The Witch Doctor's Wife (14 page)

F
rom where he lay on his back, Their Death could trace a mud tunnel, built by red ants, that began at the base of the mango tree and zigzagged up the trunk and an extended limb until it disappeared amongst the dark green of the lance-shaped leaves. Red ant bites were painful, but the ants weren’t aggressive like driver ants.

When the rains finally arrived, the driver ants would be begin their migrations. By the millions. More than that. What came after a million? Their Death would ask Cripple; she knew everything.

Their Death was trying to fathom the limits of his wife’s knowledge when a small green mango bounced with force off his nose. He sat up and looked around. The postmaster was standing not ten paces away, a grin on his face.

“Is this what I’m paying you for?” the Belgian said.

Their Death stood slowly, and then quite deliberately brushed the leaves and twigs from his clothes. “Monsieur, you said that I should do whatever I wanted.”

“So I did! Well, what do you say that we both do something enjoyable? Monsieur Their Death, I am inviting you to my house for lunch.”

Their Death wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. What could such an offer mean? Their Death had never eaten lunch. One ate cold cassava mush in the morning, and then fresh mush in the evening. If one was hungry during the day—an unlikelihood, since the heavy mush sat in one’s stomach like a rock—then one ate bananas, or some other light snack. Such as
mikata
. These pancakes, made from mashed plantains and fried to a crisp in palm oil, were a favorite of Their Death.

But there was more to concern oneself with than the menu. Would he eat with the servants in their compound, or by himself somewhere on the lawn? What if Mr. Dupree’s servants were of another tribe, and treated him badly—maybe even tried to poison him? There were too many variables in this offer to make it the least bit attractive. Yet if he refused, it could cost him his job.

“Monsieur Their Death, I didn’t ask you for the secret of eternal happiness. So I’ll tell you what; I’m going to take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

“But—”

“No, no, too late. Now come with me.”

The postmaster was grinning foolishly now and gesturing to his automobile. Reluctantly Their Death climbed into the backseat.

Although she was married to a witch doctor, Second Wife had never sought the professional services of one—other than Husband’s, of course. Second Wife was a woman of no concern who,
up until now, had lived a life of no concern, one that was more or less expected of her, and one that she understood. Witch doctors were for the seriously ill, or those women who could not bear children, or anyone who suspected that they were under a curse. But who would place a curse on a woman of no concern, one whose life was no more, or no less, eventful than that of anyone else in the village?

Witch doctors put curses on people like Kadima Andrew. He was an
évolué
who thought himself better than everyone, and who went so far as to slaughter a goat, which he roasted in full view of his neighbors, who were then forced to smell the tantalizing aroma until their stomachs begged for mercy. Someone, or perhaps even a group of people, paid a witch doctor to put a curse on Kadima. They must have paid very well too, because the curse went into effect the very next morning, when Kadima, who was a clerk for the Consortium, slipped his foot into a shoe that contained a very large, and exceptionally venomous, scorpion.

Because Kadima was a rich
évolué
, the Belgian doctor was sent for. However, before the white doctor could get there, Kadima’s house mysteriously burst into flames, causing the already stricken man to suffer a heart attack. Unfortunately the arrogant villager’s family suffered as well, losing everything to the fire. But whose fault was that? Not the witch doctor’s; he was only administrating justice. And as for the person, or persons, who ordered the curse, were they not justified in their actions? After all, Kadima’s wives had assiduously fanned the aroma of roasting goat so that it pervaded their neighbors’ hearths. As for Kadima’s children, who lost their father and their home—ah, they should be grateful for having learned such a valuable lesson so early in life.

But today the children involved would not lose a working father. At the most, if all went well, they would lose only a useless sister mother, a crippled woman who barely counted as one. What’s more, they stood to gain more of their father’s time, as
well as see their true mother blossom in happiness. First, however, there was the case to be made to the witch doctor. Might he refuse to even hear her case?

Strictly speaking, Much Medicine and Husband were not rivals, because they belonged to different tribes. One would no more seek the services of a witch doctor who belonged to another tribe than would a zebra wish to marry a lion. It simply wasn’t done—although lack of trust had a lot to do with it.

