The Story of the Cannibal Woman

EIGHTEEN

After a sleepless night interspersed with dreams no sooner forgotten than the memory of their horror lingered on, Rosélie went down to her studio. When she opened the windows, the sky stretched colorless and dismal. A cloth knotted tight above the city. A bitter wind lashed her face. In the murky half-light of dawn, the backyards emerged, cluttered with an odd assortment of garden tools, hosepipes, and pressure-cleaning equipment. She closed up again the shuttered windows and sat down on the sofa reserved for visitors without a glance at her gloomy canvases, like dejected daughters ignored by their mother.

Don’t we mean anything to you? they asked her in silence. You seem to forget we are the blood that gives you strength, the blood that pumps your heart, your arms and legs. If you stop painting, you’ll stop living. When are you coming back to us?

Soon, soon. I have to sweep in front of my own door, as they say in Guadeloupe. In other words, I have to sort myself out.

She clasped her head between her hands in a theatrical gesture. If she went and knocked on Widow van Emmeling’s door, Bishupal would be obliged to see her and answer her questions, like all the others she had interrogated. But what would she ask him? Her knees gave way and her thoughts recoiled. She remembered her visit to Hermanus, Chris Nkosi and his puerile look: “You’re crazy!”

He must have sniggered behind her back. Poked fun at her. Like Bishupal would poke fun at her. Like everyone else.

Like everyone else?

As if she were fleeing some kind of danger, such as a hurricane drawing inexorably closer to the shore, she dashed out of the studio and bolted down the stairs. While she ran down the stairs, the wail of a police siren heading for a police station with a van full of crooks beat time with her steps. Too bad for those who had been robbed, raped, and murdered under cover of night. Nobody suffered as much as she did who had lost everything. She ended up near the traveler’s tree. In the meager light of day, Deogratias, still cramped in his night uniform, was sipping a root tea he had brought in a thermos. The Gospel according to St. Luke was wide open in front of him. He looked up from his reading and said in surprise:

“Up already?”

She managed to stammer a reply and went into Stephen’s study. It was like stepping into a pharaoh’s tomb. Treasures lay in the shadows within hand’s reach, irresistible temptations for robber voyeurs. But she didn’t switch on the light or pull up the shades. Nothing interested her. She didn’t try to force the locks, open the drawers, or check the computer, sitting silent, pale, guarding its secrets. She simply sat down in the armchair that Stephen had used so many times, where his body had left its imprint on the leather seat. She laid her hands flat on the wood, recalling those years she had always thought were happy. Stephen and she never quarreled. She let him decide everything, arrange everything, and solve everything. In his opinion, he did what he thought best. From their very first meeting in the Saigon bar, the roles had been cast and had never changed. He was the lifeguard. She was the drowning swimmer. He was the surgeon. She was the heart patient. A bond of gratitude echoed that of love.

She relived those years. New York, Tokyo, Cape Town. Until that final night, which had brought it all to a grating and incongruous end. All those years laden with happy memories, seldom important or noteworthy, which put end to end made up a successful union. Successful? For the first time she dared scrutinize this word like a jeweler hunting for a flaw in a diamond. Soon tears streamed down her cheeks.

What was she crying for? She had to agree with Inspector Sithole’s idea that Stephen’s death was not the work of young junkies short on crack. It was not a routine incident for journalists out of a job. The gratuitous violence of modern times had nothing to do with the matter. A nauseous truth was lurking, like a baby swaddled in dirty diapers.

As for Stephen, deep down inside her, in that part where the light of truth never ventures, she had to admit that she had always known who he was. Moreover, on the first day, hadn’t he warned her, quite casually, in his offhand, playful manner?

“I never accost women. They scare me too much.”

She had simply chosen to ignore the evidence. Blessed are those who have two eyes and see nothing. Sa zyé pa ka vwè, kyiè pa ka fè mal, says the Guadeloupean proverb. She had refused to pay the terrible price of lucidity.

So what was suddenly weighing on her? Why was she filled with a feeling of revolt, a feeling she had been duped? At this point in her thoughts, she clumsily tried to be ironic. No Simone de Beauvoir expressions, please! But irony didn’t help. She hurt even more.

“Your Stephen is de la mierda!” Fina had screamed.

“You’re sacrificing yourself for nothing,” Dido had said, going one step further.

Who should she be crying for?

In fact, should she be crying?

It was Dido who interrupted all these thoughts with her tray of coffee and the Cape Tribune. On the front page, Fiela, who was en route to the high-security prison in Pretoria, once reserved for the most recalcitrant political prisoners, had been replaced by another woman, white this time, united in the same madness and wickedness. Once again the righteous would be scandalized. This woman had drowned all five of her children, the youngest being only a few months old, in the family bathtub.

