The Witch Doctor's Wife (12 page)

H
usband found sleeping impossible. It wasn’t just because of the jackals, which had set the village dogs howling, but worry over how the morning would play itself out. The white man always had the advantage.

That
was a fact as old as recorded history, even history as told by the white man. The early Portuguese explorers had discovered a land governed by powerful kings and less powerful chiefs, but black men all. Less than four hundred years later the Congo was in the sole possession of Belgium’s King Leopold II, whose method of ruling was so brutal, the League of Nations forced him to cede the land over to Belgium Parliament. During his reign of terror, approximately a million people were put to death, yet his
tory would never record Leopold II as one of the most evil tyrants of all time, because his victims were mainly black people dwelling in the heart of darkness.

The Congo was a land of almost unimaginable riches: ivory, rubber, gold, titanium, uranium, copper, hardwoods. The greedy king, stoked by the newfound use for rubber during the advent of the automobile, levied a “rubber tax” on the male populace. Raw rubber is a tree sap, and any man failing to collect his daily quota from the wild would have his right hand chopped off with a machete. Husband could remember that, when he was a small child, there were a number of old men in his village with only one hand, a legacy of this cruel dictum.

Yes, conditions had improved since the days of King Leopold II, but neither a black man’s worth nor his word were equal to that of a white man. What if M. Dupree, whom Husband believed to be an honest man, turned out to be a liar and a thief? And if that was the case, what was to prevent the postmaster from simply taking the diamond by force and telling everyone that he, M. Dupree, had discovered it? Husband could even be killed in the process. Then what would happen to Cripple? To the children? To Second Wife?

But especially to Cripple. As the mother of sons, Second Wife need only eke out a living until they were young men, and then her old age was assured. Even now the oldest was capable of doing some things that could help out financially. Already the girls helped their mother in the fields. And although by custom they all were obligated to take care of Cripple, as she was their sister wife and sister mother, sadly, that was no longer guaranteed. The world was changing at a dizzying rate, and the only thing one could count now was change—well, that, and the fact that one needed to use the privy sooner or later.

Taking care not to jostle anyone, Husband rose from the sleeping mat, slipped into his work clothes, and moved stealthily to the door. Already the morning was bright enough to dim the
stars. When he stepped outside the cold air felt like a slap across the face. When he breathed out through his mouth, he could see steam. He did it again, and then again, pretending that he was smoking a cigarette. Only once before, when he was a small boy, had such a thing happened. That year many had died from the cold, because there were very few among them who’d owned blankets. But enough of the games; one had to keep in motion to endure cold such as this.

Husband jogged along the narrow path to the outbuilding. Halfway there he stopped abruptly, and then stepped back. Lying across the path was a stout gaboon viper, one of the deadliest snakes in Africa. Husband stood motionless as long as he could, waiting for the viper to move. When Husband could tolerate the standoff no longer, he backtracked to where he could find a stick. When prodded the snake finally moved, but sluggishly. Showing no interest in Husband it slithered slowly into the elephant grass, stopping even before its tail disappeared.

Having wasted precious time, Husband skipped the privy and headed straight for the banana grove.

Loving eyes watched Husband pause halfway to the privy. What could be the reason? Was he suffering from the cold? Never had she experienced cold this intense. It was almost unbearable. If she darted back into the hut and grabbed a blanket, she might not loose track of Husband. But she would definitely wake the others. She shivered, her teeth rattling, as she waited for Husband to move. What was he doing now? He’d turned and appeared to be searching for something. Was that a stick? A moment later Husband began to run, passing the privy and not stopping until he reached the banana grove.

With her arms folded tightly across her body in order to preserve heat, she waited until Husband emerged, and then, as before, followed him on the road to town.

Husband hadn’t even made it as far as the bridge when he saw a truck coming. Perhaps it wasn’t an official rule, but cars and trucks in the Congo had the right of way. Both pedestrians and cyclists were expected to throw themselves to the side of the road, while the vehicles barreled on unimpeded. Animals either fled in terror or died under the wheels. The drivers never stopped to see if the people were okay, but sometimes, if they hit a pig or other large animal, they might stop just long enough to check for dents before speeding off again in a torrent of swearwords.

This truck was moving slowly, and the driver seemed to be scanning the throng of workers crossing over into the white sector for the day. When the truck was just a few meters away, it stopped, and a white man jumped out.

“You there!” he barked. “Are you the fellow who works for the postmaster?”

Husband’s heart raced. This could only be bad news. Perhaps M. Dupree had gone to the police, or the OP, and he would now be arrested. Or maybe it was something less sinister, such as the fact that M. Dupree had found a new man to raise and lower the flag, and to keep the stones and tree trunks whitewashed. In any case, why had M. Dupree not come in person?

