Drum (8 page)

This time they did not stop at the gate of the barracoon >ut continued on past the high wooden walls of the ware-louses and offices up to the white-pillared portico of the klongo's house. Red Coat told him to wait and went inside. Vhile Tamboura was waiting, leaning against one of the >orch pillars, he saw a door open and a Negro girl come >ut. She was engaged in pulling her dress down more snugly ►ver her hips and smoothing it with her hands. Surprised t seeing him she halted, inspected him carefully and then I'alked over to him, swinging her rounded hips under the bin cotton of her dress. He thought she was the most eautiful and desirable girl he had even seen and he wanted 0 speak to her but his very desire to speak made him hope-jssly tongue-tied. She sidled up closer to him, her breasts training the thin cloth of her dress. Her lips smiled an ivitation to him and she slowly raised her skirt above her faist in a gesture of invitation. She did not speak and either did he, but she dropped her dress and her finger ghtly touched his forehead, traced a warm line down his ose, lingered for a moment on his lips, then dropped to is chest where it remained even longer before starting on s downward path. He felt it creeping across his belly, xploring his navel and then it went as far as it would go. he smiled up at him.

"Sleeping with you would be much nicer than with old longo." Her eyes danced and her hand caressed.

Tamboura started to speak but the words never came. A oor opened out onto the portico and a voice called out.

"Jobeena, you bitch! Leave him alone. Get going!" It was the Mongo. Jobeena snatched her hand away and started off across the compound like a startled zebra. The Mongo, walking slowly and clutching the wall of the house for support, followed the same path along the porch that Jobeena had taken and came to Tamboura.

"Come, lad, follow me." His voice had lost the sharp edge of anger with which he had yelled at Jobeena.

They walked back along the portico and through a dooi into a room, the like of which Tamboura had never seen before. The shabby elegance, the worn rococo chairs, the dusty rugs and the paintings of white women on the walk all seemed too wonderful for him to grasp. He foUowec the Mongo to a comer of the room where a big piece ol white cloth was stretched on a wooden frame. Tambours was frightened—not of the man, who treated him kindly but of the unaccustomed surtoundings, the strange piecej of furniture which seemed ready to leap out at him, thi painted pictures on the walls that smiled at him like sc many spirits from another world, and the closed-in feelinj which oppressed him. He was trembling and the Mongc noticed it. He laid a reassuring hand on Tamboura's shoulder.

"Nothing to be afraid of, boy." He was soft-talking Tamboura while he gently maneuvered him up against a wal to stand before a piece of rich, dark-green cloth which fell from ceiling to floor. Two huge ivory tusks curved upwardj from carved wooden bases on the floor, gleaming ghostlj pale in the subdued light. Mongo Don placed Tambours between them, stretching his arms out so that a hand graspec each tusk. From a wicker basket, filled with moist dark earth, Mongo Don spilled a mound on the floor arounc Tamboura's feet.

"Your spirit, boy," the Mongo said as he distributed the earth around Tamboura's feet. He reached for a small box on a nearby table, opened it and sprinkled the earth with gold nuggets and dust. From another basket, he took an armful of plumes—the black of ostrich, the blue of heron, the downy white of marabou, the rose of flamingo, the jewel colors of parrot, and the glistening eyes of argui bird. These he artanged carefully behind Tamboura and then from a chest he took the striped pelts of zebras, the tawny hide of a lion and the delicate long white hair of monkeys and added them to the colorful plumes. He walked away,

his eyes fixed on the naked boy, surrounded by the precious things which Africa offered to the worid—her rich dark earth, her gold, her ivory, her plumes, and between them, rising above them, dominating them, her most precious product of all, her black manhood. Mongo Don backed to the other side of the room slowly, using the backs of chairs to support him, and pulled up one of the bamboo curtains so that the strong light of the sun flooded Tamboura.

"And now, my boy, stand there and do not move if you can help it. Stand as long as you can and when you are tired tell me and you may rest."

Tamboura understood and remained as still as possible while the Mongo faced him with the stretched white cloth between them. Tamboura saw him take a httle stick with a bunch of hair at the end in one hand and a large flat object covered with little mounds of color in the other. The Mongo dipped the little stick into the color and made strange motions, which Tamboura could not see, on the white cloth.

