"Mamu, did someone push hot chilies up his nose to see if he was dead?"

"No! But someone did something else equally as awful; a soldier cut him, here, on the side."

"Aiyee! Mamu, is it possible that a witch doctor gave your Jesus a potion to drink that made him appear as if he was dead, when indeed he was not?"

Amanda had thought she'd heard it all from skeptics, but this question truly took the cake. Then again, it was a distinctly African question, and it certainly made sense within the local culture. Actually, it was exactly what one might expect to hear from the heathen wife of a down-on-his-luck witch doctor. So, as irked as Amanda was by the question, she decided to do her level best to not let it show.

"No, there was absolutely no witch doctor involved. In fact, I do not think there were any witch doctors in that tribe of Bena Yuda."

"Surely, Mamu, you are mistaken; when I was a girl, I sat outside my brother's cla.s.sroom at the Catholic school and listened to many stories of mualu mua kukema."

Miracles; Amanda had never been satisfied with the Ts.h.i.+luba translation. First of all, Ts.h.i.+luba used an expression, not just one word, and that expression had more than one meaning. It could mean remarkable things, extraordinary things, wonderful things, but even strange things. Given that linguistic restriction, the two-headed goat kid and the parting of the Red Sea were both miracles of equal standing.

"Cripple," Amanda said, trying very hard not to come across as irritated as she felt, "let us not argue about words. Instead, if it pleases you, tell me the kernel of your story."

"Yes, Mamu Ugly Eyes. This man, Jonathan Pimple, it is true that he died and was buried, and it is true that he rose again from the dead, but it is also true that he did so with the help of a witch doctor."

Amanda felt the goose step out over her grave for a second time. "What did you say?"

Chapter 33.

The Belgian Congo, 1958 Mamu, there is medicine that can be obtained only from a witch doctor, which, if taken under proper supervision, brings on the symptoms of death. It was-"

"Symptoms?" The word in Ts.h.i.+luba was new for Amanda.

"It appears as death, yet it is not death."

"Ah-like zombies."

"Like G.o.d? Mamu, are you ill?"

"No, Cripple. But when Africans were taken to my country as slaves, they brought with them knowledge of this medicine. These slaves were of the Bakongo tribe and their word for people who had taken the medicine and appeared to be dead was nzambi. But as you know, we whites have very poor hearing; we heard the word as zombie.

"Mamu, next time only the kernel, please."

Amanda smiled. "Continue, please."

"This buanga can be made to last for up to three days-sometimes even four-but always the person who takes it must be in very good health, and the entire time of death he must breathe through a-a bamboo reed!"

"So he is not really dead!"

"E, Mamu, he is really dead."

"Nasha, Cripple, he cannot be dead and breathing at the same time."

"E."

"Nasha."

"Mamu, you are most frustrating. I am telling you; a man who has taken this buanga is truly dead, for he has no movement here." She pressed her wrist with her fingertips. "Or here." She did the same with the artery behind her ear.

"Perhaps it is very slight and you just cannot feel it."

"Tch," Cripple said, pursing her lips. "You offend me. There is more to tell, but clearly you do not wish to know."

"But I do!"

"Very well." Cripple c.o.c.ked her head this way and that, wasting plenty of valuable time by posturing, before getting down to business. "It was Their Death who sold the buanga to Jonathan Pimple. Because it was his buanga, Their Death made sure that just the right amount was taken, and that the grave was at the proper depth. It was Their Death's responsibility."

Because Amanda cared so deeply for Cripple, she found herself feeling furious at that second-rate witch doctor. What if Jonathan Pimple had died during this stupid exercise? Then what? And what were those two men really hoping to accomplish? Surely Their Death didn't buy into the legend of a false prophet that he had helped create-wait just one cotton-picking minute! Maybe he did! The human mind was capable of tremendous feats of self-deception, particularly during times of extreme stress. Amanda had learned something in Psych 101 her freshman year at Winthrop College for Women.