But there are times in life when the zebra must at least flirt with the lion, lest it become his dinner. Second Wife had never seen a zebra, and only the tail of a dead lion, but she thought her analogy was a good one. The risk she was taking was immense, but it was also a matter of survival. What else could she do?

Needless to say, the lion was surprised when the zebra came to call. “Who is the woman,” he demanded, “and what is the nature of her request?”

Second Wife, who was kneeling outside on a mat, had a mother’s ears and could hear every word being spoken inside the witch doctor’s hut.

“She is a woman of no account—except that she is also the wife of Their Death, the Muluba witch doctor.”

“Eh,” the old man grunted. “What does she want with me? I have put no curses on her family.”

“She desires to buy medicine.”

“For what purpose?”

“She will not say.”

“What is she prepared to pay me?”

“She refuses to say that as well,
mukelenge
. But she has many children.”

“Boys?”

“
Eyo
, I believe so.”

“Then tell her to come in.”

The witch doctor’s hut was large and constructed of the finest
malala
, but there were no windows. As she stepped inside, Second Wife was reminded of a womb. It took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the dim light, and when they had, she slowly made out the form of the
muena tshihaha
. He was an old man, as wrinkled as an overripe guava. He was sitting cross-legged on a leopard skin and was clad only in a loincloth made of palm leaf fibers. Around his neck hung a string of leopard claws interspersed with charms.

“Sit,” the witch doctor ordered.

Second Wife squatted on her haunches, which was the true meaning of sit when no chair was offered. She pretended to study the dirt floor of the hut.

“If your husband is a witch doctor,” he said, “why have you come to me? Is his medicine not powerful enough? Do his curses fail to achieve the intended results?”

The zebra must pretend not to be offended by the lion, even if his breath smells of other zebras. Second Wife hung her head meekly.

“
Eyo, mukelenge
. My husband is a poor, incompetent witch doctor compared to you. He does not even possess a leopard skin.”

“What? No leopard skin? Then where does he get the power to do magic?”

“That is the problem exactly,
mukelenge
. Can you imagine a witch doctor with only a goat skin?” The truth is Husband did not even own a goat skin, relying instead on traditional herbs to fix bodies, and the response of his patients to tribal legends to fix minds. It was also true that husband had a very low success rate.

The old man laughed uproariously, displaying a paucity of teeth. His attendant laughed loudly as well.

“A goat skin lacks the power to cure even a chigger bite,” the witch doctor said at last. “It is no wonder then that you are here. So now tell me what it is you want.”

“I want happiness. This I cannot have because my husband has room in his thoughts only for his first wife.”

“I see. So you are a
mukau
.” A second wife.

“Eyo.”

“How long have you been with this man? How many years?”

“Ten long dry seasons, and ten short.”

“That is ten years, as the white man reckons. Do you have children by him?”

“I have seven.”

“And they are healthy?”

“Every one.”

“How many boys?”

“Four boys.”

The witch doctor smiled. “Then the spirits have been kind to you.”

“
Eyo
, but not in everything. There remains the problem of that troublesome woman.”

“Your sister wife. Has she any children?”

“Not a one! But still, his love for her is beyond reason.”

“Is she cruel to you?”

Using her tongue, Second Wife pushed air through her upper teeth. The resulting sound was a cluck of disapproval that was understood by many tribes in the area, not just the Baluba and Bena Lulua.

“She does not beat me, but neither does she help with any of the work.”

“Explain further. Does she help in the fields? Does she pound manioc in the mortar?”

“To be fair,
mukelenge
, this woman is a cripple, so nothing is expected of her. Yet she finds it in her being to work for a white
mamu
across the river.”

The witch doctor was silent for an unnerving length of time. “Do you truly wish to eliminate this problem in your life?”

“Truly, truly.” With reason, Second Wife told herself. And surely that is what the witch doctor meant as well. But if he meant more than that—well, it is known to all that a curse has no effect on an innocent person.

“What can you give me in return?”

Second Wife smiled. She’d been waiting for that question. Keeping her eyes on the witch doctor, she undid the knot of her wraparound skirt, removed some coins, and then made herself decent again.

