Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? (5 page)

The night crackled with the cries of insects. The moon had hidden her face behind a crepe of clouds. In the darkness Celanire laid her hand on Hakim's arm, which immediately became burning hot from her touch. It was as if he were standing next to a fire. She spoke to him in a mellow voice: That wake reminded her of Guadeloupe. There too, death was highly respected. At All Saints the flames of the candles stretched over the graves like a diamond necklace. Oh, sometimes she felt like ditching everything and going back home. But did she have a home? A home is a
maman
and a papa waiting for you with open arms. Those who had adopted her now slept in the shade of the casuarinas. And then seven years, seven long years, had elapsed since leaving Guadeloupe. When you're separated from a place for such a long time, you lose it forever: everything changes, nothing is the same. Listening to her sugary words, Hakim thought it was a good thing Governor Alix Pol-Roger was coming back soon. If he had any sense, neither Thomas de Brabant nor Celanire would be welcome much longer in Adjame-Santey.

Back at Betti Bouah's, the racket had grown louder. According to tradition, the wake had to continue for the remainder of the night and part of the following day. When they finally got around to thinking of the burial, Thomas de Brabant's guards rushed in. Governor Alix Pol-Roger was dead!

Dead? From what? How?

On his way back to Adjame-Santey he had stopped at the encampment of Tentona. It was well known for its abundant water supply and cool air, since it was situated on an escarpment fed by two rivers. While he was eating lunch, under the very eyes of his escort, he had been attacked by man-eating lions, those thick-maned black lions from Mourga, the very ones described by Amadou Hampate Ba. They had burst into the camp and without looking left or right had pounced straight on him, knocked him over, trampled and devoured him, leaving nothing behind but a pool of blood, a few bones, and a pair of legs still standing in tall, brown leather boots.

 

These unfortunate events brought together two men who up till then had had little contact with each other: Betti Bouah and Hakim. Betti Bouah was the opposite of his cousin Koffi Ndizi, as athletic and muscular as the other was potbellied. He spoke French to perfection and could read and write fluently. He was always prepared to discuss the eighteenth-century philosophers, especially Diderot, his favorite. In spite of the saying that the white man's leader is the Englishman, Betti Bouah had sided with the French. He had lent them his support on every occasion; he had lodged Binger under his roof during his 1889 expedition. He hadn't done all that only to have two of his sons mowed down by militia in the pay of the French. Following these dramatic events, he began to think twice about colonization and came to the conclusion that the Africans should join forces to kick the French out as quickly as possible and take their place. During his games of chess with Hakim, he laid out his plans. Since Hakim lent his fervent support, he offered him a job in his factories. The wages he proposed were three times higher than the mission's. Hakim couldn't believe his ears. To be rid of that mud-brick school, suffocating during the dry season, flooded during the rainy season! Of his dim-witted, fingers-all-thumbs pupils! Say good-bye to those hypocritical and finicky missionaries. Moreover, his cohabitation with Kwame Aniedo was becoming unbearable. He could no longer put up with hearing the prince noisily take his pleasure with his mistresses or bumping into him, quite naked, his pipe stuffed with Bahia tobacco wedged between his teeth. And that wasn't the worst of it. Koffi Ndizi seemed to have lapsed into second childhood. Ever since he had set eyes on her at the wake for Senanou and Dabla, he had become infatuated with Celanire. He now only had one idea in his head: to invite her to his house. But when he looked around, he was ashamed at what he saw. He would never dare entertain someone so sophisticated in such a place. So he endeavored to imitate Betti Bouah and ordered armchairs, beds, dishes, glasses, and even a set of kitchen utensils from Grand-Bassam. Since Hakim had spoken highly of the Muslim art of living, he had rugs and wall coverings shipped from Tiassalé. Oh, how he would have liked to speak French, a language that up till then had always stuck in his throat! One afternoon, Hakim paid Koffi Ndizi a visit. The king had just received four crates of dishes from Grand-Bassam. He was inspecting plates and blue-stemmed glasses identical to his cousin's, and frantically inquired of his visitor, What did he think? Would Celanire be impressed? At a time when the atmosphere in the colony was loaded with tension, such fickleness exasperated Hakim. He ran to Kwame Aniedo's, collected his meager belongings, and took his leave without saying good-bye to anyone.

Hakim's new life gradually settled into place.

