The Witch Doctor's Wife (6 page)

T
he OP was in a foul mood. He was fond of taking his coffee with milk, a custom he’d developed during the war, when milk had been far more plentiful than coffee. This morning there hadn’t been any milk, and when you got down to the core of the matter, he had no one to blame but himself.

Why hire a Portuguese, his wife had demanded, when he’d first mentioned Senor Nunez as a replacement for Gilbert, that thieving scoundrel. Didn’t the OP know that even a French-speaking Belgian, a Walloon, was more reliable than an Iberian, be he Spanish or Portuguese?

The truth is, the OP had met many fine Portuguese since coming to the Congo, whereas his wife stayed clear of them as if they were the plague. But the OP’s wife was to be pitied, not berated on that account, for how could she help her upbringing? A Flemish girl through and through, she’d even balked at marrying him when he finally divulged that he had a Walloon grandmother. It was the way they were raised, those pure-blooded Flemings. Not so unlike the Germans when you thought about it.

At any rate, first it was having to miss out on a proper breakfast, and now this impossible demand placed on him by the home
office in Brussels. The world would be a much better place if airplanes had never been invented. The telegraph as well. Make that all modern forms of communication. In the old days—much before his time, of course—it could take weeks for bad news to travel, and by the time it finally arrived, there was sometimes a slim chance that it had long since been negated by new information. Even if it hadn’t, there was certainly no need to respond quickly. After all, it would take weeks for an answer to get back to Europe, so what difference would a few days make? None. Even a few weeks didn’t much matter.

But this piece of bad news had arrived yesterday in the form of an aerogramme, flown in by Sabena Airlines. It was an unscheduled flight—one that brought an insurance inspector to examine the crash site—but it brought mail nonetheless. How unkind of fate to deliver trouble in this manner. Suddenly, if the OP expected to keep his job, the outgoing flight would have to carry his response to the letter in the Belle Vue mailbag.

The OP had put off opening the aerogramme until this morning because he knew it was going to be bad news. Bad news, taxes, and sex with Madame OP were three things it never hurt to put off as long as one could. Now he wished he’d put it off even another day.

Monsieur OP felt his cheeks stinging with shame. The fact that production was down was entirely his fault, and one that could have been avoided.

Unlike the deep core deposits in South Africa, the Congo diamonds were found in alluvial gravel beds just below, or even
sometimes directly on, the surface. By and large the diamonds were small, off-color, and heavily occluded. Nonetheless, they had many industrial uses, and there was a steady market for them. Approximately 10 percent of the stones were good enough to be sold to wholesale jewelry makers who produced gaudy trinkets for undiscerning costumers. Only 1 percent of the Belle Vue diamonds were of gem quality, but when these were properly cut in Antwerp, they brought in more money than all the other stones combined.

A year ago the OP, after several successful years in his position, decided to gamble the mine’s resources on processing a new deposit that supposedly contained a higher percentage of gemstones. He based his decision on a report his geologist submitted a month before succumbing to malaria. The report detailed the location of a deposit some twenty kilometers to the north, but away from the river, that contained certain indicator gravels that are usually found along with higher-grade stones. The geologist had estimated that as many as twenty percent of the stones found there would prove to be of gem quality, and some would be of exceptionally high quality.

The OP had been twice to visit the site, located at the bottom of a box canyon from which flowed a powerful spring that soon became a fast-moving stream. The canyon floor was forested, but ridges and spirals of resistant rock rose above the trees like turrets of a castle. The keepers of the fortress were a pack of baboons that vocalized loudly whenever humans invaded their domain. On his second visit a pair of vivid blue crested plantain birds soared overhead. It was a magical place, and had it not been for its mineral potential, would have made an excellent spot to picnic.

In order to properly mine the gem-bearing gravel, a road had to be built, as well as a fence that virtually blocked off the open end of the canyon, thereby denying access to poachers. The road and the fence required months to build, and had diverted a large
number of his African workers and a substantial portion of his operating budget. Not to mention that he’d secretly bought two dilapidated pickup trucks from some missionaries, on account of the fact that all the diamond-bearing dirt from the canyon had to be brought into the processing plant in Belle Vue. To build a new plant out there would have been impractical and way beyond even his ability to maintain by finagling resources.

But if the rains came on time this year—not early like last year—the mine could be in production as early as the end of August. Who knew, but by Christmas the mine might have produced the Star of Congo, which was the name he planned to bestow on the first flawless stone over ten carats, and which he personally planned to present to Their Majesties King Baudouin I and Queen Fabiola of Belgium. Now, just when things seemed to be coming together, there was this stupid ultimatum from the Directors.

