Confession of the Lioness (9 page)

She's indisposed
, Florindo cuts in hurriedly.

Indisposed? What do you mean by that, husband? Indisposed?

Makwala pushes his wife gently but firmly out into the front yard. They go on arguing outside. Gradually the sound of their voices fades. They seem to have moved away, but the sound of Naftalinda's nervous footsteps indicates that she is coming back, determined to leave us with the last word:

This is just to clarify things: Indisposed means assaulted, almost killed. And it wasn't the lions that did it. The biggest threat in Kulumani doesn't come from the beasts of the bush. Take care, my friends, take great care.

The woman leaves once more and I think what a miracle it is that there are doors for such girth. I pass my finger along the top of the desk and smile: It's among the dust of time and piles of dead letters that I'm going to write this diary. This manuscript is no more than a long, unfinished letter to Luzilia.

*   *   *

I awaken the writer with unnecessary energy. The man had fallen asleep a short time ago, and he must now be emerging from a deep well.

I need your help. Follow me in the car and with the headlamps on so that I can see in front of me …

What's happening?

These guys have filled the paths with traps.

So what?

I'm a hunter, I don't use traps.

I go ahead on foot, while the sleepy writer drives the vehicle slowly behind me. Here and there I pick up traps, which I chuck in the back of the jeep. Farther on I come face-to-face with a structure made of trunks the height of a man, on top of which there's a thatch roof.

It looks like a house
, the writer warns.

It's an
utegu
, a trap for catching lions.

I throw a rope around the trunks and tie it to the jeep, ordering Gustavo to reverse and drag the roof and palisade away.

Go on, harder, put your foot down!

The straining of the engine, along with my impatient cries, makes me recall my childhood. I remember one time when my father decided I would go with him into the bush. My dear mother opposed this vigorously: Apart from the dangers of hunting, we were in the middle of a war. They argued at the front door to our house, it was early morning and my mother's yells attracted the attention of our neighbors. Old Bullseye decided to put an end to the dispute: He bundled me into the jeep and locked himself in with me. The vehicle reversed in such crazy haste that I was suddenly hurled violently against the windshield, which shattered. The blood flowed hotly down my face. I remember how my mother carried me away, weeping silently. As she lay me on my bed, my blood staining her arms, she declared, mysterious and serene:

Let us be clear about this, husband: This child will never be a hunter.

*   *   *

Once the traps have been collected, I return home, and by the light of an oil lamp open my notebook. I look distractedly at my recollections for the day.

Are you left-handed, then?
the writer walks over and asks.

Yes. But I'm right-handed when I shoot.

Then, suddenly inspired, I explain that I hold children with my left hand. I can't do that with the hand that kills.

That's strange
, Gustavo responds.
In most cultures, it's the left hand that is ill-fated. What tribe did you get such an idea from?

From my own, the Bullseye tribe. Nowadays, I'm the only one left in the tribe.

And what are you writing, if that's not an indiscretion?

I'm writing this story.

What story?

The story of this hunting expedition. I'm going to publish a book.

Gustavo can't conceal a nervous smile. My disclosure's had the effect of a punch in the stomach. Questions then follow, one after the other: A book?… And who is going to publish it?… And what format would I adopt, a novel, reportage? I put a stop to his barrage of doubts and interrogation. As if to placate him, I ask:

Do you think I won't manage to do it?

And why wouldn't you be able to?

Writing isn't like hunting. You need a lot more courage. Opening yourself up like that, exposing myself without a weapon, defenseless …

Gustavo understands the irony of my words. Then he decides to attack me on my own terrain:

I've already told you I hate hunting.

So why are you here?

In this instance, there's no alternative if we want to protect human life.

Do you know what I think it is? Fear.

What do you mean?

You're scared.

Me?

You're scared of yourself. You're scared of being hunted by the animal that dwells inside you.

Gustavo turns his back, but I don't give up: No matter how long he might live in a modern, urban world, the primitive bush would still remain alive within him. Part of his soul would always be untamed, full of insuperable monsters.

Come with me to the bush and you'll see: You're a savage, my dear writer.

Call me what you like, but I don't find it at all heroic to fire on defenseless animals. There's no glory in such an unequal contest.

Without a word, I take a lion's claw and tooth from my haversack and place it on the table.

What do you think this is?

They're parts of a lion.

Parts? They're weapons. These are the lion's shotguns. As you can see, the creature is better equipped than I am. So, who's the hunter? Me or him?

This conversation isn't getting us anywhere.

Let me tell you this: For a reporter, you got off to a really bad start.

Why's that?

You didn't understand why I destroyed the traps.

And you got off to an even worse start: Before destroying them, you didn't even bother to speak to the people who'd spent so much time making them.

Do you know something, my writer friend? It would be better if I'd come here to hunt vampires rather than lions. Vampires sell well, and you'd have a guaranteed bestseller.

I blow on the candle and darkness falls over the room. Outside, the full moon awakens some feline restlessness within me. Beneath my closed eyelids, my mind returns again to Luzilia. Suddenly, however, another vision emerges before me. It's a beautiful young black girl. It's a local girl smiling on the riverbank. She is faceless, and could be any woman from the village. Tonight, I sleep with all the women of Kulumani.

*   *   *

I hadn't been asleep for long before I heard roars. The world remained in suspense. A lion's growl leaves no silence in its wake.

Can you hear?
the writer asked, in a panic.

