Chapter 14

Yes, I have doubted. I have wandered off the path, but I always return.

It is intuitive, an intrinsic, built-in sense of direction.

—Helen Hayes

As I began to pack my suitcase, thoughts of New York inundated my mind, making me realize I missed the streets of Manhattan with their yellow cabs; the multitude of people moving at a fast pace; the would-be artists who made it to the city of infinite dreams from faraway places; the magnetized energy of the theater district; the myriad activities the city had to offer. I also missed the elegant calm of our Westchester suburb.

Bolingo sat in the armchair in my bedroom, watching. “I have a favor to ask you,” he suddenly said.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked, folding a blouse.

“I’m going to give you an envelope with some party documents. You remember Ngandu? One of the men you met in the café in Paris.”

I nodded yes.

“He’ll be at the airport to meet you during the stop-over in Belgium.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll walk you inside the plane to make sure no one goes through your carry-on luggage.”

“Can I get in trouble for carrying these documents?”

He leaned back on his chair, stretched out his legs. “I would never put you or my baby in any danger. That’s why I’m accompanying you inside the plane.”

The envelope was in my carry-on bag when I boarded Sabena Airlines. Escorted by Bolingo, I took my seat in the first-class section, and he said goodbye. I was in my second trimester, and he had insisted that I not travel in coach. “It’s a long trip, and you need to be comfortable,” he had said.

 

* * *

 

A husky, brown-skinned man with a square face, who had tried to make eye contact from across the aisle, approached me when we reached Zaventem Airport in Belgium. His intense stare made me self-conscious about the documents in my carry-on luggage and my stomach begun to churn.

“Madame ou Mademoiselle?” he asked, staring at my pregnant stomach with a smirk. “I’m Citoyen Mbolivu, chief of protocol. I met you the night your dancers performed for the maréchal. How are you?”

I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, noticed his broad neck and the hair inside his ears. I accepted the hand he offered and held on tightly to my carry-on bag with my free hand.

“Citoyen Bolingo accompanied you inside the plane,” he went on, in a soft but disturbing voice. “You must be special to him.”

I looked away, annoyed by the indiscretion.

“I stopped by to see you at the institute last week, but you were home sick. I was going to look for you again after this trip.”

I shifted my weight that suddenly felt too heavy for my swollen feet. “What is this in reference to?”

“The maréchal instructed me to bring you to his private quarters. He was pleased with the interview you gave.” Citoyen Mbolivu touched his chin as he spoke. “Our leader likes a woman of challenge, a warrior woman.” He lowered his hand and continued, “When he heard you were home sick, he told me to wait until you were better. He wants you in your best condition when he sees you. Maybe he can help you understand the politics of authenticity.” He smiled again, winked in a manner that suggested complicity. “I guess he’ll have to wait some long months. When are you coming back to Kinshasa?”

“At the end of the summer vacation.” My leg muscles felt limp, and I yearned to sit down. “Please excuse me.” As I rushed out of his sight, he said something I didn’t hear.

I breathed freely again when I came out of the restroom and saw that he was gone. I had heard of the maréchal’s voracious appetite for women, but I didn’t imagine the extent of his audacity. It occurred to me then that it wasn’t just because of protocol that Bolingo had asked me not to linger the night of the performance.

I joined a line, waiting to go through customs. “Nothing to declare,” I said to the clerk and walked out. Passengers received greetings from loved ones, and I waited to the side until a man in a brown cardigan sweater approached me. “I hope you had a good flight,” he said.

“It’s nice to see you again.”

“How about a snack?” Citoyen Ngandu asked, relieving me of my carry-on bag.

I followed him to a corner in an airport coffee shop. Once we sat down he said, “I spoke with Citoyen Bolingo this morning. I’m going to call him again when I get home to tell him that we met.”

“Could you please hand me the bag?”

I removed the envelope and passed it to him.

“Thank you for your help.”

 

* * *

 

Someone hugged me from behind.

“Cynthia!” I cried, hugging her back.

“My God, aren’t we fat!”

“You look good though,” Pépé said, waiting for her turn to hug me.

Heading out of the airport to the parking area, I asked Pépé about Antoine.

“He’s going to work as a New York correspondent,” she informed me. “I just found him an apartment.”

