Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? (17 page)

Stupid Amarante standing there, gazing at Celanire in adoration! When Celanire had finished with her, there would be nothing left for her to do but sink into a watery shroud like the widow Desrussie.

The heat of the day was over. It was still barely daylight. Clouds of fireflies already streaked through the air. You sensed that night was in a hurry to stuff into its bag of mourning the green of the cane fields, the deep blue of the sea, and the gray of the sky. The crater of the volcano had already disappeared in the dark, and its slopes were cloaked in mist.

Agénor de Fouques-Timbert hated the place he was going to—the Bois-Debout Great House at La Regrettée, abandoned for over thirty years. Unfortunately it was always there that Mavundo, his trusted mischief maker from Santo Domingo, arranged to meet him. He whipped Colibri, who restlessly snorted the air. The horse lumbered down the slope of the Morne du Calvaire, quickened its pace across a series of savannas, and stopped abruptly as soon as they came in sight of the Great House. An alley of royal palms, a hollow facade like a trompel'oeil, and the remains of the washhouse walls—that was all that was left of one of the most magnificent mansions in the region. After having carried away the furniture, the rugs, and the family portraits, thieves had gone to work on the bricks and roof tiles, leaving not one stone standing. On the other hand, they hadn't touched the slave shacks, and their dingy quarters stood intact at the foot of the Great House buildings like a mangy herd. Their doors gaped open onto mounds of beaten earth once used as beds or tables, as well as the wretched shelves still fixed to the wall. Once separated, the two graveyards now merged into each other: the masters', with its arrogant marble tombs and wreaths and crosses of pearl, the slaves', where under the nettles and sensitive plants, the only signs of a tomb were the white bones of conch shells. The two chapels had also fallen into ruin, overrun by the creeping leaf of life. Agénor was suffocating in the stifling atmosphere. Even after so many years the place still recalled the groans and lamentations of those long buried, the tears they had shed, and their unanswered pleas and prayers. The smell of this suffering humanity seemed to cling to the branches of the trees.

Colibri had come to a standstill, frightened by all these ghosts looming around him, and only when Agénor whipped him on did the horse reluctantly amble off again.

Mavundo was waiting for him in the old slave chapel. He was a puny, reptilian, red-skinned individual who outwardly appeared perfectly ordinary but inwardly concealed an immense cunning. He commanded a multitude of dwarves hidden in the wind and scattered to the four corners of the globe. Thanks to them, he could see and hear everything. He had studied with the great Rwaha of Ethiopia and lived seven years under his wing in Addis Ababa. Agénor understood from the expression on his face that he was about to announce something terrible. He was right. Mavundo had just learned from one of his dwarves that Madeska had died on Montserrat, where he had been living as a recluse outside Plymouth. His death could be attributed neither to the volcanic eruption nor to the hurricane. The dwarf had found his body, his belly slit open with his guts oozing out, in the very middle of the mangrove swamp. The racoons had made such a good job of mauling his face and neck that his new wife, a young girl from Montserrat, had trouble identifying him. At the end of the day, therefore, the spirits had finally caught up with him. After all these seemingly peaceful years, they were now embarked on the road to war.

 