What did they think he was doing? Picking his nose? Someday, when his gamble had paid off, more than a few of those men were going to be sorry for their no-confidence vote. As for the CEO, the man had a spine made of noodle dough. True, he was just doing his job, but…

The OP sent his fist crashing down on his mahogany desk. “Flanders,” he bellowed.

“Sir?”

His secretary was a Belgian lad in his early twenties, a newcomer to Africa. He was the son of a friend of the CEO, and the OP was still not convinced that boy hadn’t been sent to spy on him. He certainly looked the part. Claiming allergies, Secretary was never to be seen without a white handkerchief over his mouth and nose to keep out the ubiquitous dry-season dust. The Africans found this amusing, and on several occasions the OP had caught some of the office boys mimicking the new arrival by tying scraps of cloth over their faces. Frankly, it was funny, so the OP didn’t have the heart to chide them.

“Flanders,” the OP said, “make yourself useful and run down to the store and get some milk for my coffee.”

“What if the store doesn’t have any, sir?”

“Then find a cow and milk it.”

“But sir, there aren’t any cows around here.”

“Then find a goat. Whatever you do, don’t come back without milk. And I mean fresh milk, none of the powdered stuff.”

“Yes, sir.”

With the anteroom clear of spying eyes, the OP set about preparing his answer for the directors. They weren’t going to like it.

Loving eyes watched Husband head in the direction of the thatch-walled privy. He disappeared for a reasonable amount of time, and upon emerging glanced in all directions before striding over to the clump of banana trees growing on the forest’s edge. To loving eyes it appeared as if Husband had begun to search for something, poking around in the detritus and pulling at the loose sheaths of banana leaves. Weaving in and out of the clump of fat stalks, he spent almost as much time there as he had relieving himself. Then abruptly Husband began to walk at a fast clip, not back to the village, but in the direction of town.

A
manda was pleased to get the senhora’s invitation. It would be wonderful to have a friend among the white community, she thought, and then immediately chided herself. Black, white, it shouldn’t matter. What she meant to tell herself was that it would be comforting to have a friend who was also an outsider, and with whom she shared some cultural affinities. Of course it wasn’t as good as an American, or even an English friend, but—oh stop it, she said to herself. You don’t have to justify everything. It is what it is, and you will enjoy it. Or not.

But one thing she definitely would not enjoy was drinks at the club. It was wrong to drink alcohol because it destroyed one’s body, which was the temple of God. And it was wrong even to
just sit in the club and sip a glass of grenadine, because it gave the impression to others that she approved of their behavior. No, if Senhora Nunez really wanted to meet Amanda, and possibly be her friend, then she would agree to come tomorrow afternoon for tea. Say four o’clock?

She wrote her invitation on a crisp piece of rose-scented stationery while the houseboy waited, but when she gave it to him, he wouldn’t budge.

“Madame, please, you must also sign the note I brought with me.”

“Why?”

“My employer is very strict. If you do not sign it, she will be angry with me.”

Hmm. Perhaps this Senhora Branca Nunez was not going to be compatible after all. Well, time would tell. She signed the note, and then on an impulse gave the servant a two-franc piece from a jar of coins she’d found on a top shelf in the kitchen. It was nothing, really, just four cents in American money.

“Madame, what is this for?”

“It is for you.”

“But I do not work for you, madame.”

“Yes, but you walked here with the message.”

“It was my job, madame.”

“Are you refusing the money?”

The man shifted feet, staring past her head as he thought. “No, madame, I am not refusing the money. But with this”—he held the coin—“I can buy nothing.”

Amanda could hardly believe her ears. In Language and Orientation School, one of the staff had informed her that the average wage of a full-time servant was one dollar a day—or fifty Belgian francs. She had just tipped the man four percent of his daily wage, and he was unhappy?

“Here,” she said, and handed him another two-franc piece.

He took the money and left without another word. Confused, Amanda stared at his retreating back.

“You have insulted the man, Mamu Ugly Eyes.”

Amanda whirled. Protruding Navel was the last person she wanted to see today. The man had the ability to sneak up on you like a cat, but he had none of the redeeming qualities of a domestic feline.

“You were listening?”

“
Mamu
, it is my job to cook and clean this place. I had business in the kitchen.”

“Protruding Navel, if it pleases you, tell me why this man was insulted.”

“Because he is not your servant, as he explained. Therefore, you must either let him do his job without a
matabisha
, or else pay him what he is worth. Instead, you have treated him like a child. Like an errand boy.”

“So you would have been insulted as well?”

