The Boy Who Stole The Leopard's Spots Part 5

"Father," she said, grabbing the sleeve of his ca.s.sock 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 monsignor, 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 cla.s.srooms, 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 While he wasn't dressed in pajamas or a nightdress as she half expected, the monsignor's more formal black robes had been replaced by a simple white cotton ca.s.sock. 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 rus.h.i.+ng to her cheeks as she curtsied so low that she came within a st.i.tch of splitting the back seam on her new pencil sheath dress (said to be all the rage in Brussels that year).

"Forgive me, Monsignor," she said. "I trust that I did not wake you."

"You are forgiven, madame, for indeed you did."

Ooh la la. The man was not making this easy. However, he was still a man-and a virile one at that. Madame Cabochon had a knack for smelling things as arcane as a man's s.e.x drive. Some very young, muscular boys she'd dated had scored a zero in that department, whereas one very scrawny bookish type she'd met on a trip to the Left Bank in Paris had made her bells chime like a Mozart concerto played on a carillon. And just because a man wore the collar didn't mean he didn't give off that certain smell. That smell wasn't something one's vows could eradicate.

"You do not attend matins?"

He smiled sleepily. "It should surprise me if this was your business."

Madame Cabochon recoiled at his bluntness. By now, surely, there was no point for her to state the purpose of her visit.

"Again, I apologize. I will see myself out, Monsignor." She backed away, head down, and was about to turn when he said her name.

"Colette?"

"Naughty Boy Albert?"

"Ah, it is you! Little Colette Underpants from Stanleyville."

Madame Cabochon alternated between laughing and gasping. "I can't-uh-believe it. Naughty Boy Albert, the boy who made me play the Underpants Game every time I visited my cousins in Belle Vue."

"Oui, but it was your cousins who taught me the game. How old were we, four? Five at most?"

"Six," she said, "Albert-may I call you that?"

"I insist."

"This is unbelievable! How did you recognize me?"

"Father Reutner said that you were living here. He described you for me; I must say, his description did not do you justice."

"That comes as no surprise to me. And of course I knew that a Monsignor Clemente had come to visit, but I had no idea that it was the naughty little boy who lived up the street from Cousins Jacques and Marie. You know, back then I never even knew your last name. Twenty years later, and just look what happened to you! You're all grown up."

He laughed. "Funny, Colette, how twenty years for you somehow became forty-five years for me."

"It could be that you're just hopelessly bad at math. Although I must say that you're very good at remembering names. Surely I've changed a bit since you saw me last." She couldn't resist two more tugs on the kelly green blouse.

"One could not exaggerate the difference."

"Does it please you?"

"Colette, I too have changed. I've taken the vow of celibacy: I am no longer Naughty Boy Albert." At least he had the decency to wink as he said this.

"Of course, Monsignor, I was only joking. Life is very boring here, as I'm sure you must remember."

His dark eyes twinkled. "I seriously doubt that life anywhere within one hundred kilometers of you is boring. Madame, I was there at the scene of the monstrous snake. I watched as you stood up to that tyrant with all the bravery of a resistance fighter. I can only imagine what you must be like the rest of the time with all that s.p.u.n.k-that energy. May I be so bold as to say: your husband is a lucky man?"

Mon Dieu! The man of G.o.d might not intend to do so, but he was igniting some very dry, flammable kindling. Very well, she would continue with her mission, and let his Boss sort it out! But first she had a thing or too on her mind that needed to be aired.

"You were pretty brave yourself," she said. "Maybe too brave."

"How is that?"

"Well, you've been gone a long time; you've missed out on a lot. The rate things have been heating up-young men like that mean what they say. Some of them really are out for blood. I can smell it in the air. It isn't even 1959 yet, and already some whites with young families are sending their children back to Belgium. By the end of next year there will be a full-blown exodus; just wait and see. Oh-but you won't be here, will you?"

"Colette, my superiors-"

"Oui, the fat old men in Rome in orange capes; what do they care about some poor Belgian housewife living in the heart of darkest Africa? Perhaps if we s.h.i.+pped them some altar boys-"

"Enough!" he said.

His sharp tone surprised her. "Bon. Believe it or not, the purpose of this visit was not to offend you. I am here to invite you to our home-that of Monsieur Cabochon and myself-for a dinner party Sat.u.r.day night at eight P.M. I realize that you have your own chauffeur with you, but to minimize the scandal on your part, I will send my chauffeur to pick you up at half past seven."

He said nothing, merely regarded her under long dark lashes. Those lashes would be the envy of any woman.

"There will be plenty of other people there," she added, "so you needn't worry. But our cook is fairly new, so I can't promise about the food. However, I a.s.sure you that the conversation will be absolutely scintillating."

"Wonderful. Does this mean then that the American will be there?"

"Pardonnez-moi?"

"I could not miss seeing her at the great muma event-she with the native woman in the wheelbarrow. Tell me, Colette, do you still remember your Ts.h.i.+luba?"

"It was never my language," she snapped. "I was only visiting my cousins. But yes, I speak it now."

He merely smiled; it was the irritatingly benevolent smile of a man who had mastered his emotions. Self-righteous smugness, that's what it really was.

"Have you even met the American?" she asked.

"Oui. Like you, she is an accomplished linguist-altogether a very intelligent young woman. Colette, on the surface the two of you are very different; but I think that if you gave each other half a chance, you would find that you really have a lot in common. Who knows, you could even become fast friends."

