The Story of the Cannibal Woman by Maryse Condé Page B

A rudimentary shower. A makeshift WC. In order to counterbalance the lack of comfort, Dido had scattered colored rugs over the floor of beaten earth, laid lace crochet work on the back of shapeless pieces of furniture, and, above all, hung one of Rosélie’s paintings, oil on wood, in the center room. With no title, of course. Despite her allegations, the weekends at Lievland were anything but “enjoyable.” They would walk around the vineyards. They would eat a bobotie cooked by Dido’s mother. They would take a siesta. They would take another walk, this time on the road, and pick wildflowers. They would dine on the rest of the bobotie . With Dido’s mother rambling on in the background about the time she visited Maputo, describing the city like a Muslim the Garden of Allah. They would then watch films on the VCR; always the same ones, featuring Keanu Reeves from every possible angle. They would go to bed. They wouldn’t sleep. Yet they always got up at the crack of dawn and started all over again, except the bobotie would be replaced by a lamb curry. At 6:00 p.m. on the dot, Papa Koumbaya’s car would be waiting. They would drive back to Cape Town. They would go to bed. They wouldn’t sleep.
    But that weekend, the thirteenth since Stephen had died, was destined to be different.
    When they arrived, Rosélie and Dido found Sofie deep in conversation with Elsie.
    Sofie was a frail little woman. Wearing a white headscarf tied into a bonnet and a black dress, she looked like someone out of a painting by Vermeer. Despite the extraordinary difference in size—Sofie, a featherweight, weighed under sixty pounds—Sofie reminded Rosélie of Rose. Rose had finished her days the same way: alone in a house that was too big, neglected by her husband and deserted by her only child. At the back of their eyes you could read an identical tale of solitude and desertion, as if this were the lot of mothers and wives.
    Sofie looked up as they came in and croaked:
    â€œIt’s Jan. He’s thrown himself out of bed and fractured his skull. The doctor says he hasn’t got long to live.”
    As if to ward off ill fortune, Elsie made the sign of the cross.
    Dido and Sofie hurried over to the estate house. Seeing Rosélie hesitate, Dido shouted to her:
    â€œCome on! You could help him. You know you’re worth more than all the doctors on earth.”
    Faith is the only saving factor!
    The tour buses were now jostling into the parking lot, and some Germans were getting out. Sofie explained she hadn’t been surprised by her husband’s act. Recently, Jan had changed a lot. He who devoured the newspapers, rejoicing at the upward curve of AIDS and the increase in the number of child rapes and robberies, was no longer interested in anything. He dozed all day long. He would ask for his mother and brother, who had been laid to rest years ago. Rosélie was ashamed of her curiosity. It was as if the ogre’s padlocked door were finally creaking open on its hinges. She had never been near Jan, around whom Dido had woven a thick mythology of tales and legends in which he had become a hairy, longhaired, one-eyed beast, evil personified, his personal stench lingering around the homestead like a decaying carcass. At last she was going to see him with her own two eyes. A troubled feeling of triumph mingled with her curiosity. She was going to see for herself his downfall. For this voluntary end to his life was a point of no return. At last he had admitted that this country, where he and his kin believed they could lay down their law, had escaped them for good. The Kaffirs in power were here to stay.
    Sofie entered first, then Dido. Gripped by a kind of fear, Rosélie was the last to cross the threshold.
    What was she expecting?
    A hulking, menacing man with an arrogant, slightly protruding jaw. Instead, deep in the four-poster bed lay Jan, as frail as his wife, dressed in a nightshirt with