However, just maturing a bit into adulthood had taught her that yelling at someone like Cripple was not going to achieve anything except to shut down the lines of communication. While frustration may be a difficult thing to swallow, at least it seldom leads to weight gain.

"Please tell me," she said, choosing her words carefully, "did Jonathan Pimple say why it was that he wanted to die and then to rise again on the third day?"

"Nasha."

"Tch," Amanda said, and it felt good to do so. "Do you know why it is that he wanted to do these things?"

"Aiyee, Mamu Ugly Eyes, it does not become you to make such a rude noise!"

"Cripple, answer my question-please."

"Mamu, clearly the man seeks to have a great following."

"I can see that, for I have brains in my head rather than a coconut, do I not?"

The witch doctor's wife smiled. "Mamu, there are many kinds of coconuts. Nevertheless, it is possible that I overheard Jonathan Pimple express the wish to avenge the death of his brother, Chigger Mite."

"Brother?" Amanda asked. "In what way were they brothers?" There is no specific word in Ts.h.i.+luba for brother. Instead one uses a phrase that translates as "a male child of ours." In a polygamous society-especially in a society that is simultaneously polygamous and polyandrous such as that of the Bas.h.i.+lele-there exist many possible sibling combinations.

"They were brothers of the same mother and the same father. Their father was a chief of the Bapende tribe."

"Yet they came to you for help in settling a dispute?"

"Tch, Mamu, would you rather that they settled it using machetes?"

"Nasha! You see, that is why you are a wise woman, and I but one coconut among many! Cripple, how does being a man who has risen from the dead help Jonathan Pimple avenge his brother's death?"

Cripple clutched Amanda's arm tightly, and, while limping more than Amanda could remember, pulled her along until they were quite alone inside a small grove of guava trees on the western edge of the Belle Vue workers' village. Curiously, no one had followed them; to the contrary, the few people who may have noticed them approach the grove seemed to suddenly busy themselves, even if it just meant sweeping an already clean family compound. Amanda liked to think that she wasn't born yesterday (although many were the times her mother would beg to disagree). At any rate, there was a decidedly tawdry feel about the clearing that she found hard to put her finger on. And as for the guavas, they hung ripe on the tree, or rotting on the ground.

"What is this place?" she asked Cripple.

"Tch."

"You know that eventually I will get an answer."

"Do you treat your slaves in America so badly?"

"You are not my slave!"

"Perhaps."

"Cripple, this is obviously a very important matter-otherwise you would not have brought me here. You must trust me."

The older woman rolled her eyes. "This place is where the bena masandi perform like wives for men who are not their husbands."

Amanda gasped softly. The first word that came to mind was ick! She knew about the birds and the bees-what went where-well, sort of. She had watched a bull and cow mate on her grandfather's farm down in Chester County, South Carolina. But heavy petting in the backseat at a drive-in movie-that was the scope of her actual experience! To be standing where women of ill repute actually did it was the ickiest thing she could think of. This was something she would definitely not write home about to her parents.

"Mamu, you must listen to me; I do not want to stay in this place all day."

How foolish she must have looked. "Nor do I; therefore, I am listening!"

When Cripple spoke again, it was in a whisper. "There was one other great prophet besides Kibangu who was said to have died and then risen again, nasha? Your Jesus Christ." She did not bother to pause for confirmation. "The claim that Jesus Christ was the first to do so is very important for both Roman Catholic and Protestant-"

"No, Cripple, Jesus Christ was the only one to do so."

"Perhaps. But you see, a claim such as this is sure to make Jesus Christ's followers very angry, is it not?"

"Eyo. Christians are to live in peace, but what this Jonathan Pimple is doing is very offensive."

"And it is more offensive to some Christians than to others."

"I guess so, but-"

"Mamu Ugly Eyes, do you not think that the priests at Saint Mary's Catholic Church might be the most offended?"

"Kah! Why is that?"

"Because, Mamu, they are the most Christian."

