The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  Cripple felt the life within her react sharply to his words. “I am a heathen; I am not ashamed of my heritage.”

  “Nor am I ashamed of mine, but now my eyes are open.”

  “Good. Then you will have no trouble seeing through this mist on your way home.”

  “But, Baba, first, I beg you, give me of your wisdom. I am prepared to pay you.”

  Although she had yet to do any work, Cripple felt the need to rest. She waddled over to Their Death’s chair, which was the only one they owned, and lowered herself carefully into it. After having endured many years of weather, and the weight of Their Death plus his beloved children, it was a wonder that the homemade chair remained standing.

  “Do you know how to make bidia?” Cripple asked.

  “Bidia? Our mush? Of course, Baba. I am a bachelor.”

  “Good, then stoke the fire—please—and get the water boiling. We will surprise my husband with a nice hot breakfast. And as you work you may share with me your dikenga—your problem.”

  “These things I can do,” Jonathan Pimple said. He built a perfectly respectable fire, and it was while he waited for the water to boil that he began to speak from the heart. “I wish to become a Roman Catholic,” he said. “Like Lazarus Chigger Mite.”

  Cripple, who had begun to doze in the comfort of Their Death’s chair, jumped. “What? Why do we speak of spirits again? I find this most annoying.”

  “Because this is my problem; I wish to become a Roman Catholic, but in order to do so, I must confess my sins to the priest. But yala, there is one sin so awful that I cannot say it, even when I am alone inside that box of wood—which smells of the sins of a thousand others.”

  Cripple yelped with glee. “Truly, it might be worth the price of conversion just to smell this box. And you, Jonathan Pimple, what is your gravest sin? I have heard that Roman Catholic bachelors are forbidden to tug on their pleasure sticks.”

  “Aiyee,” said Jonathan Pimple. “This is not speech of women; talk of this nature is reserved for the man’s palaver hut.”

  “Then state your problem now, for the water begins to boil.”

  “Very well. Did you know, Baba, that I am not a native Muluba like yourself ?”

  “This knowledge comes as a relief, for the thought of a Muluba with his teeth all filed to points for no reason was almost more than I could bear.”

  “Baba, do you poke fun at me?”

  “Of course. Were you not jesting as well?”

  Jonathan Pimple gave Cripple a blank stare.

  Then it was that Cripple realized, both with compassion and embarrassment, that Jonathan Pimple was not the shiniest palm nut in the bunch. “Perhaps you should tell me about yourself,” she said.

  “I am a Mupende, the son of the powerful chief Nyanga-Yanga. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  “I have not,” Cripple said.

  “When I was but a young boy I was taken in a raid by the Bajembe tribe. I am told that the purpose was to get my father to pay a ransom, but he would not. The Bajembe then sold me to someone of the Baluba tribe to be used as a street cleaner and a keeper of goats.”

  “That is a sad story.”

  “Eyo. When I was still with my people, the Bapende, I was privy to a ritual ceremony where—it is a ritual that has not been performed for many years, of that I am certain.”

  “What sort of ritual? And please, Jonathan Pimple, put some fire under your story so that it boils like my water. Soon there will be none of the water left with which to make the bidia.”

  “Tch,” Jonathan Pimple said, “there is no pleasant way to put this; it was the ritual of consuming human flesh for certain purposes.”

  “Cannibalism?” Cripple had heard that the Bapende had a history of cannibalism, but she had never had the opportunity to speak to one who had actually practiced it—or even just witnessed it as a child.

  “E. But as I said, I was just a child; surely I was a boy of no more than eight long dry seasons in age. That would be eight years as the white man—”

  “I know how frequent the dry seasons are.” She couldn’t help but snap. Their Death’s chair was now getting to be uncomfortable, for it was made of hard unforgiving wood. “Then again,” she added, “where you come from, the seasons might be very different than they are here.”

