Paul Theroux - The Lower River

Back at the hut, they slipped the snake into the basket and fastened the lid. Snowdon saw them and ran to tell the village.

Before going to sleep that night, and the next — because he’d had no word — he followed in his mind Aubrey’s progress to the boma, on the bus, to the Chikwawa Road, and to Blantyre; the young man presenting the envelope at the consulate and, as in a movie sequence, its passing from the receptionist to the secretary upstairs and finally to the vice consul.

“‘Seriously compromised,’” the vice consul would report to the consul. “We’d better send someone down to check on this.” Or the man would go himself, in an official car, Aubrey sitting in the back seat. The matter was urgent; the message was clear.

But even on the third day no one came. No one except Manyenga, who sauntered over, seeming to approach the hut sideways, to see the big snake in the basket, which was news in Malabo. He was impressed, especially when Hock told him that Zizi had caught it; and he was unusually friendly.

“That naartjie is for you,” he said, handing over a tangerine. The Afrikaans word was used by the Sena people, as was takkies, for sneakers. Manyenga often screamed, “ Voetsak! ” when he was telling an underling to go away. Hock felt that someone must have used the word with him.

Snowdon snatched the tangerine from Hock’s hand and ran off, waving it.

“Cheeky bugger,” Manyenga said, and made a threatening gesture.

“Leave him alone,” Hock said, laughing. He could not help seeing Snowdon as anything but a licensed jester, like the fool in a Shakespeare play.

“You are so kind, father,” Manyenga said. “That is why you are being our minister. You will be a great chief one day!”

“You don’t need me to be a chief.”

“Not true, father. You are our elder. You are so wise. You are always doing the right thing for us.”

Each of these words — kind, wise, minister, elder — was loaded. All such words, Hock saw, had money value, and could be exchanged for hard currency. It seemed that as Manyenga added each word, the final bill was increased. Hock thought of Aubrey saying smartly, “It’ll cost you,” when he asked for the favor. In the past, money had not mattered much. Small debts were settled with a chicken or some dried fish wrapped in banana leaves; big debts might cost a cow. Now, with money, every word and deed had a price.

“You are brave, too,” Manyenga said, tapping the basket after he had had a glimpse of the snake.

“Brave” was worth a handful of kwacha notes, certainly.

“Zizi caught the snake,” Hock said.

And hearing her name, Zizi stared at Manyenga.

“You are making her too proud,” Manyenga said.

There was a word for the handmaiden of a chief, a consort, a junior-wife-to-be, and Manyenga used it now, referring to her as “the small woman.”

Hock said, “She can handle snakes.”

“She can know how to handle anything you ask,” Manyenga said, and tapped his head, pleased with himself in his reply.

The next day — no Aubrey — Manyenga brought a bowl of eggs. He was not alone. Walking behind him was the old man whom he had introduced to Hock after they had arrived back from the Agency depot. Hock could not remember the man’s name, but as he saw him stumbling after Manyenga, led by a small boy, he was reminded that the man was blind.

“For the big man,” Manyenga said, and offered the bowl with both hands.

Eggs were scarce. Why were there so few in a village with so many hens? Only men ate eggs; children were not allowed to touch them. The chickens were not raised systematically; they clucked, and pecked at ants, and laid eggs in the tall grass, in back of huts, in twiggy nests. They were considered a delicacy.

Zizi accepted the bowl of eggs on Hock’s behalf.

Tapping the side of his head again for emphasis, Manyenga said, “But none for her, you understand?”

Another Sena belief associated with eggs was that women were made sterile by eating them.

“Because, as you say, if the girl can handle a snake, she is no longer a girl, but a woman.”

They were seated, Manyenga and Hock, under the tree, in the creaky chairs. The blind man sat on a stool, holding himself upright.

“I think you are knowing what I mean,” Manyenga said.

Snowdon was listening, a gob of drool sliding from the corner of his mouth. Somehow he had gotten hold of an egg. He rolled it back and forth in his stubby hand, like wealth.

Manyenga was still talking in his insinuating way, but all Hock could think about was the nonappearance of Aubrey.

“I remember this man,” Hock said. The old man had a kindly face and an intense expression, his eyes dead behind lids that were not quite closed. He leaned on his walking stick, listening.

“He is Wellington Mwali,” Manyenga said. He took the man’s hand. “This is Mr. Ellis Hock, our friend.”

The old man just smiled, murmuring, because he had not understood.

“He has a story,” Manyenga said.

And this too will cost money, Hock thought. But he said, “I want to hear it.”

Manyenga spoke to the blind man, who hesitated, and smiled again, and then cleared his throat and spoke. He told his story slowly, pausing after every few sentences so that Manyenga could translate. Manyenga spoke with such fluency and feeling it seemed that he was appropriating it as his story.

“You know our black Jesus, the man Mbona, who was killed near here, his head cut off and buried near the boma at Khulubvi?”

“I’ve heard of him. But I was never allowed to go to the shrine.”

“No, no,” Manyenga said. “It is a holy place.” The old man went on speaking. He took up the story again. “Mbona is a spirit, but sometimes he spends the night with his wife on earth, the woman we call Salima. This is how the great one visits. He makes sure that Salima is fast asleep, otherwise she would become frightened and run away.”

The old man’s voice dropped to a whisper. Manyenga strained to listen, then spoke again.

“Mbona comes in the form of a python, slipping into the hut beside the mat of Salima. He opens his mouth and licks her body, beginning with her face, so that she believes she is being kissed. All this while he makes the python sound, moaning, and the moans are words, telling her his dreams.”

Still speaking, now as if in counterpoint to Manyenga, the old man turned his blind eyes upward, as in a trance state.

Manyenga said, “After he licks her whole body to calm her, he wakes her. And she sees the huge python. But she is not afraid. She sees that it is her husband, Mbona, and she allows him to coil around her body and lick her everywhere, from her head to her feet, telling her his dreams. Meanwhile, he tells her many things in her dreams. The licking makes her sleep again, and his dreams become her dreams. After he goes, she just wakes up. She knows that her husband had been there, and she has all the important information.”

“About what?” Hock asked.

The old man nodded, hearing the question.

“About the weather. About storms and rains. About planting. And when his visit is at an end, he returns to his place.”

“Where does the python Mbona go?”

“To the pool near the river, which was formed when Mbona’s blood turned into water,” Manyenga said. “Large flocks of doves drink there, which proves that it is a holy place.”

Hock said, “Thanks for the story. Tell the man I said so.”

“We are needing you, father,” Manyenga said. He saw Zizi squatting, brushing flies from his face. “She needs you. She can make you happy.”

The story of the snake encircling the widow and licking her had induced a reverie in Hock, which helped him forget his plight. But as soon as Manyenga stopped translating, he began importuning again, and jarred from his reverie, Hock said abruptly, “How much do you want now?”