Everfair (28 page)

Josina sat beside the Poet, each on a backless chair. Three more, unoccupied, formed a circle with those, and cushions had been set behind. That was polite: Mwenda took one of the empty seats and gestured for Old Kanna to take another. Alonzo refused the third, lowering himself to a cushion as Sifa and Lembe had already done.

Rosalie had gone deeper into the house. A moment later she emerged from behind a bead curtain holding a lidded metal pot. Steam curled up out of its curving spout, and also the enticing scent of tea.

All was civilized. A low-legged table waited at the circle's center, its top a wide golden tray incised with tasteful triangles and representations of tall dancers. Polished horn cups had been placed in front of hosts and guests. Also on the table stood a lamp—probably the one the Poet had used back in Kamina. Unnecessary here except as a symbol of their unity.

The hot tea caused Mwenda to sweat pleasantly. But it was not the work of a king simply to sit and enjoy himself.

“Now that Leopold is gone we must reconsider our alliance,” he said abruptly, interrupting the Poet's discourse on the Mote's most recent debate. He put down his tea. “How shall we divide our spoils? How shall we rearrange the region's government?”

A look passed between the Poet and Josina. “Why does there need to be any change?” the white woman asked. “After a decade—”

“Because I say so, and I am the country's ruler.”

“But the Mote—”

“The Mote is not in charge! I am! This is my home, my land!”

“But Everfair is for all! We took you in, refugees, rescued you, fought beside you—”

“You bought our land from someone who didn't own it—a thief!”

There was nothing even the Poet could say in answer to this assertion. It was true. Mwenda had studied. He knew the laws.

Josina spoke into the silence. “You have talked of this with your spirit father?”

That was not the sort of thing one discussed. “I know what is right, what is my duty. I am king.” He maintained his dignity, bending down a little in his mind, as if he addressed a child.

Infuriatingly, Josina responded using the same manner. “Yes, you are king. No one has disputed that in the twenty seasons since Leopold was defeated. So what has happened to make it necessary to question the presence of our allies
now
? Why today? Why during
this
market?”

Alonzo answered for him. “We don't ask why the king makes his decisions.” He bowed his head quickly in Mwenda's direction. “But if your mind seeks quieting, think how before, the Mote made decisions only about what was best for us here. How it accepted on our behalf the help we needed from whites first to fight Leopold, then to recover from that fighting.

“Now. War is coming back. It will pit against each other powers beyond our country, beyond all Africa. Is it to be left to the Mote to choose our side in this contest?”

Very well put. Mwenda nodded, and took a sip of tea to show he wasn't angry.

Rosalie had sat next to him. According to the whites' customs, they were equals. “Well, why not?” she said. “Since you've agreed with everything it has decided so far, will you turn dictator over this? Like another Leopold. If we held a vote—”

He rose from the table as slowly as he could. “Good bye.” He turned to go. After all he had given—his own hand!—to be compared to that devil! He refused to hear it. The woman—girl—was saying something more, but he would not listen. He walked calmly out of the house. The rain had begun again. His followers would gather the umbrellas and other belongings. He waited on the steps for them, but it was the Poet who joined him.

“Forgive my daughter, please.” The Poet frowned. “Today is her brother's birthday—a difficult time for her. She misses him, and that reminds her of missing Lily—”

Who had died rescuing
him
. His head cleared. “It is forgotten.” But didn't the Poet's son live close enough for visiting?

“Not George,” the Poet said, as if she sensed his misunderstanding. “She misses Laurie. The baby”—she grinned ruefully—“who is now a fully grown man. In England. Looking after his father's affairs.”

Alonzo and Nenzima slipped past him to the lower stairs. So did Old Kanna. Josina appeared in the open door, her women behind her.

“You must go back to your palace,” said the Poet. “But I beg you to decide nothing rash.”