  “No, Baba, they are the same. But as for the ritual, it varies depending on the tribe’s needs. If it was speed that we needed in order to chase down game, then one of our warriors would lie in wait and catch a well-known runner from another tribe. Then the men from our village would share in feasting on his legs. If it was skill at shooting arrows, then a famous archer would be caught, and his arms would be cooked and the meat distributed at the ceremony.”

  “This is disgusting,” Cripple said. “Tell me more.”

  “Thus it went with all parts of the body. The brains to gain wisdom, the stomach to aid digestives troubles—”

  “And what if your women were infertile?”

  “Our women were never infertile,” Jonathan Pimple said.

  There is more than one way to skin a forest rat, Cripple told herself. “What if one of your men was limp like yesterday’s matamba leaves?”

  “Yes, yes,” Jonathan Pimple cried, “then I suppose he ate the lubola.”

  Cripple laughed. She laughed so hard that the child within her awoke and laughed along with her. However, she did so with her hands over her mouth so that Their Death would not hear and awaken. But Their Death did hear her—or perhaps he heard the child.

  “What is this racket?” Their Death said, appearing in the doorway of the hut. “And why is this goatherd tending to our cooking pot?”

  “This goatherd goes by the name of Jonathan Pimple,” she said. “He is of no account; he has come for advice. In exchange, he will make us breakfast. Go back to sleep, Their Death, and I will wake you when it is ready.”

  “Bimpe—good,” Their Death said, “but be careful, Wife. This man has the look of a Mupende, and is it not a fact that in the past they were known to be cannibals? It would not go well for anyone if it were you that he served as my breakfast.”

  Cripple could see that Jonathan was made especially angry by Their Death’s remark, and when Their Death closed the hut door behind him, she tried to make light of it for Jonathan’s sake. “I am afraid that a crippled body such as mine would be useless for ritual purposes, and from a practical standpoint—well, I have seen Bashilele chickens with more meat on their bones.”

  “Tch,” Jonathan said and hung his head.

  “It must be difficult to be a minority,” she said.

  He nodded. “That is why I am here. The Roman Catholic Church will soon be the new majority—for all of Congo.”

  “But it is a white man’s religion.”

  “Do you think that I care? I wish to succeed, Baba. The church can send me abroad to study.”

  Cripple tapped her head to signify that knowledge and wisdom were forthcoming. It was her own symbolic gesture, and it had quickly become her trademark. Clients were often disappointed if she did not do this.

  “Your problem is really not so difficult; you must immediately confess that you ate another person—”

  Jonathan Pimple jumped to his feet. “Aiyee! I did not say that!”

  “But it is the truth, is it not? Anyway, the Roman Catholics will understand, for I have heard that they eat their Jesus every Sunday. By having the truth out in the open, you will not have to live in fear of exposure or blackmail. Life without fear; that is life with true power. Besides, as you said, you were but a child. One forgives a child everything but the murder of his parents.”

  “Tch, tch, tch,” Jonathan said, shaking his head in wonder. “Truly, you have the gift of knowing.”

  “E, but not to such a degree that I know which part of the man it was that you c
onsumed. It was a man, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course. At no time was a woman or child ever a part of the ritual. Tell me, who would want to acquire a characteristic that was weak or simple?”

  “Only a weak, simpleminded person, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. But, Baba, there remains one detail that might still be a complication.”

  “What is that?”

  “The man whose hand I ate was a white man—a Roman Catholic priest.”

  “Kah!” cried Cripple. She began to tap her head furiously and unconsciously. “Jonathan Pimple, you must never speak of this to anyone. And if anyone asks me what you were doing here this morning, then I will tell them that you were still upset about your goat—which was delicious, by the way.”

  “That is my goat I smell? How can that be?”

  “Jonathan, do not be distracted! You were never here; we did not talk about your backward tribe or its disturbing rituals. Do you understand?”

  “But, Baba, we did speak—”

  Cripple struggled to her feet. The life in her belly seemed to resist, pushing back with the strength of a boy child.

