Chapter 11

When you do dance, I wish you

A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function.

—William Shakespeare

Mama Nzari!” Bolingo held me in his arms, kissed my cheeks. He had been gone for over a week, and I was happy to feel his magnetic energy.

“This is for you,” he said, handing me a package that contained the finest white raw silk. “I thought you might get a dress made for the wedding.” He sat next to me, wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I know a fine designer who will make you something lovely.”

“It is beautiful,” I said, without enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter?”

“You never even asked me if I would marry you. You just assumed I would.”

He stood up, took my hands into his, and helped me to my feet. “Mama Nzari, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I probably would have jumped with joy had the circumstances been different. But the thought of becoming a deuxième bureau, a second wife, tightened my heart. “I don’t know,” I said. “Polygamy is foreign to me.”

He touched my chin, turned my head toward his, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I want our relationship to be official.”

I accepted his kiss, though I remained aware of the confusion in my head.

 

* * *

 

The big day of the dance performance finally arrived. Moments prior to the start, I coached the dancers backstage in breathing exercises to relieve their anxiety of appearing before the maréchal. The upper parts of their bodies rolled toward the floor in eight counts and returned to their upright positions by rolling their spines back up, while breathing in and out. As they began to repeat the movement for the third time, Ngwendu informed me that the maréchal was in the theater.

Now the performance could begin. On signal, the house lights gradually dimmed. Stage lights came on. Curtains slowly rose to present Mowuta, the story of a girl lost in the forest, who is found by travelers from another tribe. When she becomes old enough to marry, her surrogate family can’t find a suitor for her because she is of unknown ancestry. One day she sets out to find her tribe, only to be rejected because she doesn’t know their ways. In the final scene, Mowuta returns to the forest, leaving the audience to guess her fate.

The energetic clapping at the end of the performance confirmed that the dancers had captivated and dazzled the audience. Ngwendu called me to the stage and handed me a bouquet of white roses. Elated by the standing ovation, I couldn’t stop smiling. But my smile turned into a frown when Bolingo came backstage to tell me the maréchal wanted to meet me.

“Be cordial, but don’t linger,” he whispered. “Excuse yourself as soon as you find it appropriate.” I thought his advice was a question of protocol, but I later realized it was a warning.

 

* * *

 

The maréchal sat on the leopard-skin chair that had been installed specially for him. A leopard-skin cap crowned his head. Later, Bolingo told me about special initiation rites that a leader had to go through to be able to sit on a leopard skin and carry the sculpted cane, both of which were symbols of power. His cunning eyes shone behind his dark-framed eyeglasses. His left hand rested on the crafted chief cane. He broke into a seductive smile and extended his free hand to me.

“Congratulations! I look forward to seeing more of your work. It is modern yet authentic.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” I said, reminding myself I was standing before the all-powerful warrior who goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake, as he liked to refer to himself.

“Keep up the good work,” he said, then turned to speak with one of the men standing next to him, leaving me wondering what was next.

“Please excuse me,” I said as soon as there was a break in their conversation. Walking past bodyguards and government officials, I returned backstage for an interview with a journalist from Elima, a national newspaper.

Later that night, as soon as he could get away, Bolingo came to congratulate me again. “I’m proud of you. Imagine what we would have missed if you hadn’t come to Zaire.”

“I’m happy to have had that opportunity.”

“The maréchal kept asking me questions about you. I’m not too happy about that.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a leopard who attacks without warning.”

 

* * *

 

Coming down from the euphoria of the performance, I was feeling the usual withdrawal symptoms when Amba rang the doorbell the next morning.

“Great job!” she said, walking into the living room. “Your show is the talk of the town. Sorry I missed it. I couldn’t get someone to work in my place.” She unfolded the newspaper she had taken out of her bag. “There’s an article about the performance on the front page and an interview inside.”

She opened the paper to the center page, read out loud in a clear voice:

 

—Mademoiselle Odys, what motivated you to come work in Zaire?

—I saw the opportunity to realize my artistic vision and to discover a new culture. And who knows? This is perhaps the very same place where my African ancestors came from.

—What does dance mean to you?

—Dance is like poetry. It is a medium to express feelings in a creative way. Body movements replace words, but the same fluidity and rhythm are there.

—What is the role of music in dance?

—It is the fuel that lights the fire. By the way, I wish to thank Citoyen Mbwaka for his musical talent and fine collaboration.

—How did Mowuta originate?

—I wanted to tell a story that would reflect the level of acceptance of those who are different in a society.

—What does our authenticity mean to you, an American?

—From an artistic point of view, authenticity means embracing a form that embodies the collective values of a nation, to reveal the essence of its culture.

—How about authenticity from a political point of view?

—I can only speak about art. I don’t know much about politics and I don’t think about it.

 

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Yes. But I’d love another cup of coffee, if you have any.”

“I have something to tell you,” she said when I returned from the kitchen with the coffee.

“What?”

“I saw Citoyenne Bolingo’s best friend at a dinner party last week. I wanted to tell you sooner but you were busy with your show.”

“What happened?”

“The couple hasn’t been getting along since way before you came into the picture.” Amba stirred sugar in her black coffee as she spoke.

“Why does he stay with her then?”

“Their marriage was arranged by the two families. Actually, they’re both putting on a show for the public eye.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard she has a lover in Brazzaville.”

“Are you kidding?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

I wasn’t sure of what to make of Amba’s words after she was gone. What I did know was that I was disappointed Bolingo would be such a hypocrite. I thought it would have been easier to bear if I’d known he was bonded to her by emotions and not for the sake of society. In a moment of whimsical blindness, I picked up the phone and called his direct line.

“I can’t take the agony of this relationship,” I said, without any word of greeting.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s hard for me to cope with this relationship.”

“We should stop seeing each other then,” he simply said.

I wanted to hear him tell me he couldn’t live without me. But what dignified Bantu man would speak that way? Minutes after I hung up the phone, Bolingo’s driver delivered a bouquet of flowers and a copy of the newspaper. I guessed he had sent them before I’d called.