The Witch Doctor's Wife (7 page)

“Monsieur Their Death, if you think that any other white in this town would be more suitable, then please, be my guest.”

“Very well, monsieur.” Husband set his half-finished mug of coffee on the counter and headed for the door. He had no doubt—none at all—that before the door closed behind him, M. Dupree would call him back. This was, after all, the same way Second Wife tried to manipulate him, and it wasn’t going to work. As long as he had the diamond, the power was all his.

Husband felt surprisingly calm as he watched Monsieur Dupree lock up the post office and disappear in a cloud of dust. The haste with which the man moved indicated his strong interest in the diamond. Although it occurred to Husband that his employer might simply be rushing off to get the authorities, he didn’t believe that deep in his soul. Husband was at peace.

This same calm feeling had permeated him the day he married Cripple. She will never bear you children, his mother, and his mother’s sister wives, had warned him. If sex is what he wanted, his best friend told him, then why not just sleep with one of the dowry goats, because any one of them was more attractive than Cripple. Husband refrained from hitting his friend because of the peace that came along with Cripple, but he was no longer friends with the man. That man, by the way, had married a nubile girl in the full blush of maidenhood, but after having given him two children, the woman ran away with a white man, a crocodile hunter from South Africa.

While Dupree was away, Husband swept the dirt walk that led from the road to the post office, using a broom made from split rattan stems. Then he dug up the beginnings of a termite mound that, by the natural order of things, should not have appeared until after the rains. The termites poured out, scrabbling in all directions, but Husband kept digging until he reached the queen termite. She was as long as his index finger and as fat as his thumb. When he swallowed her whole, she tickled his throat with her legs. Any day that started off with a tasty bit of protein was bound to be a good day. Husband knew it in his soul.

T
he Nigerian slept so well that for a minute, upon waking, he thought he was back home in Lagos. When he realized where he was, he sat up and stared. The cave was much larger than he could have imagined.

Last night, after much slipping on the rocks—yes, his knee was badly skinned—he’d managed to climb high enough up the wall to reach the source of the cool, relatively dry air. By then it was dark, so that every move was by feel.

All he could remember from then was that he’d been able to stand, and that he’d moved away from the roar of the falls. He’d held out his hands in front of him, expecting to bump into a rock face with every step, or to hit his head on the ceiling, but there had been nothing to stop him. It was only when he felt dry soil
beneath his feet that he’d stopped, dropping to the floor of the cave and falling instantly asleep.

Silt. That’s what he’d felt. At some time—perhaps many times—in the distant past the river had risen high enough to flood the cave, leaving behind a soft deposit of light topsoil and organic matter so fine that it felt like the petals of a frangipani blossom.

The Nigerian turned toward the mouth of the cave, which was delineated by only a dark gray patch. How far did the cave go? He could barely hear the falls from where he was. Weren’t caves supposed to be damp? This one was anything but. With a fire—or better yet, electricity—one could almost imagine living…He stopped imagining.

It was suddenly obvious that he had not been the first man to think of this.

Cripple was pretty sure she was late for work. Neither she nor anyone she knew owned a working wristwatch. A few villagers—mostly cooks to the Belgians, and successful men like Husband—owned alarm clocks, which were gifts from their employers. Everyone else, Cripple included, used the sun as a general indicator of time, along with their personal body rhythms.

In fact, Cripple was very much against the European system of telling exact time; she saw no point to it. It imposed needless stress on people, and besides, it was arbitrary. Who had a right to assign numbers to the sun’s journey across the sky, and by what reckoning did the first person to do so choose six as the time when the sun appeared on the horizon, and six again when it disappeared?

Clocks and wristwatches made people hurry, and hurrying was, in general, not a healthy thing to do. If not defined by the strictures of European time, events ran their due course. Naturally. As they were meant to. A palaver, for instance, was over when either the parties came to an agreement or the village coun
cil handed down a judgment. Dances were over when the dancers collapsed from exhaustion or the drummers grew too tired to lift their hands. A child played until it cried to be picked up or the sun, having run its normal course, disappeared, signaling predators to begin prowling. Even something lowly like making mush didn’t require ownership of a timepiece. One stirred the cornmeal until it began to splatter, and then stirred in manioc flour until the mixture was too stiff to stir anymore. Did the Europeans, Cripple wondered, move their bowels according to timepieces?