In fact Agénor had been expecting this news for the past twenty-five years and accepted it with resignation, almost with relief. When he had decided to go into politics some years earlier, his father-in-law, who had always considered him a despicable fortune hunter, had shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. He wasn't the only one. The whole of Basse-Terre scoffed at the idea. Too many people saw him as a poor-white country bookie, barely capable of growing sugarcane. So he swore to himself he would surprise them. He got the idea of asking Madeska for a human sacrifice as the best way to win the support of the invisible spirits. The mischief maker's family had been close to his from time immemorial despite the difference in color. Madeska couldn't possibly turn him down. As a wise precaution, they had come to an agreement. He was never to meet the belly donor, a certain Pisket. Madeska, who was on intimate terms with her best friend, a certain Madone, took the matter in hand. The deal between the mischief maker and the
bòbò
had cost him a fortune. What's more, in order to carry out the rites that had to be performed every week of the pregnancy up to the final sacrifice, Madeska wanted the girl to be entirely under his control. They had had to find lodgings close by and open a laundry in her name so as not to arouse suspicion. Madeska had just informed him that the birth had gone according to plan and the sacrifice would take place that very night, when suddenly, badabim, badaboom, in rolls misfortune blacker than the ass of a Congo! As a rule Madeska left the sacrificed newborn deep in the woods, haunted only by raging wild animals. This time, goodness knows what got into his head to set the newborn down right in the middle of the Calvaire crossroads. Not surprising that wretched police commissioner Dieudonné Pylône stumbled onto it and that meddling Dr. Pinceau got the idea of patching things up! What happened when a sacrifice was misappropriated? Agénor had prudently waited a few days before going down to ask Madeska for details. Alas, when he had finally made up his mind, the bird had flown! The mischief maker had split. Sobbing their hearts out, his wives added that they hadn't a cent to their name and had fifteen children to feed. Worried out of his mind, Agénor had gone to consult a well-known Nago soothsayer who read the grains of sand on the shore. He hadn't minced his words. Darling little Celanire had become a darling little devil. Dr. Pinceau had done exactly what he should not have done. He had brought her back to life! Moreover, he would
pay dearly for his foolishness and would be one of her prime victims. In fact, snatched from death, the baby would become even more formidable. You see, what is difficult for a spirit, good or bad, is to be reincarnated. Thanks to her docile little body, the evil spirits, starting with Ogokpi, the superdemon, would be able to parade freely among humans. Right up to her death, they would use her to commit any crime that caught their fancy and any mischief that came into their heads. Furthermore, convinced they had been swindled, they would savagely take their revenge on all those who had participated in the aborted sacrifice. Madeska thought he could save his skin by crossing the ocean. A waste of time—the spirits would catch up with him whenever they wanted, wherever he was. Likewise, they would hunt down every single one of those who had been involved in the affair, one by one.

Confronted with these dire predictions, Agénor had spent half his fortune protecting himself. His head bursting, he sometimes wondered whether it wouldn't be better to give up. Lie down and sleep. Lie down and die. Be reunited with the mother of his children. Once again the fools had got it all wrong. That cross-eyed hunchback, who had become a laughingstock, was the only woman he had loved with all his heart. Before sinking into the void, she had given him a smile that meant “Don't take too long! Remember, I'll be waiting for you.”

He knew that one day his learned assembly of mischief makers, sorcerers, magicians, soothsayers,
houngans, mambos,
obeah men,
kimbwazé,
marabouts, and
dibias
would be of no use and he would die in torment. When he had set eyes on Celanire again at the Governor's Palace and met her gaze, he knew his time was finally up. How odd! After all these years, he had recognized her. Twenty-five years earlier he had been unable to contain himself. He who never set foot inside a church, he had gone over to the cathedral of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul at the hour of mass to get a closer look at darling little Celanire, the miraculous baby who was the talk of Grande-Anse. Standing on the steps, Ofusan was cradling her in her arms, showing her off like the Holy Sacrament, and everyone kowtowed in front of her. The infant, only a few weeks old, was dressed ostentatiously in silks, satins, and lace, the way mothers proudly deck out their offspring. A large lace bow frothed around her neck. When he leaned over her, with the pretense of a smile, the baby looked up. Then she eyed him scornfully with her unrelenting gaze, as if to say, “So there you are. Yes, I'm still alive, no thanks to you. I'm in no hurry to settle our business, I'm going to take my time.”

He had gone inside the church without really knowing what he was doing and fallen on his knees in front of the statue of Saint Anthony of Padua, a saint he loathed, with his tonsure, his missal, and his silly expression. For the first time in his life he was shaking with fright, as helpless as a child!

Poor Mavundo! Since learning of Madeska's death, he had gone to a lot of trouble. He had worn out his dwarves. Now he was giving Agénor
wangas,
potions, powders, unguents, and lotions of his own making. He lit candles in a circle around him. He made scarifications in the fleshy parts of his arms and thighs and inserted amulets. He whirled around and drew circles in the undergrowth. Agénor looked at him in pity. He knew full well all this agitation was a waste of time. His days were numbered. When the mischief maker had finished aping around, Agénor paid him generously and climbed back onto his horse. Delighted at leaving, the animal, now with wings on its hooves, flew through Grande-Anse and galloped without stopping until they reached the Fouques-Timbert plantation. On leaving La Regrettée, Agénor did not notice the flock of egrets scatter in a commotion behind Colibri's rump. He did not realize that what had scared them was another bird, attired in black plumage like a frigate bird or a buzzard. During the conversation between Mavundo and Agénor it had kept its distance, perched motionless on the branch of a guava tree, observing the scene with its cruel, round eyes. Once the conversation was over, it had taken flight, following Agénor and Colibri from afar, its wings spread wide like the arms of Christ on the cross.

