The Witch Doctor's Wife (21 page)

A
manda was astounded how easily Captain Jardin gave in to her demands. In fact, he seemed almost eager to comply. To be absolutely honest, it was downright embarrassing.

“Anything else?” he asked, his fountain pen poised above the yellow pad of paper.

“What about food? What will you be feeding her?”

He shrugged.

“Does that mean you don’t know?”

“It means that I will have to confer with the cook.”

“Who does the cooking for the prisoners?”

“Well, you see, that’s the problem. There is no official prison cook, so the cooking will have to be done by me—or someone I hire.”

“Who feeds the prisoners now?”

He surprised Amanda by laughing. “At the moment Cripple is our only prisoner. You see, in small matters—petty theft, fights, marital disputes—we turn the matter over to the tribal chief. In larger, more important matters—such as murder—I drive the accused over to Luluaburg, our provincial capital. The cells you saw are essentially just places to hold the prisoner until I can top off the petrol in my truck. Cripple is the first female arrest I have ever made. And I doubt if there has ever been a previous case, here in Belle Vue, of an African accused of killing a white.”

“Oh. What will become of her? Will you be sending her off to Luluaburg as well?”

“I plan to keep her here for the time being. For her safekeeping, more than anything. Very few African women commit crimes against the crown, and the few women prisoners I have seen in Luluaburg were either hardened prostitutes with histories of soliciting Europeans, or else—how do you say—not right in the head.”

“Mentally ill, I believe, is the term used today. Pierre, I appreciate the fact that you obviously have Cripple’s best interest in mind, but what will happen to her if she stays here? How will the other Europeans react? As I understand it, Senhor Nunez was employed by the Consortium, which is a very powerful force here in the Congo. Cripple, on the other hand—well, she is just one woman.”

“React? Amanda, here I am the law. I was appointed by the Home Office of His Majesty’s government. I do not work for the Consortium—if that is what you mean.”

That was exactly Amanda’s point. Back home a black woman
who killed a white person would need a lot more than a wooden door to keep her safe.

“So then what happens next?”

He rubbed his chin, as if searching for stubble missed during his morning shave. More likely, he hadn’t had time to shave at all.

“After I have made a thorough investigation, and if I decide that there is sufficient evidence to back up her confession, I will recommend the case to a magistrate in Luluaburg. He will then arrange for a trial to be conducted.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. So a confession isn’t enough?”

“Not in this case. I’m sorry, Amanda, but I am not at liberty to say more.”

Amanda knew he was throwing her a bone, a tidbit of revealing information, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what that might be. Word games had never been her forte.

Words have astonishing power to both heal and wound, that much Amanda knew from experience. She also knew that there is no sequence of words good enough to say to a grieving person who has lost a spouse. On the contrary, there are many inappropriate things that can tumble out of one’s mouth during moments of stress.

Amanda had been nine when her grandfather died. At his funeral a woman of good intentions had tried to comfort Amanda’s grandmother by saying, “He’s better off where he is now.” No doubt the would-be comforter was unaware that Granddaddy Brown was an unrepentant sinner who’d often stated that Heaven sounded like a boring place to him. Amanda vowed not to make a similar mistake.

Not only did the Nunez house boast the best views in all of Belle Vue, it also laid claim to the most beautiful garden. Tropical foliage with dark leaves that tapered to drip points served as
a background for white gardenias, hibiscus in a variety of gem tones, and clumps of bird of paradise. Stone paths meandered through thickets of flowering plants, repeatedly crossing a slow-moving stream that gave birth to pools clogged with water lilies and lavender hyacinths. There were even stone grottoes clothed in emerald-green moss and trimmed with ferns. It was as magical a place as Amanda had ever been, and quite frankly, seemed very much out of place in a small African town on the edge of nowhere.

“It is a bit overdone, don’t you think?”

Amanda jumped. The senhora, clothed head to toe in deepest black, had appeared out of nowhere.

“I did not mean to scare you.”

“The police captain said—well, I heard about your husband. I’m here to say how sorry I am.”

“
Sorry?
What did you do?” Her diction was crisp, and her tone was cold, so that the words tumbled out of her mouth like ice cubes.

“No, I mean that I feel bad for you. About your husband’s death. It must be so awful.”

