The Story of the Cannibal Woman (6 page)

The most romantic was Peter, an Australian, a telecommunications engineer who had had to flee Sokoto after eloping with Latifah, the only daughter of the sultan. Latifah spoke only Hausa, Peter only English. The couple had three children. But Peter had still not learned a word of Hausa and Latifah not a word of English, which goes to prove that passion forges its own idiom.

The most captivating was Stephen, with his intellectual charisma, his somewhat obscure language, and his references to works of fiction that nobody had ever heard of but that he made you want to read. Once he was at Bebe's, as Rosélie had guessed, he seemed to forget his reservations and was determined to charm anyone who approached him.

The most average was an American high school teacher from Boston who boasted of being a WASP, on honeymoon with his Congolese wife from Brazzaville who taught at the same school. Together they had written in French a seven-hundred-page novel, extremely boring,
Les derniers jestes d'Anténor Biblos
, published by Gallimard.

But it was Patrick who stole the evening, a somewhat common-faced fifty-year-old who escorted his wife, a Congolese, this time from Kinshasa. Patrick was a former deep-sea diver. For years he had lived on offshore oil rigs from Indonesia to Gabon, from which he escaped every two weeks to blow his phenomenal wages plus danger money in the brothels. At the age of fifty, when the hour of retirement had sounded, he had decided to settle down in Cape Town, where the climate suited his arthritis of the knee, contracted in the ocean depths. During the meal he held his audience captive, recounting quite simply how he used to dive down over a thousand feet, brushing against the fish and the coral amid the silence and darkness of the ocean deep.

But at dessert, however, the conversation got bogged down in inescapable terrain. Life as a mixed couple. In the ensuing brouhaha everyone had a story of prejudice, rejection, or exclusion to tell, and one's heart never knew whether to laugh or cry or do both at the same time. In fact, no society is prepared to accept the freedom to love.

The most spectacular tale was that of Peter and Latifah. To prevent this union, which he considered unnatural, the sultan Rachid al-Hassan had his daughter locked up in one of the wings of his palace, the Palace of the Wind. Here she was watched over day and night by four ferocious hounds and six old hags who fed her nothing but curds in order to incapacitate her. She had escaped with the help of a guard who had poisoned the hounds with meatballs and drugged the old hags with a sleeping potion. Up to this very day the radio in Sokoto is still broadcasting the description of Peter as a wanted person and public enemy of the sultanate. The sultan has never given up hope of jailing him after having first castrated him with a fine blade inset with ivory dating from the eighteenth century.

Stephen refused to give in to the general gloom. He began by cheering up his audience with his sardonic erudition. The mixed couple is a very old and honorable institution. Ca' da Mosto and Valentin Fernandes can testify to it. It dates back to 1510, when a group of Portuguese from Lisbon, including criminals fleeing the kingdom, settled at the mouth of the river Senegal and, adopting the African custom, took up with black women. Although they were held in contempt by their fellow countrymen, they were adored by the Africans and called themselves
lançados em terra
, those who are thrown onto the shore, or
tango mâos
, the tattooed traders. At the same time, 1512 to be exact, other Portuguese were washed up on the shores of Brazil, near São Paolo, one of whom was João Ramalho, who took as his wife the daughter of a Tamoia Indian chief. On June 14, 1874, Lafcadio Hearn married Alethea Foley, a woman of mixed race from Cincinnati. In the same humorous vein, Stephen then asked why we only take into account the biological element. Isn't the union between a Spaniard and a Belgian a mixed marriage? Between a German and an Italian? A Czech and a Romanian? An American and a French woman? And after all, aren't all couples mixed? Although they may belong to the same society, the spouses themselves come from different social and family backgrounds. Even if a brother married his sister it would be another case of mixed marriage. No individual is identical to another.

He brought out a sense of pride in the guests by painting in glowing colors the day when the entire world would follow their example. Yes, the mixed couple would conquer all! The greatest thinkers of our time are saying that the world is in a state of hybridization. You only need two eyes to see it for yourself. New York, London, cities of hybrids. Hybridized cities.

In their enthusiasm Piotr and Bebe proposed they join forces, and pursue and repeat the “Art for the People” operation. Could he select lines from poems or meaningful quotes by writers? They would be blown up into giant posters and displayed in the markets, the bus stations, the railroad stations, and bus shelters, everywhere where crowds gather. Stephen was only too pleased to accept. He believed the poets who are reputed to be the most difficult are in fact the most accessible. Simone looked at Rosélie angrily, betraying what she thought. Incorrigible Stephen! Once again he had managed to make himself the center of attention. Me, me, me!

