"E ku Kinshasa ka bazeyi ko: E ku Luozi ka bazeyi ko...."
"In Kinshasa they know nothing: In Luozi they know nothing."
The proud song of superiority went on: superiority to their own people, to the white man, to the Christian god, to everyone beyond their own circle of six, all of them wearing the peaked caps that advertised Polo beer.
"In the Upper Congo they know nothing: In heaven they know nothing: Those who revile the Spirit know nothing: The Chiefs know nothing: The whites know nothing."
Nzambe had never been humiliated as a criminal: he was an exclusive god. Only Deo Gratias moved some way towards them; he squatted on the ground between them and the hospital, and the doctor remembered that as a child he had come west from the Lower Congo too.
"Is that the future?" Querry said. He couldn't understand the words, only the aggressive slant of the Polo-beer caps.
"Yes."
"Do you fear it?"
"Of course. But I don't want my own liberty at the expense of anyone else."
"They do."
"We taught them."
What with one delay and another it was nearly sunset before the tree was raised on to the roof and the feast began. By that time the awning outside the dispensary was no longer needed to shelter the workmen from the heat, but judging from the black clouds massing beyond the river, Father Joseph decided that it might yet serve to protect them from the rain.
Father Thomas's decision to raise the roof-tree had not been made without argument. Father Joseph wished to wait a month in the hope that the Superior would return, and Father Paul had at first supported him, but when Doctor Colin agreed with Father Thomas they had withdrawn their opposition. "Let Father Thomas have his feast and his hymns," the doctor said to them. "I want the hospital."
Doctor Colin and Querry left the group from the east and turned back to the last of the ceremony. "We were right, but all the same," the doctor said, "I wish the Superior were here. He would have enjoyed the show and at least he would have talked to these people in a language they can understand."
"More briefly too," Querry said. The hollow African voices rose around them in another hymn.
"And yet you stay and watch," the doctor said.
"Oh yes, I stay."
"I wonder why."
"Ancestral voices. Memories. Did you ever lie awake when you were a child listening to them talking down below? You couldn't understand what they were saying, but it was a noise that somehow comforted. So it is now with me. I am happy listening, saying nothing. The house is not on fire, there's no burglar lurking in the next room: I don't want to understand or believe. I would have to think if I believed. I don't want to think any more. I can build you all the rabbit-hutches you need without thought."
Afterwards at the mission there was a great deal of raillery over the champagne. Father Paul was caught pouring himself a glass out of turn; somebody—Brother Philippe seemed an unlikely culprit—filled an empty bottle with soda-water, and the bottle had circulated half around the table before anyone noticed. Querry remembered an occasion months ago: a night at a seminary on the river when the priests cheated over their cards. He had walked out into the bush unable to bear their laughter and their infantility. How was it that he could sit here now and smile with them? He even found himself resenting the strict face of Father Thomas who sat at the end of the table unamused.
The doctor proposed the toast of Father Joseph and Father Joseph proposed the toast of the doctor. Father Paul proposed the toast of Brother Philippe, and Brother Philippe lapsed into confusion and silence. Father Jean proposed the toast of Father Thomas who did not respond. The champagne had almost reached an end, but someone disinterred from the back of the cupboard a half-finished bottle of Sandeman's port and they drank it out of liqueur glasses to make it go further. "After all the English drink port at the end of a meal," Father Jean said. "An extraordinary custom. Protestant perhaps, but nevertheless..."
"Are you sure there's nothing against it in moral theology?" Father Paul asked.
"Only in canon law. Lex contra Sandemanium, but even that, of course, was interpreted by that eminent Benedictine, Dom..."
"Father Thomas, won't you have a glass of port?"
"No thank you, father. I have drunk enough."