“
Well?
Are you that fellow?”

“
Oui, monsieur
.”

“I thought so, based on that poor excuse for a uniform you’re wearing. Do you know who I am?”

“
Oui
. You are Monsieur Nunez, the manager of the white people’s store. Monsieur Dupree has sent me there to buy things for him on occasion.”

“That is correct, but in addition to being the store manager, I am also Monsieur Dupree’s close friend.”

Husband nodded. He knew that the men were friends, and he thought that they might even be more than just friends. The clerks
at the store had spread stories through the village—stories about how frequently M. Dupree visited their boss, and about what they thought was really going on in the back office. Of course none of this was Husband’s business, and besides, M. Dupree had always treated him with kindness.

“Monsieur Leur Mort”—the merchant translated his name into French, which, admittedly, sounded strange—“your boss regrets that he cannot make the appointment this morning.”

Husband could feel the cold beads of sweat that were breaking out on his forehead. “I see.”

“But not to worry, yes? Because I am here to pick up the parcel on his behalf.”

“Parcel?” Husband’s hand gripped tighter that same small parcel made of a young banana leaf in his right hand.

“That one,” M. Nunez said, pointing.

“Ah, this! But you see, sir, I am under strict orders not to give this to anyone, except to Monsieur Dupree.”

“
Oui
, but of course. Still that was before Monsieur Dupree took ill and had to be flown to Luluaburg.”

“Ill?” Yesterday his boss had been the picture of good health.

“
Oui
, it is very serious. Something to do with his heart.”

“That is bad news indeed. Please tell him that I will think positive thoughts today on his behalf. I will perform a ritual as well.”

“Ritual? What kind of ritual?”

“I am a witch doctor. I will offer some gifts to the spirits.”

“How fascinating, and how kind of you. Now, if you please, hand me the parcel.”

“I cannot, monsieur.”

“Of course you can. Just extend your right arm. Then open your fingers.”

Husband turned and began walking rapidly the other way.

“Monsieur Leur Mort!” The white man jumped back into the
truck and resumed driving—slowly, but directly at the groundskeeper.

Husband began to walk at a fast clip.

“I’ll run you down. Don’t make me run you down! A lot of innocent people could be hurt.”

Husband glanced around and spotted Cripple hobbling down the hill from the village. She too must have gotten an early start. He stopped, and so did the truck.

“You have made a wise decision,” M. Nunez said. He sounded vastly relieved.

It occurred to Husband that the man might be bluffing. But he had lived long enough, seen the white man do enough inexplicable things, to know that one could never be sure what they would do next. After all, it was within their power to do anything they wished—if not to themselves, then to the African. One man’s word against another did not apply if they were not of the same color.

Husband reached out and dropped the parcel into the waiting palm of the Portuguese store manager. “Someday it will no longer be like this,” he said.

“I won’t be here when that day comes,” M. Nunez said, and the truck roared up the hill, straight at the people coming down.

I
t was a miracle no one was hurt—that’s what the village Christians said, the ones who’d been spared death beneath the wheels of the store manager’s truck. Cripple grimaced when she heard that sort of talk.

“Husband,” she said, leaning on his arm as they walked together to the missionary rest home, “let us suppose that the incident that just happened was indeed a miracle.”

“Which it was not.”

“At any rate, this spirit, whom the Christians call God, chose to spare the people in the truck’s way.”

“That’s right. Baba Esetah said she saw an angel, with his back
to the truck, spread his wings in order to slow it down enough to allow the people time to jump into the drainage ditches.”

“Was the angel a black man, or a white man?”

“If he was an angel, then he was not a man at all.”

“But were his feathers black like a vulture’s or white like those of a cattle egret?”

“Do you mock the Christians, wife?”

“Of course not! I am a very curious woman, Husband. You know that.”

“Indeed.”

“So this is what I really want to know; instead of just slowing down the truck, why did the angel not disable it altogether? Perhaps even make it roll backwards and over the falls?”

Husband laughed. “Wife, you are trouble.”

“I will not deny that. But now that we are alone, Husband, tell me the business you had with that white man?”

She could feel him tense. “Me? I had no business with him! He stopped to ask where he could buy some of our local palm wine—as if I should know such a thing. I tell you, I was deeply offended by that. Tell me, Wife, do I look like the sort of man who drinks palm wine?”

“Truly you do.”

“Wife,” he said, and then laughed.

“Husband, what is it that you gave him?”

“Nothing.”

“The white man hurt your feelings, so now you hurt mine.”

He pulled away from her, freeing himself from her arm. “What do you mean?”

