The Devil in the Bush Read online

  THE DEVIL IN THE BUSH

  Matthew Head

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE Hangman

  CHAPTER TWO André de l’Andréneau

  CHAPTER THREE Gabrielle

  CHAPTER FOUR Mary Finney

  CHAPTER FIVE Dodo

  CHAPTER SIX —or Parties Unknown

  CHAPTER SEVEN How We Ended

  I feel that The Devil in the Bush demands a foreword on the principle that assault is the best defense. Readers who know the Belgian Congo will find inaccuracies in the story; what I want to say is that—so far as I know, of course—the inaccuracies are intentional, and unimportant. For instance, there was no point in referring to half a dozen native tongues when Lingala could be used as a blanket term to cover them all. Also, when phrases in Lingala occur I have invented words, imitating the sounds of that language as I heard it spoken without ever understanding it. My fictional M’buku rebellion was suggested by the actual Kwango rebellion, but is not intended to be a reproduction of it.

  The characters and events in this story are as fictional as the characters and events in any story can be, with the exception of the houseboy I have called Albert. Albert is a composite of the Messrs. N’kodio Albert and M’fanza André, who delighted and cared for me during eight months in the Congo. I don’t think they would mind my writing them up.

  I am fond enough of this story to give it a dedication, and although it might appropriately be given to Jimmy and Julia, to Tom and Al, to the LaCostes or the Guy de Brabandères or to Frederick Hendrickx and the other people at Ineac-Mulungu, this book really belongs

  TO KATHERINE.

  M.H.

  Southwest Pacific

  February 5, 1945

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hangman

  THAT WAS A WONDERFUL JOB I had in 1943. That was a war year of course, and it was a war job, but this isn’t a war story. It’s the story of the murders at the Congo-Ruzi station. I was twenty-eight years old, and while I had done a lot of the usual summer travel that all University people do, I had never worked in a foreign country before, much less even been along the equator. My inspection of the Congo-Ruzi station was the littlest part of my job, but what happened to me personally because of going there was the biggest thing that happened to me during all the time I spent in the Congo. I can’t give it a fancy telling but I can set down what happened.

  I suppose the story really begins the first day of July in the commercial car on the way to Bafwali, because that was when I decided that when we got to Bafwali I would get out and see the town instead of taking the afternoon off to rest, the way the other passengers always did. There were nine of us in the car, including the native driver. I was in a jump-seat, no leg room, but it was all right with me because I could look out and watch the jungle go by—the bush they call it, not the jungle, but it’s jungle all the same. In that part of the country the natives still wear feathers and carry spears. Some of them were smeared with white paint and all of them were tattooed in patterns of welts all over their bodies. The old women trotted along the roads bent half double under loads of wood, their razor-strop breasts hanging and swaying. When they heard the car coming they would scramble into the ditch by the side of the road and press themselves into the thick green edge of the bush while we went past. There were young girls, too, with breasts like hard cones, with purplish nipples as big as eggs, and long shiny spindly legs ending in sharp buttocks that stuck straight out behind. Then all of a sudden we would come out of the green bush into hot dry savannah country, and there wouldn’t be any more natives, but from time to time we would see a herd of antelopes bounding off through the high grass, and once, far off, there was a herd, or school, or tribe, or whatever you would call it, of baboons.

  All of us in the car were hot and tired and sweaty and becoming unbearable to one another. We had been driving for three days, from Stanleyville. With my government priorities I could have gone by plane, and I had done it as far as Stanleyville, but I wanted to go the rest of the way by car to see more of the country. I was the only one in the car who gave a damn about it. The rest of the passengers were hardened Congolese and all they wanted was to forget they were in Africa. In the front seat beside the driver was a young Belgian mother with two little girls, about six and eight. The little girls would chatter along in Lingala until their mother noticed it, then she would give them a careless, habitual slap and they would go into French. But pretty soon they would lapse back into Lingala again and when their mother noticed it she would give them another slap. I was glad when we got to Bafwali.

  The meal at the rest house was worse than anything Stanley or Livingstone had ever had to eat, and my bed was hard and the straw in the mattress smelled moldy. The mosquito net had big holes in it and I knew I was going to be eaten alive that night. I only lay down long enough to smoke one cigarette, then I got up and went out to see the town. Bafwali has the reputation for being a pleasant town, but it’s all relative, and what they mean must be that it is possible to sustain life in Bafwali without being in actual pain twenty-four hours a day. The site was pretty enough, with low hills rolling away on every side, and here and there you could see houses where you could tell some kind of decent life was led. But the town was all sprawled out and I soon got tired of the occasional houses and the occasional native stores typical of hundreds of other native stores I had seen, smelling of cheap cotton prints and dried salt fish. When I saw the Airways house open, I went in to cool off and rest up.

  There were planes the first and fifteenth of every month shuttling between the eastern and western borders of the Congo and using Bafwali for refueling and an overnight rest for the passengers. This little Airways house had a few bedrooms and a little lounge and bar. When I came into the room there were three people in it—a soiled-looking man over in one corner with a bottle of whisky and a glass, a pleasant-looking woman wiping off the bar with a wet rag, and a native boy swatting flies in between periods of falling asleep on his feet.