“No,
mamu
, because I do not deliver notes.”

“I see.”

“Mamu Ugly Eyes, do you believe it is wrong to steal?”

“Yes, of course. It is one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Then,
mamu
, why is it you have stolen from Mamu Singleton?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The jar there—on the top shelf—that belongs to the
mamu
. She uses it to buy eggs and produce from the village women.”

“I assumed as much. But I was only borrowing the money. I will replace it at once.”

“Very well,
mamu
. May I speak frankly?”

“Yes, of course.” There was no stopping him anyway.

“I do not think you are a very good example, Mamu Ugly Eyes.”

“
What?
An example for whom?”

“The village woman who limps, she who is called Cripple. She is coming up the road; I can see her now. She is a heathen,
mamu
. But she will never believe in your Jesus if you are to be her example.”

Amanda felt like there must be steam rising from her ears. Why was Protruding Navel pushing her so hard? What was his agenda? Or did he just enjoying sticking the knife in and turning it slowly? Like a corkscrew. Surely there were plenty of men in the village who could be trained to be housekeepers.

“Are you a Christian, Protruding Navel?”

“Of course,
mamu
. As was my father, and his father before him. My three mothers are Christians as well. There are no heathens in my family.”

“Excellent. Then you will have to set the example for Cripple.”

“But
mamu
, she is a woman!”

“Yes, but Jesus was a man—and so are you, yes? And only a man can accurately portray another man. Therefore you must act like Jesus.”

“Does
mamu
mock me with her clever words?”

“No, she does not. In fact, she has never been more serious in her life.”

Amanda turned her back on her housekeeper and smiled at Cripple.

Strategy. It was all about strategy, Husband mused, during his long walk to the post office. Life was like a game of soccer, or football, in which there were many players but only one goal per team. Husband had been an exceptional player as a student in the Catholic mission school, not because he was faster or more coordinated, but because he knew when to pass the ball and when to keep it. More often than not he passed it, but only when it gave his teammates a clear shot into the goal. Only on rare occasions did he run it all the way in. But for Husband to profit from a dia
mond that large would take a great deal of strategy, perhaps more than he was capable of engineering.

To say that Consortium was paranoid might be a bit overstating things, but nonetheless, the mine at Belle Vue amounted to a maximum-security prison. Ten-foot-high cement-block walls, surmounted with rolls of barbed wire, were intended to keep the uniformed workers in, along with any diamonds they may have pilfered. Three days before their shifts were over, the workers were fed a laxative and their subsequent bodily wastes were closely examined. They also had to undergo a personal cavity search, have the insides of their mouths examined, and had to submit to having greased combs dragged through their hair. Any cuts or scabs that had not been noted on their bodies when they first checked in had to be reopened, on the suspicion that a diamond might be concealed in the wound.

Husband breathed a sigh of relief to find M. Dupree alone at the post office. There was still some time before the flag had to be hoisted so that the doors could be officially opened. If Husband didn’t act now, he would be miserably tense the rest of the day.

“Monsieur Dupree,” he blurted, “may I have a minute?”

“Of course, Monsieur Their Death, but literally just one minute. I have to finish sorting the outgoing mail before the plane arrives.”

“
Oui
. It is about a diamond, sir.”

“A
diamond?
What about a diamond?”

“Let us say, Monsieur Dupree, hypothetically speaking, that someone found a very large diamond way out in the forest somewhere, far beyond the Consortium’s land. Then let us say that the person who found it tried to sell the diamond—perhaps to a white man. What would happen to the person who tried to sell such a diamond if the man he approached turned him in to the authorities?”

M. Dupree stepped to the window and peered out before pulling down the shade and locking the door. “Monsieur Their
Death, would you like some coffee? Unfortunately there is no milk today.”

Husband could not believe his ears. For fifteen years he had reported to work every morning, and he could count on one hand the days he’d missed: the day Cripple lost the only child she’d ever conceived; two days when Husband’s fever was so high he couldn’t stand, much less walk; and the day Middle Son was blinded by a spitting cobra. Although M. Dupree was a kind boss, never once, in all those years, had he offered Their Death even a glass of water.

“Yes,” he said quickly, before he lost his nerve, “coffee will be very nice.”

These were not words Husband used to describe coffee, because he had never drunk the beverage. These were words Husband had heard white visitors say when M. Dupree offered them coffee. But those occasions were rare.

M. Dupree took a blue enamel mug down from a shelf high above the coffeepot, which was kept warm on an electric heater. Then he made a great show of blowing the dust from the mug and wiping the inside of it clean by using his shirttail. He smiled as he handed the mug to his employee.