The darkness outside the open door suddenly drew back and for a moment they could see the palm trees bending in a strange yellow light the colour of old photographs. Then everything went dark again, and the wind blew in, rustling the pages of Father Jean's film magazines. Querry got up to close it against the coming storm, but on a second thought he stepped outside and shut it behind him. The northern sky lightened again, in a long band above the river. From where the lepers were celebrating came the sound of drums and the thunder answered like the reply of a relieving force. Somebody moved on the verandah. When the lightning flashed he saw that it was Deo Gratias.
"Why aren't you at the feast, Deo Gratias?" Then he remembered that the feast was only for the non-mutilated, for the masons and carpenters and bricklayers. He said, "Well, they've done a good job on the hospital." The man made no reply. Querry said, "You aren't planning to run away again, are you?" and he lit a cigarette and put it between the man's lips.
"No," Deo Gratias said.
In the darkness Querry felt himself prodded by the man's stump. He said, "What's troubling you, Deo Gratias?"
"You will go," Deo Gratias said, "now that the hospital is built."
"Oh no, I won't. This is where I'm going to end my days. I can't go back where I came from, Deo Gratias. I don't belong there any more."
"Have you killed a man?"
"I have killed everything." The thunder came nearer, and then the rain: first it was like skirmishers rustling furtively among the palm tree fans, creeping through the grass; then it was the confident tread of a great watery host beating a way from across the river to sweep up the verandah steps. The drums of the lepers were extinguished like flames; even the thunder could be heard only faintly behind the great charge of rain.
Deo Gratias hobbled closer. "I want to go with you," he said.
"I tell you I'm staying here. Why won't you believe me? For the rest of my life. I shall be buried here."
Perhaps he had not made himself heard through the rain, for Deo Gratias repeated, "I will go with you." Somewhere a telephone began to ring—a trivial human sound persisting like an infant's cry through the rain.
2
After Querry had left the room Father Thomas said, "We seem to have toasted everyone except the man to whom we owe most."
Father Joseph said, "He knows well enough how grateful we are. Those toasts were not very seriously meant, Father Thomas."
"I think I ought to express the gratitude of the community, formally, when he comes back."
"You'll only embarrass him," Doctor Colin said. "All he wants of any of us is to be left alone." The rain pounded on the roof; Brother Philippe began to light candles on the dresser in case the electric current failed.
"It was a happy day for all of us when he arrived here," Father Thomas said. "Who could have foreseen it? The great Querry."
"An even happier day for him," the doctor replied. "It's much more difficult to cure the mind than the body, and yet I think the cure is nearly complete."
"The better the man the worse the aridity," Father Thomas said.
Father Joseph looked guiltily at his champagne and then at his companions; Father Thomas made them all feel as though they were drinking in church. "A man with little faith doesn't feel the temporary loss of it." His sentiments were impeccable. Father Paul winked at Father Jean.
"Surely," the doctor said, "you assume too much. His case may be much simpler than that. A man can believe for half his life on insufficient reason, and then he discovers his mistake."
"You talk, doctor, like all atheists, as though there were no such thing as grace. Belief without grace is unthinkable, and God will never rob a man of grace. Only a man himself can do that—
by his own actions. We have seen Querry's actions here, and they speak for themselves."
"I hope you won't be disappointed," the doctor said. "In our treatment we get burnt-out cases, too. But we don't say they are suffering from aridity. We only say the disease has run its course."
"You are a very good doctor, but all the same I think we are better judges of a man's spiritual condition."
"I dare say you are—if such a thing exists."
"You can detect a patch on the skin where we see nothing at all. You must allow us to have a nose for—well..." Father Thomas hesitated and then said "... heroic virtue." Their voices were raised a little against the storm. The telephone began to ring.
Doctor Colin said, "That's probably the hospital. I'm expecting a death tonight." He went to the sideboard where the telephone stood and lifted the receiver. He said, "Who is it? Is that Sister Clare?" He said to Father Thomas, "It must be one of your sisters. Will you take it? I can't hear what she is saying."
"Perhaps they have got at our champagne," Father Joseph said.