“I have fifty francs here. It is a lot of money, but you may have it all—
if
you remove this woman from my life forever.”

The witch doctor snorted, and his assistant, who had been lurking in the shadows, laughed as well. “Fifty francs will not even buy a potion to rid you of bedbugs. Spells are very expensive, as the ingredients are rare and there is much risk to the one who chants them. The spirits who do the work of my bidding do not like being insulted. Do you understand this?”

“
Eyo
. What then is your price?”

“Your youngest son.”

“
What?
Baby Boy? Never!”

Now the witch doctor laughed heartily. “Trust me, I do not want your son. I was only joking. Nor do I want your fifty francs. I want only what you have already given me.”

Second Wife was immensely relieved, but she couldn’t yet show it. “What is that?”

“Only the satisfaction of knowing that I am the best witch doctor in the village. Otherwise you would not have come to me. I will give you the help you ask, but you must report back to me when the potion works. Do we have an agreement?”

“We have an agreement,” Second Wife said, trying to conceal the joy in her voice.

The witchdoctor grunted and clapped his hands. Immediately the assistant bent low so that the medicine man could whisper in
his ear. Then he disappeared toward the back of the hut, emerging shortly with a small gourd. The witch doctor took the gourd and mumbled something into the open neck before handing it to Second Wife.

“See that she drinks this. It is practically tasteless, but it is best if it is poured into palm wine.”

Second Wife’s hands trembled. “But First Wife does not drink palm wine. No woman does.”

“You speak the truth. In that case you may wish to mix it with a special treat. Does she like
mikata?
”

In her twenty-six long dry seasons, and twenty-six short—or thereabouts—Second Wife had never met a person who did not like the plantain pancakes, fried in palm oil until crispy around the edges. And never had she met someone who liked them quite as much as Cripple did. It was only a joke, to be said by Husband when First Wife was not around, but the woman would even steal a pancake from Baby Boy’s hands—if given the opportunity.

“
Eyo
, she does indeed like them.”

“Good. That is all. You may go now.”

Second Wife rose, but she was not about to take her leave yet. “Please tell me,
mukelenge
, what will this medicine to do my sister wife?”

T
he cool dry-season mornings were a balm to Branca’s soul. She liked nothing better than to snuggle under an extra blanket—maybe two—and pretend she was a girl again in northern Portugal, her whole life still before her. What would she do differently if she knew what she knew now? She wouldn’t marry an impotent man, no matter how handsome and virile he was in the beginning. And if she did agree to live in Africa, it would have to be one of the Portuguese colonies, like Angola or Mozambique. At least there she would be an equal among whites. But wait, a girl shouldn’t even be bothered with such thoughts. All she need concern herself with today is that she keep her school uniform tidy so that the nuns wouldn’t give her demerits—not to mention the
dreaded switch—and after school she would head straight over to her friend Angelica’s house, where they would sip hot chocolate together on the balcony while they watched the fishing boats come in. Then later, Angelica’s family cook would prepare some fish for dinner, because tonight was the sleepover they’d been planning so long.

“
Senhora!
”

Branca looked over shoulder, and then sat up, clutching her blankets around her. “Francois Joseph! You are supposed to knock.”

“I did, senhora, but you didn’t answer.”

“If that’s the case, it’s because I didn’t want to be disturbed. Now leave.”

“But senhora, it is Monsieur le Presidente.”

“
Excusez moi?
”

“He is here to see you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, senhora.” The pompous man had the temerity to sound offended, even though she’d caught him tippling some fine Port only last week.

“Then which president is it? The American president, or the French?”

“It is neither, madame. It is Monsieur le Presidente de Belle Vue.”

“He’s not a president, you idiot! And why didn’t you say who it was right away?” Branca shooed the man by flapping the blanket at him like a bullfighter’s cape. Then she rushed to her armoire to find something suitably sexy to wear for her uninvited visitor.

The dress she finally settled on wasn’t warm enough for such a cool day, but it was scarlet, with a cinched waist and a plunging neckline. There were those who thought redheads shouldn’t wear red, but Branca strongly disagreed. One should wear whichever colors made one feel good, and that’s exactly what scarlet did for her; it made her feel good
and
naughty.