Cynthia, looking into the rearview mirror, asked why I had kept my pregnancy a secret.

Pépé followed suit: “Yes, how come you never told us?”

“I’m not comfortable talking about it.”

“Why not?” asked Cynthia, a dubious expression on her face.

“It’s a complicated situation.”

Cynthia glanced at me as she drove toward the Whitestone Bridge. “Why is that?”

“I told you he already has a wife.”

“I thought you didn’t mind being a second wife,” Pépé commented from the back.

“I never said that.” I turned on the radio, hoping they would understand I didn’t feel like talking anymore. Leaning my head on the headrest, I closed my eyes and pretended to fall asleep, thinking about what I was going to say to Mom and Dad. It was clear to me that they wouldn’t take it as smoothly as Cynthia and Pépé did. The soft sound of Ella Fizgerald’s voice coupled with fatigue helped me doze off in the middle of my thoughts.

 

* * *

 

I opened my eyes when Cynthia beeped the horn. Mom and Dad rushed out as the car reached the driveway. I had looked forward to the comfort and security their open arms always provided, but their look of disapproval and the tension in their eyes intimidated me as I dutifully hugged them. Mom’s lower lip trembled and the lines on Dad’s forehead did not go unnoticed. Other than Mom’s thinning hair and Dad’s slightly larger frame, they both looked exactly the same.

“Can you girls excuse us?” Dad said to Cynthia and Pépé. “Margaret and I would like to have a word with Iris.”

“How are you feeling?” Dad asked.

“Fine.” I wanted the small talk to stop so we could get to the heart of the matter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan the pregnancy,” I told them, turning away from their stares.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen a doctor,” Mom said in an even tone.

I nodded yes, but avoided eye contact.

Dad cleared his throat. “You didn’t even have the decency to inform us.”

A knot tied my stomach. “I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”

Dad crossed his legs, peered at me. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged and wiped my tears with a bare hand.

Mom handed me a tissue then folded her hands in front of her. “Is the father the man you told me about when I asked you if you were seeing someone?”

“Yes. But I didn’t tell you he’s married,” I said in a voice that was probably too casual.

“Jesus Christ!” Dad exclaimed.

“You didn’t think getting pregnant by a married man was something worth mentioning?” Mom shouted, which was unusual for her to do.

Unable to think of anything better to say, I told them I didn’t remember to mention it. I lifted my chin from my chest and saw anger in their eyes.

“What were you thinking then?” Mom asked in a lower voice.

Dad shook his head. “I thought we did a better job raising you.”

At that point, I decided it might help to tell them Bolingo was coming in a few weeks to ask for my hand.

Dad raised his eyebrows and clucked his tongue. “Am I missing something here?”

“Didn’t you say he was married?” Mom’s voice had recovered its calm.

“I’m going to be his second wife,” I said, and paused to detect the effect of my words, but they were too dumbfounded to react. “I’m in love with Bolingo—”

“I need to talk to your mother alone,” Dad interrupted, his voice coated with controlled anger.

 

* * *

 

I decided to take a long shower. I stared at my naked body in the full-length mirror and realized my breasts were tender and swollen; the veins were visible and the nipples darker. A gush of crystal liquid sprinkled on my head, tears of frustration flowed like the water from above, relieving some of the stress the long trip and the conversation with my adopted parents had caused.

A soft knock at the door woke me up the next morning. Mom stood in front of my bed. “Your dad and I feel that now that it’s a fait accompli, we have no choice but to support you.” She sighed, sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about this man.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Have you thought about what it would be like to live in a triangle?”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you realize you will be the intruder and not the first wife?”

Frustration brought tears to my eyes again. “I know I’ll be second-rate. But I’m prepared to live with that.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded yes.

“How far along are you in this pregnancy?”

“Six months.”

Mom stood up, started to walk out. “Tell me his name again.”

“Bolingo.”

“Nice name,” she said and left the room.

When I finally came out of my room an hour later, I noticed the changes in the living room for the first time. A Palmer Hayden still life of a Fang mask from Gabon and a Bakuba raffia cloth from Zaire hung over the fireplace, replacing a painting by the same artist of young dancers doing the Lindy Hop. I wondered what happened to it. Other than the new curtains, nothing else had changed. The familiar steady ticking of the grandfather clock made me realize I was happy to be home.