The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘This is the village I was talking about,’ said the guide. ‘It’s called Fungor. The Nuba living here are different from the Mesakin. Different language, different customs, different characteristics …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see; come.’

  Tukamil stopped the car in front of a rectangular-shaped family compound. Surrounded by a fence of narrow wooden posts interwoven with straw, the compound consisted of two mud huts facing each other, with two long wooden benches between them and an open fire in the middle.

  ‘The omda is expecting us,’ said Tukamil. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘The omda?’

  ‘The old man I told you about. I spoke with him a few days ago ...’ Tukamil went into one of the huts and returned moments later leading a frail-looking old man by the hand.

  ‘This is the omda, the chief of the village,’ said Tukamil. ‘Come over here and let him touch you. He’s almost blind.’

  Jack walked over to the old man and stood in front of him. The old man looked at Jack with unseeing eyes – white, milky cataracts had reduced his vision to merely a blur – and began to run his hands over Jack’s head and face.

  ‘He sees with his hands,’ continued Tukamil.

  After a while, the omda stopped and said something to Tukamil in a strange-sounding language and then sat down on the bench.

  ‘I have asked him to repeat what he told me the other day. That way you can judge for yourself ...’

  Tukamil had made enquiries on Jack’s behalf about a certain event that had taken place in the area forty-six years ago.

  Jack sat down on the other bench and looked expectantly at the old man.

  Like most old men, the omda lived in the past. There wasn’t much life left for him in the present and he therefore took refuge in a time he could remember with great clarity and pride. Unlike the turbulent, uncertain present, the past had stability and meaning. As a respected elder and great storyteller, the omda often sat around the fire in front of his hut, which he shared with his granddaughter, and told stories to mesmerised children who listened in wonder and hung on his every word.

  The stories were mainly about the spectacular ceremonies and the bloody, ritual knife-fights that had taken place in the village only a few decades ago, but these events had been gradually lost as brutal wars, famine and social upheavals had taken their toll, decimating the population and eroding the little that was left of age-old traditions and customs that used to hold village life together and gave meaning to being a proud Nuba.

  ‘The omda can clearly remember the day the young white woman with golden hair came to the village again,’ translated Tukamil. ‘This caused great excitement, especially among the girls, preparing themselves for the nyertun.’

  ‘What’s the nyertun?’ asked Jack.

  ‘The love dance. It follows the zuar, the ferocious knife-fighting practised around here.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘The golden-haired woman had visited the village before and had taken many photographs. The reason the girls were so excited was because of the pictures she had brought with her this time. The girls had never seen photographs before and there was lots of laughter and finger-pointing as they recognised themselves and their friends in the pictures.’

  This all fits, thought Jack as he remembered the last batch of photographs sent to National Geographic by Natasha Rostova from Khartoum in 1972, which he had recently discovered in the publication’s archives. The photos portrayed village life and the intriguing customs of the South-East Nuba she had visited before. After a lot of painstaking research and calling in favours, Jack had managed to piece together Natasha Rostova’s last trip into the Nuba Mountains before she disappeared. He had even discovered a letter to her editor explaining that she had to go back one more time to photograph something extraordinary, never before captured on film. Unfortunately she didn’t say what it was, but Jack had a date and now, it would appear, he also had a place – Fungor – and an old man who said he was there and could remember what happened.

  Transported by his memories, the omda travelled back in time to that fateful day in April that had changed everything ...

  Fungor: 14 April 1972

  Rumours had circulated for days that a zuar, a knife fight, was about to take place. No-one knew exactly when or where, but as there were only three villages that practised knife-fighting, it had to be in one of them. This caused great excitement in Fungor, especially among the girls, because a knife fight was always followed by a nyertun, a dance of love.

  This time, the fighters from Kau, a neighbouring village, were coming to Fungor to fight. These fights were inter-village contests; fighters from the same village never competed against one another. The exact time and place of these contests and the identity of the combatants who would be fighting each other was decided by the witch doctors, who wielded great power in the villages.

  Preparations for the fight started early that day. The art of face and body painting had been perfected by the South-East Nuba over centuries and had the sole purpose of enhancing the wearer’s appearance. Great care was taken, especially when painting the face, which was a reflection of the wearer’s artistic skill, imagination and personality, as the fighters tried to outdo and impress one another with intricate designs and originality. This in turn had an impact on their reputation as fighters, which would enhance their prowess and performance.

  Their performance in the arena was of huge importance, not only for reasons of prestige; it also had a direct bearing on their love life, as the girls would choose partners during the dance of love. Successful fighters would also be courted by married women, who would sleep with them after the fight. Such was the prestige of those fighters that instead of resenting this, the husbands were proud if such a fighter chose to sleep with one of their wives and left them with child.

