Maryse Conde - The Story of the Cannibal Woman

The honorable professor of literature, the specialist of Joyce and Seamus Heaney who was writing a critical study of Yeats and had made a name for himself in college theater productions, murdered a few months earlier, was in fact leading a double life. No doubt about it, nowhere is safe nowadays, and the university’s no better than the church. After the pedophile priests and bishops, here are the professors slumming it. My God, whom can we trust our children with? What do these false mentors teach them? Vice, nothing less. The papers reeled off fictionalized biographies of Stephen. They had readers believe that this admired, respected, and celebrated professor had secretly accumulated a series of dirty tricks. In Africa, his well-placed connections had got him out of a tight corner. But in New York, where love is a many splendored thing, a minor had filed a lawsuit and Stephen had had to leave to flee a prison sentence.

These unfortunate circumstances, however, had a positive side to them. The journalists had discovered that the companion of this modern-day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Rosélie Thibaudin, originally from Guadeloupe, a Caribbean island under French domination — some still are, a smattering of islands, two or three pieces of confetti on the ocean — who was totally unaware of her partner’s misdemeanors — how blind can you get, women are so stupid — was a painter. Misfortune often works like a magnet. Anxious to get a closer look at this poor dupe, people made a beeline for Faure Street. They hadn’t counted on Dido’s presence of mind. Thanks to her, the house had become a trap. Not only were they wasting their time — Rosélie was invisible, wrapped in her grief, far from prying eyes — but they weren’t allowed to leave until they had visited her studio. Although they had hoped for better, her paintings were so dark, so unattractive, in other words, not at all exotic, they were obliged to dig deep into their pockets. Dido was the one who fixed the price, admittedly depending on the person, and tolerated no excuses. She took her job as manager very seriously. That’s how she not only sold two paintings to Bebe Sephuma, attracted like everybody else by the smell of scandal, for her house in Constantia, but also dragged out of her the promise of simultaneous exhibitions, one in Cape Town and the other in Jo’burg. That evening, taking a bowl of soup up to Rosélie, she counted up with satisfaction the day’s takings and remarked:

“You see, some good always comes out of evil. It’s a law of nature.”

Rosélie, who could only see her life in ruins, had trouble making out the contours of good.

She was ashamed and she was hurting.

Sometimes she had the strength to leave her room, leave the bed that everyone had scorned, and climb up to her studio. Her canvases gave her a cool reception.

We are tired of waiting, they complained. We’ve done nothing to hurt you. Can’t you understand that we’ll never betray you, like your men have done, one after the other? We’ll always be faithful to you.

She tried to explain. Pain and shame had swooped down on her, wreaking havoc on her, obscuring her convictions. She must get control of herself and think things through.

Did she really want to leave Cape Town? To go where? And find what? The indifference of Paris? The emptiness of Guadeloupe? Who was she? Who did she want to be? A painter? A clairvoyant? She invariably ended up losing hope in her wrecked life.

That morning she got dressed very early so as not to keep Papa Koumbaya waiting. Despite Dido’s efforts to dissuade her, she had made up her mind to pay Bishupal a visit.

“What do you hope to get out of that little bastard?” Dido fumed. “You’ll just hurt yourself even more, that’s all.”

I hope to understand.

Understand what?

What is there to understand?

Inspector Lewis Sithole, who was now a daily visitor to Faure Street, thought along the same lines.

“She’d do best to put all that behind her,” he repeated to Dido, who highly approved.

Behind me? It’s a vicious circle: If I haven’t understood, even if I can’t forget, how can I manage to grin and bear it? And start off again along life’s bumpy road.

As unlikely as it may seem to those who know the age-old hatred between blacks and coloureds, Dido and Lewis were having a love affair. Rosélie, in fact, was the culprit. Through drinking endless cups of coffee in the kitchen, lamenting on life’s unfathomable machinations, Lewis and Dido had grown closer together. Lewis, who owned a secondhand Toyota, had offered to drive Dido home to Mitchell Plains. First he had stayed for dinner and then the night, when he had performed as well as any other.

Blushing like a virgin, Dido confided in anyone within hearing distance:

“He’s not very handsome, but he’s got a heart as good as gold.”

She was now planning to rent her house and move in with Lewis in an ultramodern apartment block built by the police in False Bay. Her relationship with the Inspector assured her all the papers for free and firsthand knowledge of criminal cases. That’s how she learned that Bishupal’s defense was proving difficult. Beneath his angelic looks, he had a stubborn streak. He refused to follow the strategy advocated by his lawyer, once again a young fellow officially appointed to the case, but we know now we have to be careful of young lawyers officially appointed to the case. He refused to dissociate himself from Archie or accuse him. On the contrary, he claimed responsibility. He had approved the murder committed by his friend. He had even bought the gun.

The street emerged livid and shivering from the torment of the night. Rosélie was hurt.

How little I count! Whereas I had hit rock bottom, the world hadn’t budged. The gingerbread facades of the pastel-colored Victorian houses hadn’t moved. The bougainvillea glowed red against the wrought-iron railings. In the gardens the roses continued to perfume the air, which shimmered from their scent.

At the same time, she felt the unwitting exhilaration of being alive.

Floating through the streets, the warm, heady smell of the ocean, like that of tar, tickles my nose. The familiar hand of the wind stings my face.

Already up, armed with secateurs, Mrs. Schipper was inspecting her bushes, branch by branch. As usual, she did not deign turn her head in the direction of Rosélie and the Thunderbird. Had she read the editorials in the newspapers or watched television? Was she informed of the latest details of the tragedy that had been played out on her doorstep? Had she commented on the facts with her relatives and friends?

And what about the domestics arriving for work? And the night watchmen ending their guard duty? Furtive comings and goings. A murmur of respectful greetings.

“ Goeimore! ”

Nobody had shown any sympathy for Rosélie. Deogratias had continued to meditate the Beatitudes and snore as usual. Raymond had stopped visiting, yielding to evidence and reason. Only Dido and Lewis Sithole remained loyal, attentive to her every need.

The latter had given her a flag tree with salmon-colored flowers, which he planted himself at the foot of the traveler’s tree.

While awaiting his sentence, Bishupal was being detained at Pollsmoor, a former political prison now reserved for juvenile delinquents. The highway was already congested with all types of gleaming cars, full of people going about their business in the pursuit of money. Papa Koumbaya, who had said nothing when his hero Stephen bit the dust, continued to drone on as usual. She closed her ears. Under her tightly shut eyelids she watched a series of images file past. The worst thing is trying to imagine the unknown. To visualize a truth patched up like a photo torn to pieces and stuck together again.