“The girls you may address as ‘Tee-Tee,’” Cecily informed me as she carefully picked lemons from a pile and placed them in a cloth bag held open by her cook, who had accompanied us this day. “A young woman is ‘Seester.’ But all women of a certain age should be addressed as ‘Mammy.’ Do not ask their given name. They will be offended. ‘Missus’ is tolerated, but ‘Mammy’ is best.”
The few men who wandered the market were much stranger to my eye, not as clean as the women and affecting costumes and adornments I found quite grotesque. Some had plucked out every hair on their heads, including their beards and whiskers and even their eyebrows. Others bore great scars on their faces from the roots of their noses, spreading out over cheeks and chins and foreheads. As I had seen at the dock, some scarifications extended over great swaths of their shoulders or backs or chests. There were raised dots, stars, and even a man with what looked like writing on his belly. They wore pieces of wood in their earlobes and even lumps of fat as earrings and hairdressings.
As I looked around me it was as though I had been transported to one of Jules Verne’s other worlds—it was that contrary to all I had known. None of my father’s stories, Captain Kelly’s, or even Mary Kingsley’s books had prepared me for the shock of Africa.
“Poor Monsieur D’Arnot,” Cecily offered, apropos of nothing as she led the way on foot to her favorite seller of yams.
“Why is he so sad?” I asked my new friend. “And why does everyone hate him? I find him a most congenial fellow.”
“He is that. I have great affection for Paul D’Arnot myself. There is a gentleness about him. He has an extraordinary talent for the Gabonese languages—the best of any man in Congo Français. But he broke the unbreakable rule. He married a native woman.”
“Married? He did not take her for a mistress?” I was aware that virtually every married or unmarried European man in Africa (save Monsieur Fournier, of course) had a Negro lover, or a string of them.
Cecily’s eyes grew soft remembering the sad story of Paul D’Arnot. His housekeeper had brought him back from the brink of death from a fever with no thought of her own well-being and no promise of reward. When D’Arnot had recovered, he was a changed man. Shortly thereafter he’d announced his intention to marry the woman in the Catholic church. Sadly, her tribe was not fond of Europeans, believed them interlopers in their lands. So while all at the consulate repudiated D’Arnot for such a ridiculous act as marrying a native, her family, too, was incensed. They’d insisted she leave him, and when she refused they came at her with their bad juju sticks and curses. Every night they’d stood outside D’Arnot’s house, chanting and praying for her death, and his. Finally she’d sickened and died.”
“She
died
? Of a curse?” I was deeply stricken by the story.
“Very sad, that. But D’Arnot’s troubles were far from over. By then the wicked Belgians had come with their pleadings and demands. Their trade routes and maps of the interior of Gabon with vast white tracts of ‘no-man’s-land’ they wished to survey.”
“Monsieur D’Arnot told me the government disallowed all those plans,” I told Cecily. “I saw with my own eyes that, to this day, the French government
refuses
the Belgians.”
“All is not what it seems, my dear. To the undiscerning eye, Leopold is spurned by the French. There are men like D’Arnot who wish to protect the native lands and peoples from scum like the king of Belgium. But there are others, officials with far fewer scruples, and
their
palms are outstretched under the table. Some of these officials were in places of great influence at the consulate and saw to it that D’Arnot, a troublemaker and a laughingstock who had married a Negress, was relieved of his posting.”
I was speechless with outrage and heartbreak for the man.
“As you can see, he has not thrived. He is very close to destitution. And of course he drinks.”
And there, suddenly, as though by us simply speaking of him, Paul D’Arnot was manifest in the flesh. Not thirty yards in front of Cecily and me was an odd sort of scene, of which the Frenchman was a part.
Ral Conrath had assembled around him a ragtag gaggle of native men of several tribes. All wore the most serious of faces as they listened to Monsieur D’Arnot reciting in one tongue, and then another, as Conrath demonstrated the use of a rifle.
With a terrific explosion, he fired off a round, blowing a melon stuck on a pole into a mass of yellow pulp.
Men cried out in surprise, then laughed uproariously.
