Forest of the Pygmies (24 page)

By contrast, the tiny man in the opposite corner was a dwarf; he barely came to the gigantic Mbembelé's waist. There was nothing beautiful about his out-of-pro-portion limbs and torso, or his flat-nosed face and shortened forehead . . . only the courage and intelligence gleaming in his eyes. He had removed his filthy yellow T-shirt, and he, too, was practically naked and slathered with oil. Around his neck hung a piece of rock on a cord: Alexander's magic dragon dropping.

“A friend of mine named Tensing, who knows more about the art of wrestling than anyone I know, told me that the enemy's strength is also his weakness,” Alexander explained to Beyé-Dokou.

“What does that mean?” the Pygmy asked.

“Mbembelé's strength is in his size and his weight. He's like a buffalo, nothing but muscle. Since he weighs so much, he's clumsy and he tires quickly. Besides that, he's arrogant; he isn't accustomed to being challenged. It's been many years since he had to hunt or fight. You are at your best form.”

“And I have this,” Beyé-Dokou added, stroking the amulet.

“More important that that, my friend,” Alexander replied, “is that you are fighting for your life and for the lives of your family. Mbembelé is fighting for pleasure. He's a killer, and like all killers, he's a coward.”

Jena, Beyé-Dokou's wife, went to her husband, gave him a brief hug, and said a few words into his ear. At that instant the drums announced the beginning of the fight.

Around the square lit by torches and moonlight stood the soldiers of the Brotherhood of the Leopard, holding their rifles. Bantu guards made up the second file, and pushing against them were the villagers of Ngoubé, all in a dangerous state of agitation. On orders from Kate, who was not going to lose an opportunity to write a fabulous article for
International Geographic
, Joel was preparing to photograph the event.

Brother Fernando cleaned off his glasses and took off his shirt. His slim, wiry, ascetic's body was a sickly white. Wearing only pants and boots, he was ready to referee, even though he had little hope that he could enforce basic rules of any sort. He realized that he was dealing with a fight to the death, and his deepest desire was to prevent that from happening. He kissed the scapulary around his neck and put his faith in God.

A roar issued from Mbembelé's gut as he lunged forward, making the ground tremble with his footsteps. Beyé-Dokou waited for him, motionless, silent, in exactly his attitude during the hunt: alert, but calm. One of the giant's fists flashed like a cannonball toward the face of the Pygmy, who avoided it by a fraction of an inch. The commandant stumbled past him but immediately recovered his balance. He swung a second time. Again his opponent was not where he had expected, but behind him. These evasions made him furious; he attacked like a crazed beast, but none of his blows touched Beyé-Dokou, who was dancing around the edges of the ring. Every time the giant swung, the Pygmy dodged.

To reach his opponent's squat figure, Mbembelé had to lean down in an uncomfortable stance that drained strength from his arms. If he had landed a single one of his punches, he would have split Beyé-Dokou's head wipe open. He never touched his target, however, because the Pygmy was quick as a gazelle and slippery as a fish. Soon the commandant was panting and blinded by the sweat dripping into his eyes. He concluded that he was going to have to pace himself; he wasn't going to defeat the little man in a single round, as he had thought. Brother Fernando called for a pause, and the husky Mbembelé immediately obeyed, retiring to his corner, where a bucket of water was waiting for him to quench his thirst and wash off the sweat.

Alexander was acting as second for Beyé-Dokou, who danced over to his corner with a wide smile, as if this were a festival. That maddened the commandant, who was watching from across the ring, struggling to get his breath. Beyé-Dokou didn't appear to be thirsty, but he allowed Alex to pour water over his head.

“Your amulet really is magic, the greatest magic there is after Ipemba-Afua,” he said with great satisfaction.

“Mbembelé is built like the trunk of a tree; it's difficult for him to bend from the waist, and that's why he doesn't swing downward very well,” Alexander explained. “You're doing great, Beyé-Dokou, but you
have to tire him even more.”

“I know that. He is like the elephant. How can you hunt the elephant if you do not first tire him?”

Alexander felt that the time-out was too short, but Beyé-Dokou was jumping with impatience, and as soon as Brother Fernando gave the signal he bounced to the center of the ring, hopping around like a child. That was a provocation Mbembelé could not let pass. He forgot his resolution to pace himself and roared forward like a truck in high gear. Of course the Pygmy evaded him, and his momentum drove him outside the ring.

Brother Fernando waved his arms vigorously, signaling that he should get back inside the boundaries marked with lime. Mbembelé turned on him, ready to make this insect pay for the impertinence of ordering him around, but a loud protest from all the villagers stopped him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing! Never, not in his worst nightmares, had the thought passed through his mind that someone would dare contradict him. He couldn't, however, give himself the pleasure of thinking of ways to punish such insolence, for Beyé-Dokou was urging him back into the ring by kicking one of his legs from behind. It was the first contact between them. That little monkey had touched him!
Him!
Commandant Maurice Mbembelé! He swore he would rip him to bits and eat the pieces. That would teach those ridiculous Pygmies a lesson.

Any pretense of following the rules of a clean game disappeared in that instant, and Mbembelé lost control completely. He shoved Brother Fernando out of the way and rushed toward Beyé-Dokou, who suddenly dropped to the ground. Pulling himself into a nearly fetal position, supporting his body on his buttocks, the Pygmy began kicking, landing blow after blow on the giant's legs. For his part, the commandant tried to hit down at him, but Beyé-Dokou was whirling like a top, rolling nimbly to the sides of the ring, making it impossible to catch him. He watched for Mbembelé to pull one foot back to boot him out of the ring, and with all his strength kicked the leg supporting the giant. The enormous human tower of the commandant fell backward. He lay on his back like a cockroach, unable to get up.