It's a lioness. It's still a long way off.

The roars gradually faded away. Silence fell over the darkness. At last, I could begin my war with the night.

*   *   *

Ever since early morning, a woman called Hanifa Assulua has been sweeping, washing, cleaning, heating up water, without uttering a single word. Her presence has the discretion of a shadow. Only when she leaves does she address me, but without looking up.

Do you remember me?
she asks.

I have no recollection. I explain the fleeting nature of my visit. So much time had passed since I had come here to hunt a crocodile. It had just been a few days and then I'd left and never come back again. I'm trying to excuse myself for any eventual indelicacy. But she seems relieved at my lack of memory.

Tell me the truth: Have you just come here to hunt? Or have you come to take someone away from Kulumani?

Who? I don't know anyone.

That's good. It's not as if there was anyone here.

And she said nothing more to me then or on the following days. She did her rounds devoid of body, of voice, or of presence. As far as the writer was concerned, the woman was our conduit to the village community. And there was more to it than that: She was the mother of the latest victim of the lions. That's why Gustavo follows the maid's every step like a shadow. Hanifa is filling a can of water when the writer asks her about the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death.

What happened that night? Was she out at that time of night?

The lion was inside.

Inside the house?

Inside
, she repeats, almost inaudibly.

She points at her chest as if to suggest a further meaning to the concept of insideness. Then she raises the can in her arms, refusing any help to place it on her head.

I have to go home. I still have to cook, to prepare your welcome banquet.

She draws herself up, proud and erect, as if the can of water were part of her body, as if it were the water that was carrying her along.

*   *   *

The administrator appears midmorning to introduce the tracker who will accompany us on our hunting expeditions. His name is Genito Mpepe, and he's the husband of Hanifa, the woman who cleans our house. That's how Florindo introduces him. Then, in veiled tones, he adds:

The girl who was killed … was this man's daughter …

I roll out a map on the table and ask the man to show us where the victims were attacked.

I can only read the land. Maps are a language I don't know.

That's how the tracker answers me. His ways are abrupt, almost rough. I know this type of person. Uncouth in speech, but excellent in the art of hunting. But something makes me think Genito harbors some resentment, some offense toward me.

Am I going to have a right to a weapon?

No. I reply in the same terse terms. The administrator tries to break the ice by exclaiming with exaggerated enthusiasm:

Our hunter has an explanation for the lions' attacks. Explain this to Comrade Genito, he needs to know …

As far as I was concerned, it was obvious: The country folk had exterminated the smaller animals, the food supply for the larger carnivores. In despair, these had started to attack the villages. People are easy prey for the lions. This rupture in the food chain—I used this precise term with some petulance—was the reason for the lions' unusual behavior.

Pigs
, the tracker says accusingly, turning toward us.

At first I think he is insulting us.

It's the pigs' fault!
he repeats.

The writer looks up to express his incomprehension. But then he gives up: Incomprehension has been his most notable activity since arriving in Kulumani. At that point, Genito Mpepe concludes:

It was the pigs that showed the lions how to get here.

The wild pigs would visit the kitchen gardens, attracted by the crops planted around the houses. The lions followed on their trail and so broke into a space they'd never dared invade before.

*   *   *

Later, while tidying my things, I catch the writer taking a look at my diary. I don't interfere. I let his greedy fingers turn the pages of my little notebook. In fact, rather than finding it irritating, I'm filled with an unexpected vanity at his interest. Could it be that the artist himself recognizes the value of my artistic endeavors?

I don't know—I'll never know—what Gustavo thinks of what he is reading. What I do know is that at a certain point, his hands tremble and there's a glint in his eye.

*   *   *

The sight of the papers shaking in Gustavo's hands takes me back to my childhood. Once again, I see the day when Roland was obliged to check the true content of the missives that my mother spent her time composing. And my father, arms crossed on his chest, awaiting the supreme judgment. Indeed, I also asked myself: Were the letters that Martina wrote faithful to what my father dictated?

This is what happened on that occasion: My father stopped his dictation and stood there in silence for some time.

Well, then?
his wife asked, seeing him absorbed.

I don't believe you're writing down what I told you to
, he replied, advancing resolutely toward his wife.

Henry Bullseye brusquely snatched the letter from his wife's hands. He turned the sheet over, this way and that, next to his face as if he were looking through the paper. For me, this was proof of what I had long suspected: My father couldn't read.

Roland, my son, come here.

My brother got up, quivering from his soul to his feet. Our old man handed him the notebook, staring fixedly at his firstborn.

Read out loud what's written here.

Roland stared wide-eyed as if struggling to focus clearly. The lines danced before his trembling hands. His voice was all of a muddle, unsure of where to begin.

Read!

Where, Father?

Read. Read wherever you like.

My mother looked at him imploringly. Roland stared at me aghast, terrified. Then he took a deep breath, and I didn't even recognize his voice as it rang through the room:

My darling Henry, my beloved husband …

Go on, continue …

 … One and only love of my life.

I examined my mother's face and I saw her sadness, the sadness of all humanity.

*   *   *

It isn't long before the welcoming banquet, scheduled to take place in the center of the village, is going to begin. The writer wants to gain time and make use of the hour before it starts to interview witnesses and take down statements. I go with him. We wander haphazardly along the paths of Kulumani. I walk in front, my rifle over my shoulder, my gait military. The writer asks me why I need a weapon in the middle of the day, and in the middle of the village.