“Sugar?”

“No,
merci
.”

“Monsieur Their Death, how large is the hypothetical diamond?”

“Very large, monsieur. Perhaps as big as a chicken egg—a European chicken egg.” Husband knew a man who once bought a European hen at a market in Kikwit. She was twice as big as a village chicken, and so were her eggs. Unfortunately she did not have the sense to abandon her nest when a river of army ants invaded the village one night. The next morning there was nothing left of the hen, not even a wattle or bone.

Too late, M. Dupree tried to suppress a gasp. “What makes
you think this is a diamond, and not just a common stone? There are many stones that resemble diamonds to the untrained eye.”

“There is a fire inside this one, Monsieur Dupree.”

M. Dupree considered this new information in silence. “A fire?” he asked at last.

Husband nodded. He’d taken a sip of the coffee, and it was vile stuff. Was he obliged to drink the rest?

“Not a real fire, of course, but the look of one.”

“Are you telling me that this hypothetical diamond has already been faceted?”

Husband’s knowledge of French had just been stretched to its limit.

“Cut,” M. Dupree said, drawing a pair of rough sketches on the back of an envelope. “When they come out of the ground they might look like this. Just a stone—like any other. But then the diamonds are cut into fancy shapes and polished, so that they reflect the light. Like this.”

“It is not cut,” Husband said, “but there are some straight sides nonetheless.”

“What color is the fire?”

“All colors, but mostly blue. Yet at the same time the stone is as clear as water.”

M. Dupree was taking deep breaths, exhaling through his teeth. “Monsieur Their Death, where did you find this stone?”

“I did not find it, sir.”

“Of course.”

“But it exists, monsieur. You have my word on that.”

The postmaster smiled. “You have never lied to me—unlike some of the others. So, you want to know how to turn this fabulous diamond into cash. Isn’t that so?”

“
Oui
.”

“Well, I would be happy to make inquiries on your behalf—subtle inquiries, to be sure. But you must do your part as well.”

“My part?”

“We whites have a saying, Monsieur Their Death. A picture is worth a thousand words. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Just because Husband worked outside, cropping the
puspulum
grass with a scythe and whitewashing the trunks of mango trees, did not mean his was an outside brain. “Certainly, Monsieur Dupree. You desire to see the stone so that you can accurately describe it to those whose opinions you seek.”

“Exactly! So, when can I see it?”

Husband had anticipated this, and was ready with his answer. “I will show it to you the day after tomorrow, but we must meet on the bridge.”

“The bridge?”

“
Oui
. It is unwise to bring a diamond across the river, where the Consortium can claim it and accuse me of stealing.”

“In that case, why don’t I just come to your house?”

“Monsieur, how will that look? My neighbors will be frightened to see a white man in their village. They will think there are new taxes to pay, or that one of them is to be punished. Either way, they will be curious, and we will have no privacy.”

“Perhaps you are correct on that score, but why can’t I see the stone today? Or even tomorrow? Why must I wait until the day
after
tomorrow?”

Husband was ready for this question as well. “Because I need the extra time to get my affairs in order—in case you double-cross me.”

“
Mais non
, I would never do such a thing! I am a man of—”

“Monsieur,” Husband said, interrupting a white man for the first time in his life, “you will drive across the bridge at six thirty in the morning, the day after tomorrow, as if you are going somewhere on important business, and I will be waiting in the middle. You will stop, and I will show you the diamond. But if you want to hold the stone in your hand—to feel its weight, to turn it this
way or that way in the sun—you must first give me ten thousand francs as collateral.”

“You cheeky bastard!”

Husband had never felt so much power in his life. Perhaps it was a delusion, but even if M. Dupree and a cadre of gendarmes appeared outside his hut tonight and tortured him into handing over the jewel, it would still have been a life-changing experience. A moment from which he could draw strength for the rest of his life.

“Monsieur Dupree, I beg you to imagine what it would be like if our situations were reversed. Would you hand over a stone of this value before you had some sort of assurance?”

“Assurance? Fine! I am
not
a thief. Is that assurance enough?”

“Monsieur, perhaps I have made my inquiry of the wrong person.”

The postmaster’s snort reminded Husband of the horse he had once seen a Belgian girl ride through the streets of Belle Vue. The animal was supposed to be part of a breeding program that would eventually give the
évolué
, for whom cars were still way beyond reach, a means of transportation. But the climate at Belle Vue was conducive to the tsetse flies, which seemed particularly found of horseflesh. Three of the four horses imported for the project succumbed to sleeping sickness, and the fourth was fatally mauled by a leopard.