Confession of the Lioness (19 page)

My wife, my one and only wife …

Naftalinda would neither look nor listen. The administrator was in a panic. It was crucial that Naftalinda should be distracted from her suicidal intention. The First Lady would only listen to someone like me, someone who lived in the same type of solitude, who spoke the same type of language.

Are you sure I'm the right person, sir? At home everyone says I'm not even a person …

The administrator is more than convinced. Naftalinda and I had much in common: We'd been born in the same year, we'd both studied at the mission, we were both condemned not to have children, destined never to be women.

Go into that room and speak to her. But there's one thing: Never address her by her old name. She doesn't like it now …

In Kulumani, we gain names depending on the time and how old we are. Oceanita was Naftalinda's first name, when she was just an infant, because of the volume of her tears. When she cried it was like the tide coming in. Each tear was a watery egg that fell on the ground with a loud splash.

The girl became a teenager and her body expanded in volume. Concerned, the family delivered her into the care of Father Amoroso: For so big a body, she would need many souls. We both met at the mission. My reason for being there was to cure my paralysis. Hers was to get lighter. I walked again. But she never shed any weight. In spite of a change in name, the girl remained fat. When we said goodbye to each other at the entrance to the mission, I noticed for the first time a bitterness in her look and a harshness in her voice:

Never call me Oceanita again. I'm Naftalinda now.

She was sent to the city and I heard no more about her until a few days ago, when she returned to Kulumani accompanying her husband and my hunter of lions. Ever since then, I hadn't seen her again unless it was from afar, when she made her triumphal incursion into the menfolk's
shitala.
As far as I was concerned, she was still Oceanita. But for all the others, she didn't need a name at all. She was merely a wife, a very special wife. She was the First Lady in a village without any ladies.

*   *   *

Now all the chief's voluminous spouse wants to do is die. It strikes me that her desire for suicide actually stems from a purely generous sentiment. She is so fleshy that the animals would feel sated and leave the village in peace for many a moon. Or who knows, maybe the hunters would take advantage of the moment to mount an ambush against the execrable beasts…?

The administrator opens the door with painstaking care and signals me to go in alone. I advance through the half-light, guided by the noise of heavy breathing. It's as if her exhaled breaths collapse, exhausted, from her ample chest, like injured birds plummeting from high cliffs.

Step by step, I identify shadows until at last I detect the First Lady's presence. She's seated like Buddha, in a big old chair, her fingers submerged in two glasses of vinegar.

It's to soften my nails
, she announces, without greeting me.

Her screeching voice is like a nail scraping glass. She doesn't notice me quiver. Her gaze is concentrated on her own hands.

I adore my nails
, she states, blowing on her fingers. And she adds:
They're the only thin part of my body.

The whiff of vinegar adds flavor to an irrational fear that has assailed me ever since I entered the house. It's a trap, I think with a shudder. It's not the lion she wants to capture, but me. The inquisitorial gaze of my hostess comes to rest on me at last.

I've already forgiven you, my friend.

She is now confessing, so many years later: She'd always been envious of me, of my slim figure, my almond eyes. Her envy tormented her all the more every time I climbed up on the boys' backs and they ran off with me, falling to the ground with me as if we were one body, and laughing with me in one single whoop.

How I hated you, Mariamar! I prayed so often to God that he might take you away.

I was now more used to the light, and I contemplated her as thoroughly as a dockworker might inspect a cargo on the quay. My gaze probes her like a blind man. I stare at Oceanita without ever actually seeing her. Her invisible elbows, her moon-shaped dimples, her folds and tucks: The girl is a whole plantation of flesh. Then I realize: She finds my scrutiny irritating. When she tries to get up, she's like a star uncoupling from the universe.

I'll help you
, I am quick to offer.

There's no need.
She brushes me away energetically.

But then she falls back, as if her legs were failing her. And she uses me to support herself, like a ship nudging against the quay. She seems to get pleasure from this lingering touch. I maneuver her away with great care, and take a couple of steps back to contemplate her again. When some days before I glimpsed her from afar, I wasn't aware of her size. Now I realize: Naftalinda is so fat that even when she's standing, she's still lying down.

All of a sudden the woman lifts up her skirt, exhibiting her forbidden parts, and I quickly look away. But the First Lady stands there without moving, like a statue, exposing herself without any shame.

Take a good look at me! Don't be afraid to look, we're both women. How can a man desire me? How can I seduce Florindo, tell me?

Don't do this to me
, I beg her.

What did Florindo tell you? Did he tell you I'd offered myself to be fed to the lions? Well, he didn't understand. I want to be devoured, but I want to be devoured in the sexual sense. I want a lion to make me pregnant.

A lion would burrow like a miner until it reached her core. That was her secret plan. I look at her. She has a pretty face; her eyes are deep-set, dream-laden.

Do you know something, Mariamar? I miss our time at the mission. The mission wasn't just a religious house: It was a country. Do you understand? We two lived in a foreign country. We're whiter than that Archangel fellow.

I help her back into the chair, and tell her I shall be spending the night with her, sharing her room just as we used to do at the mission.

Naftalinda?

Call me Oceanita …

Can I sleep in this corner?

Wherever you like, but first of all help me to go out, I want to fulfill my dream.

I can't. I promised I wouldn't let you go out.

I just want to go out and come back in again.

Let's go, then, but only for a bit. And only here, next to the house.

She takes me by the hand and leads me to the open ground in front of the administration building. Everyone in the village is asleep, and from the bushes all we can hear is the sad hoot of the nightjars. Naftalinda contemplates the darkened houses and laments:

I feel sorry for Florindo. He's a clown. He thinks that people venerate him. No one respects him, no one loves him.

