Maryse Conde - The Story of the Cannibal Woman

Stephen was unfair. She didn’t deserve these reproaches. She wouldn’t have asked for anything better than to make peace with everyone, to live free and die. Was it her fault if the other camp wouldn’t lay down their weapons? They could never forget the Good Old Days, and despite the passing of time, their prejudices remained intact.

Whatever we do, the world is like badly ironed laundry, impossible to get the creases out.

Around noon, the prayers stopped. The room of the dying woman emptied, with everyone’s thoughts on getting something to eat. In the courtyard the women lit stoves and began preparing braais . The men opened cans of beer, and despite the nearness of death, the homestead’s courtyard was as festive as a fairground. While devouring their lamb chops, friends and relatives were making dire predictions. How frail Sofie seemed! Three times in a few hours her breathing had stopped, then started up again in fits and starts with a persistent death rattle. Would she survive until Willem arrived? In other words, until the following afternoon? Rosélie gained everyone’s esteem by asserting that Sofie would live as long as was necessary. Her gift at clairvoyance, however, surprised nobody. The Kaffirs, everyone knows, make excellent sorcerers.

Halfway through lunch the new parish priest, Father Roehmer, a small, sickly man, climbed out of his four-wheel drive. He was giving Sofie Holy Communion, as he did every day. Despite his fragile appearance, Father Roehmer had survived nine years in a high-security prison, accused of being a Communist in a cassock, a KGB agent, and a supporter of the ANC. He appeared not to harbor any bitterness over his past suffering and humiliation. He smiled, shook hands, and patted his former enemies on the back. An old friend of Dido’s, he went up to Rosélie as if she were a longtime acquaintance and said in a familiar tone of voice:

“Dido tells me you’re leaving us. When are you going?”

She had no idea. In fact, she had vaguely noted the address of a few estate agencies and even more vaguely sorted through her personal belongings and made an inventory of the furniture she hoped to sell. Suddenly the thought of saying farewell to Cape Town was heartrending. She realized that, unbeknownst to her, ties were binding her to this city, ties she had never formed with any other place. Even that of her birthplace. Liberated as if by magic from her fears, she would walk through the streets drinking in the arrogant, enigmatic beauty that was so special.

In the morning, she would walk as far as the wharf for Robben Island when the sea opened its bleary eyes, muffled in gray like the sky. The sun hesitated on its path: was it expected to climb up there once again with the little strength it had left? She had no inclination to mix with the crowd of tourists already lining up for the ferries, shivering in their anoraks. She waited for the light to slowly dawn and the day to change as she strolled through the harbor. She never tired of this sight. The whole world was here. Japanese, Brazilians, and Liberians, as black as Niggers of the Narcissus , were washing down the decks of their rust buckets. Americans, Australians, and Scandinavians with mops of flax-colored hair were preparing to sail out to sea. Next to the catamarans, birds eager to take flight, balancing on the crest of the waves, idle passersby were admiring a fore-and-aft rigged schooner from the pioneering age of navigation.

Silently, dusk fell.

The mountains glowed red before turning blue and melted into the surrounding darkness. Without warning the penumbra became umbra. One by one the visitors withdrew, leaving only Father Roehmer and the cronies of death, never tired of trotting out psalms and litanies. Dido handed round cups of very strong coffee flavored with cardamom, which revived people’s spirits. Prayers were replaced by talk. The subject turned to Fiela. Some thought that the priests of her parish should refuse to give her remains a religious burial. Others, including Father Roehmer, objected. In this country where the Truth and Reconciliation Commission had pardoned unimaginable torture and heinous crimes, why should Fiela not be forgiven? This caused a heated debate. One can only compare what is comparable. Can one compare the guilt of an individual with the collective guilt of the supporters of a political regime?

Incapable of expressing an opinion, Rosélie slipped outside.

The courtyard of the homestead was bathed in darkness. The trees, bushes, and even the flower beds had taken on disturbing shapes. The old superstitions of her childhood resurfaced and she began to run clip-clopping over the flagstones, arousing echoes of the three-legged horse of the Bèt à Man Hibè.

Standing rigid in the dark, Stephen, Faustin, and Fiela were waiting for her beside her bed.

The night was long.

Willem’s taxi arrived earlier than expected. At noon, whereas they were expecting him in the early afternoon. When he entered the room, blond and weather-beaten by the sun, the smell of wide-open spaces in the folds of his clothes, Sofie uttered a sigh as if something had come undone inside her. Staring wide-eyed, she examined him from head to foot so as to engrave his image for eternity. Then she closed her eyelids while a mask of peace settled over her face.

Eternal peace.

At six forty-five the sound of the telephone ringing drew Rosélie from her bed. It was Inspector Lewis Sithole.

He did not apologize for calling so early, for he had an excellent reason. As he had predicted two days earlier, Bishupal had decided to squeal, as they say. Mrs. Hillster was right, he wouldn’t have hurt a fly. Even less Stephen. It wasn’t him. It was Archie Kronje. It was an incredible story. Archie had got it into his head to blackmail Stephen. He had asked him therefore to bring three thousand U.S. dollars in cash and to meet him in front of the Pick ’n Pay. But he misjudged him. Stephen had in fact gone to the appointed meeting empty-handed, in a fighting mood and threatening to inform the police of his drug dealing. The quarrel had turned vicious and Archie had fired. The murder weapon apparently was at his poor mother’s, wrapped in a towel hidden under a pile of sheets.

Fiela, Fiela, you have shown me the way. To be done with life. Living is a bitter potion, a purgative, a calomel I can no longer swallow.

For days on end Rosélie abandoned her consultations and remained in her room, virtually from morning to night and night to morning, lying prostrate on her bed. Despite the increasingly bitter cold, she kept the windows wide open in order to counter the feeling of suffocation that was creeping over her. She never closed her eyes. On a clear night she could count the stars, which twinkled for hours on end, then suddenly were snuffed out like candles on a birthday cake. The moon was the last to disappear, swaying on its swing until dawn. But when the nights were ink-black, she would watch the air slowly whiten, the sky turn gray, and the silhouette of Table Mountain loom up, pachydermatous, like an elephant emerging from the bushes. First of all, only the natural elements of the decor came to light: the clouds, the pines, and the rocks. Then the humans appeared. The first tourists took up their positions around the cable-car station. A new day was dawning.

Andy Warhol said that we would all be famous for fifteen minutes of our lives.

Rosélie had not foreseen that the Cape Tribune, The Observer, and other dailies and weeklies would snatch up her story so that thousands of readers who had never heard of her could relish it. That photos of Stephen, Bishupal, Archie, and her — my God, what do I look like, am I really so ugly? — would be splashed over the front pages. Admittedly, the details were juicy.