“You have no idea. But thank you. Please, come with me to the patio. We can take our refreshments there.”

Amanda followed Branca through the lush greenery to a stone patio that had a stunning view of the falls. Whereas from her side of the river Amanda could only see one rainbow at this hour of the morning, from this vantage point, between clouds of mist, she caught glimpses of three rainbows.

“Oh my gosh! I have never seen anything as beautiful as this.”

“Nor I.” The senhora rang a little bell that could barely be heard over the roar of the falls. “Would you care for tea, or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

The senhora gave her instructions to a tall African, dressed
in a white uniform and white gloves although his feet were bare. Branca must have had eyes in the back of her head, because nothing escaped her.

“He prefers it that way. He says that wearing shoes make—how do you say—they will dull his senses. Yes?”

Amanda shrugged. She honestly didn’t know what the senhora meant.

“In his feets.”

His
feets?
Well, it was no surprise that an educated woman like the senhora would still be having trouble with the plurals of English words. In that regard, English was one of the most difficult languages to master. Far more difficult than Tshiluba, which at least followed rules.

“You see,” the senhora continued, “with bare feets he can feel the temperatures of the stones—if they are warm or cold—and can also feel the vibrations of other feets. In other words, with the bare feets he knows when I am coming, so that he can act busy.”

How stereotypical, Amanda thought, then immediately tried to expunge the judgment from her mind. “How are you doing?” she asked.

Branca Nunez offered up a soft sigh, one that was immediately absorbed by the background sound. “I loved my husband very much. My heart is broken.
This
is how I am doing.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, knowing full well her offer would be refused.

“Yes. There is something I need very much; I need a friend.”

Their Death did not believe in bad luck, even though he was experiencing a series of most unfortunate events. Either someone had placed a curse on his family, or the spirits were upset with him for failing to be a good witch doctor. It was most probably the latter. Their Death had inherited a wealth of sacred information, secrets that could benefit many people, but what had he
done with this knowledge? Very little. Truly, he had been too concerned with emulating the ways of the white man, of wanting to appear progressive. And now Cripple was in prison and it was all his fault.

But wait, there was yet another possible reason for the terrible misfortune that had struck his family. What if it was because Their Death had publicly turned his back on being a Christian? All the boys who attended the Catholic school were required to convert and be baptized, and Their Death had been no exception. Even now Their Death’s sons were baptized Christians, although privately they were quite happy to be little heathens.

It was a pity how the Church made you pick sides. How very limiting. Why couldn’t one respect the various spirits, which were found in everything, and still worship the Christian god? Because the Christian god was the jealous type, that’s why. Yehowa made it very clear in his book, the Holy Bible, that he did not like to share. In fact, that was his third commandment.

Yes, Cripple’s imprisonment had to be the doings of Yehowa, the only father of Jesus. No doubt he was angry about Their Death’s backsliding, and the fact that Cripple had never even been baptized. As a good Christian, Their Death should have insisted that she be baptized. So you see? This too was Their Death’s fault.

After Their Death removed the stone from Baby Boy’s mouth, he should have dropped it down the hole in the toilet hut. Then he should have returned to the church and made a confession of sin. Ah, but that would not have worked. The priest would not have given him absolution as long as he was married to Cripple. One man, one wife, that’s what the Church insisted on, even if both wives were Christian.

Yet Jesus had many wives—thousands of them, in fact. Did not the nuns consider themselves to be the brides of Christ? When challenged on that point, the priest had waffled, saying that the
nuns were only spiritual brides. Finally, after much discussion, the priest admitted that it did indeed all boil down to sex; Jesus could have many wives, but only because he didn’t sleep with any of them.

If giving up sex with Cripple was going to appease Yehowa, then this is what Their Death was prepared to do. If need be, he would even give up his inherited position as a witch doctor—although Their Death did not see how his profession could possibly be incompatible with Christianity. After all, the Bible made it very clear that Jesus was a Jewish witch doctor; he healed the sick with incantations, cured the blind with potions made from mud and spit, and performed feats of magic, such as walking on water.

Cripple did not belong in jail. Despite her confession, she had not tampered with the senhor’s brakes, or made it impossible for him to steer. Someone else had done that. Someone else was threatening to do bodily harm to her, or her family, if she didn’t volunteer that she was guilty. That was the only explanation Their Death could accept.