  “Ya bimpe,” she said. Go well.

  “My confession; what do I do about that?”

  “Do not confess! Do not become a Roman Catholic. Remain a poor Protestant, a man without power. At least you will be a live Protestant.”

  “Aiyee yi-yi-yi,” Jonathan moaned. “My problem defeats me.”

  Cripple watched as poor Jonathan Pimple, former child cannibal, adolescent slave, and would-be politician, left her compound brokenhearted.

  Chapter 9

  The Belgian Congo, 1935

  The boys’ uncle urged them to eat the ritual feast because they would not partake voluntarily. Then the chief, who was also the twins’ father, commanded them to eat, but the younger would not until the older set the example. For the older boy it was equally repugnant to partake of this feast, but he did so in order that he and his brother might be obedient to their chief, and also that his younger twin, whom he loved, might reclaim that which had been stolen from him.

  When the boys had finished eating their small portions, the men gave up great cries of victory on their behalf, and on their behalf the women in the village—perhaps a kilometer distant—responded with cries of victory on their behalf as well. It was chief’s number six wife, who was also the twins’ mother, who led the women in their response. Upon hearing the women, both boys trembled alike, for they knew the strength of their mother’s love, and they could imagine the depth of her feeling.

  Chapter 10

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  When Monsignor Clemente stumbled into the rectory at four twenty-six in the morning the following Thursday, he wasn’t drunk; he was exhausted. And, damn it, it wasn’t his fault that the stingy ass OP, Marcel Fabergé, insisted on turning off the generator that supplied all the electricity to Belle Vue, both the European and African sides of the river. Well, not that he could really bitch about that considering the fact that the last time he was posted here as a common priest, there hadn’t even been the luxury of electricity. Those were the days of Coleman lanterns with fragile wick globes, and also the type of lanterns with thick cotton wicks that had to be trimmed every Saturday.

  Mon Dieu, but that Father Reutner was a loud snorer. No doubt he could be heard all the way down in Angola, a good sixty kilometers away. It was because the man was fat, let’s be honest about it. That wasn’t judgment; that was merely an observation. Father Reutner indulged in the sin of gluttony—and gleefully so, one might add. What’s more, the Swiss priest didn’t even bring up gluttony in the confessional booth.

  But you had to give the man credit for maintaining his vow of celibacy. Monsignor Clemente had steeled himself to find an African concubine sharing the old man’s quarters—such was often the case in overseas postings where loneliness could become overwhelming. However, despite the appalling squalor in what was supposed to pass for a rectory, there was to be found absolutely no sign of a female. Monsignor Clemente was sure of that; ironically, he was gifted when it came to sniffing out the female scent. In fact, he could tell a number of things about a woman just by smelling the air that she had breathed.

  “Alors!” said Father Reutner as he fumbled for a flashlight. “Who is it?”

  “It is only Monsignor Clemente, Father. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, no, my alarm will ring in just—uh, three minutes. This is the time I always rise on Thursday mornings.”

  “At half past four?”

  “Oui. The early mass is scheduled at five, so that the women can get to market by six.”

  “You are veritable saint, Father.”

  “Forgive me, Monsignor, but feeding Our Lord’s sheep, as he asked, does not make me a saint.”

  “No, forgive me; it was a joke.”

  “You joke about spiritual matters, Monsignor?”

  What a dreadfully dull, irritating fellow this Father Reutner was turning out to be! If Monsignor Clemente had found himself posted with a priest like this when he first came to the Congo, he never would have lasted even a week.

  “Father, you may dress and excuse yourself for Mass at your earliest convenience,” the monsignor said.

  “Will you not be joining me?”

  “At the moment I find myself more in need of silent prayer.”

  “The benefit of the holy sacraments—”

  “Bonjour, Father.” It came out as a growl.