  Because Natasha was very popular in the village and her white skin and golden hair a much-envied curiosity, especially among the women, she had been granted permission by the elders to photograph not only the preparations for the fight, but the fights themselves. Normally, no women or girls were allowed; their presence during the fights was strictly forbidden. While the men were fighting, the women and girls were busy adorning themselves for the dance of love that would follow later.

  Natasha was carefully watching one particular warrior, a tall, muscular young man of about twenty, with a body so perfect it would have made Michelangelo reach for his sketchbook. He had already oiled his naked body all over and was gleaming in the sunlight like a god. Holding a small broken mirror in one hand, he was beginning to paint his face, applying white paint with a small stick to accentuate his eyes by making them appear larger, like the eyes of an owl. He saw Natasha look at him and gave her a big smile as if to say Do you like it?

  Natasha took countless photos that morning and was about to change her film, when shrill cries from men who were posted on rocks above the village as lookouts announced the arrival of the fighters from Kau. The much-awaited contest was about to begin.

  Natasha decided to follow the ‘owl man’ and make a photographic study of his fight. Evenly matched against a young fighter from Kau, who had painted his body and face with striking leopard spots, the first bout was about to begin. The excited spectators surrounding the arena were watching the referees who officiated and whose word was law, and were waiting with great anticipation for the raised-hand signal.

  For a while, the two fighters circled each other with graceful, ballet-like moves, simulating attack and defence with staves. Soon, the staves were discarded, and the fight began in earnest involving the main weapon: sharp wrist blades strapped to the hands. Owl man lunged first and caught his opponent off guard, inflicting a deep cut to the back of his head that began to bleed profusely.

  Carefully watched by the referees, the two opponents circled each other again. This time, the leopard man lunged, but was skilfully parried by the owl man who inflicted another blo
w to his opponent’s head. As he turned away, the owl man received a terrible blow to the back of his head, which was the main target in the ferocious bout. After that, the blows continued, inflicting deep cuts and causing a lot of bleeding. However, the injuries were rarely fatal and usually didn’t cause permanent damage. The combatants were evenly matched and neither would give up.

  In pain, drunk on violence and yearning for glory, the perilous ballet continued until the leopard man, covered in blood, could no longer go on and the owl man was declared the winner, much to the delight of his supporters who were howling with joy. Caught up in the excitement of the fight, Natasha cheered as well, as her jubilant champion had sand sprinkled on his wounds and palm fronds wrapped around his head to stop the bleeding. Looking like a Roman emperor enjoying a victory procession, the owl man left the arena cheered on by excited spectators who had a new hero.

  Rather than resting and nursing their injuries, the bloodied fighters would reappear a short time later – freshly bathed, oiled and with their faces repainted – to attend the dance of love they had all been waiting for.

  It all began with the drums. Ancient rhythms buried deep in the blood came alive on that hot afternoon and soon the girls appeared, many of them escorted by their mothers. Preparations for this event had started early that day and had taken hours. First, their naked bodies were covered in oil to make them shine and accentuate long, supple limbs and firm breasts. Then their hair was given particular attention and adorned with ostrich plumes, shell buttons and brass clasps.

  As the drumbeats grew louder the naked girls began to dance. Swaying their hips in time to the rhythm of the drums and holding long leather whips, they moved around in groups of two or three, but soon separated as the dancing became more expressive and wilder. That was the moment the young fighters appeared and joined in, their painted, naked bodies also covered in oil. In contrast to the wild gyrations of the girls around them, their movements were measured and slow.

  Standing under a tree nearby, Natasha was furiously taking photos. The swaying bodies of the girls and the stunning painted faces of the fighters were a photographer’s dream. Excitement rippled through the spectators and the drums began to beat faster – when owl man made his entrance.

  Covered entirely in black paint, an honour reserved for exceptional champions, he towered over the other fighters dancing around him, his white owl-face mask providing a striking contrast to his gleaming black frame. Holding a staff in his right hand, he began to dance, his muscular, athletic body gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Natasha moved closer to better capture the spectacle with her Leica, well aware that she was witnessing something extraordinary that would send the editor at National Geographic into raptures.

  From time to time, a dancing fighter would stop, bend backwards and let out a blood-curdling cry that seemed to whip up great excitement among the spectators and send the girls into an erotic dancing frenzy. Known among the Nuba as shakla, the cry mimicked the call of a bird of prey.

  After a while, owl man stopped dancing and walked away from the gyrating girls to an area known as the rakoba. This marked the beginning of the next stage of the dance of love. Sitting on large stones, the fighters kept their heads bowed without looking at the girls dancing nearby.

  Owl man sat down next to them and did the same. All the fighters had strings of small bells tied around their right ankles and kept moving their legs ever so slightly to make the bells jingle. This was part of the age-old ritual and was meant to show their excitement about what was to come: the girls were about to choose their mates.