Betti Bouah was in the business of palm oil. He bought it from the Akouri and Alladian villages or even farther afield. His men filled the casks supplied by the companies in Bordeaux and Nantes, and transported them along the Ebrié lagoon with a fleet of dugout canoes. They then rolled them overland and loaded them onto whaling boats that set out for the ships lying offshore behind the line of breakers. He also sold timber for dyes, ivory and skins that he purchased on the markets in the interior in exchange for gunpowder, guns, spirits, leaf tobacco from Virginia, cutlery, and knives. In short, he seemed a treasure trove for anyone who wanted to do business with him. Under his orders, Hakim no longer had time even to think about eating his bellyful. Up before sunrise, the noise of his little outboard would frighten the caymans wallowing lazily in the mud. Standing under the glare of the midday sun, he would quickly swallow a meatball of
akassan
reddened with palm oil. He dashed from one plantation to another, overseeing the loading. At first he did everything possible in the evening to keep up appearances. Once he had shaved and cologned, he went up and joined his host, who as a rule was sitting in a European-style armchair. Betti Bouah was very fond of chocolate and drank it by the cupful. While sipping this newly discovered drink, the two men would comment on what the French called “pacification” and what they themselves called quite simply “the war.” There seemed to be no end to the bloody massacres in the northern territories. How many dead had they already buried? How many more were they going to bury? Yes, Africa had got off to a bad start, and the white man's sun illuminated nothing but misfortune. Sometimes, though, their conversation turned to a lighter side. They talked about women. Betti Bouah explained he had not been impressed by Celanire. A real bag of bones! He preferred full-bodied women, like a good Bordeaux wine. Just look at his wives. And then that ribbon tied around her neck terrified him like a small child. No doubt about it, that's where she hid the mark that indicated she was the “horse” of dangerous
aawabo
. He had once known a “horse” with the distinguishing mark of a wart on his chin. It had taken years to find him out. In the
meantime, he had killed off a whole village. Deep down, without daring to contradict him, Hakim scoffed at these superstitions, okay for Africans, but which his father's European education had rid him of.

It wasn't long, however, before he ached all over, and in the evening he would throw himself on his bed, fall fast asleep, and snore until morning. This extreme exhaustion naturally gave cause for thought. In fact, what had he gained by leaving the mission school? He was still a subaltern. He no longer had time to open a book. His hair was no longer combed or brilliantined. The people he kept company with were crude, the banknotes he handled were filthy, and he was no longer Mr. Philosophizer, phrasemonger of French French. It was that very moment Kwame Aniedo chose to ask Hakim to help him pass the colonial administration examination. Kwame Aniedo could no longer put up with the life of idleness dictated by Koffi Ndizi, and he could no longer bear to see him lapse into a second childhood because of his ridiculous passion for Celanire. So he had decided to leave the royal compound, which he considered a lost cause. He was prepared to leave the country for Dakar, the city where nobody ever dies. Apparently, the French were recruiting and paying for all sorts of clerks in their offices and administration. Kwame Aniedo could already see himself as a messenger in khaki uniform with gilt epaulettes pedaling his Motobécane. Hakim, never forgetting that Kwame had offered him a roof over his head when he needed one, saw himself obliged to calculate the square of the hypotenuse while in a state of exhaustion. What was worse, Kwame Aniedo's presence still produced the same effect on him and upset him deep down: that smell of sweat and shea butter of his, that way he had of sucking greedily on his wooden penholder, that childlike expression of his whenever he no longer understood his lesson. Hakim despondently predicted that one day he would be unable to control himself and would throw himself on Kwame Aniedo. And that would be catastrophic. For the horrified Kwame would take out his Sheffield steel switchblade deep within the folds of his wrapper and stab him a fatal blow. Thus Bokar would get his revenge.

On that particular day Hakim had been called to the Home to buy the harvest of palm kernels. As a precaution he had kept out of Celanire's way since the day of the burial for Dabla and Senanou. The new palm groves were curling their hair over several acres plucked from the forest. A mountain of kernels was waiting under the trees. Celanire could be grateful: thanks to the Ebriés' free labor and the work of the senior pupils, the harvest was rich, and it took over three hours to weigh it and load it into jute sacks that the porters lugged on their backs to the factory. Once the transaction was finally over, Hakim was about to turn on his heels when the widow Desrussie held him back. Celanire was asking for him. However hard he insisted he was in his work clothes and had been sweating since morning, the widow was so adamant, he felt obliged to follow her.