Rosélie cut short Dido’s fulminations with a wave of the hand, drew a cup to her lips, drank a sip of the scalding liquid, then asked, very quietly:

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Immediately Dido’s expression clouded over. As if she had been waiting for this question for days. Like a night moth imprisoned by mistake in an attic, her gaze frantically fluttered around the room, then came and settled on Rosélie.

“What did I know?” she asked.

“Stephen,” Rosélie simply murmured.

All Dido’s affection welled up in her eyes, which suddenly sparkled with tears. She hesitated, then stammered:

“Yes, I knew. Like everyone else. But what about you? When did you know?”

Thereupon Rosélie burst out crying, sobbing noisily.

“You never mentioned it,” Dido went on vehemently. “So I never dared bring it up. It was beyond me. I was in agony. I said to myself she must know. So she accepts it? Can one accept something like that?”

Rosélie poured herself a second cup and very slowly said:

“Deep down, I knew. From the very beginning. Accept it? I don’t know whether I accepted it. I refused to admit the truth so that I wouldn’t have to make up my mind.”

There! I’ve said it.

Halfway through that gloomy morning, Rosélie sitting on the patio, shattered, mulling over every moment of her life in a new light, Dido rattling her pans in the kitchen as if to allay any suspicions, Inspector Lewis Sithole walked in, obviously finished with mourning his wife and back to his usual workaday face. He was accompanied by two white officers, bundled up in their uniforms, a juvenile version of Laurel and Hardy. Rosélie said how sorry she was. But he shrugged his shoulders.

“We didn’t live together. She lived near Pietermaritzburg with our two sons since she could never get used to Cape Town. We never got on together during or after apartheid.”

He went on without blinking.

“I have a search warrant. We would like to search your husband’s study.”

Rosélie couldn’t believe her ears. It was something straight out of a detective story. Agathie Christie or Chester Himes? The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or A Rage in Harlem? He motioned to his stooges.

“Go ahead, guys!”

Without further ado, Laurel and Hardy dived into the study.

Am I dreaming? A Spanish writer wrote: “Life is a dream.” So yes, I think I am dreaming. I’m going to wake up nestled against Rose’s ample breasts, the taste of her milk in my mouth, the warm smell of her skin in my nostrils. I can’t believe this is happening to me. What have I done to deserve such agony? What am I paying for?

The same crime again and again. There is no forgiveness for daughterly assassins.

Underneath his professional countenance, Inspector Lewis Sithole was ill at ease. His wily-tomcat mask was cracked in places and an embarrassed compassion showed through. By force of circumstance he had become Rosélie’s friend and suffered in his role as tormentor.

“Everything is falling into place,” he said. “Yesterday we arrested Bishupal Limbu for the burglary of the Threepenny Opera last February, a week after your husband was murdered. However hard Mrs. Hillster swore blind he was innocent, we didn’t believe her. Ever since, we have had him under surveillance. We knew that sooner or later he’d make a wrong move. And we were right. Not only did he quit his job and begin living it up, but he bought two plane tickets to London, two round-trips as required by the immigration authorities, one for himself, one for his friend, a certain Archie Kronje, and he paid for them in cash. South African Airways informed us immediately. He was unable to explain where the money came from. He said it came from his savings. From what he earned! We checked it out.”

Here he stopped so that Rosélie could no doubt compliment him on his flair. As she remained stunned, motionless, almost devoid of thought, he went on.

“We know that your husband got him a visa for the U.K. This was not the case for Mr. Kronje, who has never left the country. Mr. Limbu sent a telegram, then another, to a certain Andrew Spire, who had changed his phone number for some unknown reason, to ask him to vouch for his friend’s visa. The post office sent us copies both times.”

“Andrew!” Rosélie exclaimed, aghast, the tournure of a diabolical coalition suddenly emerging in front of her eyes.

“Do you know him?”

The tone was unmistakably that of an affirmation and not a question.

“Yes!” she stammered. “He’s…he was my husband’s best friend. We spent every summer for almost twenty years with him in Wimbledon.”

Inspector Lewis Sithole leaned forward, closer, almost touching, and Rosélie could smell his wholesome breath, a mixture of tobacco and breath freshener.

“And that’s where the plot thickens, and we have to deal with the second case, much more serious, concerning your husband’s murder. You can help us by answering two questions. First of all, in your opinion, how did Bishupal Limbu come to know Mr. Spire?”

Rosélie’s heart had slowed down to such a point she thought it had died. She managed to stammer out:

“Stephen had enrolled Bishupal in a correspondence course in London. Perhaps he had asked Andrew to help him.”