A brass box^ with a swinging round brass plate below, ticked away on the wall, like a death watch beetle hidden in the thatch of a hut. Tamboura's eyes were fastened on the slowly swinging pendulum as he watched its regular course. It seemed to quiet him and he let his thoughts slip away to the same moon-dappled tamarisk bushes and the warm flesh which were his favorite daydreams. There was nothing to do but stand and dream while the Mongo kept on with his mysterious work. After a while, Tamboura's muscles began to cramp and he felt as imcomfortable as he had felt in the boat, but he did not move until the Mongo spoke to him.

"Rest, boy, you've been standing for over half an hour. You're an excellent model. Now rest for a few minutes and then you can stand again for me." He went to a swinging pottery jar which oozed moisture, tipped it and filled a cup with cool water for Tamboura, who gulped it greedily while the Mongo stretched out at full length in a chair. Tamboura walked around the room, getting the kinks out of his legs, and looked at the strange objects until the Mongo called him back and he resumed the same position once more between the ivory tusks. Thus passed the morning, until the sun had shifted and Tamboura was no longer in the light, but the Mongo opened another blind and the room became lighter although the sun did not hit Tamboura directly. Still the Mongo worked—faster now, as though he were fighting

against time. Tamboura posed and rested, posed again and rested again time after time. During one of his rests, the Mongo motioned to him to sit down on one of the big stools. He sat gingerly, aware that his body was covered with sweat and fearing to soil the shabby brocade.

"I am going to send you back to your village, Tamboura." Mongo Don smiled as he spoke. "Not for you the long trip to Cuba. You must return to your home and become King."

"No, Mongo, no," Tamboura pleaded, "do not send me back. My brother will kill me and if he doesn't succeed, his wife surely will. Let me go with the others in the big canoe with white wings."

"So that's it." Mongo Don nodded his head gravely. "I thought as much. Your own family sold you into slavery. Well, then, how would you like to stay here with me? You can work for me here in the house and I will treat you well."

"No, let me go on the big canoe, Mongo. Let me go with M'dong, Sabumbo and Khandago."

Mongo Don leaned forward in his chair. "And why do you want to go on the big ship, Tamboura?"

"Because they tell me that in this new land I shall have many women, Mongo, and"—he hesitated—"I have never yet tasted the joy of a woman. I am anxious to know."

"According to what I hear from Cuba, you'll have plenty of chance there. Well then, if you wish, I shall send you on the big canoe, but I shall also send a letter by the Captain that you are to be delivered as my gift to a good friend of mine in Havana. He will be kind to you and it will be better than the cane fields. Now, come, let's get back to work." He stood up impatiently and went back to stand behind the canvas as Tamboura took his accustomed plac€ against the wall.

Later, after many ticks from the brass box on the wall, the white man with the yellow hair came in followed by a fat black woman with a big tray covered with a napkin which she put down on a table and left.

"Come, Jonathan." Mongo Don, his face wreathed in smiles, took the young man by the arm. "Come and se€ what I have already done. The whole figure is outlined and I have finished the face. At last I have done something ot which I am proud. Look, Jonathan, here is Africa!" He led Jonathan around to look at the canvas. "Rest, Tamboura."

Tamboura slumped onto the floor. He was unable to understand the strange words the Mongo spoke.

Jonathan studied the canvas carefully. He knew little about art but he sensed that here was something real, something genuine. He saw no simpering white woman with roses in her hair and pearls at her neck. He saw something primitive, almost brutal, but what he saw was compelling and startling. From the dark, gold-spangled earth of Africa, the long strong legs of Tamboura rose, hastily but surely sketched. They supported the narrow waist, the broad shoulders and the powerful arms, the colvmin of neck and the face. Ah, it was at the face that he looked, for the face was finished. The body was that of a magnificent animal but the face was human, so human that it almost spoke. This was no stray head of cattle, no black beast of burden; instead it was a man, a human being. From the face which was so superbly finished, Jonathan looked down over the sketched body to its startling nakedness.

"It's wonderful. Uncle, but where can you hang it? Surely you cannot take it to Havana and hang it where ladies might see it."

