The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  When Amanda first arrived in Belle Vue as the hostess of the Missionary Rest House, she was actually put off by all the racket. What folly it seemed to build a rest house where one could barely carry on a decent conversation, let alone think. But of course it was all about the view; the lawn swept right to the edge of the precipice. It was as if the landscape architect was daring the guests to dash themselves against the rocks far below.

  Fortunately, this was not really the case, but merely the state of Amanda’s mind. She had arrived in the Belgian Congo weighed down with a guilty conscience, having been riding in a car full of drunken teenagers when a fatal accident occurred. Although the accident wasn’t Amanda’s fault, the fact that she had escaped with relatively minor injuries, when so many others had died, made her feel like a murderer. But a lot had happened since her arrival, just a few months ago, and by now the roar of the falls was merely a constant in her life, something even to be missed when the time came for her to leave.

  It did, however, make calling out to Cripple an exercise in futility. Then again, perhaps it was just as well that she not alert Cripple to the fact that the Mushilele girl and her father were in the shed. It would be amusing to see just how quickly Cripple emerged, and what her expression would be. At home it had become fashionable lately for Northerners to come to the South (even to Rock Hill) and comment on the racism they observed. Jim Crow, they called it. But Amanda had never witnessed ethnic prejudices quite as explicit as that displayed between the various tribes here in the middle of Africa.

  “Oh my stars!” she cried aloud. “This just can’t be!”

  But it was. Cripple, with a smug smile on her face, and the white Mushilele, as impassive as ever, had emerged from the woodshed holding hands. Like schoolgirls! Amanda was at once relieved, overjoyed, and envious. How could she not be? Cripple had been her discovery, and introducing this feral child (well, she amounted to one, didn’t she?) to civilization was supposed to be her job as well. Now it appeared as if Amanda’s first project had stolen her second project right out from underneath her, and probably all because Amanda had been all too successful.

  Amanda dashed through the Missionary Rest House, paying scant attention to her surroundings. Unfortunately for Protruding Navel, she did not see him coming through the kitchen door and into the dining room.

  “Aiyee, Mamu,” he said, for what else can one say, when it is a white woman who has knocked you to the floor? You cannot give a white woman the back of your hand, and tell her that it is your wish that a male goat will find her attractive and follow her into the bush when she goes off to do her business.

  “Eee, I am so sorry,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said. “Protruding Navel, please forgive me.”

  The apology came immediately, a fact that pleased Protruding Navel immensely. In his position as head houseboy he had served many missionaries—such as the ones who waited for him now on the front patio—and had observed that some of them were more respectful of the African than others. Protruding Navel was not in the mood this particular morning to be poked like a toad with a sharp stick.

  “Mamu Ugly Eyes,” he said expansively, “I am on my way to take the breakfast orders from the guests. They have already been served their juice—although the mukelenge did not like his; he poured it on the ground.”

  “Nasha!”

  “Mamu, do you call me a liar?”

  “I do not! I am merely saying that such behavior is hard to believe. What was wrong with the juice? I made it myself.”

  There it was, was it not? Had the juice been squeezed by Cripple or by Protruding Navel, then perhaps it could be easier to understand why it was that the fat missionary from the distant mission should pour it wastefully on the ground. In retrospect, Mamu Ugly Eyes was not so different from the others; she was just better at disguising her true feelings—for a while.

  Protruding Navel hung his head provocatively. “Mamu, it is not my place to repeat such things.”

  “Feedlesteeks!” It was an English word that Mamu Ugly Eyes said when she was frustrated—which, it seemed, was very often. “Protruding Navel, you will repeat this; I demand it.”

  Is it only a white woman who could dare demand that a man do such a thing—or anything? Among the Bakuba people there is said to be a great queen; perhaps she too could demand obedience from her male subjects. However, such was not the case with Protruding Navel’s more sensible tribe, the Bena Lulua.