Antoine and Simone were resolutely hostile to Stephen. For Antoine, Stephen remained a son of perfidious Albion, despite his French upbringing. He had not learned “Frère Jacques” at nursery school. He preferred Alice in her Wonderland to General Dourakine, and had never caught himself humming a song by Edith Piaf in the shower. As for Simone, she kept quiet about her real reservations. At the most, she would go as far as accusing him of being a show-off, an actor who always wanted to be center stage.

Rosélie received the criticism leniently. A little like a mother allowing for her son's failings. Hadn't Stephen always dreamed of becoming an actor? He had never achieved his ambition. Instead of sending a thrill through an audience, facing the applause, the standing ovation, and receiving the bouquets of flowers from an enthusiastic crowd, he had to be content with his drawing-room successes.

The evening at Bebe's ended in disaster.

Around two in the morning, Arthur, the half-German, half-English photographer (a hybrid!) who had participated in Piotr's artistic campaign, turned up perfectly drunk, accompanied by an ebony-skinned whore with hair dyed red, wearing a low-cut dress open to her navel, whom he had picked up at the Green Dolphin, where such creatures guarantee bliss for a few rand. His slurred opinion on the sexuality of black women made everyone feel uncomfortable. While fondling the breasts of his trophy, Arthur claimed he was incapable of getting a hard-on with a white woman.

“White women,” he shouted, “are like a meal without salt or spices. A dish without condiments! I never touch them!”

Everyone looked at one another in embarrassment. Wasn't it precisely these sorts of clichés they were fighting against? The love of a white man for a black woman is not simply a quest for exoticism or the urgent desire for an orgasm. Let us replace the words “erection,” “blow job,” and “orgasm” with “tenderness,” “communication,” and “respect.”

Inevitably the operation “Art for the People” was shelved. The morning after Bebe's reception, Stephen, now sober, recalled the mediocrity of her poems and exclaimed he had no intention of working with her. As a regular client of the girls at the Green Dolphin, Arthur contracted the clap and went straight home to London for a cure. Worse, Piotr broke up with Bebe for a model from Eritrea who had been on the cover of
Vogue
. But Bebe soon dried her tears. Hardly had he emptied his closets than she moved in the personal belongings of an Australian tennis player, seeded thirtieth internationally but, in the opinion of his coach, destined for stardom.

This repeat performance of a mixed couple so enraged her detractors that they dared to write in a literary journal for the first time that her poetry was a load of crap.

O
nce Simone was gone, Rosélie only had Dido.

As a Cape coloured, Dido had not experienced all the savagery of apartheid. She was born in Lievland, about twelve miles from Stellenbosch, in a picture-perfect landscape of rugged mountains, jagged-edged against an unchanging blue sky. A mass of flowers. Covered with the curly mop of vineyards. Her family descended from slaves from Madagascar come to work in the vineyards, which the de Louw family had purchased from a French Huguenot.

Nothing really justified Dido's familiarity with Stephen and Rosélie. Nevertheless she would say “us,” meaning “us French,” referring to the trio they formed, because in even Dido's eyes, though the color of their skin was identical, Rosélie had nothing in common with the South African kaffirs who had been excluded from working in the vineyards and dumped farther and farther from the white world she had learned to hate and despise. Since the words “Guadeloupe, overseas département” meant no more to Dido than to the rest of the world, she considered Rosélie to be French. Didn't she speak French to perfection? Hadn't she studied in Paris? Didn't she eat her steak raw and her Camembert runny? Dido, who had a mind of her own and was not afraid to speak it, would gladly contradict her.

“You, you see racism everywhere! That's not racism. It's because you're a woman they treat you like that. Women—black, white, yellow, or coloured—they're the asshole of the world!”

Stephen's version:

“Not everything can be attributed to racism. A lot of things are due to your individual attitude.”

Whatever.

Although apartheid had spared Dido to a certain degree, life had had no consideration for her. She had first landed herself a good match in the shape of Amishand, an Indian. The couple opened a restaurant named Jaipur, which soon made an excellent name for itself. With their earnings they had built a house in Mitchell Plains, the coloured district. If you didn't meddle in politics—the right to vote, to education, to health benefits, to justice for all, and other such nonsense—life in South Africa could be sweet. Amishand was saving up to realize his dream of ending his days in India at Varanasi. If he was going to go up in flames, it might as well be on the shore of the Ganges. His relatives would scatter his ashes in the waters of the sacred river close by, and he would only have to make one small heavenly step to reach nirvana. His bank account was flourishing when coronary thrombosis dealt a deadly blow. From one day to the next Dido had become the Widow Perchaud, mother of Manil, a seven-year-old son she had killed herself raising in the memory of his deserving father. Alas, the beloved Manil had been the dagger that pierced her heart. Drink, women, men, and drugs! She had ruined herself paying off his debts, then was forced to mortgage and finally sell the Jaipur, that jewel of Indian gastronomy. She had reached the depth of degradation when she had had to hire herself out as a cook by the month. Fortunately, in her misfortune, she had met Rosélie, to whom she had grown attached, like family.

