Forest of the Pygmies (11 page)

Foreigners and guides entered Ngoubé with the last light of day, when the villagers were beginning to set fires to light the village. They passed some scrawny plantings of cassava, coffee, and banana, a pair of high wood corrals—perhaps for animals—and a string of windowless huts with sagging walls and ruined roofs. A few long-horned cattle were cropping grass, and half-bald chickens, starving dogs, and wild monkeys were poking around among the huts. A few yards farther along, the path widened into a sort of avenue or large central square; there the dwellings were more reputable looking, as they were mud huts with corrugated zinc or straw roofs.

The arrival of the strangers caused a commotion, and within minutes the people of the village had gathered to see what was going on. From their appearance they seemed to be Bantu, like the men in the canoes who had brought them as far as the fork in the river. Women in rags and naked children formed a compact mass on one side of the square, through which four men taller than the other villagers, surely of a different tribe, made their way. They were dressed in ragged army uniforms and outfitted with antiquated rifles and ammunition belts. One was wearing an explorer's pith helmet adorned with feathers, a yellow
T-shirt, and plastic sandals; the others were naked to the waist and barefoot. Strips of leopard skin circled their biceps or heads, and rows of ritual scars adorned cheeks and arms. The lines of the scars were raised dots, as if small stones or beads were implanted beneath the skin.

With the appearance of the soldiers, the Pygmies' attitudes changed instantly: The confidence and happy camaraderie they had shown in the forest disappeared in a breath. They dropped their loads to the ground, lowered their heads, and backed away like beaten dogs. Beyé-Dokou was the only one who dared give a faint wave of good-bye to the foreigners.

The soldiers pointed their weapons at the new arrivals and barked out a few words in French.

“Good evening,” Kate said in English; she was at the head of the line and could think of nothing else to say.

The soldiers ignored her outstretched hand. They surrounded the entire group and with the butts of the rifles pushed them against the wall of a hut before the curious eyes of the onlookers.

“Kosongo, Mbembelé, Sombe . . .” shouted Kate.

The men hesitated before the power of those names, and began arguing in their language. They made them wait for what seemed forever while one of them went to ask for instructions.

Alexander noticed that some people were missing hands or ears, and that several of the children who were watching the scene some distance away had terrible sores on their faces. Brother Fernando told him the ulcers were caused by a virus transmitted by flies; he had seen the same thing in the refugee camps of Rwanda.

“They can be cured with soap and water, but apparently they don't have even that here,” he added.

“Didn't you say that the missionaries had a dispensary?” asked Alexander.

“Those sores are a very bad sign, lad. They mean that my brothers aren't here; otherwise they would have healed those children,” the missionary replied, deeply concerned.

Much later, when the sky was black, the messenger returned with the order to take the foreigners to the Tree of Words, where matters of government were decided. They were told to pick up their gear and follow.

The crowd fell back to let them through as the group marched across the square that divided the village. In the center was a magnificent tree whose branches spread over the area like an umbrella. Its trunk was nearly nine feet in diameter, and its roots, exposed to the air, fell from the branches like long tentacles to bury themselves in the ground. There the awe-inspiring Kosongo was awaiting them.

The king was on a platform, seated on a large red plush and gilt wood antique armchair. A pair of elephant tusks, on end, stood on either side of the French-style chair, and leopard skins covered the floor. Surrounding the throne were witchcraft dolls and a series of wooden statues with frightening expressions. Three musicians in blue military uniform jackets, but no trousers or shoes, were beating sticks together. Smoking torches and two bonfires were ablaze, lending the scene a theatrical air.