Doctor Colin surrendered the receiver to Father Thomas and came back to the table. "She sounded agitated, whoever she was," he said.
"Please speak more slowly," Father Thomas said. "Who is it? Sister Hélène? I can't hear you—the storm is too loud. Say that again. I don't understand."
"It's lucky for us all," Father Joseph said, "that the sisters don't have a feast every day of the week."
Father Thomas turned furiously from the telephone. He said, "Be quiet, father. I can't hear if you talk. This is no joke. A terrible thing seems to have happened."
"Is somebody ill?" the doctor asked.
"Tell Mother Agnes," Father Thomas said, "that I'll be over as soon as I can. I had better find him and bring him with me." He put the receiver down and stood bent like a question-mark over the telephone.
"What is it, father?" the doctor said. "Can I be of use?"
"Does anyone know where Querry's gone?"
"He went outside a few minutes ago."
"How I wish the Superior were here." They looked at Father Thomas with astonishment. He could not have given a more extreme signal of distress.
"You had better tell us what it's all about," Father Paul said.
Father Thomas said, "I envy you your skin-test, doctor. You were right to warn me against disappointment. The Superior too. He said much the same thing as you. I have trusted too much to appearances."
"Has Querry done something?"
"God forbid one should condemn any man without hearing all the facts..."
The door opened and Querry entered. The rain splashed in behind him and he had to struggle with the door. He said, "The gauge outside shows nearly half a centimetre already."
Nobody spoke. Father Thomas came a little way towards him.
"M. Querry, is it true that when you went into Luc you went with Mme. Rycker?"
"I drove her in. Yes."
"Using our truck?"
"Of course."
"While her husband was sick?"
"Yes."
"What is this all about?" Father Joseph asked.
"Ask M. Querry," Father Thomas replied.
"Ask me what?"
Father Thomas drew on his rubber boots and fetched his umbrella from the coat-rack.
"What am I supposed to have done?" Querry said and he looked first to Father Joseph and then to Father Paul. Father Paul made a gesture with his hand of non-comprehension.
"You had better tell us what is going on, father," Doctor Colin said.
"I must ask you to come with me, M. Querry. We will discuss what has to be done next with the sisters. I had hoped against hope that there was some mistake. I even wish you had tried to lie. It would have been less brazen. I don't want you found here by Rycker if he should arrive."
"What would Rycker want here?" Father Jean said.
"He might be expected to want his wife, mightn't he? She's with the sisters now. She arrived half an hour ago.
"After three days by herself on the road. She is with child," Father Thomas said. The telephone began to ring again. "Your child."
Querry said, "That's nonsense. She can't have told anyone that."
"Poor girl. I suppose she hadn't the nerve to tell him to his face. She came from Luc to find you."
The telephone rang again.
"It seems to be my turn to answer it," Father Joseph said, approaching the telephone with trepidation.
"We gave you a warm welcome here, didn't we? We asked you no questions. We didn't pry into your past. And in return you present us with this—scandal. Weren't there enough women for you in Europe?" Father Thomas said. "Did you have to make our little community here a base for your operations?" Suddenly he was again the nervy and despairing priest who couldn't sleep and was afraid of the dark. He began to weep, clinging to his umbrella as an African might cling to a totem-pole. He looked as though he had been left out all night like a scarecrow.
"Hullo, hullo," Father Joseph called into the telephone. "In the name of all the known saints, can't you speak up, whoever you are?"
"I'll go and see her with you right away," Querry said.
"It's your right," Father Thomas said. "She's in no condition to argue, though. She's had nothing but a packet of chocolate to eat the last three days. She hadn't even a boy with her when she arrived. If only the Superior... Mme. Rycker of all people. Such kindness to the mission. For God's sake, what is it now, Father Joseph?"
"It's only the hospital," Father Joseph said with relief. He gave the receiver to Doctor Colin.