  “Mamu,” Protruding Navel said, “does not the Book of God forbid gossip?”

  “It is not gossip if it is true,” the mamu snapped.

  Protruding Navel resisted the urge to laugh. He had the mamu right where he wanted her. She was so easy to manipulate sometimes; she was so much like a child.

  “He said your juice was weak, Mamu. Bitter water, he called it. But this was after he spat it on the grass; the very grass that I myself must cut since the yard boy is not permitted that close to the patio. And as I said, he poured out what was in his glass, and as he did thus he had a terrible expression on his face, perhaps like that of a dying monkey—although I must hasten to assure you, Mamu, that as I am not a heathen forest dweller, but instead a citizen of the workers’ village of the great city of Belle Vue, I have not seen many dying monkeys.” Protruding Navel paused to catch his breath. “Of course I would not tell you any of this, except that you forced me to, Mamu.”

  “Eyo. Indeed, I did. Now please get back to work—”

  “Mamu, there is much talk in the village about this strange European.”

  Protruding Navel observed his employer straighten and cross her arms. “So fast?”

  “E, like a tshisuku fire in the dry season. They think it is a bad omen. Some go so far to say that you have brought a curse to Belle Vue.”

  “A curse? What kind of curse?”

  “Perhaps an illness, like the sleeping sickness, or boils, maybe even smallpox.”

  “And what do you think, Protruding Navel?”

  It is the fool who answers quickly. “Mamu Ugly Eyes, you know that I am a Protestant—like you—and therefore a true Christian, and as such I do not believe in these primitive superstitions. But if I were to believe in such nonsense, I suppose I might believe that you have brought a mukishi—a ghost—into this house. It will make this house its base, Mamu, but it will also sneak into the village at night and steal the lives of babies, as well as the elderly, and even some of the people’s livestock.”

  “Protruding Navel, this is absolutely preposterous! Surely you cannot believe this. Babies? The elderly? Here they die on a regular basis. Their deaths cannot be blamed on this girl. I will not allow you to blame her. I forbid it! As for the livestock—why, if I did not know you to be a good Christian, this would sound to me like a clever way for you to steal goats and pigs while putting the blame on an innocent child.”

  Protruding Navel felt the veins along his temple throb. Never had a woman spoken to him thusly. How fortunate for Mamu Ugly Eyes that she wore the skin of the oppressors. But the world had begun to tip; Protruding Navel could feel the destinies of nations sliding beneath his feet to opposing poles. Someday soon everything would be upside down. Black would be the new white, and white the new black. That is what the Communists taught.

  Perhaps even this very place would be his, and Mamu Ugly Eyes would be his housekeeper. In that case, because she was a young woman, there would be no need to use the title mamu. Just her name would suffice.

  “Ugly Eyes,” he could say, “I do not care for this jam; bring me a different flavor at once!” Then he would clap his hands like the whites always did when they were impatient. “Chop, chop,” they always added in their own language.

  “Protruding Navel,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said, breaking through his daydream, “are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes, Mamu, I have heard every word, and you have deeply offended me. Did I not say that I was a Christian, a follower of Yesu Clisto?”

  “Yes, of course. I am so sorry, Protruding Navel. It
is just that I feel so strongly about the heathen superstitions that some of the villagers believe in.”

  “Do you refer to Cripple, Mamu?”

  “Eh?”

  “Is she not a heathen? Please remember, Mamu, that these are her own words; not mine.”

  “Eyo, eyo! Cripple is a heathen! Now I really must go, Protruding Navel, because I hear Cripple and the ghost girl in the kitchen now.”

  “Very well,” Protruding Navel said. “Perhaps we will talk again soon.” He waited until she turned her back on him before smiling. Indeed, there were many things that he had yet to say to her.

  The OP’s binoculars had gotten quite a workout, both the night before and this morning. That was certainly one of the advantages of living in the official quarters of the Director of Mines; the view across the river to the Missionary Rest House was unparalleled. If the OP felt the slightest twinge of guilt for spying on the white girl who’d been rescued from the ferocious Bashilele, it was far outweighed by his sense of duty fulfilled.