Cecily and I stayed back out of sight of D’Arnot and Conrath, hidden by the angled canopy of a stall, but now we could hear a conversation in English, a dressing-down of the Frenchman by the American.
“I thought you told me you knew Waziri!”
“I told you I had spoken with one Waziri man, the same man you had met. This language is unlike any other I know. And the man went back to his tribe before I could learn it well.”
“What the hell good are you to me, then?”
“I can manage,” D’Arnot answered in a voice that I could hear was pleading. “From what I remember—”
“Oh, this is rich. From what you can
remember
?”
“It bears resemblance to a little-used Fang dialect. Once I am in the presence of this tribe, I can—”
“Once we’re in the presence of the tribe and you can’t speak the language, we’re all as good as dead!”
“The Waziri man did not appear warlike,” D’Arnot argued weakly.
“And you don’t remember ‘Sumbula’?” Conrath demanded.
“I told you, I do not remember that word.”
“That’s the only goddamn word you
needed
to remember, you goddamn drunken Frog!”
The insult was D’Arnot’s limit. Cecily and I saw him emerge from behind the stall and stride angrily away. A moment later Conrath had caught up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Look here, Paul, I’m sorry. I’m a hothead. I admit it. Let me make it up to you. We’ll go and have a drink. Just let me sign these black fellows up for the safari.”
D’Arnot was simmering with rage, perhaps less for Ral’s despicable manner than for his own inability to walk away from the man.
“I need you, Paul. I can’t lead this expedition without you. You know that.” D’Arnot was softening. “And you know the money’s good. Right now, pal, I’m the only game in town. Come on, you tell these gents they’ll each get ten francs for the trip, half the day we leave, half the day we get back to Libreville. It’s a whole year’s wages for a single trip.” Now Conrath’s arm clamped tight around D’Arnot’s shoulder. “That’s my man.”
They disappeared again behind the stall. Cecily and I turned and walked back the way we’d come, silent and considering all we’d heard.
“I’ve never liked that man,” Cecily said, both of us knowing of whom she spoke. “I’ve seen his kind before.” She noticed something wavering in my eye. “You watch yourself, my dear. Never turn your back on him.”
“All right.”
Then Cecily smiled. “But what am I saying? You are the most levelheaded young woman I have ever met. You would never be taken in by the likes of a Ral Conrath.”
“No,” I said in reply, and then silently to myself,
never again.
* * *
Cecily had taken me to her milliner in the European section of Libreville, insisting on buying me a netted hat of my own for the safari. Hatbox in hand, we stood outside the shop, and for the first time Cecily seemed to me distracted, even nervous.
“I have a little errand to run,” she told me. “One I must do on my own.”
I readily acquiesced, not daring to be rude by inquiring about the nature of the errand, since it had not been offered. Cecily instructed the rickshaw bearers to take me home, promising to join me there in several hours.
But as the go-cart began its journey back, I found myself worried about my friend and confidante.
Could she be ill? Was the “private” appointment a doctor? Surely it was not one of the fevers that afflicted so many. Was it a cancer eating away at her organ?
No. That was ridiculous. The woman was the picture of cheerfulness and health.
Sunk into my musings, I was startled when the rickshaw came to an abrupt halt. We were still in the European quarter, but up ahead I could see that an overturned cart of pawpaws had stopped all traffic in the street. The farmer was restacking his fruit, arguing the whole time with what seemed to me an arrogant French gendarme. Suddenly, all four of the go-cart bearers vanished from their places in front and behind and joined the gathering crowd being entertained by the incident. I determined it interesting to listen in and hopped down from the vehicle.
But as I turned, my eyes fell on the shop before me, one in a row of proper European structures. It was a run-down bistro with its name,
LE CHEVALIER
, painted in thick lettering on its grubby window. A glimpse of something familiar inside caught my attention, or, more specifically, some
one.
It was Ral Conrath. And there beside him was Paul D’Arnot.
They sat at a table of men having drinks. I began to withdraw out of sight when it occurred to me that the lettering on the window would easily hide my identity. In any event, Mr. Conrath was so deeply immersed in conversation that he’d have no cause to look in my direction. Then I received another shock.