"Bulelela [most certainly] they are not!"

"But, Mamu, I respectfully ask that you consider the facts: they have a much larger building than the Protestant pastor who must wors.h.i.+p his Jesus Christ at the edge of the village. Besides, they are white, and he is but a black man, and a Muchoke." She made a face whereby her upper lip practically touched her nose. "In addition, the Roman Catholic priest honors his Jesus Christ by displaying statues of both him and his baba-although the statue of Jesus Christ being tortured is not so nice. However, the priest wears a most attractive white dress on Sunday, burns secret herbs, and says magic incantations. The Protestant does none of this, which is why that church has so few members."

Amanda literally counted to ten before speaking. She did it silently, and she did it in Ts.h.i.+luba since all the words for those numbers in that language have more than one syllable. Then she smiled before speaking.

"Cripple, the things that you mentioned do not make one a better Christian. But are you suggesting that you think that Jonathan Pimple is trying to get the Roman Catholic priest angry at him because-wait! Do you really think that Father Reutner killed Chigger Mite? We may not wors.h.i.+p the same way, but Father Reutner is still a man of G.o.d!"

The older woman regarded Amanda beneath lowered eyelids. "Tch, and still it is that you wonder why I remain a heathen? Do you not recall reading about the man named Judas Iscariot, who betrayed your Jesus for thirty franc pieces the night before he died? Was he not an even closer follower than this priest? Truly, truly, he was, Mamu, for this Judas knew your Jesus personally. Therefore, it is possible that anyone can be capable of murder-even a Roman Catholic priest."

Amanda felt like she'd just had the stuffing knocked out of her, and by a heathen yet! Yes, of course anyone was capable of anything if you put it the right (or was it wrong?) way. Who would guess that sweet, charmin' little ol' Amanda Brown from Rock Hill, South Carolina, had once been a drunk driver and should be banned from the roads?

"Yes," she said. "Cripple, you are absolutely correct. We are all capable of the worst sins. Therefore now, please advise me; what do you think it is that we should do next?"

Madame Cabochon was feeling utterly miserable; and when Colette's gorgeous exterior felt this bad, her somewhat less-than-stellar personality became downright irritable. Crabby-wasn't that the American slang? The heat and humidity of the suicide month had plastered her clothing to her body just as surely as if she'd stood under a rancid shower. As she made her way back through the workers' village, every fly from every dung heap, and its brother from every oozing sore on man or beast, immediately turned its attention to Madame Cabochon. Just when she thought that she couldn't stand any more misery, the salt she secreted attracted the tiny biting insects to her eyes. On top of that, her tear-filled eyes couldn't see well enough to do anything about this invasion.

Was Madame Cabochon the type to whine about her excruciatingly uncomfortable predicament? No! But she was most certainly the type to curse-which she did, and with great aplomb. She excoriated the G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of antiquity, she d.a.m.ned the G.o.d of Father Reutner, the monsignor, and Amanda Brown, and she made several references to the devil's abode-all without the slightest twinge of guilt, and none of it did her a bit of good.

Both the handsome police chief, Pierre Jardin, and the handsome monsignor seemed to have slipped off somewhere into the crowd, and although it gave Colette a brief thrill to think that they might have slipped off together, she quickly discarded the thought as highly improbable. Pierre was very much the heteros.e.xual. No doubt the monsignor was heteros.e.xual as well-at least he had been before Rome got its hooks into him. The two were most probably off somewhere "putting fires out." That was an expression that the silly American had used the day before, and Madame Cabochon had rather liked it.

At any rate, without the opportunity to practice the harmless art of mature female flirtation, Madame Cabochon no longer had a reason to stay among the diseased and odiferous native population-although she wasn't the least bit prejudiced-so she walked back to the Missionary Rest House at the bottom of the very steep hill.