"I care not where it hangs, Jonathan, and perhaps it will never go to Havana as I fear I shall never return, but I feel I have accomplished something. Praxiteles would have done the boy in black marble. Titian would have painted him as the black Magus. Raphael would have used him as the symbol of Africa, as have I. Having done this, my mind finds a strange peace, Jonathan. I think I have solved the riddle of Africa." He stopped and smiled at Tamboura. "Come here, boy."

Tamboura circled the big white screen and gazed upon it with palpitating terror. He saw himself, as he had seen himself in Bansu's mirrors, and he was frightened anew. The Mongo had taken his spirit and put it on this piece of cloth. He sank to his knees, his arms wrapped around the Mongo's legs.

"You have stolen my spirit. Great Mongo." The boy was sobbing with terror. "Now I shall never see it again." He felt the Mongo's warm hand on his head and heard the words the man soft-talked to him.

"No, believe me, I have not stolen your spirit, Tamboura. Instead, see, I have given you two spirits. This one will remain here in Africa while you take your other one to the new land. This spirit will stay to avenge itself on those

who have sold you. See, Tamboura, instead of having one spirit, you now have two. You are more of a man that you were before because it isn't every man who has two spirits."

Tamboura stood up and looked at the portrait. The man was right. One Tamboura would go across the sea and this other one would remain here. His sobbing ceased and his Ups parted in a smile to show the white crescent of his teeth. He stood up and came closer to the portrait.

"But this Tamboura has only a head. His legs and arms are not solid."

"They will be soon," Mongo Don assured him. "And now let us eat."

Jonathan had been watching silently. "I leave you now. Uncle." He was speaking in English so Tamboura did not imderstand. "I know not what has happened to you but I am glad because you seem happy."

"I am, Jonathan; nobody knows the joy it brings an artist to feel that he has really painted something worthwhile. It gives him a feeling of supreme satisfaction. And now, leave us, for I am impatient to finish my work, which is far more important to me than haggling with Ama-jallah, which you can do as weU as I."

After Jonathan left, Mongo Don ate and gave what was left to Tamboura who ate the strange food without savoring it. The flavors were foreign to his taste, although the sweet things were good. During the long afternoon, he posed while Mongo Don worked. The shadows crept to the other side of the room and still he stood. Mongo Don left his work to open another curtain, but as he started across the floor, he fell, suddenly and without warning, with a strange gasping sound on his lips.

Tamboura did not dare to move because the Mongo had not told him to rest. He regarded the figure of the white man on the floor. Perhaps he was resting—Tamboura did not know, but he seemed to be stretched out in a most unusual position if he was resting. One arm was curiously doubled under him and his head had fallen onto the board with the colors on it, which streaked his face with black and brown and vermilion. For a long time, Tamboura looked at the Mongo on the floor without moving from his position. Then he decided on a brave venture. He relaxed his hold on the ivory tusks and let his hands fall to his side. This action brought no response from the Mongo, so Tamboura stepped out from between the tusks on tiptoe and took a few tenta-

tive steps in the direction of the man on the floor. Still the man did not move.

Tamboura walked over and knelt beside him. The white man's eyes were open but he did not see. Then Tamboura knew the Mongo's spirit had departed. He sat back on his heels and howled—the same high-pitched keening he had heard from the people of his village when the spirit of one of their family departed. How long he sat there howling he did not know, but he heard the door open and the fat black woman came in, rushed over to the Mongo's body and took one look at it. She ran out and soon the room was fuU of people and the young man with the yellow hair had them lift the Mongo's body and place it in the next room. Nobody paid any attention to Tamboura and he crept back to his place between the tusks. He did not know where to go or what to do but he sensed that he belonged there, where the Mongo had placed him.

Jonathan, coming out of the room where they had carried the Mongo, noticed him. His Hausa words were slower and less easy to understand than the Mongo's.

"Come, Tamboura, I will take you back to the barracoon. The Mongo is dead, do you understand?"

Tamboura nodded. "His spirit has departed. Yes, I know."

Jonathan led the bewildered boy out onto the porch and scanned the sea of black faces lined up a few paces from the porch. He saw the identifying color of the red coat and called to the slave.