“You do not trust me, Husband, so you lie to me. This man—the one who almost ran over us—is the same man who manages the store for whites. He has many Congolese employees. If it is palm wine he wants, he needs only to send one of them to buy it
for him. And do not lie to me any longer about the parcel. My body is weak, but my eyes are strong and clear. So I will ask you one more time. What did you give him?”

Husband sighed dramatically. “All right. But you must promise not to be angry.”

“I promise.”

“And you must tell no one.”

“Of course.”

“As I said, I gave him nothing. It was he who took from me. He stole it right out of my hand.”

“What could he steal from you, Husband? You own nothing but a good heart and a keen mind.” Flattery was something men craved, just as surely as they craved air.

“And potions. Do not forget those. Some of the potions I make are very powerful. They are of great value to some.”

“As you say, Husband.” The truth be known, Husband’s medicine was no stronger than the faith his patients brought with them. “So? What was stolen?”

“A diamond.”

“What?”

“A very large diamond. As big as a hen’s egg and as clear as a glass of spring water.”

It was time to pretend that she was as innocent as Baby Boy. “Truly, truly?”

“Yes.”

“Aiyee!” Cripple clapped her hands to her temples and commenced wailing like a mourner. “Aiyee! Aiyeeeeeee!”

Husband had no choice but to put his hand firmly over her mouth. “Hush, Wife! Others are looking this way. What I am telling you must remain secret. Do you understand?”

Cripple nodded vigorously, but when Husband removed his hand, she felt compelled to say
aiyee
just one more time, although almost inaudibly. “Where did you get this diamond?”

“Baby Boy found it.”

“
Our
Baby Boy?”

“Yes. Apparently he found it somewhere in the manioc field and was sucking on it when Second Wife returned to the village from chopping weeds.”

“Does my sister wife know about this?”

“She saw the stone briefly, but I am sure it did not occur to her that it could be a diamond. It is too big, for one thing. And where would Second Wife have seen a diamond?”

“Husband, how is it that you know this stone is a diamond?”

“Cripple, do you not recall that I once worked in the mines?”

“Yes, before our marriage. But that was many years ago,”

“One does not forget the look of a diamond, or the feel of one.”

“Where were you going with this diamond when the white man took it?”

“I was on my way to sell it.”

“To whom? Is it not true that the Consortium owns all the diamonds in this province?”

“It is true, but it does not own the desires of individual men. I was to meet another man on the bridge, a man whose desire for wealth exceeded his loyalty to the company. Now what am I going to tell him? He will accuse me of selling the stone to someone else. He may even tell the police about our arrangement, but lie about his own involvement. I could be arrested and put into prison.”

Cripple reached for his arm again, and gave his bicep a good squeeze. “Nothing could be farther from the truth, Husband. They cannot put you in prison for a stone that does not exist.”

“But it does!”

“Then where is it? It is not hidden on you. If they search you, they will not find it. This buyer you spoke of will look foolish in the eyes of the police. Trust me, Husband. He will say nothing.”

Their Death placed his hand over hers. It was as intimate a
gesture as he had ever shown her in public, bordering even on the scandalous. Such displays of affection were engaged in only by Europeans, who often did unseemly things. Cripple had heard stories about Belgium women who worshipped the sun, lying on long, flat chairs, with their
thighs
totally exposed, while they said their prayers. And to think that white people—especially Americans—had a problem with seeing uncovered breasts!

Well, there can be enough of a good thing. Deftly, Cripple slid her hand out from beneath Husband’s, lest her own reputation fall even lower than that of the European harlots. Life was already almost as much as she could bear without adding sexual impropriety to her long list of faults.

When they reached the narrow dirt road that skirted the falls and led to the guesthouse, Cripple invited Husband to continue walking with her.

“You are still early for work,” she said, trying hard not to sound overly anxious.

“Yes.”

“And your heart is heavy.”

“Truly, truly.”

“Husband, if it is well with you, I would like you to meet the new
mamu
.”

“Why?”

“Because she is a good woman—a good white woman.”

Husband stopped walking. “Cripple, I do not believe that all white people are the same. My boss, Monsieur Dupree, has always been fair to me.”

“Yet you long for the day when we will have our independence.”

“And you do not? Why is it, Cripple, that you do not wish us to have our own nation?”

“I do, Husband, I do. But I think that it will be like giving birth, and that is a painful process. And, as you above all others
should know, sometimes the child does not survive. Husband, I fear for you.”

He grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and dropped it just as quickly. “Come, take me to meet your
mamu
. One can never meet too many good women.”

The postmaster was at a loss as to what to do. At precisely half past six he’d driven onto the bridge, but Their Death was nowhere to be seen. The transfer had to be quick, seamless in its execution; he couldn’t very well park the truck and wait. This was unbelievable! Their Death had always been so reliable.

