The Story of the Cannibal Woman (24 page)

Eternal peace.

A
t six forty-five the sound of the telephone ringing drew Rosélie from her bed. It was Inspector Lewis Sithole.

He did not apologize for calling so early, for he had an excellent reason. As he had predicted two days earlier, Bishupal had decided to squeal, as they say. Mrs. Hillster was right, he wouldn't have hurt a fly. Even less Stephen. It wasn't him. It was Archie Kronje. It was an incredible story. Archie had got it into his head to blackmail Stephen. He had asked him therefore to bring three thousand U.S. dollars in cash and to meet him in front of the Pick 'n Pay. But he misjudged him. Stephen had in fact gone to the appointed meeting empty-handed, in a fighting mood and threatening to inform the police of his drug dealing. The quarrel had turned vicious and Archie had fired. The murder weapon apparently was at his poor mother's, wrapped in a towel hidden under a pile of sheets.

Fiela, Fiela, you have shown me the way. To be done with life. Living is a bitter potion, a purgative, a calomel I can no longer swallow.

For days on end Rosélie abandoned her consultations and remained in her room, virtually from morning to night and night to morning, lying prostrate on her bed. Despite the increasingly bitter cold, she kept the windows wide open in order to counter the feeling of suffocation that was creeping over her. She never closed her eyes. On a clear night she could count the stars, which twinkled for hours on end, then suddenly were snuffed out like candles on a birthday cake. The moon was the last to disappear, swaying on its swing until dawn. But when the nights were ink-black, she would watch the air slowly whiten, the sky turn gray, and the silhouette of Table Mountain loom up, pachydermatous, like an elephant emerging from the bushes. First of all, only the natural elements of the decor came to light: the clouds, the pines, and the rocks. Then the humans appeared. The first tourists took up their positions around the cable-car station. A new day was dawning.

Andy Warhol said that we would all be famous for fifteen minutes of our lives.

Rosélie had not foreseen that the
Cape Tribune, The Observer,
and other dailies and weeklies would snatch up her story so that thousands of readers who had never heard of her could relish it. That photos of Stephen, Bishupal, Archie, and her—my God, what do I look like, am I really so ugly?—would be splashed over the front pages. Admittedly, the details were juicy.

The honorable professor of literature, the specialist of Joyce and Seamus Heaney who was writing a critical study of Yeats and had made a name for himself in college theater productions, murdered a few months earlier, was in fact leading a double life. No doubt about it, nowhere is safe nowadays, and the university's no better than the church. After the pedophile priests and bishops, here are the professors slumming it. My God, whom can we trust our children with? What do these false mentors teach them? Vice, nothing less. The papers reeled off fictionalized biographies of Stephen. They had readers believe that this admired, respected, and celebrated professor had secretly accumulated a series of dirty tricks. In Africa, his well-placed connections had got him out of a tight corner. But in New York, where love is a many splendored thing, a minor had filed a lawsuit and Stephen had had to leave to flee a prison sentence.

These unfortunate circumstances, however, had a positive side to them. The journalists had discovered that the companion of this modern-day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Rosélie Thibaudin, originally from Guadeloupe, a Caribbean island under French domination—some still are, a smattering of islands, two or three pieces of confetti on the ocean—who was totally unaware of her partner's misdemeanors—how blind can you get, women are so stupid—was a painter. Misfortune often works like a magnet. Anxious to get a closer look at this poor dupe, people made a beeline for Faure Street. They hadn't counted on Dido's presence of mind. Thanks to her, the house had become a trap. Not only were they wasting their time—Rosélie was invisible, wrapped in her grief, far from prying eyes—but they weren't allowed to leave until they had visited her studio. Although they had hoped for better, her paintings were so dark, so unattractive, in other words, not at all exotic, they were obliged to dig deep into their pockets. Dido was the one who fixed the price, admittedly depending on the person, and tolerated no excuses. She took her job as manager very seriously. That's how she not only sold two paintings to Bebe Sephuma, attracted like everybody else by the smell of scandal, for her house in Constantia, but also dragged out of her the promise of simultaneous exhibitions, one in Cape Town and the other in Jo'burg. That evening, taking a bowl of soup up to Rosélie, she counted up with satisfaction the day's takings and remarked:

“You see, some good always comes out of evil. It's a law of nature.”