Despite some shortcomings Francois Joseph was a competent head houseboy. Branca emerged from her boudoir to find the OP settled on the terrace with a cup of coffee in one hand and a slice of Cook’s homemade biscotti in the other. He attempted to rise when he saw her, but she waved him down.

“No need for such formalities among friends.” Noting his raised eyebrow, she added, “Or among fellow Europeans in the Congo. We are like family, yes?”

“
Oui, madame, c’est vrai
. And speaking of family, do you know the whereabouts of your husband?”

“At the store. He rises much earlier than I. He’s a very hard worker.”

“I quite agree. I’ve been very impressed with the range of products and services he’s been able to supply. Last week I was in the store and saw cauliflower in a tin. And not just cauliflower bits, but complete heads. Who even knew such a thing was available?”

Branca was quick to pretend wonder. “Certainly not I.”

“And frankfurters in a tin.”

“Marvelous.” But had she heard sarcasm in the OP’s voice?

“We colonials no longer have to exist on beans and rice. But alas, if importing a variety of preserved foods was worthy of a medal, I would have brought one with me. Unless, of course, I knew for certain that the man to be honored was not a common thief.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Senhora, I will ask you one last time; do you know where your husband is?”

Branca’s heart pounded, and her ears rang. At his finest, Cezar had been a mediocre husband with mediocre skills. But to her knowledge, he had never been dishonest. He wasn’t bright enough to spin lies. As for stealing, the man didn’t have the ambition needed to alter financial records, and there simply was never enough cash on hand to support a life on the run.

“Please, Monsieur OP,” Branca said, trying hard to control the timbre of her voice, “tell me exactly what my husband has done wrong.”

The OP set coffee and biscotti down and stared at her. It was the kind of stare meant to intimidate and force one to crack under pressure. Well, the arrogant Belgian could do that all day if he pleased. You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.

“Senhora,” he finally said, after rubbing his face with his hands as if erasing a chalkboard, “I have received a report that your husband, Cezar Nunez, robbed one of our African workers of a very large and valuable diamond.”

“
C’est impossible!
The Africans aren’t even allowed to own diamonds, and Cezar may not be the most clever man, but he’s not entirely stupid either. What would he do with a diamond? You can’t even take them out of the province, much less the country.”

“There are always ways, senhora.”

Branca had heard of some of these ways. Smugglers had been known to swallow diamonds, insert them into body cavities, place them behind glass eyes, tuck them into self-inflicted wounds, or sew them into hemlines of bulky clothing. There was even a Danish man who almost got away with a million dollars’ worth of uncut diamonds he’d taped to the inside of a prosthetic leg. Unfortunately for him, the tape tore loose, and his leg began leaking diamonds as he climbed the ramp to board the plane that was to fly him back to Europe.

“Monsieur OP,” Branca said, still unconvinced her husband could be involved in such a ridiculous scenario, “how has my husband responded to this accusation?”

“He hasn’t said anything. You see, madame, he fled the scene. By now he could be on his way to Luluaburg. Or even Angola. I am hoping you will cooperate and tell us where he is. Perhaps something could be worked out—I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“No, monsieur, I do not!”

“Look, I am prepared to offer a handsome reward for any information leading to the recovery of this gem.”

This
gem
. The Bell Vue mine produced primarily industrial diamonds, although a small percentage ended up in mass-market jewelry. But for the OP to use the word
gem
when describing this stone could only mean that it was a groundbreaking discovery. Ha! Now there was a pun that would have amused Cezar—that son of a bitch—wherever he was.

“What does the word ‘handsome’ mean to you, Monsieur OP?”

“One hundred thousand Belgian francs.”

The nuns hadn’t forced math down her throat for naught. One hundred thousand francs was two thousand American dollars, the only currency, besides the pound sterling, that really mattered these days. It wasn’t a fortune, by any means, but it would go a long way toward buying a simple white house in the Algarve, where Branca could hear Portuguese spoken in the street but still enjoy the warm weather she’d gotten used to during her years in Africa.