At a loss for what to do next, the postmaster kept driving until he reached the white cemetery, where he turned the truck around. Then it was back down the hill and across the bridge again, as slowly as he dared, as he searched the swelling ranks of African workers for a familiar face. His second time across, the postmaster stopped and pretended to admire the view.

Any other day there would have been no need to pretend, but this wasn’t any other day; this was the beginning of a fabulous life, one that would be shared with the love of his life, Cezar Nunez. Damn Their Death for causing him so much unneeded stress. It wasn’t like the man. If there ever was a stand-up, solid African who could be counted on, it was Their Death.

Finally, at ten minutes to seven, the postmaster gave up on waiting and drove straight to his employee’s house. He’d been there before, when Their Death had been struck with a severe bout of malaria, and once when one of Their Death’s middle sons had been temporarily blinded by a spitting cobra. He’d driven the child and his parents to the nearest Protestant mission station, one that maintained a hospital. Ironic, wasn’t it, having to drive a witch doctor to a hospital? But in Congo that was par for the course.

There was a Belgian doctor living in Belle Vue—a real doctor
whose job it was to care for the health of the Consortium employees and their families. That included the eighty-seven whites, but excluded the five hundred plus villagers. For the villagers, a male nurse was driven all the way over from Luluaburg every Saturday to hold a four-hour clinic. If there were still patients to see at the end of the four hours, well, that was too bad. The road to Luluaburg passed through Bashilele territory; it wasn’t safe to drive there after dark. Villagers unlucky enough to become seriously ill the other six days either recovered on their own, resorted to treatment by witch doctors, or walked to the nearest Protestant mission, which was fifty kilometers away.

But having been to Their Death’s house was not the same as knowing where it was. The village was a maze of mud wall, thatch-roof huts, built higgledy-piggledy along narrow lanes that were obstructed by chickens, dogs, and most important, bands of naked children. Dupree was not averse to running over the occasional chicken, and he’d grazed a dog or two in his time, but children were strictly off-limits.

“Pardonez mois, monsieur,”
he said to an old man standing near the entrance to one of these lanes, “can you tell me the way to Their Death’s house?”

The old man grinned, displaying a paucity of teeth. It was clear he didn’t understand a word of French. He probably hadn’t even understood Dupree’s pronunciation of the African name.

Dupree drove along the road to the beginning of the next lane.
“Muoyo webe,”
he said in halting Tshiluba to a young woman who’d just emerged from a hut with a floor space no greater than that of his truck bed. It was a wonderful greeting, meaning “life to you,” but they were the only words of Tshiluba he knew.

“Life to you,” the woman said in return.

Dupree had no choice but to switch back to French. “I’m looking for the home of Monsieur Their Death. Can you tell me where it is?”

She made a clucking sound against her front teeth, which Dupree recognized as the universal “no.” But then she squinted in thought.

“Monsieur, I think maybe there are five people with that name.” Thank God she spoke excellent French!

Dupree grinned. Now he was getting somewhere.

“This man is tall, and he—” Damn it. What else could he say? That his employee had brown skin, black hair, and dark eyes? All these years and Dupree had not really looked at Their Death close enough to adequately describe him. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “Ah, yes! He’s a witch doctor, and his wife is crippled.”

“Yes, yes, now I know this man. He lives over there.” She pointed up the road, and then indicated that he would have to make a left turn.

“Can you please be more specific?”

“No, monsieur. There are many paths into the village, as you can see, and the way to their house is complicated. I, myself, have only just moved here from Djoka Punda.”

“But you said you know them!”

“
Oui
. Everyone knows them because he is the witch doctor. ‘Look at Their Death and his wife, Cripple,’ they say, when these two pass. ‘If he is such a good witch doctor, why can he not cure her?’ Then they laugh. But not me, monsieur. I am a Christian. I do not believe in witch doctors. Besides, it is not right to—”

“
Excusez mois!
I only want directions to their house.”

“But I have never been to their house.”

Dupree had no doubt the woman was lying. She’d started telling him the truth, then had second thoughts. You couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect one of her own kind, but it was frustrating as hell. And it was getting more and more like this every day. Africans who had once been obedient and compliant now had sniffed the air of independence, of self-actualization, and answered only when they pleased, and then had the audacity to lie.

What was the Congo going to be like when independence finally did come? Would the blacks start ordering the whites around as if they were—well, black? If that happened, he would be long gone. At least that was the plan. Had
been
the plan. If only he could locate Their Death.

Dupree decided—but not without some regret—that his plan needed reworking. He would turn around and head back across the river and to the post office. If he did not spot Their Death along the way, he would remain at the post office. All night even, if he had to.

But it was only an hour later when Their Death appeared, and practically shaking with emotion, related his far-fetched tale.