  Owl man didn’t have to wait too long. One of the dancing girls, a striking beauty with long, athletic legs, separated from the others and came dancing towards owl man until her swaying, sweat-covered body almost touched his. Then suddenly, she swung one leg over his bowed head and rested it on his shoulder. Owl man didn’t move and kept staring at the ground, but his heart was beating faster than the drum.

  Holding her breath and crouching down low, Natasha took a photo and captured that perfect moment on camera, before the girl stepped away from her chosen mate and, still dancing, slowly left the rakoba.

  The drums continued to beat and the dancing continued late into the night. After dark, owl man and the other fighters met up with their new mates and made love with a consuming passion that would leave them trembling for hours. It also made them oblivious to the mortal danger closing in on the village.

  The Arab slavers had carefully chosen the time for their raid. Paid informers had told them about the zuar at Fungor and the dance of love that would involve the entire village and last well into the night.

  Just before midnight, the slavers struck. Armed men closed in from all sides, making escape almost impossible. Even the bravest fighters had no chance against automatic weapons. Resistance was futile, but owl man put up a valiant fight. As one of the slavers burst into the hut where he lay with his young lover and began to pull the screaming girl away from him, owl man managed to put his arm around the slaver’s neck from behind and snap it. Moments later, another slaver set the hut on fire with a torch. As owl man staggered outside, coughing and barely able to see because of the smoke, the slaver lifted his gun and shot him in the chest, killing him instantly. Three days later, the girl was sold on the secret slave market in Khartoum.

  The omda paused and stared into the distance, the painful memories almost too much to bear. ‘The village never recovered from that,’ translated the guide. ‘Most of the girls and young women were taken, and so were many of the men and boys. Most of the fighters were killed. It was a massacre ...’

  ‘What happened to the golden-haired woman?’ asked Jack.

  ‘She too was taken by the slavers. So were my wife and two daughters. I was badly wounded, but survived. Our village was burned to the ground.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ said Jack sadly, shaking his head.

  The omda turned his head towards Jack and stared. ‘What is your interest in the golden-haired woman, after all these years?’

  Jack touched the little cross hanging around his neck with his fingertips and took his time before replying. ‘You are not the only one who lost so much that day,’ he began, choosing his words carefully. ‘The golden-haired woman was my mother.’

  The omda nodded, as if he had been expecting it. Then he stood up slowly and said a few words to the guide.

  ‘He wants to give you something,’ said the guide and helped the old man walk into the hut.

  The omda and the guide returned a few minutes later. ‘Please come closer,’ said the guide. ‘He wants to see you.’

  Jack walked over to the omda and stood in front of him. The old man ran his shaking hands over Jack’s head and face just as he had done before. Then he stopped, reached into his robe and put something into Jack’s hands. Jack looked down. As soon as he realised what it was, tears began to well up until he could barely see. Then he embraced the old man and held him tight. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered and then let go.

  He wiped away the tears and held up the camera against the light. The lens was broken and the case badly scratched, but the name – Leica – was still clearly visible. His trip hadn’t been in vain. He now had two things that had once belonged to his mother.

  As they approached Khartoum two days later, Jack received a call on his satellite phone. It was Rebecca Armstrong, his publicist, calling from New York.

  ‘Where are you? I can hardly hear you,’ she said.

  ‘In the Sudan.’

  ‘What are you doing there for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘It’s a long story ...’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘You got the manuscript; I needed some time out.’

  ‘Jack, I need your help.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’

  ‘It’s about my brother.’

  ‘The reclusive genius reaching for the stars?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you haven’t heard, bearing in mind where you are, but Zachar
iah has disappeared ...’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s a long story ...’

  ‘Touché! You are breaking up ...’

  ‘I’ll text you the details, but could you go to London?’

  ‘What? Right now?’

  ‘Yes. It’s really important. You have to meet someone.’

  ‘I can hardly hear you. Who?’

  ‘A CIA agent.’

  After that, the connection cut out and all that remained was frustrating static.

  Jack put away his phone and smiled as a familiar feeling raced through him. A feeling of excitement and anticipation he knew well. New stories and challenges always seemed to find him when he least expected it. The cryptic phone call from Rebecca had all the hallmarks of a new adventure, and Jack was ready for one.

  Instead of going to his lodgings, Jack went to the airport in Khartoum and booked the first available flight to London.

  20

  Port de Fontvielle, Monaco: 19 June

  Alessandro watched Nike being slowly manoeuvred into her usual berth. He had hoped for an earlier arrival, but the journey through the Mediterranean had been slower than expected due to heavy winds caused by the tail end of Hurricane Patrick, which had finally run out of puff after wreaking havoc along the French Atlantic coast.

  Alessandro walked on board as soon as the crew had secured the vessel and went straight to the bridge to talk to Giacomo. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Tough. About as tough as it gets, but we managed the transfer. No problem.’

  ‘Any damage?’

  ‘No. Just some broken glass and a few scratches on the furniture. Nothing major.’