When Agénor arrived home, the bird wheeled around for some time above the estate, as if it were deciding on where to settle. Then it made up its mind, swooped down on a magnificent mahogany tree, and nestled among its shiny leaves.

Every Sunday at three in the afternoon, the fatal hour of the death of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the same scene never failed to occur. Zuléfi, Madeska's eldest son, his tall body draped in a white robe, took up his position on the seafront. Behind him, the crumpled fabric of the waves and the silhouette of the ships leaving for Veracruz. Above his head, the yellow eye of the sun that seemed to mock his antics. A few feet away, Hosanna, his wife, and their six children, dressed in the same white, rang their bells and harangued the tired, poor, and huddled masses, who were convinced there was a curse on the black race, to draw closer to the Master's Envoy. Oh, yes! The black race had suffered in the holds of the slave ships. It had suffered in the sugarcane plantations. Its blood had reddened the earth. Its sweat had drenched it. First and second slave emancipations alike had changed nothing. They were still eating out of the same bowl of misery. And they would continue to do so. And for what reason? Because they were paying for unspeakable crimes, vile and horrible acts, acquired while they were in Africa and perpetuated in Guadeloupe—human sacrifices, fornication with animals, and depravity of all sorts. But those who reasoned along these lines, preached Zuléfi, were not entirely within reason. The Good Lord knows no curse. God forgives. He forgives everyone, even those who are black of skin, vile, and crouching in the gutter. If they learned to ask for forgiveness, the black race would be rewarded with a wondrous thing. In the afterlife they would be equal among nations.

Difficult as it may seem to believe, this sermon had a considerable following. As early as Saturday morning folk from La Pointe crowded onto the bridge leading out of town, and the procession set off in the direction of Basse-Terre. Crowds poured in from the Leeward Coast, from Deshaies, Vieux-Habitants, even Sainte-Rose, plus a few fanatics from the Grand Cul-de-Sac. By noon the seafront in Basse-Terre was swarming with people: women and more women, but also men, even teenagers. While they waited, they sang psalms, some sitting on the ground or small benches, others standing, drawing themselves up to their full height. The more the priests thundered from their pulpits against Zuléfi, the more the politicians scoffed at his “naive rhetoric,” the more the crowds kept coming. After the sermon in Creole, which usually lasted two good hours, Hosanna and the children passed around the small wicker baskets for people to give what they could—from brand-new bills to penny coins. Then came the solemn moment of communion. Zuléfi asked the Good Lord to fill the bread twists with His presence before handing them out. Every time there was an incredible commotion. There was never enough to go around. People elbowed their way through the crowd, clawing and fighting like the possessed, and one wondered why the Good Lord did not simply repeat the miracle of Canaan and the multiplication of the loaves.

That Sunday, the three o'clock sun was especially harsh. The worshippers sheltered as best they could under parasols,
bakoua
hats, pieces of toweling, and jute sacks. Now that the hurricane season was over, the experts predicted a volcanic eruption, given the baking heat. Folk who slept on the volcano's slopes had been woken by rumbling noises. Up by the Yellow Baths, it stank of sulfur. Ashes had blackened the bed of the river Galion. Zuléfi himself dripped great drops of sweat. Though he looked as if he were lost in prayer, he was watching every movement among the crowd and could have described every one of his congregation. When he saw Matthieu arrive, he was not surprised. He had been expecting this visit for the past twenty-five years. He knew that one day some smart police officer would think of interrogating him, now that his father was gone. Yet so convinced he was of divine indulgence, he was not scared of mortals. Matthieu's impeccable behavior never betrayed the real reason why he was present. Like everyone else, he knelt down in the scorching sand. Like everyone else, he sang the psalms. During the sermon he devoutly placed his head between his two hands. He struck his breast twice as hard demanding the Lord's forgiveness. However, he did not budge for communion and merely watched as his fellow disciples filled themselves with the presence of God. As the crowd dispersed, he stood up, dutifully made the sign of the cross, then walked over to Zuléfi with a look that meant, Now it's our turn.