  I liked the woman behind the bar right away because I associated her with the idea of cold beer, and then because she actually produced it. Congo beer isn’t bad, and the Airways house had not only a kerosene refrigerator and kerosene, but the wicks to operate with, too. With things all fouled up by the war, they hardly ever managed to get all three of them together at once. The beer was icy cold and I had two bottles and began to have the illusion of getting cooler.

  The woman thought I was English, and I let it pass, because I was tired of explaining that I was American and then explaining why I was in the Congo. The place is full of Britishers, but Americans are rare and you get tired of being a novelty.

  The woman asked how I liked Bafwali and I told her it was a charming spot.

  She laughed and said, “Of course it isn’t, but it’s nice of you to say so. Do you want another beer?”

  I asked her to split my third beer with me and she was pleased as anything. I said, “I thought if there was a native village nearby, I’d go see if I could find some bilokos —curios.”

  “It’s three kilometers and no taxi,” she said. “Anyway, there’s nothing you’d like, just a few ivory carvers, very indigène, very native.”

  I said that was just what I liked, and got into trying to explain that the more successfully the natives imitated European styles the worse their work got, and that their own authentic stuff wasn’t crude and ugly, the way it looks to most people, but expressive and so forth and so on, but she couldn’t get it. Her own little bar and lounge was decorated with a couple of bad Europeanized ebony carvings of elephants, a celluloid plaque of a pretty girl’s profile facing another of a pretty boy’s profile, a large plaster cast of
a spotted bulldog like the ones we used to get by rolling balls at the state fair, and three pictures: a large brown one of King Léopold and Queen Astrid, a small gray one of the Pope, and a hell of a big bright-colored one of Franklin D. Roosevelt, compliments of the OWl. I looked these over, especially the plaster bulldog, and dropped the discussion of native art, but I still wanted to see what the ivory carvers had to offer. It was hard to find anything really good unless you got into the villages off the roads, but now and then something would turn up in a place like Bafwali. Anything was worth trying so I made her give me directions how to walk to the village.

  She gave them to me, but she didn’t approve.

  “Monsieur will get a coup-de-bamboo,” she fussed—a light sunstroke that leaves you a little bit daffy.

  “Never mind,” I said. But she didn’t like it. She was shaking her head and worrying as I went out.

  I never did get to the village.

  I got as far as the post office where I was supposed to turn, and I could see the village a mile or so around the corner, wriggling in the heat, and not a tree in between me and it. There was nobody in sight but a native policeman in blue dungaree shorts and a red fez, standing in front of the post office with his arms folded, staring at me. It was so hot that I began to lose my nerve, and when I looked back in the direction of the Airways house I saw a cloud of dust approaching me, a cloud of dust with a black center that showed up in a minute as a bicycle and rider.

  It was the soiled-looking man who had been sitting in the corner with the bottle. He came up to me and braked it hard, and stood there holding his bicycle. He smelled of sweat, dust, and whisky, and his shirt was unbuttoned to his waist, showing a scorched chest with some coarse curling hair on it, a few gray ones here and there. He had a long face with a big thin beaked nose that slanted off to one side, and his eyebrows were peaked up in the centers in a theatrical way. He looked around forty or forty-five. With a few minor changes and a little less alcoholic history lined into it, it could have been a good face. As it was, it didn’t look like the face of much of a man.

  My French was good enough so that I didn’t usually have any trouble, but he began talking so fast that I couldn’t get what he was saying. But he must have introduced himself because he stuck out his hand and stopped talking and smiled and waited, still smiling. His teeth were stained, but big and strong.

  I took the hand and introduced myself. “Hooper Taliaferro,” I said. “Enchanté.” He claimed he was enchanted too, and called to the policeman. The policeman came over on the double and stood at rigid attention while my bicyclist scolded at him in Lingala. He was one of those people who always address a native as if they were ready to rip him to pieces. It seemed to work but I never could learn to do it. Anyhow this policeman gave my bicyclist a snappy salute and then turned to me and gave another, and then about-faced and started off at a jog-trot down the road to the village.

  The man said: “Now that’s all arranged, and no coup-de-bamboo.” He was more than half drunk but you could tell he was used to it. As he talked on I understood him better. The woman back of the bar had sent him chasing after me and now I was to go with him to his house and wait while the policeman rounded up all the ivory carvers and brought them back to us.

  He prattled on as we went back the way I had come, past the Airways house, while he wheeled his bicycle. Yes, I was right about native art, no, you couldn’t find much good stuff any more. These missionaries (pfui!) burned all the good ceremonial things they ran across and then perverted native talents and so forth and so on. It was a pleasure to find someone who appreciated authentic native stuff, and so on. And he had a collection at his house that I would really enjoy seeing while we waited for the ivory carvers.

  We walked ten minutes or so before we turned along a rutty lane up to a small house. It was of rock, and old, only a couple of rooms long and a couple deep. There had been a garden but it was waist high in weeds, with a few bushes rising up and throwing out some common red and yellow flowers. The rutty lane turned into a short, nicely laid flagstone walk, also becoming overgrown, up to the front door.