“Perhaps. Secondly, do you know whether Mr. Spire was thinking of giving him a room in the event Bishupal emigrated to England?”

“I have no idea,” Rosélie replied in agony.

Inspector Lewis Sithole thought for a while, then resumed his account.

“Despite Mr. Limbu’s insistence, reassuring him that Archie Kronje was a protégé of your late husband’s, like himself, Mr. Spire seemed to have got suspicious. He did not answer either of the telegrams. So Mr. Limbu went to the cybercafé on Strand Street and sent him a series of urgent emails, of which we have a copy. Still no answer. In your opinion, why did Mr. Spire choose to remain silent?”

I have absolutely no idea. Once again, Inspector, who is leading the investigation? You or me?

“Since we have no authority to interrogate Mr. Spire, we have asked our colleagues at Scotland Yard to do it for us, and we are waiting for their answer. We want to know the exact relationship between Mr. Limbu and Mr. Spire, how they came to know each other, and whether there had been a prior agreement between the two that Mr. Spire had finally broken.”

What agreement?

“It is possible that on the advice of your husband, Mr. Spire had promised to put Mr. Limbu up, and even help him financially to settle in England.”

All that didn’t make sense. Stephen was far from being naive. How could he possibly advise an individual with no qualifications whatsoever to emigrate to England? At that moment, one of the officers, Laurel, emerged in the study doorway and declared in a whining tone:

“Boss, there’s over a hundred videos here!”

“Leave them where they are!” the Inspector ordered. “There’s no point looking at them, they won’t give us any clues.”

No, it’s only Verdi. Unless you like the trumpets in Aïda!

“And what about the computer? And the diskettes?” Laurel insisted.

“Take them away!” Lewis Sithole shouted without hesitation.

Laurel disappeared once again inside the room. Followed by a heavy silence.

“Don’t you think,” the Inspector started up again, “that Mr. Spire suspected Bishupal Limbu of being implicated in the murder of your husband, and consequently wanted nothing more to do with him?”

How could he suspect anything seven thousand miles away, knowing nothing about Bishupal or the terrible events in February? I was the one who informed him. Breaking with his usual reserve, his coldness toward her, Andrew had immediately offered her a plane ticket to come to England. She could stay with him as long as she wanted. For a while she had toyed with the idea, given her state of mind.

But to get back to the subject, any murderer acts for a motive. What motive did Bishupal have for attacking Stephen? What fool kills the goose with the golden egg?

The Inspector’s mask cracked completely and the fraternal face hidden underneath emerged. Nevertheless, he didn’t mince his words.

“Your husband had a liaison with Mr. Limbu for over two years. It would seem he did not keep his word, especially about settling in England. Hence the constant quarreling. My theory is that one evening in February one of these quarrels, particularly violent, ended the way we know.”

I’m sorry, Inspector, some people call imagination the mother of invention.

“I’m not inventing anything,” he went on gravely. “Everything I’m telling you has been verified. I must admit we haven’t found the murder weapon, despite our searches at Mr. Limbu’s. He lived in a studio apartment in Green Point. You remember that telephone call to your husband at seventeen past midnight?”

Rosélie, crushed, didn’t remember a thing.

“We interrogated the neighbors,” Lewis Sithole continued. “They knew your husband, he was a regular visitor, and they can testify to the almost daily quarrels that disturbed their peace. Plus the music, plus the drugs.”

Drugs? And what else? It was Stephen who cured me of my marijuana habit. He advocated its liberalization, but he hadn’t smoked a single joint for eighteen years.

“A few weeks before your husband’s death,” the Inspector continued, “the tenants sent a petition to Kroeger and Co., the proprietors of the building. They demanded Mr. Limbu’s departure. They won their claim and in May Mr. Limbu was evicted. He took refuge in Mitchell Plains with the mother of his new friend, Mr. Kronje.”

His new friend? Nobody in fact seemed to mourn Stephen very long! Me! Bishupal!

The Inspector shook his head.

“Bishupal Limbu and Archie Kronje were in a relationship about a year before Mr. Stewart died. They met playing football, their favorite pastime. They immediately became inseparable and Archie moved into Green Point. Apparently, your husband took it very badly. The couple’s quarrels became a three-sided slugfest.”

Who are we talking about? The man I lived with for twenty years, whom I thought my savior, whom I always admired and respected? The man in whom I had complete trust? Stephen mixed up with two boys, crudely fighting over possession of one of them!

“It’s a tragic case of jealousy, the details of which are not yet clear,” Lewis Sithole concluded.

A sordid affair, that’s what it is!