Who was making such threats? Well, it did not really matter, did it? Not as long as Yehowa was in charge, pulling the strings on the citizenry of Belle Vue, much like in a puppet show Their Death had once seen performed in Luluaburg. The only solution was for Their Death to go to the priest with the honest intention of giving up Cripple as his wife. Then perhaps a miracle might happen, and whoever was threatening Cripple would turn his attention away from her, or maybe even disappear altogether.

But giving up Cripple was not Their Death’s decision alone; there was Second Wife to consider. Although Their Death was certain Second Wife would be pleased, and would readily agree to such a move, it was necessary that he should go through the formality of asking.

He looked over to where she was pounding dry manioc tubers
into flour. The pestle was heavy, and it was a job made easier when two pounded in sync, chanting a work song. From the very first day he’d brought Second Wife home, Cripple had refused to pound any longer. She claimed that the jarring hurt her back. Second Wife had been livid, but by now she was used to working alone. Still, she deserved a say in the matter.

Their Death walked over to the pestle and stood quietly until Second Wife looked up. She brought the pestle down one more time.

S
econd Wife,” he said, “how are you today?”

Her eyes widened. “I feel well, husband. And you?”

“Also well. And the children? How are they?”

Using her chin, she gestured from side to side, as if to say, “Look around you. Here they are. See for yourself.”

“Yes, I can see that the children are fine,” he said. He stared momentarily at a hen with seven chicks that were just a day old. The hen had led them as close to the mortar as she dared, in hopes that someone would toss them a sprinkling of manioc flour. Chicks that small relied on human intervention, especially in the dry season, when there were so few seeds and insects available.
And sure enough, Second Wife, herself the mother of seven offspring, threw the chickens a large handful of what had taken her a great deal of energy to produce.

“You are a kind woman, Second Wife,” he said, moved by her generosity.

“Aiyee,” she said, sucking air through her teeth.

Clearly she was not comfortable with praise. And whose fault was that? Their Death’s, of course. It was he who had continuously heaped praise upon Cripple, all but ignoring Second Wife.

Dishing out praise was done at a husband’s discretion; it was not obligatory by any means. Their Death could not remember his father praising anyone, except for his sons. Neither First Mother nor any of her sister wives had ever complained on that score. For them to have expected compliments would have been as silly as a Muluba boy believing he could fall asleep at night and then awaken the next morning with a white skin. And of what use were insincere compliments?

Their Death cleared his throat, uncertain how to proceed. “Second Wife, I have made a decision that will affect you. So now listen, if you wish to know what it is.”

Second Wife gripped the pestle with both hands. “I am listening, Husband.”

“Are you aware that early this morning Cripple confessed to causing the death of the European?”

“Husband, I am not clever like Cripple, but neither am I stupid. I have both heard and understood this news.”

“And so I assumed. Second Wife, it has been brought to the attention of my heart that this confession—whether or not it is true—is ultimately my fault.”

“
This
I do not understand.”

“I have neglected the practices of my forefathers, and I have sinned against Yehowa. These are both grave matters, but it is Yehowa who wishes to punish me.”

Second Wife opened her mouth to respond, but then must have had second thoughts. That was to be expected. She had been raised as a Protestant, and was thus not equipped to argue theology. At least not with someone who had attended a Catholic school. Unlike Cripple, however, Second Wife was not an avowed heathen; she was merely one by attrition, there not being a Protestant church within walking distance.

Their Death squared his shoulders. “Second Wife, it is with a heavy heart that I say this, so please do not make light of it in any way.”

“Husband, please do not divorce me.” Her voice quavered, cutting Their Death to the core. “I beg you on behalf of my children. Please do not divorce me.”

Their Death smiled sadly. “No, it is the opposite. I have decided to divorce Cripple.”

She stared at him, not comprehending at first, and then her eyes filled with tears. “No, you cannot!”

“
What?
”

“You must not divorce Cripple.”

“I do not understand. I thought this would make you happy.”

“But who will take care of her?”

“Her father yet lives.”

“Yes, but he is old. Soon she will be old as well, unable even to work for a white
mamu
. Do you think the sons and daughters of her siblings will care for her as we do? Do you think the children of that village will refrain from mocking her? Here, the children have become accustomed to her presence. ‘Life to you, Cripple,’ they say, and, ‘Are you well today?’ There they will call her names and say, ‘Oh, look at the woman whose body is as twisted as a ball of
lukodi
vine.’ Then they will laugh and run away, for such is the behavior of children when they encounter something that is not as it should be.”