Kosongo was decked out in a robe embroidered all over with shells, feathers, and unexpected objects like bottle caps, rolls of film, and bullets. The mantle must have weighed at least eighty pounds. He was wearing, in addition, a monumental three-foot-tall hat adorned with four gold horns, symbols of power and courage. Around his neck hung various amulets and necklaces of lions' teeth, and a python skin encircled his waist. A curtain of beads of glass and gold covered his face. A solid gold baton topped with a dried monkey's head served as a scepter, and from that symbol of supreme power dangled a bone carved with delicate designs. From the size and shape, it appeared to be a human tibia. The foreigners deduced that this might well be Ipemba-Afua, the amulet the pygmies had described. The king's fingers were covered with gold rings in the form of various animals, and heavy gold bracelets circled his arms to the elbow. He was as impressive as the sovereigns of England on coronation day, though in a rather different style.

The king's guards and aides stood in a semicircle around the throne. They, like everyone else in the village, appeared to be Bantu. In contrast, the king was of the same tall tribe as the soldiers. Since he was seated, it was difficult to calculate his size, but he looked enormous, though that, too, could be the effect of the robe and the hat. Commandant Maurice
Mbembelé and the sorcerer Sombe were nowhere to be seen.

There were no women or Pygmies in the royal entourage, but behind the male members of the court were some twenty young girls, distinguished from the other inhabitants of Ngoubé by their brightly colored clothes and heavy gold jewelry. In the wavering light of the torches, the yellow metal gleamed against their dark skin. Some of the young women held infants in their arms, and a few small children were playing around their feet. It was easy to deduce that this was the family of the king, and it was striking that the women seemed as submissive as the Pygmies. Apparently their social position provided no sense of pride, only fear.

Brother Fernando informed his fellows that polygamy is common in Africa, and that often the number of wives and children indicates the level of a man's economic power and prestige. In the case of a king, the more children he has, the more prosperous his nation. In this tradition, as in many others, the influence of Christianity and of Western culture had not made much of a dent in local customs. The missionary ventured that Kosongo's women had perhaps not chosen their fate but had been forced to marry him.

The four towering soldiers prodded the foreigners, indicating that they should prostrate themselves before the king. When Kate tried to look up, a blow to her head stopped her immediately. There they lay, swallowing the dust of the square, humiliated and trembling, for long, uncomfortable minutes, until the beating of the musicians' sticks ended and a metallic sound put an end to their waiting. The prisoners dared glance toward the throne: The bizarre monarch was ringing a gold bell.

As the echo of the bell died away, one of the counselors walked forward and the king said something into his ear. That man then spoke to the foreigners in a jumble of French, English, and Bantu to announce, as introduction, that Kosongo had been chosen by God and had a divine mission to govern. The foreigners again buried their noses in the dust, with no desire to express any doubt about that affirmation. They realized that they were listening to The Royal Mouth, just as Beyé-Dokou had described. Then the emissary asked them the purpose of their visit to the domain of the magnificent sovereign Kosongo. His threatening tone left no question in regard to his opinion of their presence. No one answered. The only ones who understood what he'd said were Kate and Brother Fernando, but they were confused. They didn't know the protocol, and didn't want to risk doing something inappropriate; perhaps the question was merely rhetorical, and Kosongo didn't expect an answer.

The king waited a few seconds in the midst of absolute silence, then again rang the bell, which was interpreted by the people as a command. The entire village, except for the Pygmies, began to shout and wave their fists, closing in a circle around the group of visitors. Curiously, their actions did not have the feeling of a spontaneous uprising; it seemed more like a bit of theater executed by bad actors. There was no trace of excitement in the shouting, and some were even laughing when their backs were turned. The soldiers who had firearms crowned the collective demonstration with an unexpected salvo aimed into the air, which produced a stampede in the square. Adults, children, monkeys, dogs, and hens ran to hide as far away as possible. The only persons remaining beneath the tree were the king, his reduced court, his terrorized harem, and the prisoners, still on the ground, arms covering their heads, sure that this was their last moment on earth.

Gradually calm returned to the village. Once the firing had stopped and the noise had faded, The Royal Mouth repeated the question. This time Kate rose to her knees with what little dignity her old bones would allow and, taking care to keep below the level of the temperamental sovereign, as Beyé-Dokou had instructed, she spoke to the intermediary firmly, yet trying not to provoke him.