 

Kisangani, Everfair, June 1914

Josina's room overlooked the garden. Before the war the palace had been a hotel for white criminals. Its painted stone walls were already fading, but the flowering bushes planted at its center still scented the rain.

Mwenda was right. Everyone was right. That was the problem.

The settlers of Everfair had come here na
ï
vely at best, arrogantly at worst. Due to the orders of the king they had found the country seemingly empty. In the fight against Leopold, their assistance had been most valuable, and they had also brought to the cause the help of Europeans and Americans who would never otherwise have cared for any African's plight.

But by their very presence they poisoned what they sought to save. How could they not? Assuming they knew the best about so many things—not even realizing they had made such assumptions—they acted without considering other viewpoints and remained in ignorance in spite of the broadest hints.

It was to try to penetrate this cloud of ignorance that the queen had spent several days as the Poet Daisy's guest. With at least partial success. Now it was understood that other viewpoints existed; that the king's unhappiness could lead to actions against the colonists from which their “constitution” could not protect them.

A flash of crimson showed in the gathering twilight: the beak and tail of a bird flying to shelter in the branches of a tree on the courtyard's far side. Its feathers were mostly a pale brown, but a bright red streak surrounded each black and shining eye. Though cocks and hens of this sort of bird would raise their chicks together, and they foraged in large groups—sometimes their flocks numbered more than twenty hands—they had separate nests. Good. So it was with her and the king. This vision validated their way of life.

Tomorrow Josina would go to see her sister, the Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Lisette. Quickly, before she left again.

Tonight Josina would seduce the king and pluck away his doubts.

Leaving the balcony to reenter her apartments, Josina signaled Lembe to close the folding door behind her.

Mwenda liked the bush. To make him more comfortable here, she instructed her women to put away her hangings and richly colored cloths—except for those on her luxurious bed. Sifa filled bowls and vases with water and arranged leaves and blossoms in them. Lembe procured honey, mangoes, seedcakes, and palm wine, and lit lamps to sit on the table and windowsill and hang from the walls. Sifa bathed Josina in cool water from the river, the second time that day, and gave the queen her mirror so she might check the arrangement of her hair and jewels. They were impeccable, naturally, because Josina never settled for less. She removed the necklace that had been given to her by the Poet. It would be stored with her other ornaments. She allowed Sifa to repaint the gardenia markings on her breasts. Then she sent both women to supplicate the king for his presence.

She calmed herself, slowed and regulated her breath. The door opened. King Mwenda strode in alone. A happy omen, though Josina could see a guard standing just outside the door before it shut. Also of note was the arm Mwenda wore: wrapped in soft leather from the wrist up, and likewise soft-palmed, with four fingers, though only two were in the strictest sense necessary.

So Josina knew to ignore his scowl. She patted the bed beside her.

The king shook his head. “You ought never to have mentioned he who guides me.”

“Really? But I said nothing that isn't common knowledge among your subjects.” Since he wouldn't sit, she stood. He was still much taller. Let him be. “And if you would be advised by me—”

“Advised by you? Why should I care what a low and stinking
spy
thinks?”

Ah. “But you should! You should care very much! You are a ruler, but I am a politician—an intelligencer, not a spy, and I can help you! As I did when you sent me to win us allies against Leopold. And again when acting as your regent while you went abroad to Alexandria. I
want
to help you! Let me—let me help you. Please.”

He frowned but was silent. She dared to take both his hands. He had not worn a weapon. “You have used me, yes? Used me to preserve your realm for our son. Used me to send messages to my father, oh, yes, and you can use me now, again, more!”

“Not if you tell the Poet every mystery of our people. These whites—they're good enough, I'm sure, in their homes, where they belong, but will they never leave? Will we never be rid of them?”

No,
she thought,
we never will.
But instead of saying so, she asked a question: “What does your spirit father say?”

The king groaned and collapsed. Josina pulled him toward her so that he landed on the bed. That was progress.

“I haven't heard him. He hasn't spoken. I may have angered him…”

“Are you sure?”