As is often the case, going down can be more difficult than going up, and Madame Cabochon's ill-fitting white cotton skirt (which she had had to borrow from Amanda) made several firm acquaintances with the red clay soil of the washed-out road. In addition, she broke two of her fingernails, twisted an ankle ( just a little), and had a stick jam between her big toe and the next due to the fact that she was wearing sandals. Mais oui, Madame Cabochon had every reason to lash out at anyone who crossed her, especially if that someone had been lying around all morning on American-made patio furniture.

"Sacre-coeur!" It was the OP's mouselike wife, and she wasn't stretched out relaxing, she was lying for all the world as if she was prostrate with grief.

The small, dark woman didn't even have the courtesy to turn over and present her face so that she could be comforted efficiently. This further confirmed Madame Cabochon's belief that Madame Faberge was rude and not suited to preside over Belle Vue's white society as its first lady. The woman was no lady; she knew nothing of manners. She lacked style, she found poise offensive, and she didn't even know how to set a proper table-more specifically, she didn't know how to instruct her table boy in this art.

"Madame Faberge," Colette said, "if you do not turn over and look at me, then I shall have to turn you over myself."

Still there was no response, save for the heaving of her small thin shoulders and great sobs that sounded loud, even though the roar of the falls was practically deafening.

Madame Cabochon leaned in closer. "Not only will I turn you over myself, but then I will roll you off this ledge and over the cliff. The giant crocodile at the bottom will gobble you up in two bites. Of course he will spit you up a few seconds later because you are bound to be toxic-given your unpleasant nature-but you'll be dead nonetheless."

Although it was beyond belief, that stupid little troll remained just where she was, except that now she'd curled up in a ball like a hedgehog. Understandably, Madame Cabochon grabbed the fool by her disheveled dark hair and dragged her into Amanda Brown's salon, where she propped the woman up in a cane bottom armchair.

"Tell me," she shouted, "what is wrong with you? I have no patience today for the likes of you-but I am trying to be kind, I really am."

Madame Faberge appeared startled by such honesty. Her swollen eyes blinked rapidly and she nodded.

"I am sorry, madame. It is because-well, Monsieur Faberge has left me."

"Qu'avez-vous dit?"

"He left me. He said that Africa was too crazy for him. He said that because of the war and everything that he has lived through-you know-he just could not take the pressure. It was building up, you see. Now with the bridge destroyed, the mine production will be behind by many months, and it may never catch up before the day set for independence. The Consortium will surely fire him. When that happens, both his career and his reputation will be gone. He said that he may as well quit while he is in control, so that is exactly what he is doing."

"This is very tragic," Madame Cabochon said, trying to sound sympathetic. "I a.s.sume that Amanda Brown has a shortwave radio. And now that the electric power-"

"Non, madame, my husband came to this decision last night. Shortly after you made it to the top of the hill this morning, he also ascended. His plan was to appropriate a bicycle from one of the blacks, and then to take the old road to Luluabourg."

Appropriate? Blacks? This was not going to go well for Monsieur Faberge, the soon-to-be-former OP of Belle Vue. His opinions and behavior aside, the old road was all but abandoned because it was almost a hundred kilometers longer than the new, direct one. Only missionaries dared travel it now, and they believed that they had angels sitting on their shoulders. What remained of the road would be rutted. Monsieur OP's tires would surely suffer multiple punctures, making progress so slow that he would run out of drinking water before covering even a tenth of the distance. Also, big fat poisonous pit vipers liked to sun themselves on dirt roads.

To sum it all up, one way or another, Monsieur Faberge was doomed to further failure. The questions were how and when, but not if it would happen. Of course Madame Cabochon could not share such morbid thoughts with a grieving widow-in-the-making, not even one as unlikable as Madame Faberge.

"Your husband is a resourceful man," Madame Cabochon forced herself to say. "I am sure that he will be just fine."

"Oui? Then I am crying for nothing."

Madame Cabochon perched her shapely rear end on the edge of the dark waif's armchair, given that there was plenty of room. American furniture, even when made in the Congo, was oversize and st.u.r.dy just like its owners.