  Yes, of course Captain Pierre Jardin had been a part of this; there was no getting around that. It simply wouldn’t do to have someone as important as the OP wandering around in the jungle—or wherever those savages lived. Who knows what could have happened? The very fact that the rescue party had been charged by a mad bull elephant was proof enough just how dangerous that excursion had been. And let’s not forget the driver ants—sacre coeur! There was that young upstart now!

  The binoculars! The OP jumped to his feet, whipped his helmet off, put the glasses down on his chair and did his best to cover them with his helmet. Thank God he had a large head.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur OP,” Captain Jardin said with a smart bow. After all, the army, the police—all were here to back up the Consortium. As to whom the Consortium ultimately answered to—well, one might consider taking up philately for the answer.

  “Bon jour, Pierre. Would you like some coffee before we go?”

  “Oui, merci.”

  Merde! That son of a bitch had the intuition of a woman and was probably already onto him. He could feel it. Better to confess now than to make it seem really strange later.

  “Ha, ha, these binoculars are a joke,” he said as he reclaimed them and at the same time donned his helmet. “But not these helmets, eh? Of course you don’t wear one, what with your regulation police captain’s hat, but I find that this thing is a lifesaver. Did you know that I get a new one every year?”

  Captain Jardin glanced at the white cork helmet with what appeared to be admiration. “They are very attractive, sir. The coffee? S’il vous plait.”

  “Ah, oui! Garcon,” he called. Boy! He had a new table boy since the move—some fellow by the name of Laurent, or Lucifer, or something pompous and European. The OP couldn’t be bothered to learn the man’s name just yet; not until he was sure the fellow would work out.

  With the fresh coffee now just a memory—as well as some warm croissants and butter produced by Consortium-owned cows—the OP insisted that he and Captain Jardin get right down to business. The morning had wings, after all. Then again, didn’t all the mornings in Belle Vue? Money, money, money, that’s what the ticking minutes represented. In less than two years the day of independence would dawn and then the land would stop hemorrhaging diamonds—well, at least into European coffers.

  He let the captain drive—the better to appreciate the experience. Everything seemed more intense: colors brighter, sounds clearer—for a moment he felt an odd, intense sort of love for the Congo, even though his deceased wife Heilewid was eternally trapped somewhere beneath the falls, and all that remained of her sister was the burned stump that was buried in the white cemetery up on the hill straight ahead.

  The OP forced himself to savor the long dirt drive that skirted the gorge on the African side of the falls on its way to the Missionary Rest House. How lucky the missionaries were to have originally received this lease from the crown, and then to have just recently had it renewed for the next one hundred years. As everyone knew, this was the Protestant missionaries’ reward for doing such a good job of establishing elementary schools in the villages surrounding Belle Vue.

  The OP was not a religious man, although like most Belgians of Walloon extraction he was at least nominally Catholic, but as a mining official, much like a government official, he held himself above the missionary wars for the souls of the people. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy every time he drove up to the rest house.

  The view up here was unsurpassed in all of Kasai Province. Should King Baudouin and Queen Fabiola decide to visit their colony one last time before turning it over to the natives, the OP would do his best to strike a deal with the young missionary who ran the rest house. If he was successful, Their Majesties would never forget their visit to Belle Vue, or the man who had arranged it.

  “Pierre,” the OP said, as they pulled to a stop in the circular drive just outside the front verandah. “Do you think she has my coloring?”

  Chapter Ten

  Monsieur OP, the girl has been living in the sun for the past thirteen years; forgive me, but she has the coloring of a peasant. However, I have been reflecting on her features and there is, I think, a great deal of similarity in the profile. Also, you both have blue eyes, do you not?”

  “Don’t ask me, you idiot,” snapped the OP. “I have yet to see the child!”