After Manil had died from AIDS, Dido lost the desire to live. She had been overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt. All that had been her fault. She had treated her son like a treasure she took pride in, like a bracelet to flaunt, like a necklace clasped to her neck. She hadn't loved him for what he was. Neither her prayers to the God of the Christians nor her sacrifices to the Hindu deities could bring peace back to her heart. Only Rosélie had managed to do that. Through the laying on of hands and locating the pressure points of Dido's pain.

The car disappeared into the night. Rosélie remained standing on the sidewalk littered with garbage. She had been lucky a taxi had accepted to take her to her appointment at Dido's. Once the sun had gone down, no taxi driver ventured into the black townships: Langa, Nyanga, Guguletu, Khayelitsha, forbidden zones! And even Mitchell Plains, once a calm, hardworking district, was now eaten up with the wrath and fury of gang warfare.

Rosélie looked left and right like a cautious schoolgirl, then ran across the sinister, ill-lit street.

Just as she was furiously battling with fate, so Dido was fighting to make her surroundings a little more human. She was the president of an association that refused to let Mitchell Plains become like the hell of so many other neighborhoods. In her little garden she had planted not only the inevitable bougainvillea, but also hibiscus, azaleas, crotons, and magnificent orchids: green-spotted lady's slippers. She had even managed to grow a blue palm that was covered with ivory-colored buds, as bright as candles on a Christmas tree. She hurried to open the door and whispered:

“Look! That's his car over there.”

It was obvious she was taking great delight in the mystery.

Rosélie turned her head and saw a Mercedes huddled in the shadows, its sidelights glowing in the dark like the eyes of a drunkard. Dido led her inside. The living room was like the garden. You never saw such a jumble! Too much heavy furniture: sofas overstuffed with cushions patterned with flowers, triangles, and rosettes; armchairs with round, square, and rectangle lace macassars; pouffes; pedestal tables; and glass and lacquered coffee tables jostled one another on flowery rugs. Under the reproduction of a group of apsaras draped in yellow there sat a man dressed in an alpaca safari jacket. So motionless you thought he was asleep. But when the two women went over to him, he immediately opened his eyes, whose flash was so piercing, that's all you could see in his face. He stood up. He was slim, well built, but disappointingly small. Much smaller than Rosélie and her five feet ten inches. She had always been as lanky as a pole, the tallest in her class, sitting in the back row. Such a look would have better suited someone of another stature. Once Dido had led them into the guest room, as cluttered as the living room, with walls plastered with an array of prints, such as Ganesh with his monstrous trunk, monkey-headed Hanuman, and the handsome bearded face of Jesus Christ, our Savior, he asked abruptly, betraying his embarrassment:

“What do I do?”

“Nothing!” Rosélie smiled. “Just relax!”

She lit the incense and candles. Then she helped him take off his safari jacket and undervest, he resisting a little the intimacy of such gestures. She made him lie down on the sofa bed, laid her hands on his head and ran them over his warm shoulders. He closed his eyes.

“Dido tells me you can't sleep,” she said softly.

“I don't think I've slept since 1994. Night after night I stuff myself with sleeping pills. So I get thirty minutes or an hour's sleep. You know what happened in our country?”

Who do you take me for? Everyone's heard about the genocide in Rwanda. Eighty thousand Tutsis cut down to size in next to no time. But although Stephen had contributed to a collective work on the subject without ever having set foot in Kigali, and often discussed it with Deogratias, she avoided the issue out of fear of voyeurism. Moreover, she was unable to conceptualize such a massacre. It was impossible for her to imagine men, women, and children with their heads chopped off, breast-feeding babies sliced in two, fetuses ripped from their mothers' wombs, and the sickening smell of blood and corpses thrown into the rivers and lakes during the killing spree.

She rubbed her hands with oil and began to massage him.

