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

Matthieu was no longer listening to her, and was pacing up and down like a madman. The idol of his youth had bit the dust. So the paragon of virtue wallowed in vice. The slayer of opium eaters worshipped a drug addict. He recalled the fervor in his handsome face. He could still hear the brazen speeches of his electoral campaign: “Guadeloupe is not France, and France is not Guadeloupe. It is an entirely different country whose interests are in contradiction with those of colonialism.” Such bold words at the time! He tried to tell himself that this old woman was lying. But no, his nose sensed the truth. Ignoring him, she prattled on, coming out with everything she had kept bottled up inside her for too long, her hands deformed by arthritis resting on her knees.

“The poor girl was naive enough to believe that with all his money the doctor would at least promise to help take care of her baby. Despite their wicked ways, that’s what the white Creoles did when they had children with black girls. But all he could say was, ‘An pa sètin sé ti moun an mwen! Fo ou fin èvèye. I’m not sure it’s my child. Get rid of it.’ This upset Pisket, despite her shameless ways. She cried a lot, I know. But she didn’t let on to the doctor. When he offered to give her an injection for an abortion, she pretended to accept. And then she let Kung Fui make a deal with Madeska. When they left the Ginger Moon, they didn’t tell anyone where they were going, except me. You should have seen Dr. Pinceau that day. He was like a lost soul, a zombie. You’d have thought he’d go mad or die. He didn’t want any of the other girls as a consolation. You couldn’t help pitying him.

“I seldom visited Pisket at Bélisaire. People in our line of business don’t like going out in broad daylight. When the children meet us, they shout ‘Shoo!’ as if we were dogs or else ‘Zouelle, an bòbò! ’ and respectable persons make the sign of the cross. And then visiting them wasn’t very pleasant. The Blanc Galop was a real hornet’s nest. Kung Fui had brought his inseparable Yang Ting with him, who was living with their sister, Tonine. But Pisket and Kung Fui couldn’t stand Tonine. They hurled insults and abuse at her. Sometimes even Pisket tried to hit her. Yang Ting would intervene, and there’d be a hell of a commotion. And then Madeska and Pisket didn’t get along. She complained that the mischief maker’s food was tasteless, since salt was taboo. Once a month he wanted to cut her, take her blood and bits of flesh. But what I really want to tell you is that you’re barking up the wrong tree in your investigation. Celanire, the governor’s wife, is not Pisket’s child. She couldn’t be! Seven months pregnant, and the child slipped out.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“But it’s true! The child slipped out! Pisket had a miscarriage. But Kung Fui was an artful one! I don’t know how he did it. All I know is that he and Pisket came to an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” Matthieu yelled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they found a belly for sale. Don’t ask me where or how, I haven’t got the slightest idea. I had my own troubles at the time: I ate some conger eel, which gave me blood poisoning. I spent three and a half months in the Saint-Félix hospital at death’s door. When I came out, Grande-Anse was in a hullabaloo. Madeska had vanished; the only talk was of ‘darling little Celanire,’ ‘darling little Celanire,’ the baby Dr. Pinceau had miraculously saved. They said she was so lovely, so beautiful, a woman had tried to steal her. One Sunday during mass I dashed to look at her in the arms of her foster mother. She gave me the shivers. A pink silk ribbon was tied around her neck. Her head reared up like a cobra’s, and she stared at people with her black eyes, gleaming like hot coals. As for Pisket, after her miscarriage, she disappeared for a while. I only saw her again the year after, when she came back to die in my arms. You won’t like what I’m telling you, I know. But it’s the truth. And the truth is hard to swallow.”

Matthieu got the impression his brain was about to explode. Large drops of sweat rolled down his back. Years of research and speculation to arrive at this. All for nothing. At the end of the day Celanire was not Pisket’s daughter. In despair he left.

To the east, along the rim of hills, Grande-Anse glowed red. At first he thought it was a figment of the fever that had set his mind ablaze. Then he realized the Fouques-Timbert plantation house was burning like tinder. At the very moment when Matthieu was watching in disbelief, the glow of flames had already reached as far as Antigua, dazzling the fishermen at Half Moon Bay, who hauled their boats up on the sand and, sensing some strange foreboding fell on their knees to recite the prayer for the dead. The flames could also be seen as far away as Nevis and Montserrat, whose inhabitants wondered where exactly could the fire be burning. Ever since a delegation led by Celanire had come to their rescue, they looked on the Guadeloupeans as their brothers and took an interest in their fate.

Agénor de Fouques-Timbert perished in the fire of his Great House like a common mortal. Not only did he lose his life, but Ji, his concubine, his two illegitimate daughters, and six of his seven legitimate sons were also lost. Only the wildest and handsomest was spared, since as usual he had spent the night out, and was nicknamed Sanfoulanmò ever since, because he had defied death.

The incident deserves a closer look.

On April 26, the feast of Saint Alida, Agénor was waiting in his office at the Conseil Général for the director of a highway construction company to pay him his commission. He received 10 percent on all the contracts in the colony and demanded it in cash. He loved the smell of money. The filthier the bills, the more dog-eared they were, the greater his delight, since they reminded him of his own rotten life. The director had arrived at six on the dot, carrying the money in a wicker basket. The two men barely greeted each other. They had nothing to say. The money did the talking.

Agénor had then mounted Colibri and set off for Grande-Anse. On leaving Basse-Terre, shortly before passing through the Colchide neighborhood, he met a funeral procession. Some wretch was being hauled feetfirst in a miserable cart rigged out in black rags. A few musicians shuffled along in front, blowing their brass instruments, and a ragged group of mourners brought up the rear. And yet Agénor, who had everything — women, children, land, property, and political power — envied the deceased. Lanmò. Death. Eternal rest. He couldn’t wait for Celanire to make up her mind. In his longing to see her in the flesh, he had gone to the carnival opening-night ball disguised as Nero, the emperor on whom he would have willingly modeled himself. Moreover, the crown of laurels and the Roman toga suited him. In his hands was a gilded wood lute, which he would have liked to fiddle as well.

Flanked by Ludivine, as sulky as ever, Celanire and Thomas were greeting their guests. Thomas was disguised as an Egyptian pasha, a costume that suited his paunch perfectly. Celanire was dressed as queen of the fairies, something out of The Magic Flute . It needed just a little imagination to guess the connection with her diaphanous, multicolored moiré dress, her golden crown, and the magic wand she brandished arrogantly like a whip. Agénor bent forward to kiss her hand, and when he looked up, he found himself level with her pair of eyes. There then followed a silent dialogue.

“What are you waiting for?” Agénor inquired. “If you want to take your revenge, take it.”

“Revenge,” retorted Celanire, “is a dish best eaten cold. Don’t you know that?”

“But why are you so angry with me? It was nothing personal. For me, I couldn’t put a face, a name, or even a sex to you. I simply needed a child. You’d do better to concentrate on your parents. Those two deliberately did you harm by handing you over to Madeska. You killed him, but he was only doing his job.”