Rosélie, who could only see her life in ruins, had trouble making out the contours of good.

She was ashamed and she was hurting.

Sometimes she had the strength to leave her room, leave the bed that everyone had scorned, and climb up to her studio. Her canvases gave her a cool reception.

We are tired of waiting, they complained. We've done nothing to hurt you. Can't you understand that we'll never betray you, like your men have done, one after the other? We'll always be faithful to you.

She tried to explain. Pain and shame had swooped down on her, wreaking havoc on her, obscuring her convictions. She must get control of herself and think things through.

Did she really want to leave Cape Town? To go where? And find what? The indifference of Paris? The emptiness of Guadeloupe? Who was she? Who did she want to be? A painter? A clairvoyant? She invariably ended up losing hope in her wrecked life.

That morning she got dressed very early so as not to keep Papa Koumbaya waiting. Despite Dido's efforts to dissuade her, she had made up her mind to pay Bishupal a visit.

“What do you hope to get out of that little bastard?” Dido fumed. “You'll just hurt yourself even more, that's all.”

I hope to understand.

Understand what?

What is there to understand?

Inspector Lewis Sithole, who was now a daily visitor to Faure Street, thought along the same lines.

“She'd do best to put all that behind her,” he repeated to Dido, who highly approved.

Behind me? It's a vicious circle: If I haven't understood, even if I can't forget, how can I manage to grin and bear it? And start off again along life's bumpy road.

As unlikely as it may seem to those who know the age-old hatred between blacks and coloureds, Dido and Lewis were having a love affair. Rosélie, in fact, was the culprit. Through drinking endless cups of coffee in the kitchen, lamenting on life's unfathomable machinations, Lewis and Dido had grown closer together. Lewis, who owned a secondhand Toyota, had offered to drive Dido home to Mitchell Plains. First he had stayed for dinner and then the night, when he had performed as well as any other.

Blushing like a virgin, Dido confided in anyone within hearing distance:

“He's not very handsome, but he's got a heart as good as gold.”

She was now planning to rent her house and move in with Lewis in an ultramodern apartment block built by the police in False Bay. Her relationship with the Inspector assured her all the papers for free and firsthand knowledge of criminal cases. That's how she learned that Bishupal's defense was proving difficult. Beneath his angelic looks, he had a stubborn streak. He refused to follow the strategy advocated by his lawyer, once again a young fellow officially appointed to the case, but we know now we have to be careful of young lawyers officially appointed to the case. He refused to dissociate himself from Archie or accuse him. On the contrary, he claimed responsibility. He had approved the murder committed by his friend. He had even bought the gun.

The street emerged livid and shivering from the torment of the night. Rosélie was hurt.

How little I count! Whereas I had hit rock bottom, the world hadn't budged. The gingerbread facades of the pastel-colored Victorian houses hadn't moved. The bougainvillea glowed red against the wrought-iron railings. In the gardens the roses continued to perfume the air, which shimmered from their scent.

At the same time, she felt the unwitting exhilaration of being alive.

Floating through the streets, the warm, heady smell of the ocean, like that of tar, tickles my nose. The familiar hand of the wind stings my face.

Already up, armed with secateurs, Mrs. Schipper was inspecting her bushes, branch by branch. As usual, she did not deign turn her head in the direction of Rosélie and the Thunderbird. Had she read the editorials in the newspapers or watched television? Was she informed of the latest details of the tragedy that had been played out on her doorstep? Had she commented on the facts with her relatives and friends?