By the look on her employer’s face, Cripple was pretty sure
that
had yet to happen today. “
Bonjour
, Cripple. Where have you been?”

“
Bonjour, mamu
. I have been, first in my village, and then on the road that leads to here.”

“I assumed that. What I mean is, why are you late?”

“At which hour was I supposed to arrive?”

“You were supposed to be here at eight.”

“Then let us pretend that Greenwich Mean Time is one hour off. There, you see? I am just on time.”

“You know about Greenwich Mean Time?”

“Of course. I am a heathen, and quite unattractive, but I am not stupid.”

“You learned this from your classes at the Catholic mission school? I am impressed.”

“No,
mamu
, I have never been to school.”

“But you said—I’m sure I heard you say—that you studied at their school.”

“Mamu Ugly Eyes, only boys are allowed in that school. I learned this while sitting outside on the grass. Believe me, it is more comfortable that way; the grass is softer than the benches, and the air is cool when the breeze blows.”

“Still, it is a pity you have not gone to school.”

“Why?”

“Because then you could have become a teacher, or a nurse. You could be doing something more interesting than working for me.”

Cripple laughed till her sides hurt. She stopped only because the look on her employer’s face—if one could accurately read such a pale face—told her that the joke had not been intentional.

“Cripple. In my country it is rude to laugh at another like that.”

“But
mamu
, I thought you were only joking. Forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”

“Joke? What could I possibly have been joking about?”

“A nurse,
mamu
. Or a teacher. That is men’s work.”

“Only men?”

“Yes. Is it not that way where you come from?”

“It is not. In fact, it’s almost the opposite.”

“Yours is a strange country, Mamu Ugly Eyes. Tell me more.”

Much to Cripple’s irritation, before the
mamu
could share more bizarre facts from the land beyond the ocean, the idiot Protruding Navel strolled into the kitchen with all the arrogance of a rooster. When he saw Cripple, his beady eyes narrowed to slits, and he made a clucking sound of derision by thrusting his tongue behind his lower teeth.

“Mamu,”
he said, “it is not wise to have a witch doctor’s wife in the kitchen. The evil spirits she brings with her will curdle the milk and rot the eggs. And besides, the other whites will talk, accusing you of setting a bad precedent, perhaps even forcing them to admit heathens into their houses. Does the
mamu
not wish to make friends in the city? If that is the case, then I shall be happy to tell this village woman to wait for you by the woodshed.”

The young—and woefully inexperienced—white woman actually seemed to consider this absurd suggestion. She looked from Protruding Navel to Cripple, and back again. Cripple, who’d endured enough sorrow in her lifetime to equal the lives of three
Protruding Navels, was not going to be humiliated again without a fight.

“Mamu Ugly Eyes,” she said, pausing to choose her words carefully, “will not all milk sour, and all eggs rot, if they are not consumed in a timely fashion? But if, by chance, they spoil faster in this house than is normal, it might well be because of their proximity to a man who beats his wife until her eyes are swollen shut, and whose son limps like I do, yet who was not born that way.”

“This one lies!”

“
Nasha
. Ask anyone in the village,
mamu
.”

Cripple, whose only experience with white women was seeing a Belgian nun pass within fifty meters of her at the Catholic school, was fascinated by the
mamu
’s reaction to stress. The young American’s face turned red, like the blush on a ripening mango, and her eyes welled with tears. Then the lips began to quiver. Cripple marveled at a society that allowed its women to exhibit so much vulnerability. Didn’t they know that action begat experience which, in turn, begat action? America must be a very unhappy place.

“I have heard enough from both of you,” the missionary finally said. “Protruding Navel, please go sweep the verandah while I show Cripple how to help with some chores.”

“No,
mamu
, I will not go. Not until this woman apologizes for the insults she has heaped on me.”

Cripple’s heart pounded. “I would sooner apologize to the mamba that killed my mother as she gathered mushrooms after the rain.”

“Then I will stay here.”

“Go!” the American barked.

“
Mamu
,” the horrible man said, “I can no longer work for you.”

Mamu Ugly Eyes gasped. “You can’t quit! If you quit, Mamu Singleton will be very unhappy with me.”

“That is not my problem.”