  Madame Cabochon tugged first on the left side of her bosom, then on the right. The kelly green blouse, which showcased her burnished hair to its best advantage, fit so tightly it looked as if it had been poured over the molded cups of her brassiere. She was a terrible automobile driver, and she knew it, but still she’d risked life and limb crossing the Belle Vue Bridge, and then there were all those pigs, goats, chickens, and children to contend with once she got to the village.

  Yet it was imperative that she speak to Monsignor Clemente; after all, he was leaving to return for Rome the following Monday. If one was going to throw the party of the year, then one had better throw it while there was a genuine celebrity in town: in this case, a handsome man of God just a few steps away from—well, from what exactly? Perhaps being appointed a cardinal? A prince in the church? One dare not think higher than that—yet in a place like Belle Vue, where there was truly nothing to do, what sin was there in daydreaming that she could one day lay claim to having entertained the successor to Saint Peter himself?

  How truly awful that on weekdays the whites-only pews were given over to the market women in order that they might have a better view of the Eucharist and possibly learn something about this foreign faith to which they’d subscribed—many of them rather late in life. The caveat with this line of thinking was that occasionally—okay, so rarely as to be statistically unimportant—whites did attend weekday services. When they did, they often found themselves sitting next to tattooed heathenish tribal women who smelled strongly of wood smoke, or a plethora of other disturbing things that were peculiarly African, and which made it nearly impossible for any European to concentrate on the words of the mass.

  Thank heavens Madame Cabochon had not come to concentrate on Latin words or, for that matter, to connect with the Lord on any level. As soon as Father Reutner’s gravelly voice began to chant the last amen, she was out of her seat and headed for him with all the determination of a tsetse fly.

  “Father,” she said, grabbing the sleeve of his cassock from behind.

  “Merde!” he said, and then abruptly turned to genuflect in the direction of the crucifix as he made the sign of the cross. “You see what you made me do,” he said, turning back to Madame Cabochon. “Fortunately the monsignor is still with us, so he can hear my confession.”

  “You see?” Madame Cabochon said. “No harm meant; no harm done. But speaking of the mons
ignor, where is he?”

  “I’m afraid there was a death in the village last night, Madame. Monsignor was summoned to administer last rites and has only recently returned. I thought it best to let him sleep in.”

  “Perfect then,” Madame Cabochon said and, without another word to the hardworking Swiss priest, practically skipped from the church.

  What a lovely morning it might yet turn out to be. Although the fog was still as thick as leek soup, it gave the churchyard a delightful—almost European—air of mystery about it. Between the church and the rectory was a row of classrooms, but it was far too early for school, so there was no one to be seen, or to see her. Besides, given the poor visibility, she could have been any white woman—or even just a ghost. The irony behind this last thought made Madame Cabochon laugh, for she was deathly afraid of ghosts herself, having seen one as a child.

  Upon arriving at the rectory apparently unseen, Madame Cabochon became even more emboldened and tried the screen door. Finding it unlatched, she slipped into the cool, dark reception room—the living room, the Americans called it.

  “Monsignor,” called softly. “Monsignor, I am Colette Cabochon. I wish to extend an invitation to you.” There was no response, so she waited, but just a few seconds, and then called again.

  “Oui, madame?”

  Colette whirled. Somehow the monsignor had managed to sneak up behind her without making a sound. While he wasn’t dressed in pajamas or a nightdress as she half expected, the monsignor’s more formal black robes had been replaced by a simple white cotton cassock. His salt-and-pepper hair, which he normally wore so manicured that it looked carved from marble, now stuck out in all directions from beneath his skullcap.

  Madame Cabochon was so thrilled that she forgot protocol. It was only after she had begun to curtsy that she realized her mistake. Well, what was it that the English said anyway? In for a penny, in for a pound? That was her, all right. Madame Cabochon could feel the color rushing to her cheeks as she curtsied so low that she came within a stitch of splitting the back seam on her new pencil sheath dress (said to be all the rage in Brussels that year).