Once he left the shade of the palm grove, the heat fell on his neck like a sharp blade. The sun was high in the sky, cooking the tall obelisks of the anthills. With persiennes lowered, the Home was taking its siesta. It had become a real jewel, nestling in its setting of trees and riot of flowers. Celanire had laid out flower beds and introduced heavy-scented roses together with tulips and carnations she had shipped from France. In an aviary dozed papilios, giant butterflies with yellow velvety wings striped black and blue. For Hakim, such serenity was deceiving. He imagined the Home to be like the castle of a Sleeping Beauty, waiting for the night to begin its life of debauchery. He crossed the bamboo grove, his feet sinking into the thick carpet of lawn. The widow Desrussie showed him into a boudoir where everything seemed unreal. In the penumbra, the murky eyes of the mirrors gazed back at him. The chimeras on the screens opened wide their jaws to swallow him, swinging their heavy ringed tails in every direction. He was about to beat a retreat when he caught sight of Celanire watching him, lying on a sofa. She was draped in a silk kimono, encrusted with the same chimeras. A kerchief dripped red around her neck. She motioned to him to sit down close to her, and he was overcome with nausea at the pervading smell of female. He managed to pull himself together, however, while she explained her circumstances in a mournful voice. She had been bedridden for days with a bout of fever, and she truly thought she wouldn't make it alive. He asked her unimaginatively if she had forgotten to take her quinine, and she shrugged her shoulders. Quinine? She didn't believe in those miracle remedies for whites. In Guadeloupe, her papa taught her the virtues of poultices and herbs.
Zèb à Fè. Koklaya. Té simen kontran
. Africa had the same pharmacopeia. That's how she had taken care of herself. Why is she always talking about her papa, Hakim thought irritatedly, especially if he's not her real papa? Hakim had not kept his promise, Celanire complained, and had never come to see her. He apologized. He was overworked at Betti Bouah's and spent his time dashing from one village to another. He was endeavoring to embellish his new life with a set of adventures when she cut him short. Did he like that kind of work? He remained speechless. This woman could read him like an open book.

She laid her hand on his knee, burning it like a firebrand, and then lectured him. You must always like what you do. She had a mission: transform this humble Home for Half-Castes into a monument that would go down in people's memories. For the first time in the history of the colony, her school was entering four girls for the native diploma of elementary studies. The Africans subjugated and mutilated their women. The French taught them merely how to thread a needle and use a pair of scissors. Now they were going to see something else. She did not hide the fact that she had ambitious plans. She had given a lot of thought to the reasons why relations between Africans and the French came up against a stumbling block. Because the colonizers, being men, could only think in terms of men. It was the men they invited to share in their projects. It never occurred to them to ask the women. Whereas in Africa, more than anywhere else, the women welcomed change, which could only be to their advantage. They were tired of working themselves to death, tired of being treated as subalterns, tired of being humiliated, beaten, and abused. Only the women could hold colonization in check for one very good reason. Once the colonizer had clasped a black woman in his arms, could he ever be the same again? No, no, and no! Ever since Thomas de Brabant had found happiness with her, he had become another man. He saw Africa through different eyes. He who was once so contemptuous, so convinced that the continent knew nothing of art and civilization, she had persuaded him to open a museum, and he had started collecting those very same masks he used to swear he would burn in an auto-da-fé. The Home for Half-Castes would be that meeting place that was sorely lacking, a privileged place where love between the races would fructify, grow, and multiply. That was its vocation. She proposed he work for her and teach the senior pupils. She would take care of the juniors. The girls she had trained would look after the tots. Hakim hesitated, looking for an answer that would not be taken as an insult, when her little paw, drawing a
trail of fire, began to crawl up the inside of his leg. He sat petrified while she reached her objective. They looked at each other straight in the eyes, she visibly surprised by his lack of response. She stroked harder. In vain. Ashamed, he stood up, adjusted his clothing, and ran for the exit. Outside, the light brought him back to earth. He sensed that Celanire would never forgive him such an affront. When he got back home, overcome with nausea, he washed and soaped himself from head to toe. Then he slipped on a pair of shorts and a freshly starched cotton drill shirt and went upstairs to join Betti Bouah. The latter frowned on seeing him home so early, but managed to hide his feelings and told him the latest gossip. Thomas de Brabant had just had his appointment confirmed as governor of the colony, and consequently the lucky fellow was going to be the first to occupy the new palace. A grandiose building. The juicy bit was that his wife, Charlotte, was arriving from France with their daughter. Everybody was wondering what would become of his affair with Celanire, for it was an open secret they slept together. He was so besotted with her, he blindly obeyed her every wish. He had recently authorized her to make the Home a refuge for girls running away from husbands and suitors. What next would she do? Lovesick, Karamanlis the Greek had tried to drown himself in the lagoon on several occasions. Every time they had dragged him back to the shore alive. As for Koffi Ndizi, he had repudiated his thirty-nine wives and concubines, keeping only his first love, Queen Tadjo, provided she too “converted.” He was taking catechism classes and was preparing to become a Christian, to the great joy of the mission, since conversions by a chief were exceptionally rare. The Church only attracted wretches lured by a pair of shorts and an undershirt that the priests gave to the baptized. What did Koffi Ndizi expect from such a foolish act?