The scene that was unfolding before her eyes horrified Cripple, but she found herself unable—or at least unwilling—to come to the young missionary’s rescue. Why should she? She was perfectly willing to coexist with a wife beater, and a child beater, just as long as she did not have to humble herself to such a man. But to apologize for having merely stated the truth? That would happen only when the Kasai River ran dry, which, by the roar of the falls outside, was going to be never.

“Very well, Protruding Navel, you may quit. I’m sure Cripple will appreciate getting your salary as well as hers.”

What a foolish thing for the
mamu
to say. Did she not understand the mind of a man?

“Mamu Ugly Eyes,” the housekeeper said, “you cannot fire me. I was hired by Mamu Singleton. Only she can fire me upon her return—but she will not, for she respects my work. In the meantime, there is much I can teach you about running a guesthouse.”

“So you agree to stay?”

“Of course,
mamu
; that was always my intent. Now please excuse me while I sweep the verandah, or have you not noticed that it is dirty?”

Cripple watched him go with mixed feelings.

A
manda’s pulse was still racing when Captain Jardin walked into the kitchen. Walked right in from the dining room, no less, like he owned the place. Of course she was glad to see him, but shouldn’t he have knocked first? She must look a fright.

“Is everything okay, Amanda?”

“What? Yes, everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I heard loud voices.”

“It was only me giving instructions to my housekeeper.”

“Be firm, yes? From what I hear, Protruding Navel can be very difficult to manage.”

“I have come to that conclusion as well.” She turned to in
troduce Cripple to the captain, but her new assistant had disappeared. Oh well. It would probably have been improper anyway. Although she certainly would have introduced her parents’ maid in Rock Hill.

Pierre gently touched her forehead. “How is that bruise healing?”

“It’s fine.” But why did he bother to ask now? For all he really cared, she could have died two days ago.

“Amanda, may we sit down?” He patted a brown leather briefcase that reminded her of scuffed shoes.

“By all means. Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

“No, thank you. Perhaps another time—soon.”

“Yes, soon,” she said, but couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

He followed her into the living room and they both sat, as far away from each other as possible without moving the furniture.

“I’ve come on official police business,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

“Police business? I haven’t broken any laws, have I?” It was a stupid thing to say, a knee jerk reaction that could ruin everything.

He chuckled. “His Majesty’s Colonial Government has no laws against beauty, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about the plane crash.”

“Oh?”

“There were twelve passengers on your plane when it left Leopoldville, but only eleven could be accounted for following the explosion. I’ve conducted a thorough search of the area around the plane, but I can find no trace of human remains. I was hoping you could help me.”

“
Me?
I can’t identify a wishbone once it’s been broken.”

Pierre laughed as he pulled a stack of papers out of the brief
case. “It seems that our missing passenger is a Nigerian who sometimes goes by the name of Daniel Ogunde. He is listed as being two meters and—well, approximately seven feet tall. Do you recall seeing him?”

Amanda nodded. “I couldn’t believe how tall he was. And I loved his orange robes. I remember he sat several rows behind me, and then—although I really can’t remember the actual crash, I do remember that it was this man who pulled me from the plane.”

He stared at his papers. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“What?”

“The other passengers gave me detailed descriptions of their last minutes on the plane, and how they got off. Madame So-and-So says that Monsieur What-Is-His-Name pushed her from behind, and so forth. But no one has mentioned helping you.”

“That’s so rude!”

“Forgive me, Amanda, but it was not my intention to insult you—”

“And I mean that it was rude of the others to just leave me there, so that I could get blown to smithereens.”

“Smith Ereens?”

“Tiny pieces. Pierre, I thought for sure I told you this before—that a man pulled me from the plane.”

“Yes, but somehow you neglected to tell me that he was seven feet tall.”

Amanda laughed softly. “Details, details. I didn’t realize his height was so important. Or his skin color, either.”

“Perhaps they are not. But Amanda, life in the Congo can be very complicated.” He stuffed the papers back into the briefcase, and muttering some excuse in rapid French, made a beeline for the door.

It was a beautiful August morning: not too hazy, and just cool enough to remind one that south of the equator the seasons are
reversed, and this is what passed for winter. Outside the OP’s window, small black-and-white birds, with tails four or five times the length of their bodies, flew in jerky motions across the lawn in search of food. The OP loved those birds, although he didn’t know what to call them. They reminded him of the adage, You can catch a bird by putting salt on its tail. Someday, when he had time to breathe, he’d ask his sister in Brussels to buy him a book on African birds. Someday, if he really had time, he might even chase one of those birds with a saltshaker.