Very soon, he slipped into a semiconsciousness while she received through her palms his inner turmoil and endeavored to control it. Every time she set about healing wounds, she thought of the two beings she had been unable to relieve. Her mother, whom she adored. During her final years, when she still had enough courage to return to Guadeloupe for the vacations, she took refuge with Aunt Léna at Redoute. When Papa Doudou died, Aunt Léna, who hated her job as a social worker, retired. She dressed in sack cloth, stuck a
bakoua
hat on her head, and played the role of planter, wearing out the workers in her banana grove. Rose never complained about how seldom her beloved daughter visited her. She no longer went out, not even to take communion at dawn mass. Father Restif, a Breton with blue eyes, gave her the comfort of the Sacrament at home. She now weighed over five hundred pounds and refused to show herself. She inched open the door to let in only three people—Father Restif, the loyal Meynalda, and good doctor Magne. No need to mention that she no longer sang. She performed in public for the last time at the birthday of a great-niece when everybody begged her to sing. Breaking with habit, she had sung in Spanish:

Some people said that her deformity was the work of one of Elie's mistresses, a certain Ginéta, whom he had promised to marry and then abandoned with her four little bastards and her two eyes to cry with—at that time they hadn't invented the expression “single mother.” Most people refused to accept such a commonplace explanation. Abandoning women and children is nothing new under the sun, neither in Guadeloupe nor in the rest of the world. Elie was neither the first nor the last in his category. Yet, as far back as Guadeloupeans could remember, they had never seen such a sickness as the one that was ravaging Rose. They thought rather she was paying for her papa, Ebenezer Charlebois, the most corrupt of all the politicians, who, with the help of a Haitian obeahman and Nigerian
dibias
, practiced human sacrifice to ensure his reelection. At every All Saints Day, instead of candles, his grave was daubed with a mixture of excrement and tar in revenge; then the word “CUR” written in capital letters evened the score.

Two years before he died, Elie had finally separated from Rose. He kept to his routine, continuing to drink his thirty-year-old Feneteau les Grappes Blanches rum with his friends in the living room before lunch. At half past twelve he was the first at table to devour a plateful of fried fish and lentils cooked in lard by Meynalda. At six in the evening he would join other friends at their meeting place, named the Senate, on the Place de la Victoire. No connection with that of the Luxembourg Palace in Paris. But he had taken up his night quarters in one of the family's upstairs-downstairs houses on the rue Dugommier. There the
bòbò
women, not at all intimidated by his eighty years of age, rivaled in ardor and imagination to entertain and satisfy him. Yet Rosélie had no right to throw the first stone, she who was blissfully whiling away her days at the other end of the world with her white guy. Well, blissfully, in a manner of speaking! For the second person to whom she had never been able to offer peace of mind was herself. When you think about it, it's not surprising. The cancer specialist doesn't treat his own cancer. Nor the dentist his abscess. She had believed that Stephen would give her that strength of which he had more than enough to spare. Instead, his presence and protection had paradoxically sapped the little confidence she had in herself. Then, suddenly, he had left her on her own. The sly, insidious reproach embittered her heart.

Half conscious, Faustin tossed and turned and moaned. She tightened the pressure of her hands on his forehead and neck, and he relaxed.

In New York they had lived on Riverside Drive, steps away from the university where Stephen worked. An apartment with a view of the river. On the other shore of the Hudson they could see the high-rises of New Jersey, and in the evening, to their right, the luminous steel girders of the George Washington Bridge.

Nevertheless, Rosélie couldn't help regretting N'Dossou. And all those who had helped her. Dominique, first of all. Dominique, quadroon with a heart of gold, from Cayenne in French Guiana. When you are five thousand miles from home, the overseas departments merge into one. Guadeloupe and Guiana united! Dominique and Rosélie had been seated not far from each other at the annual banquet of the Overseas Départements Association. As a result of her many sentimental misfortunes, there was no love lost between Dominique and black men. She always ended her judgments with the same lethal phrase:

“They're all filthy machos!”

Not that she liked white men any better. She did not dare ask that question which constantly dances at the back of the eyes and haunts the mind:

“Let's get straight to the point. Musically speaking, one white half note equals two black quarter notes. Sexually speaking, is one white guy equal to a black?”

Then she would take refuge behind a militant attitude and accuse Rosélie of betrayal. Betrayal? Of what? Rosélie asked angrily.

The Race, of course!

Cut to the quick, Rosélie retorted. She experimented with a weapon that in fact she was rather good at using: irony. So it was the unfortunate Stephen who had dealt in the lucrative traffic of prize slaves? He had been an absentee planter? It must have been he who whispered to Bonaparte to reinstate slavery? Since women always get the blame—
cherchez la femme
, they say—some had hastily accused the beautiful Creole, Josephine de Beauharnais. The reason why some hotheads had mutilated her statue on the Savane in Fort-de-France in Martinique. A statue with its throat slashed. A sun throat slashed. Celanire, throat slashed. And that's not all.

Without stopping, Dominique accumulated a thousand reasons for loathing Stephen.

“Too polite to be honest. He's two-faced, I can sense it. He's hiding something. And then, he's too full of himself.”