Madame Cabochon felt like retching. How could Monsignor Clemente, aka Naughty Boy Albert, compare Belle Vue's most brilliantly colored sunbird, one with iridescent feathers, to a common house sparrow? An American house sparrow?

"I don't think that the American would feel comfortable at my dinner party. I will be serving alcohol, and people will be smoking. To the Protestants those are both evil things."

"Hmm. Well, I shall have to have a talk with whoever pa.s.ses as their pope. Perhaps I can get her special dispensation-Protestant style."

"She can come," Madame Cabochon said. She turned and left the rectory without as much as inclining her head. Naughty Boy Albert be d.a.m.ned.

The suicide month was not a popular time to vacation at the Missionary Rest House. Topographically speaking, Belle Vue was not situated high enough to provide relief from the humidity, which, combined with the temperature, made it feel like you were breathing through a hot wet washcloth. As a consequence, Amanda Brown was without any guests for the first time since her arrival in the Belgian Congo three months ago. This gave her the luxury of taking her meals when she pleased; it did not, however, guarantee that she could eat undisturbed.

"Mamu Ugly Eyes," a male voice said, "may I at last get your attention?"

Amanda looked up from a July issue of the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post. It was one that she had brought with her and that had miraculously managed to survive the plane crash that was her introduction to this diamond-producing town. She read it now not for information, or to be entertained, but for the connection to home as she scanned the familiar words.

"Protruding Navel," she said to her head housekeeper with remarkable patience, "why did you not simply say 'Excusez mois,' like the other houseboys in Bell Vue? I do not possess eyes in the top of my head."

He snorted. "Mamu, I am the son of a chief, and you are but a woman. It is you who must take into account my presence and inquire as to my purpose for standing here."

"I see. Very well. In my country, the men are also in charge. They are the chiefs and in most cases their wives are told to obey them."

He nodded with apparent approval.

"Of course then a silly woman like me knows nothing about money. Therefore I am afraid, Protruding Navel, that before I can pay your salary I must write off to America and make arrangements for a man to give me specific instructions. After all, I would hate to make a mistake. At any rate, it may take a couple of months; I thought you might like to know this."

Amanda had often heard the expression "like a deer caught in the headlights," and now she knew exactly what it meant. Was she lying to Protruding Navel? Perhaps-although she preferred to think of it as misleading; anyway, it was to make a point.

"Mamu Ugly Eyes," he said quickly, "there is someone at the door who wishes to see you."

"Oh? Why did you not say so?"

"Because you did not ask."

"Who is it?"

"A man."

"What sort of man?"

"It is the Bula Matadi, Mamu."

The man in question was the Rock Breaker-the white police captain, the handsome young Belgian whom Amanda was sweet on. Just the mention of him sent a tingle of pleasure running up the young woman's spine.

She glanced at her image in what remained of her coffee: unfortunately, the inky liquid was not a flattering reflector. Where did those jowls come from? And how long had she had that pimple on her forehead? It was the humidity that was to blame. In South Carolina, even in the height of the summer, she had never experienced anything like this.

"Show him in," she said. "And then please bring another plate."

But when Pierre strode in a moment later, he refused to sit. Neither did he kiss Amanda-not even on the cheek. Well, that would certainly have been career suicide if he had, but still, a girl can always dream. After all, a Belgian girl would-a Belgian woman would surely have been kissed. Why must missionaries-Protestant missionaries in particular-always be so proper? Yes, Protruding Navel would have gossiped like n.o.body's business, but what would the harm have been in that?

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Brown," he said and shook her hand. A handshake? Ugh!

"Bonjour, Capitaine," she enunciated crisply.

He scanned the room in all the directions, including both open doorways and what lay beyond. Then he waited.

"Protruding Navel," Amanda called. "Please bring some coffee and a croissant for Captain Jardin."

A loud snicker was heard from the short hallway that led to the kitchen. Protruding Navel stepped from the shadows where he had hidden, pressed up against the wall.

"Mamu, you know very well that there are no croissants to be found in this American palace. From you one often hears the complaint that this silly variety of French bread is too messy, too messy even to be eaten in a pig's house. Is this not the truth?"

Amanda could feel the color rush to her cheeks. "That will be quite enough," she said. "You are dismissed. Now please go outside and gather fallen mangoes."

"Ts.h.i.+nyi?"

"You heard; now go."

"Tch," he said, but he sauntered off.

"Now please, Pierre," Amanda said, "don't keep me waiting a second longer. What is it? Is it news from home? What brings you here so early?"

Pierre scooped up Amanda's slender hands and held them between his. "There was a murder in the village last night," he said.

Amanda gasped softly.

Chapter 11.

The Belgian Congo, 1935 The chief held his ceremonial staff in the air, signaling silence. The wood was smooth and dark from generations of hands and hearth fires; it was impossible now to tell the type of tree from which it had come. From the top of the pole dangled the skull of a rhesus monkey, the flowing black-and-white tail of a colobus monkey, and a cl.u.s.ter of porcupine quills. A topknot of bright red feathers from the tail of an African gray parrot had been glued to the tip of the rod, just for show.

Immediately the men fell silent; it is quite possible even that some were afraid that ill fortune might befall them next. For at a feast such as this, where one man falls upon the other, only the fool would not be so dull as to think that he was entirely safe from mischief.

Chapter 12.