The loud rap of knuckles on the door may as well have been on his head. What the hell was Flanders thinking? If he knew it wouldn’t get him in trouble, he’d kick that kid’s butt out the door and chase after him with a saltshaker—maybe right over the edge of the waterfalls.

“What is it?”

“Sir, there is a gentleman here to see you.”

“An official?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tell him to get lost.”

“Sir, he says it’s urgent.”

Only then did the OP tear his gaze from the window.
Merde
. It was only the whiny postmaster. The fellow was always complaining about something. Just last week he’d come whimpering that he needed funds for another employee, because his workload was getting to be too heavy. It’s not like the guy had to actually deliver any mail. All he had to do was stick a few letters into numbered slots, one for each of the eighty-three Belgian households, plus less than a dozen miscellaneous holders of post office boxes. The latter included the Nunez family, the American guesthouse, the Catholic mission, and some of the
évolué
, who seldom, if ever, got any mail.

“Yes, Monsieur Dupree?” The OP could feel his jaw clench.

“I need to speak to you alone, sir.”

“We are alone.”

“With the door closed, sir.”

What the hell did the guy want, to jump his bones? He’d always felt there was something different about Dupree, something he couldn’t quite pin down. Of course he thought that about any man who came to the Congo without a wife and neglected to get a mistress. Tit for tit, these African women were far better-looking than the pasty women back home. Perhaps not as beautiful as Madame OP had been in the beginning, but her looks had gone to hell ever since she got him to walk down the aisle in Liege. That didn’t really matter though, because the bitch had stopped sleeping with him three years ago, upon discovering his penchant for the local beauties. The incident on the savanna really had nothing to do with it.

“Close the damn door, Flanders.”

“
Oui, monsieur
.”

The second it closed the OP slapped his desk with an open palm. “Don’t just stand there, Monsieur Dupree. Tell me what you need to say.”

“Sir, it’s about a diamond.”

“This whole operation is about a diamond—hundreds of them. Be more specific.”

“Well, sir—uh—does the Consortium own all the diamonds in the Congo?”

“What kind of silly question is that?”

“So, it doesn’t. Am I right, sir?”

“You are quite right. But what the Consortium doesn’t own, Belgium owns. And if Belgium wishes to mine diamonds, then they have to go through the Consortium.”

That shut the postmaster up. But not long enough.

“Monsieur OP, suppose an exceptionally large and beautiful stone—of gem quality—was found on crown land. What would become of it?”

“Is this a riddle? Who put you up to this?”

“Monsieur, it is not a riddle.”

“Then it’s nonsense. Now please, have Flanders see you out. And don’t return unless I send for you.”

“But sir, there is such a stone.”

The OP felt a twinge of excitement. This business, more than most, was not unlike a night in a gambling parlor. With luck you broke even, some extravagant sallies aside. With exceptional luck—well, there was always that slim chance that someday you’d be the one who struck it big. Ultimately it would be the Consortium that scored, but it would be under your watch. If you played your cards right to the end, that could mean a weekend chalet in the Ardennes, or a town house in Brussels, complete with a mistress. At the very least he could dump that wrinkled old crone of a wife—ah, that was a terrible thing to think. But it was true. Heilewid had let herself go since the incident, and in more ways than one. She’d once been a scintillating companion, a gracious and clever hostess, but now she did nothing but lie around the company pool, smoking Camel cigarettes and drinking Johnny Walker, while feeling sorry for herself. Yes, she had ample reason to feel sad, but enough was enough. Wasn’t it? Hadn’t he been patient long enough? What man…

“Monsieur, did you hear me?”

“Of course! Monsieur Dupree, is it you who discovered this diamond?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“
Merde!
You work for the Consortium, the diamond belongs to either the Consortium or the crown, which means whoever has it is a thief, and anyone protecting this thief is a criminal as well.”

The postmaster was shivering like a malaria patient. This
pleased the OP immensely. He was not really a mean person—ask anybody—but he was only human. If he didn’t enjoy the fringe benefits of power, then he’d lack the motivation to keep his job, and then someone who really was mean would take his place. Then what would happen to cockroaches like Dupree?