Their Death stared in disbelief. Never had he heard so many
words tumble from the lips of Second Wife. Even when she was angry at one of the children, or complaining about Cripple, she used words as sparingly as she used salt, that most expensive and rare of all cooking ingredients. When Second Wife spoke, one listened carefully.

The younger children—the older boys were at school—had stopped their play and were clustered in a tight group. She Generates Happiness, a girl of four years, stepped forward as their spokesperson.

“
Tatu
, is it true that you wish to send Second Mother away?”

How was he to answer a question like that? “No,” he said softly, “it is not my wish. But perhaps it is the wish of Yehowa.”

“Why would he want to do that,
Tatu?
”

“Because he is angry with me.”

“Why? What have you done?”

He swallowed hard. “I have loved Cripple as much as one would love a normal wife. Perhaps even more than that.”

She Generates Happiness crossed her arms defiantly and stamped a foot. “Then I think that Yehowa must be a very mean man.”

“Child!” Second Wife had dropped the pestle and was reaching out to grab the little girl, but Their Death stepped between them.

“Our daughter is right,” he said. “If Yehowa does not approve of Cripple, then indeed he must be a very mean man.”

Second Wife smiled. “Husband, you are crazy. And reckless to say such blasphemous words in this place. Are you not afraid that the children and I will be struck by lightning?”

“No,” he said, and he was entirely serious. “You and the children are innocent. But I—I have been wrong to show favoritism to Cripple. That is my greatest sin.”

She Generates Happiness was at the age when everything must be explained. “
Tatu
, what does ‘favoritism’ mean?”

Their Death reached into the pocket of his work shorts and extracted a one-franc piece. “Here,” he said. “This is the beginning of great wealth. Now go and resume your play.”

She Generates Happiness squealed with delight, although she had no knowledge of money and could not have distinguished a one-franc piece from a million-franc coin, had such a thing existed. That it was from her beloved
tatu
, and that it was shiny, and above all, a novelty—these were the things by which she judged this addition to her fortunes. For she was by nature a happy child, and thus already in possession of immeasurable wealth.

But her squeals of delight attracted the other children, and so Their Death gave each of them a coin, except for Baby Boy, who was too young and might have swallowed it and choked. Instead Their Death picked up the child and gave him a finger to suck on, which pleased them both. And certainly there was little danger of the child swallowing that.

With the children thus occupied, Their Death turned his full attention back to Second Wife. “Can you forgive me?” he asked bluntly.

“Do not be so silly, Husband. There is nothing to forgive.”

“There is much to forgive.”

“Nonsense.”

“Forgive me anyway!” Was this behavior not typical of a woman? They complain and complain, and finally you give them what they want, yet it is not what they really want. To understand a woman, a man had to peel away layer after layer of words, much as one must peel away an onion skin to get at the desired part.

Second Wife picked up the dropped pestle. “If that is your wish, then I forgive you. But only on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“Do not divorce Cripple. She is a good woman, with a kind heart, and even though she is lazier than—than—”

“A village full of teenage boys?”

Second Wife laughed, then quickly clamped here free hand over her mouth. Still laughing, she nodded vigorously.

“Truly, truly,” she said when she could speak, “but still, you must not divorce her.”

“Do you really mean this? In the middle of your heart?”

“
Eyo
. But maybe you can instruct her to help more with the children—when she is not working for the white
mamu
, of course.”

“Of course.” He paused to choose his words carefully. “Tell me, Second Wife, does it not bother you that I share myself with another woman? You know—at night.”

He had been prepared to face a hard truth, perhaps even to compromise, but instead of taking him seriously, Second Wife dissolved into gales of embarrassed giggles. This time she covered her face entirely with her hands.

“Stop it,” he said. “I want an answer.

It took her far too long to gain control, and when she did, it was with the sound of mirth still in her voice. “Look around, Husband. Do you not see four children? And there are three more at school. This means one child for every year we have been married. Believe me, Husband, when I tell you that you have shared much with me already.” She was no longer able to contain her laughter.

Their Death smiled.