At that moment, loaded with their loot, Laurel and Hardy came out of the study. The Inspector stood up and, in a tone that was meant to be reassuring, asserted:

“I believe Mr. Limbu will soon confess. He’s a very sensitive individual. Not like that little thug Kronje, whom we’ve arrested several times for burglary and drug dealing but have had to release each time for lack of evidence.”

Oh yes! Bishupal was considered by one and all to be an exceptional individual!

“Believe me,” Inspector Lewis Sithole said, “he won’t be able to keep it secret for long. Then this nightmare will be over for you.”

Over? It’s only just beginning. All my memories, all my convictions have been shaken to the core as if by a hurricane. The peasant emerges from his hut, miraculously intact, and no longer recognizes his surroundings. He walks among a field of ruins. Here, there were trees, guava, lychee, and hog plum. There, banana groves. Now everything is torn up and gone. The earth lies belly-up. The roots slither like snakes.

Despite appearances, my life resembles Rose’s. All women’s lives are alike: victimized, humiliated, or, failing that, abandoned. Simply, unlike Elie and so many others, Stephen had done it with elegance.

The coward does it with a kiss

The brave man with a sword.

Dido appeared among the bougainvillea, carefully balancing a cup filled with a steaming liquid.

“Drink!” she ordered. “This will make you feel better. It’s an herb tea made with shoots from an Egyptian fig tree and Madagascar violet petals.”

She would have done better to drink her potion herself, she seemed so exhausted, red-eyed and swollen eyelids. Rosélie obeyed feeling the welcoming warmth of the brew spread throughout her numb body. Dido sat down opposite her and stammered:

“Are you angry with me?”

About what? I’m simply angry with myself, for being a coward.

Dido began to cry.

“You seemed to put so much trust in him.”

Yes, I was trusting, happy, in my own way! Some people assert that happiness is never anything but an illusion. So why be angry with Stephen? He gave me that illusion for twenty years.

Stroking Dido’s hand, which lay on her knee, Rosélie gave the order:

“Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

For the moment, grief and revolt were boiling inside her. The time had not yet come when she would be able to reexamine her life impassively, like rereading a book whose pages you have turned over too quickly and failed to understand. Like listening to music again that contains a leitmotif you hadn’t heard the first time. When would this salvation begin to dawn? All she could see in front of her was a quagmire of pain to be crossed.

“I think I’m going to leave,” she murmured. “Nothing’s keeping me here any longer.”

She had made up her mind at that very moment while she was talking. What was the point in fact of staying in Cape Town, playing the vestal virgin in a desecrated temple? Her position was not only improper but ridiculous.

To go home!

After the infinity of the ocean the plane flies over the mangrove, bristling with white birds, the cattle egrets. The crowd of unruly passengers jump to their feet before the plane has come to a complete standstill, despite instructions from the flight attendants. I have never seen the new airport of glass and concrete designed to handle the increasing number of planes. That’s progress for you. Unfortunately, the island has recently been given over to all sorts of violence. They are holding up the Ecomax supermarkets. The backpacker tourists are at a loss as to where to buy their packets of cooked ham. They are fleeing this paradise, so different from what they were promised. Where are the madras headscarves and ties of the crowds who used to wave farewell to the ocean steamships? Where are the doudous with their shiny hair? Masked men carrying sawed-off shotguns have replaced them. As a result, the airline companies are folding their wings. The hotels are shutting up shop.

Aunt Léna is waiting for me at the airport. She looks more and more like Queen Mary, to the extent that a mulatto woman from Guadeloupe, a sort of Indian half-caste, can look like English nobility. Her hair, always carefully waved around the ears, is white, completely white. What’s more, she no longer drives. She sold Papa Doudou’s Citroën DS 19 ages ago. She’s an old lady now, a dowager. She has called on the services of a great-nephew in charge of communications with a big company in Jarry who “returned home” last year and got lucky finding a job on an island with 35 percent unemployed. He has a mustard-colored Twingo, absolutely horrible, like all French cars; apparently it’s easier to park. He’s looking at me as if I landed from Mars. You can read what he’s thinking: I don’t believe it! That’s her?

Once again Dido burst into tears.

“If you leave, if you leave me, I’ll be all alone.”

“Come now,” Rosélie attempted to joke, “you’ll have Paul as a consolation.”

Dido cried even harder.

“Paul! Didn’t you hear he’s just moved in with Gabriella?”

Gabriella was a cousin of hers, a widow as well, mother of three. She too was taller than Paul and had wide hips. But her smile and hazel eyes had kept the demureness of her younger years. Her voice was gentle and she spoke with her eyes lowered. In short, she was the complete opposite of Dido. Her sisters had warned her: women should never wear the pants.