The Story of the Cannibal Woman by Maryse Condé Page A

apartheid, without stopping. But Dido always woke up on entering the town and demanded they have a coffee in the rose-covered patio of D’ouwe Werf.
    â€œI can’t believe I’m actually sitting here,” she would say. “When I was small, we were barred from this place, like so many others. And I used to dream about it. So you can understand how I feel sitting here today!”
    Although the waitresses in their ample aprons were polite, the tourists had no scruples, staring in hilarity at this unusual trio. Were they a father and his two daughters? A husband and his two wives? They had no idea they were a sight themselves. Tourists had always fascinated Rosélie. In Guadeloupe, most of the visitors were extremely average French families, both in bank account and physique, seeking cheap exoticism.
    Canadian women have long gone. They now prefer the males in Saint Martin.
    Whereas the whole world was streaming into Cape Town. But why do you see only the garish, the brash, the loud, the fat, the potbellied, and the big-bottomed? Where were the handsome, the slim, the polite and discreet? Don’t they travel anymore?
    Despite the slow pace of Papa Koumbaya’s driving, they soon reached Lievland from Stellenbosch. Lievland boiled down to its homestead. Nestled in the foothills, amid a setting of oaks, it was a magnificent example of eighteenth century Cape Dutch architecture. Throughout the years, every owner had added his mark. One a stable, another a gable, and yet another a granary covered in fire-retardant material where they stored coffins and provisions side by side. The tourists, raising their heads to the gabled facade before dragging their sneakers through the series of rooms, had no idea of the drama being played out upstairs. In 1994, swearing he would never see his beloved country in the hands of a Kaffir, Jan de Louw had turned his back on his vineyards and locked himself in his bedroom, his eyes stubbornly fixed on his wardrobe from Batavia made from coromandel ebony. His wife, Sofie, had first tried to get him to go downstairs. Unable to do so, she had written to Willem, their only son, who, long ago, had taken refuge in Australia. There, at least, the aborigines stayed in their place. At the most, they won medals at the Olympic Games! Willem had refused to set foot in South Africa. So Sofie had tried to look after the vineyards herself. But that’s a man’s job! With an aching heart she had had to sell her land and put the estate house on the well-known tourist circuit of AfriCultural Tours. It had become a major point of interest, attracting busloads of admiring tourists. A Dutch photographer fell in love with the place and asked for permission to include it in a series of postcards entitled “Marvels of the World.” A Norwegian had flown from Hammerfest to have his picture taken alongside his bride. There was a time when Dido had proposed opening a restaurant in the former slave quarters, beside the stables, opposite the animal park. But Sofie had firmly opposed it. She suffered enough seeing hordes of strangers stream over the de Louws’ floor and considered it a comedown. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to hear their stupid comments.
    â€œDid you see that barometer? How old is it? How does it work?”
    â€œAnd that wonderful clock! Look, it not only shows the days but also the phases of the moon.”
    â€œHow extraordinary!”
    Every day from nine-thirty to five o’clock she would hole herself up in the kitchen behind the door marked PRIVATE . By craning her neck, the curious visitor could see the stone hearth that stretched the whole width of the kitchen, and salivate at the thought of the meat that was once smoked there.
    Dido and her mother lived in the former slave quarters, a long, low building to the side of the homestead under a heavy roof that would have delighted an amateur of local color. No heating. No hot water.