for one horrible mistake. And now this!

“I can’t take it.”

“Pardonez mois?”

“What I mean is—well, it’s too much to take in all at once.” Despite the fact that she was fighting back the tears as hard as she could, they came anyway.

“Amanda,” the captain said, his voice soft and gentle, “it is, indeed, a lot to take in, as you say. Perhaps I should come back this afternoon, after you have had more time to process this information.”

“No! I want to see Cripple. Take me to Cripple. Please.”

“
Oui
. And then perhaps you will speak words of comfort to Senhora Nunez?”

Amanda promised.

Cripple was surprised to hear Amanda’s voice outside her tiny cement-block cell, and somehow even more surprised when the heavy wooden door was pulled open, and she saw her employer standing there in the flesh. She wasn’t dreaming after all. But why had the white
mamu
come? To berate her for being a disappointment? To remind her of the chance she’d taken by hiring a cripple, a woman her existing housekeeper loathed?

Cripple didn’t know how to interpret the smile on Mamu Ugly Eyes’ face, so she laughed. Immediately she regretted this. Husband was forever telling stories about cross-cultural misunderstandings that arose from different body languages. Europeans, he often reminded her, laugh only when they perceive they have heard a joke. Sadly, their jokes are seldom funny.

“
Mamu
,” she sputtered. “I did not expect to see you.”

“Well, I must say, I didn’t expect to ever see you like this—in jail. Tell me, Cripple, what happened.”

Cripple glanced at the man who had arrested her and thrown her in jail. He hadn’t used force, as she’d expected him to. He hadn’t even seemed angry upon hearing her confession. Still, she did not wish to have him present at the moment.

“Very well,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I will be in the office, completing her paperwork. Call out, if you need me.” He began to walk away.

“Bula matadi,”
Cripple called after him. Literally the words meant “rock breaker.” They too were the legacy of King Leopold II’s cruel reign, when Belgian officials had presided over gangs of forced labor, as they toiled breaking rocks with which to build houses for their masters.

The police captain turned. “Yes, madame?”

“Do not act so surprised, you baboon’s bare ass,” Cripple said in rapid-fire Tshiluba.

“What?”

“You told me to call you if I needed to. I want to know why you haven’t bothered to lock the door. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll run away?”

“You seem to me to be a woman of honor,” the captain said, answering her in flawless Tshiluba. “And
baba
, there really is no need for insults.”

Cripple was shocked. Not only did the man speak her mother tongue, but he had respectfully addressed her as “mother.”

“
Baba
, are you surprised that I speak Tshiluba?”

“
Eyo
. Forgive me, but I thought you were a Belgian.”

“I am. But I was born here in Kasai Province. Tshiluba is the language I learned first. From my caretaker.”

“This is surely a wonder.”

“It is nothing. There are wonders far greater than that in Belle Vue.”

Cripple looked away. “Truly?”

“Truly, truly,” the white man said, then walked away.

Second Wife breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the little gourd disappear down the toilet hole. What had she been thinking? What had come over her? Clearly she had not been in her right mind to even contemplate killing another human being—even one as selfish and unlikable as Cripple.

Murder was a serious sin, one which would surely have sent her to hell. Even if there was no such place as the Christian hell, as Cripple claimed, there were serious consequences for taking another life. Just to wish another person dead was to diminish one’s own humanity. This was something Second Wife could feel in the middle of her heart, something no missionary had to tell her, for her to know it was true.

Perhaps she’d been under someone’s spell; that would explain it. Perhaps she had inadvertently offended another woman while working in the manioc plots, and that woman too had searched out a witch doctor. Whatever the reason for her poor judgment, Second Wife was better now.

Cripple was immensely relieved that the missionary had not heard her call the captain a baboon’s bare ass. The only reason that Mamu Ugly Eyes hadn’t heard was because the white woman possessed a sense of curiosity equal to that of Baby Boy. At the moment she was peering into Cripple’s empty cell.

“There is nothing to see,” Cripple said. “Only a blanket and a bucket. Not even a bed platform. Of course, there are many flies.”

“It’s awful.”

“Not so bad, I think, for the killer of a white man.”

“Stop that nonsense, Cripple. You didn’t kill anyone.”

“But I did,
mamu
. I fixed it so that Senhor Nunez could not
stop his truck, nor could he control the direction in which it moved, and thus he plunged to his death in the falls.”

“Why did you do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“
Mamu
, you have been very kind to me. Forgive me then, when I say that I will not speak further on this matter.”

“But you must! I need to understand this. I need to understand why you’re lying.”

“Very well,
mamu
. If you wish to call me a liar, that is your prerogative.”

“But I don’t! Yet you are lying. I
know
it.”

Tears welled in the white woman’s eyes, which really were not all that ugly. Absurdly pale, yes, but not hideous. Too bad that a name given in haste, cannot easily be taken away. For it is not we who own our names, it is they that own us.

There followed a lengthy silence, which Cripple was determined not to break. She pretended to be absorbed by the antics of a “backwards bug.” When disturbed, the tiny beetles burrowed backward into the sand, leaving cone-shaped depressions. It was a children’s game to try and catch them before they disappeared altogether.

“Cripple, I will speak to the captain about giving you a better cell. At the very least, he should provide you with a sleeping platform and some fresh water.”

“Thank you,
mamu
. But please, do not make trouble for yourself.”

“It won’t be any trouble. Cripple, can I do anything else for you? Maybe take a message to your family?”

“My family? No,
mamu
. The Bula Matadi has already seen to that.”

“Very well. Just so you know, even though you call yourself a heathen, I will still pray for you.”

“As you wish,
mamu
.” Cripple turned so that the young white woman could not see the tears in her own eyes.