Maryse Conde - Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? - A Fantastical Tale

Sitting in her palace, inaugurated the previous month with great pomp, Charlotte had lost all interest in life. In other words, she wanted to lie down and die. She had never experienced anything so depressing as Africa or imagined a place so frightful as Bingerville. Terrified of snakes and red ants, she spent the best part of her time locked in her apartments. There, with persiennes lowered, she struggled against the heat as best she could. Half naked, she showered four to six times a day, much to the anger of the houseboys, who complained she used up all the water in the tank. She fanned herself with large woven osier fans. Sometimes, in her dressing gown, she would walk out onto the balcony and weep as she looked at the encircling shrubs and trees, so different from the chestnut trees on her avenue Henri-Martin. Every day, at four in the afternoon, a house girl brought her Ludivine, her three-year-old daughter. Ludivine would fidget and push her away, now used to the caresses and pidgin of her housemaid. Charlotte did not recognize her either, now that her hair was decorated with cowries and she reeked of shea butter.

Africa therefore had taken away everything she had. Her child. Her husband, whom she virtually never saw. He told her he was working himself to death for France, whereas she knew he was working himself to death making love to a black girl. When he lay down beside her at night, her nostrils were offended by his smell. Why had he made her come to Africa? She loathed the guests he invited to dinner — senior officials drained by diarrhea and preoccupied by their bowel movements, priests never tired of naming the name of God and martyrizing the Africans in the name of the same God. They never had anything interesting to say, since they never opened a book and never listened to Bach or Handel. They drank too much, and gossiped maliciously. Charlotte no longer had the strength to keep up her diary, where since the age of sixteen she had jotted down her innocent adventures as a young girl. She was at a loss for news to send to her maman . In any case, letters took months and months to arrive. When they did, the paper smelled all musty.

That particular afternoon, she felt even hotter than usual. However hard she fanned herself, beads of sweat trickled down her back and formed a pool smelling like urine on the bedsheet. Charlotte was propped up against her pillows, obsessed with the idea of whether a black woman can be beautiful. She had never seen her rival, since the woman never came to church (Father Rascasse went up to celebrate mass in the chapel at the Home). She was never to be seen at any dinner, cocktail, or reception, since she kept the third Friday of every month for her own parties. She never paid anyone a visit. In short, she stayed at home like a flesh-eating spider spinning her web. What did she look like? This question tormented Charlotte. Her dreams had become nightmares, her nights torture. She could no longer bear it and got up. At that time of day, everyone was taking their siesta. She ran down the main staircase, dashed across the garden, avoiding the servants’ quarters, and cautiously pushed open the south gate of the palace. No tarbooshed guard in sight. She had seldom ventured outside alone and almost asked her way from a passerby. Then she remembered who she was. The governor’s wife. Don’t talk to anyone. Avoid getting herself noticed by Thomas’s spies.

The rain had stopped. Not for long. Clouds black with thunder scudded across the sky skimming the earth. In the little daylight that was left, the wretched faces of the neighborhood shacks stretched out in a line. In which direction was the Home? It must be this way. A path scarred with ruts unrolled beneath her feet. Left and right, the huts got fewer and finally disappeared; the forest, always ready to run riot, rolled greedily on. After less than a mile Charlotte stumbled up against a metal fence hidden behind thick foliage. She was looking for a way in when suddenly an opening gaped onto a driveway lined with dwarf coconut palms. She went in, crossed a bamboo grove, and suddenly the Home loomed up in all its elegance. Nothing had prepared her for such a picture of harmony. At Bingerville the administrative buildings were massive and devoid of grace. Who was the inspired architect who had designed this marvel? What gardener had laid out these flower beds, pruned these bushes, and grafted these trees? At the same time she had the feeling that a thousand pairs of eyes hidden in the nooks and crannies of the doors and windows were watching her. She thought she saw a window open on the second floor. A shape leaned out. A hand motioned to her to come closer. It was her, it was her! Galvanized into action, she ran to the front door and vigorously rang the bell. After a very long wait, the door finally opened.

A search party was organized to look for Charlotte.

In the night soaked with water, torches were lit by the soldiers, the militia, and the askaris . Some searched the length and breadth of the treacherous lagoon that had swallowed up so many human lives. Others marched down to the slime of the mangrove and the swamps, stubbing their feet on the mangrove trees and twisting their ankles against the buttress roots. Another group roamed the villages around the lagoon, flattening the huts with their rifle butts, terrifying the inhabitants, who imagined the slave trade had started up again. Some hacked a path through the forest with axes and cutlasses, only to face the sea. Others searched deep into the pale green savanna rippling to infinity.

Racked by remorse, Thomas directed the search operations. His sweet, gentle Charlotte! Why had he neglected her in such a fashion? It was beyond understanding; as if Celanire had bewitched him. The feelings he felt in his heart for his wife were not to blame. It was his body, that wretched shroud of flesh, that had betrayed him.

His eyes brimming with tears, he recalled how they had got carried away dancing to the “Blue Danube” that summer they had first met; how, strolling through the English garden, he had described to her his life in Africa. She was not impressed: she would have preferred a senator or a banker for a husband, somebody more reassuring. But love had won the day, and they got married at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule.

The search lasted for four days and four nights. Despondency had gripped every heart. At the mission, Charlotte was given up for a case of suicide. Africa can give you a nervous breakdown! Especially for women like her who cannot find comfort in God. She was never to be seen at confession or at communion. But in his grief and guilty conscience Thomas refused to give up, fretted and fumed, ran in all directions and gave contradictory orders left and right.

In the end they found Charlotte’s body in the semidarkness of the forest not far from the village of Tiegaba. Straight and smooth, a Bassam mahogany tree was watching over her. One wondered how she had managed to travel so many miles without guide or tipoye in this impenetrable, stifling vegetation inhabited by monkeys, leopards, and wildcats. Twice she must have crossed rivers infested with caymans and crocodiles, without stepping-stones, bridge, or ferry. The guards who made the macabre discovery backed away to vomit in the mud. The sight was horrible. It was as if wild beasts, eaters of human flesh and drinkers of fresh blood, had done her in. All around the body the earth had been clawed into ruts. Yet no lion had been reported in the region. They covered Charlotte with branches. They loaded her onto a makeshift stretcher, and the cortege set off for Bingerville. Spontaneously, mourners from Tiegaba now switched their tears and vociferations from the deceased scepter bearer, Adueli Kabanlan, and made a terrible din all the way back to the palace. Exhausted, the governor, who had not slept a wink for three nights, was taking an afternoon nap. He emerged in his shirt-sleeves and almost fainted, seeing what was left of his beloved. But his grief made the entire colony shrug its shoulders. What? A cheat, a liar, and an adulterer making all this racket! Keeping to his bed as if he were in agony! Ordering a first-class funeral. Strewing the coffin with natural and artificial flowers. Ordering all flags to be flown at half staff, as if it were a national mourning or the death of a senior French official!