“We are journalists and photographers,” she said, waving vaguely in the direction of her companions.

The king whispered something to his aide, who then repeated his words.

“All of you?”

“No, Your Most Serene Majesty, sir. This woman is owner of the plane that brought us here, and the gentleman with the glasses is a missionary,” Kate explained, pointing to Angie and Brother Fernando. And added, before he asked about Nadia and Alexander, “We have come from a great distance to interview your Most Original Majestyness, because your fame has passed far beyond the boundaries of
your nation to spread throughout the world.”

Kosongo, who seemed to know much more French than The Royal Mouth, focused on the writer.

“What do you mean, old woman?” he asked through his spokesman.

“Outside your country there is great curiosity about your person, Your Most Regal Majesty.”

“Why is that?” asked The Royal Mouth.

“You have succeeded in imposing peace, prosperity, and order in this region, Your Most Absolute Highness. News has come that you are a brave warrior; your authority, wisdom, and wealth are well known. They say that you are as powerful as King Solomon of old.”

Kate continued her tirade, getting tangled in her words because she hadn't practiced her French in twenty years, and in her ideas, because she wasn't overly confident about her plan. They were, after all, in the twenty-first century; those primitive kings in bad movies who were awed by an opportune eclipse of the sun no longer existed. She supposed that Kosongo was a little behind the times, but he wasn't stupid: It would take more than an eclipse to convince him. It had occurred to her, nevertheless, that he was probably susceptible to adulation, like most men with power. It was not in her character to flatter anyone, but in a long lifetime she had found that you can pay the most ridiculous compliments to a man, and usually he believes them. Her one hope was that Kosongo would swallow her clumsy hook.

Her doubts were soon dissipated, because her tactic of fawning over the king had the hoped-for effect. Kosongo was convinced of his divine origin. For years no one had questioned his power; the life and death of his subjects depended on his whims. He considered it normal that a group of journalists would travel across half the world to interview him; the only strange thing was that they hadn't done so earlier. He decided to receive them as they deserved.

Kate was wondering to herself where all that gold came from; the village was one of the poorest she had ever seen. What other riches lay in the hands of the king? What was the relationship between Kosongo and Commandant Mbembelé? Possibly both of them planned to retire and enjoy their fortunes in a more attractive place than this labyrinth of swamp and jungle. In the meantime, Ngoubé's people lived in misery, with no communication with the outside world, and no electricity, clean water, education, or medicine.

W
ITH ONE HAND
K
OSONGO RANG
the little gold bell and with the other he directed the villagers, who were still hiding behind huts and trees, to come closer. The attitude of the soldiers changed; they bent down to help the foreigners get to their feet and brought small, three-legged stools for their comfort. The people approached with caution.

“Party! Music! Food!” Kosongo ordered through his Royal Mouth, and indicated to the frightened group of foreigners that they were to take a seat on the stools.

The king's bead-curtained face turned toward Angie. Feeling that she was being examined, she tried to disappear behind her companions, but her bulk was rather too substantial to conceal.

“I think he's looking at me. His gaze doesn't kill, as they say it does, but I feel like he's stripping me with his eyes,” Angie whispered to Kate.

“Maybe he wants you for his harem,” Kate replied jokingly.

“No way!”

Kate had to admit that though Angie wasn't young anymore, she could hold her own in beauty compared with any of Kosongo's wives. In this village girls were married while still in their early teens, and in Africa the pilot was considered a mature woman. Her tall, voluminous body, however, and her white teeth and lustrous skin, were very attractive. The writer pulled one of her precious bottles of vodka from her backpack and laid it at the feet of the monarch, who was not impressed. With a scornful gesture he authorized his subjects to claim the modest gift. The bottle passed from hand to hand among the soldiers. Then the king took a carton of cigarettes from beneath his mantle, and the soldiers distributed one to each man in the village. The women, who were not considered to be of the same species as the males, were ignored. None were offered to the foreigners. Angie, who was experiencing the symptoms of nicotine withdrawal, was desperate.