Their drinking companions were none other than the four Belgian engineers I’d seen at the consulate. D’Arnot appeared to be translating for Ral, who leaned in, head-to-head with Leopold’s men. He gestured broadly with his hands. His expression was fierce. This was no congenial gathering for afternoon sherry.
“M’amselle!”
I was startled once again to see the rickshaw bearers back at their rails. One of them had called out to me. Leaving the mysterious scene behind, I allowed myself to be helped into my conveyance, and it lurched into forward motion. A moment later Le Chevalier was behind me, out of sight. It had been a brief glimpse through a dirty glass window, but what I had seen was clear as day.
Ral Conrath was up to no good. And Paul D’Arnot was a party to it.
Heartsick, my mind whirling, I debated myself.
Something had to be done. But what? What, in fact, did I know for certain? And would this conspiracy—if it was one—spell the end of the Porter Expedition?
Before I knew it I was under the shaded foliage on the coast road back to Cecily’s. But even the spectacular canopy of crimson flamboyant flowers failed to delight me. Everything, I was certain, was falling apart … before it had even begun.
* * *
The tension had become unbearable on the day before the Porter Expedition was to board the steamer that would take us south along Gabon’s coast and up the famed Ogowe River.
The evening before, I’d gone to Father’s room and found him repacking his gear into a long waterproof sack. I’d finally found the courage, and the words, to explain my misgivings about Ral Conrath.
It had not gone well.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have begun with my qualms about the weaponry.
“The man has gone overboard,” I told Father.
He looked at me long and hard, and then sighed deeply. “Jane,” was all he said.
“Well, honestly, Father, we are not marching into the Battle of Gettysburg. He’s brought a gun that fires eight hundred rounds a minute and—”
“That’s enough!”
The shock of his disciplinary tone nearly leveled me where I stood. In all my life, Father had never spoken to me so roughly.
“We are not marching into Gettysburg. We are marching into the deepest heart of the African jungle. Uncharted territory. There’s no telling what we will encounter there. I, for one, think our Mr. Conrath has done a bang-up job provisioning and arming this expedition.” He angrily stuffed a pair of boots into his bag. “Maybe I made a mistake bringing you along.”
“No! You didn’t!” With Father’s cruel words I felt my world crumbling around me. “Father, I only—”
“You’ve been second-guessing Mr. Conrath since we boarded the
Evangeline.
”
So Ral Conrath
had
reported our little dispute on the dock at Liverpool. I doubted he had mentioned his groping hands on deck at three in the morning.
Father had turned and rounded on me.
“Why on earth do you think I allowed the man to bring all those guns? Because of
you.
Have you any idea what would happen to our family if any harm came to you out there? It would kill your mother. It would kill
me
!” He turned away again and refolded for the third time a small woolen blanket. When he tried to fit it into the bag, it wouldn’t go. He pushed and pushed to no avail, then with a frustrated cry, pulled the thing out and threw it on the floor.
I had never seen my father in such a wretched state.
“I’m sorry. Really I am. There’ll be no more ‘second-guessing.’ I promise.” I silently vowed to be silent about my forebodings, perhaps to calm my beloved father, perhaps—more selfishly—to allow the expedition to go on unhindered. I would never get this extraordinary opportunity again. I must be silent. I must withhold what I believed the most damning evidence against Ral Conrath.
Or was it so damning? How could I be certain? Was there a law against an American and a Frenchman having drinks at a bistro in Libreville? Could I not, for once, quiet my overanalytical mind and allow life, like a great river, to flow smoothly and naturally on?
I went to my father, still turned away, and wrapped my arms around him, laying my head on his back.
“Everything will be all right,” I said with conviction. “Nothing is going to happen to me. We shall be the first Europeans to explore where none have gone before. We are going to uncover the most important scientific find in the history of the world! And we are going to do it
together.
”
I’d felt Father’s shoulders soften. He covered my hand over his heart with his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
I had willed myself not to weep with relief.
“Well, if that’s the case,” he said, the tone of the doting father having returned to his voice, “then you’d better find a way to fold this blasted blanket so it fits in my sack.”