“No! Of course I'm not sure!”

“When was the last time you—”

“Stop! I shouldn't have said—I should have lied to you,
spy
.”

“Since you journeyed to Egypt to go there to their school?” No answer. He'd visited the bush by himself two times since his return. She had assumed it was for prayer. “Have you tried since the war ended?”

“Promise you'll tell no one.”

“I swear.”

“No. I have not.”

Josina swallowed the salty spit of her dismay. Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes, sharp and hot. She wished she could swallow them, too, but did her best to keep from blinking so they wouldn't fall.

She couldn't cry. She had to talk. “Do it now.”

“What? No!”

“Now!”

“I need to make preparations—a pilgrimage—”

“You require only what—metal? Quiet surroundings? You have your new shongo. No one will disturb us here till dawn. My king—” She grasped both his hands tighter. Both. Time to reveal how much she'd learned. More than was wise. “You ought not to fear to find out you are abandoned. The whites in Alexandria who say your injury unfits you to be king are wrong! Vomit up the sickness of such notions!”

“How do you know—”

She began again over his interruption. “Your spirit father is the chief of machines, so why would he slight you for taking on an attribute of his own? Because of this new part of you, aren't you more sacred? More holy?”

The harsh sobs of stifled grief filled the room. But only for a short moment. King Mwenda turned to face her. “Woman, you're as brave as anyone I know. You make me act as brave as I want to be.” Their clasped hands trembled—because of his shaking or hers? That was one thing she didn't need to know.

She got up and extinguished all but two lamps. Damp and darkness slipped in under the doors to the balcony.

“Do you have anything for a libation?” he asked.

“Only palm wine.” It should have been something stronger. Gin. But what they had would have to do.

He poured the palm wine on the wooden floor. He whispered, asking blessings. He drew his shongo, the blade replacing the one that he had hurled upon declaring that
sanza
“truce.” He sat on a cushion and gave her one last beseeching look. Then, to keep his communion with his spirit father solitary, Josina covered the king in a cloak printed like leaves, green and black and gold. And waited hours. Long, silent hours. The lamps burned on.

But the morning light had not yet begun to peep around the sides of the balcony doors when the printed fabric slid down off of King Mwenda's big shoulders. His expression was too soft to be a smile.

“Come here,” he said to his favorite queen, “and let me tell you what I have discovered: that my spirit father loves me even now.” He held out both his arms.

 

Kisangani, Everfair, July 1914

Rima Bailey should have been happy. She knew it. She had everything: good work, a woman who loved her, money. Soon they'd be gone out of here, hit the coast, head north, away from the heat and back toward civilization. Soon.

She turned over on the mattress and saw that Lisette had already gotten up. Too hot and stuffy to sleep, anyway. Especially alone. Rima swung her long legs around and sat on the bed's edge. She checked her shoes to make sure no bug had crawled inside and put them on, found some clothes she hoped were clean.

Florida was hot, too, and the air always feeling wet like this. She hadn't liked the weather there, either. What if her lover had never discovered her, never come and taken Rima far, far away?

The noon whistle blew. Their last tech rehearsal was at two. She used the toilet Sir Jamison's guests shared, down a hallway lit by windows at either end. Enough light to see the door to Fwendi's room was open. Rima slowed as she passed it and peeked in. Nobody home.
Why'd they even bother acting like they didn't sleep together,
she wondered.

She took care of her business quick as always. Coming out she heard Lisette's voice drifting from the stairwell, that cute little lilt that turned up the end of every sentence like it was curling. She followed the sound down.

Sir Jamison—she'd never feel like she knew him well enough to call him Matty—had bought a house here even though he spent half the year traveling. He owned houses almost everywhere in Everfair: Bookerville, Bolombo, Kananga, Kamina … some places outside, too, like in Cape Town and Dar-es-Salaam. Must be nice having all that money, and the play was making him even richer.