By then Brother Fernando had recovered from being shoved aside, had wiped clean his thick eyeglasses, and was again right on top of the battlers. His voice rose above the uproarious shouting of the spectators to proclaim the victor. Alexander jumped into the ring and raised Beyé-Dokou's arm high, shouting with jubilation and echoed by the onlookers—except for the soldiers of the Brotherhood of the Leopard, who had not recovered from their shock.

The village of Ngoubé had never witnessed such a fantastic spectacle. Frankly, by now very few could remember the reason for the contest; they were too excited about the unimaginable fact that the Pygmy had vanquished the giant. That story was instantly part of the legend of the forest; they would tell it for generations to come. Whenever a tree falls, everyone is instantly ready to make firewood. This was the case with Mbembelé, who minutes before was thought to be a demigod. It was an occasion for celebration. The drums began to sound with wild enthusiasm, and the Bantus sang and danced, unconcerned that in those few minutes they had lost their slaves, and that the future was unclear.

The Pygmies slipped between the legs of the guards and the soldiers, swarmed into the ring, and lifted Beyé-Dokou upon their shoulders. During this outburst of collective euphoria, Commandant Mbembelé had succeeded in getting to his feet. He grabbed a machete from one of the guards and rushed toward the group triumphantly parading Beyé-Dokou who, now atop the shoulders of his companions, was as tall as the commandant.

No one could ever describe what happened next. Some said that the machete slipped from the commandant's oiled and sweaty fingers. Others swore that the blade stopped magically in the air an inch from Beyé-Dokou's neck and then flew through the air as if whirled away by a hurricane. Whatever the cause, the fact is that the crowd was immobilized, and Mbembelé, seized by superstitious terror, whipped a knife from another guard and hurled it at his opponent. His aim was off, however, because Joel had run up to shoot a photograph and blinded him with the flash.

At that point Commandant Mbembelé ordered his soldiers to fire upon the Pygmies. Everyone scattered, screaming. Women pulled their children away, old people tripped in their haste, dogs fled, hens flapped in circles, and finally no one was left but the Pygmies, the soldiers, and the guards, who couldn't decide
whose side to take. Kate and Angie ran to protect the screaming Pygmy children, who were huddled around the two grandmothers' feet like pups. Joel dove beneath the table that held the feast for the nuptial banquet and blindly shot photographs in every direction. Brother Fernando and Alexander placed themselves with outspread arms in front of the Pygmies, protecting them with their bodies.

Perhaps some of the soldiers tried to shoot and found that their weapons were disabled. Maybe others, disgusted at the cowardice of the chief they had until then respected, refused to obey. In either case, not a single bullet was fired. One instant later, each of the ten soldiers of the Brotherhood of the Leopard felt the tip of a spear against his throat: The quiet Pygmy women had swung into action.

Mbembelé, blind with rage, saw nothing of this. All that registered was that his orders had been ignored. He drew his pistol from his waist, aimed at Beyé-Dokou, and fired. He didn't know that the bullet missed the target, deflected by the magical power of the amulet, because before he could get off a second shot an animal he had never seen, an enormous black cat, leaped upon him; it had the speed and fierceness of a leopard and the yellow eyes of a panther.

E
VERYONE WHO WATCHED THE YOUNG
foreigner's transformation into a black feline realized that this was the most amazing night of their lives. Their language lacked words to recount such marvels; they did not even have a name for that unfamiliar animal, a great black cat that roared as it charged the commandant. The beast's hot breath struck Mbembelé in the face, and its claws dug into his shoulders. He could have killed the feline with one shot, but he was paralyzed with terror; he realized he had encountered a supernatural beast, a wondrous feat of witchcraft. He escaped the jaguar's lethal embrace by pummeling it with both fists and ran desperately toward the forest, followed by the beast. Both disappeared into the darkness, leaving witnesses stunned by what they had seen.

All the Bantus of Ngoubé, along with the Pygmies, lived a magical reality, surrounded with spirits, always fearful of violating a taboo or committing an offense that might unleash hidden forces. They believed that illnesses were caused by sorcery and could, therefore, be cured in the same way, that they should never hunt or travel without first performing a ceremony to placate the gods, that the night is peopled with demons and the day with ghosts, and that the dead turn into flesh eaters. To them the physical world was very mysterious, and life itself a kind of spell. They had seen—or they believed they had seen—many examples of witchcraft, and therefore did not think it impossible that a person could turn into a beast. There were two explanations: Alexander was a very powerful sorcerer, or else he was the spirit of an animal that had temporarily taken the form of a human.

The transformation was quite a different matter for Brother Fernando, who was standing close to Alexander when he metamorphosed into his totemic animal. The missionary, who prided himself on being a rational European, a person of education and culture, saw what happened, but his mind couldn't accept it. He removed his eyeglasses and wiped them against his trousers. “I definitely have to change these lenses,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. There were explanations for Alexander's having disappeared at the same instant the enormous cat appeared out of nowhere: It was night, there was tremendous confusion in the square, the light of the torches was untrustworthy, and he himself was in a very emotional state. He didn't have time to waste in futile conjectures; he decided. There was too much to do. The Pygmies—men and women—had the soldiers at the tips of their spears or immobilized in their nets; the Bantu guards were vacillating between throwing down their weapons and going to the aid of their chiefs; the people of Ngoubé were near rebelling; and there was a climate of hysteria that could degenerate into a massacre if the guards decided to help Mbembelé's soldiers.

Alexander returned a few minutes later. Only the strange expression on his face, the incandescent eyes and menacing teeth, indicated his recent pursuits. An excited Kate ran to meet him

“Alex! Alex! You'll never believe what happened! A black panther attacked Mbembelé. I hope he gobbled him up; it's the least he deserves.”