If it was true that Cezar was involved in this jewel heist, then it was a fact that he no longer trusted her, and that their marriage really was over. And if that was true, then turning him in would not be violating a trust.

Now that the children were grown, what was supposed to keep them together? Not sex. Not even friendship. Just habit—that and the recognition, on her part, that Branca Violante Cunha e Mao de Ferro de Sintra e Santos Abreu e Nunez was not trained to be a professional, just as she was not cut out to be a charwoman. An adulthood spent in Africa had accustomed her to servants, to having her whims catered to. For that she would need more than two thousand American dollars.

“For half a million Belgian francs and not a centime less, I can guarantee you return of the diamond and Cezar Nunez’s head on a platter.”

The OP’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but not a sound came out. It was like trying to carry out a conversation on the lower garden terrace closer to the falls. Cezar had always taken guests there and delighted in their frustration as he pretended to share with them important and confidential news. They were invariably hoarse by the time they ascended back to the main terrace.

“Monsieur OP, may I remind you that, as manager of a store, my husband has many contacts. If we don’t act quickly—well, this diamond of which you speak could soon be hanging around the neck of some fat Flemish hausfrau with the disposition of a rottweiler and a face to match.”

“Get that diamond back for me,” the OP growled, “and you can have your damn money.”

Branca could barely believe her good fortune. Last night she’d gone to bed a lonely “business widow” in a virtually sexless marriage, stuck in a backwater colonial town with no friends. Today she was married to a jewel thief, with a chance—slim, though it might be—to vastly improve her situation. But astounded as she was, she needed to present a cool and confident façade.

“
Tres bien
, Monsieur OP. Although I will need more information to aid me in my investigation.”

“You’re not the damn police, Senhora Nunez. I’m not asking you to investigate anything; I merely want you to deal with that rat husband of yours.”

“Ah, so you
have
gone to the police?”

“This is not police business; it’s Consortium business. Didn’t I explain to you that this has to be handled quietly?”

Of course he hadn’t, but the rest was just as Branca had surmised. The OP ran the show only as long as the police didn’t have to be involved. There was power in this knowledge, whether or not the OP realized it. Yes, it was better not to remind him of this.

“I understand. However, I can tell you now that my jewel-thief husband is a consummate liar and possibly dangerous—he stabbed a man in a bar fight in Lisbon. Killed him. It was a fight Cezar himself provoked. In fact, he didn’t even know the man—just that the man had rooted for a different soccer team. That’s why we’re here. This, by the way, is also confidential.” My, how easy it was to lie when half a million francs were at stake.

The OP smiled. “It is clear that we understand each other, Senhora Nunez. I rather like that. And since you’ve gone to so much trouble to fabricate this story, I will tell you that it was your husband’s special friend, Monsieur Dupree, who told me about the robbery. He, in turn, was told by his groundskeeper at the post office. It was the groundskeeper who was robbed.”

The term “special friend” stung like a nest of wasps because Branca knew exactly what he meant. At the same time it came as a shock. She’d been laboring under the impression he’d taken up with a village woman; such was the timbre of gossip amongst the servants. Although far from being proficient in the local language, Branca had picked up a few words of “kitchen Tshiluba” over the years. My, this certainly shone a new light on things.

This also explained the cold shoulder she’d been getting from the Belgian women. Interracial dalliances they could understand; many of their husbands were guilty. But this—this was beyond the pale of taboos. There was no point now to be seen at the club with that dowdy American woman. At her first opportunity, Branca would send the missionary a note canceling their luncheon engagement.

“Monsieur OP, I have, of course, seen the groundskeeper many times, as I am a frequent visitor to the post office. And if I recall correctly, I have also seen his wife there on several occasions. She is a small crippled woman, am I right?”

The OP shrugged. “There. You seem to know more about this case than I do.
Excusez moi
, senhora, but I need to be going now.”
He popped the last bite of biscotti into his mouth, followed it with the coffee, and swallowed loudly. “Thank you for the refreshments. And remember: no police.”

“No police,” Branca said, her painted fingers crossed behind her back. But all was fair in love and war and diamond smuggling.