"It is the death I was expecting," the doctor said. "Thank goodness something tonight seems to be following a normal course."
3
Father Thomas walked silently ahead below his great umbrella. The rain had stopped for a while, but the aftermath dripped from the ribs. Father Thomas was only visible at intervals when the lightning flared. He had no torch, but he knew the path by heart in the dark. Many omelettes and soufflés had come to grief along this track, eggs broken in vain. The nuns' white house was suddenly close to them in a simultaneous flash and roar—the lightning had struck a tree somewhere close by and all the lights of the mission fused at once.
One of the sisters met them at the door carrying a candle. She looked at Querry over Father Thomas's shoulder as though he were the devil himself—with fear, distaste, and curiosity. She said, "Mother's sitting with Mme. Rycker."
"We'll go in," Father Thomas said gloomily.
She led them to a white-painted room, where Marie Rycker lay in a white-painted bed under a crucifix, with a night-light burning beside her. Mother Agnes sat by the bed with a hand touching Marie Rycker's cheek. Querry had the impression of a daughter who had come safely home, after a long visit to a foreign land.
Father Thomas said in an altar-whisper, "How is she?"
"She's taken no harm," Mother Agnes said, "not in the body, that is."
Marie Rycker turned in the bed and looked up at them. Her eyes had the transparent honesty of a child who has prepared a cast-iron lie. She smiled at Querry and said, "I am sorry. I had to come. I was scared."
Mother Agnes withdrew her hand and watched Querry closely as though she feared a violent act against her charge.
Querry said gently, "You mustn't be frightened. It was the long journey which scared you—that's all. Now you are safe among friends you will explain, won't you..." He hesitated.
"Oh yes," she whispered, "everything."
"They haven't understood what you told them. About our visit to Luc together. And the baby. There's going to be a baby?"
"Yes."
"just tell them whose baby it is."
"I have told them," she said. "It's yours. Mine, too, of course," she added, as though by adding that qualification she were making everything quite clear and beyond blame.
Father Thomas said, "You see."
"Why are you telling them that? You know it's not true. We have never been in each other's co
mpany except in Luc."
"That first time," she said, "when my husband brought you to the house."
It would have been easier if he had felt anger, but he felt none: to lie is as natural at a certain age as to play with fire. He said, "You know what you are saying is all nonsense. I'm certain you don't want to do me any harm."
"Oh no," she said, "never. Je t'aime, chéri, suis toute toi."
Mother Agnes wrinkled her nose with distaste. "That's why I've come to you," Marie Rycker said.
"She ought to rest now," Mother Agnes said. "All this can be discussed in the morning."
"You must let me talk to her alone."
"Certainly not," Mother Agnes said. "That would not be right. Father Thomas, you won't permit him..."
"My good woman, do you think I'm going to beat her? You can come to her rescue at her first scream."
Father Thomas said, "We can hardly say no if Mme. Rycker wishes it."
"Of course I wish it," she said. "I came here only for that." She put her hand on Querry's sleeve. Her smile of sad and fallen trust was worthy of Bernhardt's Marguerite Gauthier on her death bed.
When they were alone she gave a happy sigh. "That's that."
"Why have you told them these lies?"
"They aren't all lies," she said. "I do love you."
"Since when?"
"Since I spent a night with you."
"You know very well that was nothing at all. We drank some whisky. I told you a story to send you to sleep."
"Yes. Once upon a time. That was when I fell in love. No, it wasn't. I'm afraid I'm lying again," she said with unconvincing humility. "It was when you came to the house the first time. Un coup de foudre."
"The night you told them we slept together?"
"That was really a lie too. The night I slept with you properly was after the Governor's party."
"What on earth are you talking about now?"
"I didn't want him. The only way I could manage was to shut my eyes and think it was you."
"I suppose I ought to thank you," Querry said, "for the compliment."
"It was then that the baby must have started. So you see it wasn't a lie that I told them."