She takes a few steps toward the bushes that surround the garden, chooses an old tree trunk, sits down on it, and remains in that position as if she were in prayer. Naftalinda falls asleep while I keep watch on her from a distance. Gradually I surrender to sleep until, in a split second, there is chaos and confusion: A rustling in the long grass, a low growl, and a shadow hurtles toward Naftalinda like a fireball. In a flash I see a lioness clutching her vast body and both of them, almost indistinct from one another, embracing in a deadly dance.

Help, a lioness! Help!

Yelling aloud, I rush forward to help the girl. The lioness is startled by my attack. With an impetus that I never guessed I was capable of, I grow in strength and size and force the lioness to back off. Here is an opportunity for Naftalinda to get away. But she rejects my help and runs to embrace her aggressor once again. In an instant, the three of us are rolling around together, there is a confusion of nails and claws, slobbering and panting, roars and screams. My frenzy causes my body to double in strength: I bite, scratch, kick. Surprised, the lioness eventually gives up. Defeated, she retreats with all the dignity of a queen dethroned. And she disappears into the darkness on the other side of the road.

For a few seconds, I remain on top of Naftalinda, but then suddenly the sky itself collapses on top of me. The pain is huge, I scream in despair, I turn on myself and catch a glimpse of Florindo with a stick raised above his head, ready to deliver the final blow.

It's me! It's me, Mariamar!

A chorus of voices breaks out:
Kill her, Florindo! That woman is the lioness herself!
The whole village throngs together around us, demanding justice. Next to me, Naftalinda is covered in blood. She gets up on her knees, opens her arms to protect my body, and proclaims in a kind of screech:

No one touch this woman. No one!

Still clutching the stick, Florindo Makwala, confused, orders the crowd back. He kneels down next to me to ask how I am. His voice is also on its knees as he murmurs:

I'm sorry, Mariamar, but in the darkness I didn't see it was you.

At first the people retreat. But then, of one voice, they begin to yell once more, demanding my immediate execution. And once again they advance in a frenzy. I'm assailed by the old dream, that I'm going to die as I always dreamed I would, flat-out on a stretch of beach, shapes hovering above me like vultures, ready to devour my soul. And the kicking and punching no longer hurt me, I don't hear the insults anymore, and I'm not even aware that the crowd is dispersing like an ocean wave. The person responsible for causing the crazed horde to melt away is Florindo Makwala, who has grown in both body and voice. Seen from down on the ground, he is like a mountain and his command is that of an irate demigod:

Back! Get back or I'll kill you with my own hands.

Astounded, Naftalinda looks at her husband as if she doesn't recognize him. Then she sighs:

My man, my man's come back!

The administrator stands there, statuesque and threatening, until suddenly we hear shots. At first far away. For a long moment the people are paralyzed between expectation and fear. Then there are more shots, this time nearer. The onlookers dash off in the direction of the road. It's not long before the sound of voices reaches us, excited but indistinguishable. It's Archie who's coming, I think. The hunter has come to rescue me—he's finally appeared before my weary heart. The cries are now clear:

They've killed the lions! They've killed the lions!

I get to my feet with difficulty and stagger toward the road. And there he is, my savior! His weapon over his shoulder, he stands out in the darkness and is walking toward me. But gradually the figure becomes clearer and I realize it's not Archie Bullseye. It's Maniqueto, the policeman. Surrounded by the crowd that welcomes him in all his glory, he brandishes the bloodied ear of the slaughtered lion in his right hand.

I killed this lion out there in the bush.

But we heard shots nearby …

The other one, the lioness, was killed right here, on the road.

He is greeted with euphoric applause. No one notices Florindo helping his injured wife back home. Only I haven't a home to go back to. Only I weep on the dark ground of Kulumani.

 

The Hunter's Diary

SEVEN

The Demon Saint

Of bones and Sun, not of Life, is Time made. For Life is made against Time. Without measurement, woven from infirm infinities.

—EXTRACT PILFERED FROM THE WRITER'S NOTEBOOKS

I hear gunfire in the middle of the night. I feel like leaving Palma, setting off down the road and discovering the origins of those shots that seem to be coming from the direction of Kulumani. But I'm stuck, anchored to the floor where I've just loved as I've never loved before. Next to me, the only woman in the universe is asleep. Half dressed, Luzilia lies in repose on the bed, as if that dank, mildewy guesthouse were her palace.

*   *   *

How I missed being awake!

Luzilia stretches as if she were being born. I've been watching her for hours, in the half-light of this guesthouse in Palma.

Have you been looking at me for long?

Forever.

Well, I woke up as if I'd been sleeping forever. And you?

I heard shots a little while ago. They were coming from the direction of Kulumani. I've got to go.

Luzilia doesn't seem to have been listening. She gets dressed with that slowness that only happiness confers. Then she sits down again and hugs the pillow as she speaks.

I dreamed of a madwoman, one I knew because she was a patient at my hospital. Do you know what she did?

The woman collected butterflies; she would scrape their wings and keep the pollen in a jar. What did she do with this pollen? She filled her own pillow. Like that, she flew away while she slept.

This pillow must be packed with pollen.

I dangle the car keys in my hand. Luzilia understands the message. She suggests I go back to Kulumani and return to fetch her later. She wants to sleep a bit longer, extend her time as a butterfly in search of new wings.

*   *   *

Palma is a small town. If there are two vehicles, they are bound to pass each other in its streets. I almost collide with the car in which Florindo Makwala is traveling. He rolls down his window, and without getting out of the jeep, wants to know what I'm doing there, far from the village.

I've been hunting over this way. But I heard shots coming from the village.

They've killed the lions. My men have killed the lions.

So what is the administrator of Kulumani doing here? Shouldn't he be celebrating with his men, with his loyal people?