  “My home,” he said as we reached the step. He gave a drunken and elaborate gesture. “Enter!” he said, and opened the door.

  I entered, into a small hallway that gave off on either side into two rooms, both of them with the same dirty floors, stone, littered with crumpled paper, cigarette butts, some sawdust, and the short sawed-off ends of boards. There was no furniture, only a lot of wooden boxes nailed shut and piled around at random. In the room we went into there was a blind, desolate fireplace and overmantel stuck against the wall, one of those despairing suggestions of European life that the Congolese stick into their houses. On the overmantel there was a bottle of whisky, with a dirty glass, a hammer, and a handful of nails. There was nothing else in the room but the miscellaneous trash you’d expect in such a place—an old stained and curling magazine, a broken lamp shade—things like that, lying in corners with the other litter.

  My friend crossed over and filled the dirty glass half full of whisky and handed it to me. For himself he picked up the bottle. We sat down on a couple of the packing cases. I was already feeling a little bit uncomfortable because I figured it would take the ivory carvers at least an hour-and-a-half to get there, and if my host got any drunker he was going to be a bore of one kind or another for sure.

  He took a long drink from the bottle, and when he threw his head back I noticed the scar under his chin, a couple of inches long, an old scar but a big one, easy to see, slick and white, surrounded by the stubbly growth of whiskers. He set the bottle down. “Now,” he said, “we will have an exhibition.” He picked up the hammer and went over to one of the boxes.

  In a minute he had the top off. I could see the long flat objects rolled in newspaper. He picked one up, unrolled it, and let the paper fall to the floor, and came over to me with the thing supported on the palms of both hands. It was a long swordlike blade about two or three inches wide, curving a little bit and ornamented along its dull edge with a hammered geometrical design. The end of the blade broke into three snakelike prongs, each one writhing to a point. It was a mean looking thing, and a beauty.

  “Really indigène,” he said, “really native, authentic, and old.”

  He laid it across my lap and began bringing out others. They were museum stuff, some with skin-covered handles and a few with carved ivory ones.

  “Beheading swords,” he said.

  He ripped open another box. This one was full of knives too, but smaller ones. He handed me one in an iguana sheath and I pulled out a blade about eight inches long. But it wasn’t the blade, it was the handle that was the wonder. It was just the size to fit a man’s fist, and the ivory was so old that it had turned the deep golden brown of strong honey. Most people would have called it ugly, but anybody could have told it was the figure of an adolescent boy. It was all there—the head a little oversized still, the awkward hands and feet, and the bony joints, the shoulders and chest still narrow and flattish. The belly stuck out in a great balloon, the way all native kids’ bellies do, and the umbilical hernia that you find in half of them stuck out on top of that. The rudimentary genitalia still had the dangling foreskin which is not circumcised until the boy undergoes his initiation into the tribe and official manhood. “Turn it over,” he said.

  Instead of the reverse of the boy’s figure, there was the boy turned into a man. The chest was deeper, the knees weren’t knobby any more, the belly had contracted, and there were lumpy muscles in the arms and legs. The whole body was patterned with tiny gashes to represent full tribal tattoo, and now the phallus was grotesquely enlarged over bull-like glands, and prominently circumcised. All the darkness and terror and pride of tribal initiation came to you when you looked at the two figures, the boy turned into a man after a day of torture and celebration. The ivory must have been well over a hundred years old. You thought of the witch doctors who had wielded the knife, and of the hundreds of bla
ck boys who had gritted their teeth under it.

  “You like that?” the man asked me.

  I tried to tell him how much.

  “Then take it,” he said.

  He was drunker than I had thought. The knife was worth money, for one thing, but for another you just don’t give away a prize piece from your collection that way. I knew I was going to say I couldn’t take it but that I was going to take it if he gave me another chance.

  “Take it, take it,” he said, waving a hand. “You appreciate these things. Take it back to England and see if your silly English portraits can stand up against it. Go ahead, take it.” And it was true; that knife made the Blue Boy look like milk and water.

  I put the blade back in the sheath and slipped it under my belt. It was a thrill to know it was mine, and I kept my hand on it.

  He ripped open a third box. There was a jumble of odds and ends inside. He pushed around in them until he found what he wanted, then pulled it out roughly so that the things on top of it clattered onto the floor. What he had now was nothing but a big coil of heavy rope.

  Nothing, except that when he held it in front of me, proudly, he unrolled it enough to show me the end of it tied in a hangman’s knot. “With this I hanged a man,” he said. I had the embarrassed feeling you get when somebody tells you stories about themselves that they expect you to believe, and you can’t. He showed me how easily the knot slipped back and forth and made me give it a few pushes. “Very fine,” I said.

  He looked at the rope with enthusiasm. “It was only a native,” he said, “but still I can say I hanged a man. Nobody else would do it. Murder is a rare crime among the natives, very rare, and then usually only in the big towns, not in our little places out here. And this was a white man who was murdered—the sub-administrator in M’buku. Not much of a man, not much of an administrator. He wouldn’t be, in a hole like M’buku, but after all he was a white man. You’ve heard of the M’buku rebellion.”