  “Well, sir,” Pierre said, struggling mightily not to call the OP an idiot in return—or worse, “the truth is, I’m not sure what color your eyes are.”

  “Ah,” the OP said, “now we’re getting somewhere. The problem lies in the fact that you’ve been unable to look me in the eyes ever since that day when my wife’s killer climbed down from the gallows as a free woman. Isn’t that the case?”

  “Screw yourself,” Pierre said. “Look, I haven’t told anyone your secret—not even the woman with whom I wish to be involved, the woman who has willingly agreed to play a huge role in this girl’s rehabilitation. So don’t be giving me any crap about the Muluba woman, Cripple, being responsible for your wife’s untimely demise. We both know it was probably suicide. Leave it at that.”

  The OP grunted, but mercifully did leave it at that.

  “Voila!” Pierre said with a good deal of relief, now that they had finally arrived. “Here we are. And there they all are; gathered around that massive round table that is said to once have hosted Prince Albert.”

  “Do you see her?” the OP said. His voice came out as a squeak, despite the fact that he was supposedly still a virile man, not yet fifty years old.

  August 24, 1945

  The war in Europe was finally over—although just barely. But the riches of the Congo had been left intact, were still there for the taking. Heilewid had given birth to a beautiful baby girl just three months earlier, in Luluaburg. She was home now with him in their villa overlooking the river and they were managing just fine—thanks to the help of a very experienced baba.

  Last Born Child had come highly recommended by a Belgian family in Luluaburg that Heilewid had met during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Because Heilewid had suffered three miscarriages by going into premature labor prior to this pregnancy, her doctor had strongly advised her to stay near a hospital during the last trimester. What surprised the OP was how fond his wife became of this other Belgian family, given that they were Walloons. After all, she was a card-carrying Fleming who despised Walloons, regarded them all as racist snobs—her husband excluded.

  To have Heilewid so fired up about this family and their fantastic baba—this ancient crone of a woman called Last Born Child—well, that was like Christmas, his birthday, Easter, and Armistice Day all rolled into one. That’s how hard it was to please Heilewid now that he’d gotten her to join him in Africa—never mind that by doing so he might have been responsible for saving her life during the war. Although her culture was Flemish and her ancestors had lived in Antwerp for generations, Heilewid’s maternal grandmother was Jewish.
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br />   On August 24, 1945, when the OP rose early from his bed because he couldn’t wait to hold his infant daughter in his arms on that cool late-dry-season morning, the war in Europe may have been over, but the two young parents in the middle-of-nowhere Africa were about to experience unbearable grief. “Carnage of the heart,” he told his priest, in the last confession he would ever make.

  As for Heilewid, it was the day she began her long, solitary descent into hell.

  Ugly Eyes gazed at the faces of whites seated around the table as if seeing them for the first time. Last night she had been so tired, so stressed, that now she could not remember if any of them were the same people—except for the young white woman who also went by the name of Ugly Eyes. As for the others, it was true, what Mother and Iron Sliver often said, before dissolving into fits of laughter: “Which is uglier, the white man or the belly of a toad? Ha, must you ask?”

  The old white man was particularly ugly—and toad-like. He was corpulent, his puffy body giving him the impression of having no neck. And although he wore the obligatory white cork helmet, even under cover of the verandah roof, he was deeply tanned everywhere except for under his shirt. Ugly Eyes knew this, because she watched him lean forward to shovel the food from his plate, watched the shirt gap just enough to expose the pasty white skin covered with moles.

  Were the other two women his wives? She didn’t think so. One appeared much older, but how was she to know for sure? For one thing, the woman hid her breasts, as if she were ashamed of them! And even though this woman’s face bore more wrinkles than Ugly Eyes had ever seen on a live human being, she appeared to be in possession of all of her teeth. Father would very much appreciate a skull like hers from which to drink his palm wine; the teeth in the top jaw would add such a festive decoration.