And what about the domestics arriving for work? And the night watchmen ending their guard duty? Furtive comings and goings. A murmur of respectful greetings.

“
Goeimore!
”

Nobody had shown any sympathy for Rosélie. Deogratias had continued to meditate the Beatitudes and snore as usual. Raymond had stopped visiting, yielding to evidence and reason. Only Dido and Lewis Sithole remained loyal, attentive to her every need.

The latter had given her a flag tree with salmon-colored flowers, which he planted himself at the foot of the traveler's tree.

While awaiting his sentence, Bishupal was being detained at Pollsmoor, a former political prison now reserved for juvenile delinquents. The highway was already congested with all types of gleaming cars, full of people going about their business in the pursuit of money. Papa Koumbaya, who had said nothing when his hero Stephen bit the dust, continued to drone on as usual. She closed her ears. Under her tightly shut eyelids she watched a series of images file past. The worst thing is trying to imagine the unknown. To visualize a truth patched up like a photo torn to pieces and stuck together again.

She understood now why during the last summer vacation Stephen had left her alone in Wimbledon on the pretext of a colloquium on Oscar Wilde at the university of Aberdeen. She remembered how surprised she had been. In the middle of summer? He hadn't even troubled to reply, stuffing his traveling bag determinedly. He had entrusted her to Andrew. In the evening they used to go and watch old films by Luis Buñuel. Since neither of them could cook, they would have a pub dinner. Despite his sullenness and silence, she was convinced he was a friend, whereas his only allegiance was to Stephen.

Pollsmoor Prison comprised an endless number of buildings linked by covered exercise yards. It was a hive of activity humming with police cars, vans, and scooters, and Rosélie had to show the pass Inspector Lewis Sithole had obligingly got for her over a dozen times. She finally found herself in a rectangular visiting room with cream-colored walls. As usual, there were very few whites. Only blacks. Mothers, yet again, recognizable by their tears and their looks of distress, were seated in front of glass partitions. You had to press a button and speak into a kind of ear trumpet. A dozen black and white police officers were pacing up and down, scowling and fingering their guns.

When Bishupal entered, flanked by a guard who shoved him to his seat, Rosélie had trouble recognizing him. He was dressed in oversized striped pajamas. His mane of silk had been ruthlessly shaven and his bare head appeared enormous, the color of old ivory, dappled in black. His emaciated face seemed to be just two huge eyes and he looked like a concentration camp survivor. All that, however, couldn't deprive him entirely of his beauty, grace, and juvenile appeal. Rosélie felt a pang of jealousy.

“Why are you here?” he murmured savagely. “I didn't want to see you. Then I told myself we have to get it over with. I had to come and tell you.”

Rosélie realized this was one of the few times she had heard his voice, pleasant, deep-sounding, and slightly nasal. Up till then he had only spoken in monosyllables with her:

“Here!”

“Thanks!”

“Many thanks!”

The perfect employee at the Threepenny Opera. The perfect poet's apprentice. Who was he, in fact?

In its generosity, the
Cape Tribune
had depicted him as a depraved individual. He apparently lost his modest job at the Nepalese embassy because he sold his favors for visas. According to the paper, it was a lucrative business. Although the path to Kathmandu is less traveled nowadays, the rush has gone, but there are still tourists anxious to admire the Bhimsen Tower.

Following that, he is said to have prostituted himself.

Where exactly was the truth? It probably wavered somewhere between these two extremes. Rosélie thought she could read between the lines a story of solitude, naiveté, and dashed hopes.

She had prepared a little speech. But as usual the words disobeyed her. They fled in confusion left and right, and she remained silent, a sob sticking in her throat like a fishbone.

“He never loved you,” he said slowly, his eyes sparkling through the glass partition. “Never.”

She wasn't expecting such spitefulness, which destroyed everything she had imagined.

“Neither me. Nor anyone else,” he continued. “He was only in love with himself. Stephen had no heart.”