“Monsieur OP,” the cockroach said, “it was only a theoretical question. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”

“
Au contraire
, Monsieur Dupree. You said there really was such a stone. If you won’t tell me who your contact is, at least tell me more about the stone.”

“
Oui, monsieur
. It is perhaps eighty carats in size—this is just a guess, monsieur—with a full color spectrum, but leaning towards blue. Ah yes, and it is as clear as water.”

“But that’s impossible! We’ve never had a gem-quality diamond exceed five carats, even in an uncut state. And that happened only once. A diamond like the one you describe might end up being fifty carats or more. It would be practically priceless.”

“Those are my thoughts as well, monsieur.”

Forget a chalet in the Ardennes, and screw the mistress in Brussels. A find such as this could mean a yacht, or a villa in the Italian lake country. And that is only if he went through the Consortium. For someone with his experience, and contacts in the cutting industry back in Antwerp—well, there would be risks. As it stood, the Consortium had to constantly watch its back, due to fierce resistance to its very existence by the South-African-dominated cartel. But the bigger the prize, the greater the risk. That’s how it had always been since the dawn of time. No matter how this played itself out, the OP was certain that it would get him out of the Congo, and away from that mummified woman he’d become embarrassed to call his wife.

“Monsieur Dupree, what were the circumstances under which you saw this stone? In the daylight? By lantern light? What?”

“
Monsieur
, I have not seen it.”

“What the hell? But you—”

“Monsieur, I have an appointment to see it.”

“When?”

The postmaster was more devious than the OP had expected. He stood there silently, staring at his shoes as if they were the most interesting thing on the face of the planet. Well, at least he wasn’t entirely stupid.

“Very well, keep that information to yourself. But as soon as you’ve seen the stone, report back to me.
If
—and I think it’s a huge if—this turns out to be true, you, my friend will be rewarded handsomely.”

“Monsieur OP, my grandfather had no teeth and four chins, yet my grandmother thought he was handsome—if you get my meaning, monsieur.”

The OP laughed. “Don’t worry. The reward will be based on a percentage of the stone’s retail value. Say, one half of one percent?”

“
Oui, monsieur. Merci, monsieur
.”

The man darted for the door like a frightened rabbit. “One more thing, Monsieur Dupree. How much do you know about diamonds? Have you ever even seen one close up? An uncut stone, that is.”

“Monsieur OP, before I came to Africa, I worked for six years as a cutter in Antwerp. It’s in my file, sir.”

Now
that
was interesting. “But you don’t wear glasses, Monsieur Dupree.”

“Correct, Monsieur OP. When my vision began to be compromised, as happens to most cutters, I asked for a transfer to another branch of the business. The only opening was here. I could hardly pass it up, could I, monsieur? It being Africa—every young man’s dream.”

“Right. What you’re saying though, is that you would know a diamond if you saw one. And that you could estimate its cut and weight.”

“
Oui, monsieur
. As well as its color and clarity. These are all things one learns in cutting school.”

“
Bien
.” The OP stood. He would personally escort the postmaster to the front door. When he swung open the door to his office, he almost gave young Flanders a broken nose.

“What the hell are you doing, Flanders?” he roared.

“
Rien
, Monsieur OP. Nothing. Just putting these files back into the cabinet by the door.”

The boy sounded scared enough to be innocent. Or he could just be crafty. If he really was a spy, implanted by the Brussels brass, you can be sure he’d been well trained.

“From now on, Flanders, when I have a visitor, you remain at your desk. Is that clear?”

“Yes, monsieur!”

The OP stood on the verandah, watching the postmaster drive away. It was indeed a beautiful day. What the heck, maybe he really would chase after one of those long-tailed birds with a saltshaker, or better yet, he’d close up the office and join his wife at the pool. After all, her condition wasn’t really her fault, was it?

His name was Wilhelm Van Derhoef, not Flanders, although he was indeed from Flanders. But that puffed-up, pigeon-chested runt could call him any name he wanted. In fact, the more names the better. It was all going into the special report the CEO had asked him to write.

It wasn’t Wilhelm’s idea to volunteer for the position of secretary when it opened up. He had no desire to live in the Congo. The previous secretary died of yellow fever. In fact, one out of four whites never made it back out of that country alive. But the young Wilhelm was promised a promotion to junior management if he’d agree to a three-year stint. In this postwar economy, who could pass that up?