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

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?

The following morning Hakim was scarcely awake when the widow Desrussie, bundled up in a wrapper against the cool morning mist, brought him a letter from Celanire. It was written on pretty yellow stationery, well phrased and sober given the circumstances. Celanire apologized for having betrayed a fondness for him that he obviously did not share. As for her job offer, it still stood. She was especially keen on having him, as she knew he could work miracles. Wasn’t he preparing that good-for-nothing Kwame Aniedo to compete for the French administration examination? Likewise, he would know how to transform the Africans into responsible men of their times. As for the love angle, he could sleep safe and sound, she would no longer bother him. The trivial adventure was over! Hakim retained only one thing from this epistle. It was no coincidence that Celanire had mentioned the name of Kwame Aniedo. She had seen right through him. She knew about his feelings for the prince. In actual fact, this apparently innocuous letter constituted a threat.