“You’re back late,” said Clotilde. “I’d given up waiting. I didn’t think you were coming.”
“You know what it’s like with paternal aunts, the respect you must show them, they like to make the most of it. She gave me permission to come and see you, but just as I was heading off, she found all these excuses to detain me as long as possible, a way of reminding me of her authority. What can you do in the face of your paternal aunt’s goodwill?”
Two days before her departure, Virginia got permission from Skolastika to go say good-bye to Clotilde. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of that Clotilde,” said her aunt with an air of bitterness and suspicion, “though far be it from me to contradict such an educated girl. You know what you’re doing. Go and bid farewell to your dear friend before you leave.”
Just after the eucalyptus grove, Virginia took the path down to the swamp.
“You’re going to see the witch doctor again,” said Kabwa as she passed Rugaju’s house. “Shall I show you the way?”
“I no longer have need of you, now that I know the way. Even though Kabwa’s your name, I don’t need a little dog trailing me.”
“Give me something, all the same.”
“You know what I asked Rubanga regarding you: if you tell, misfortune will befall you. But, here, take this coin anyway.”
“I didn’t see you, and I won’t say a thing, I promise.”
Virginia pushed farther into the papyrus sedge, jumping at the rustlings, twitchings, flutterings, and scramblings that filled the swamp with a myriad of living things always close by but never seen. At last, she emerged at the foot of Rubanga’s hillock.
Just like on her first visit, she found him squatting by his hut, but without his snuff clip.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Rubanga. “I knew the day you were going to come. We abiru have something of the soothsayers, the abafumu. You did well to come back, not just for your sake, but above all for the Queen’s umuzimu. She’s suffering, poor Queen. In discovering her bones, that white man woke her from the slumber of death, and she sought refuge in your dreams, she wanders them, she chose you to be her retainer, her favorite. She’s counting on you to take her back to the land of the dead, for you to be her companion there, but you’re far too young to go to the land of the dead. So I went on your behalf, to that place where no one must venture. What I’m about to tell you is the great secret, or at least part of the great secret. If I tell you, you’ll become an umwiru, not entirely, because there are no women abiru, but you’ll share a little of the secret. So I’ve prepared some of what the abiru must drink to preserve the secret.”
He handed her a small calabash and a straw.
“You’re to drink this.”
“Why do you want me to drink that? What is it?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not poison, well, not yet. It’s igihango, and you must drink it. All abiru must drink it. Drink, it will protect you, but if you betray the secret, the igihango will turn into poison. Sickness and misfortune will befall you and your entire family. If you break the secret, the secret will break you.”
“I trust you, I’ve got no choice. Give me your calabash. I won’t break the secret.”
Virginia gulped, and a sour fiery liquid filled her mouth. She squeezed back her tears.
“Good, that’s very brave of you. Now, listen to me. I went to the swamp, the great endless swamp of Nyabarongo, on your behalf and for the Queen’s umuzimu. There’s no path; if you step into it and sink, you’ll be walking forever and never get out. But I know how to reach this little hut, not just any hut, even though it looks like a hunter’s shelter, it’s the House of the Drum. You can’t see the Drum when you enter the hut, for it’s buried, deep down in the earth beneath you. It’s Karinga, the Drum of the kings, the Drum of Rwanda, the Root of Rwanda: it holds all of Rwanda in its entrails. Have you ever heard Karinga roar? Now, when Karinga rumbled – for Karinga wasn’t beaten like any other drum, Karinga rumbled of its own accord – the whole of Rwanda heard it, they said that everything under the sun heard it, women suddenly stood still, leaning on their hoes, men’s hands froze above their beer jug, unable to plunge the straw in, the hunter pulling back the string of his bow couldn’t release his arrow, the shepherd playing his flute lost his breath, cows forgot to graze, and mothers to breastfeed their babies. When Karinga ceased rumbling, it was as if the country awoke from some great bewitchment. No one could say for how long Karinga had thundered. Karinga’s enemies pursued him and sought to burn him, so Karinga buried himself in the earth. His enemies looked for him but never found him. Perhaps Karinga will surge forth from the earth one day. Nobody knows when. But buried in the ground, he still watches over Rwanda, for no one has been able to expose the contents of the drum’s belly. Even I don’t know. Nobody has seen Karinga’s heart. It’s the secret of secrets.”
Rubanga’s voice trembled as he uttered the drum’s name. He stayed silent for a while.
“Well … now … listen carefully to what I’ve done for you and the Queen’s umuzimu … I lay down just above the spot where the Drum is buried, and in my dream, the Drum revealed to me what I must do for the Queen’s umuzimu. What you must do for the Queen’s umuzimu. You’ve attended the whites’ school, but you’re still a virgin. So I’ve carved this small milk pot for you out of flame-tree wood, a little milk pot, like for a child. The dead aren’t greedy, a few drops will satisfy them. And I’m giving you this leafy branch. It’s umurembe, a plant that soothes the dead because it has no thorns. Long ago, before the missionaries came, these leaves would be placed in the deceased’s hand. You’re to return to that white man with this pot and these leaves. You must fill the little pot with milk, milk from an inyambo cow, do you hear, not milk from any other cow. And the milker must be an intore, a strong young warrior. You’re to go up to the kigabiro surrounding the tomb. One of the trees is a flame tree, I saw it in my dream. You’re to dip the leaves in the milk and sprinkle the flame tree, saying: ‘Return without thorns, like the umurembe.’ When the pot’s empty, bury it at the foot of the tree. But take great care that the pot doesn’t touch the ground before that; otherwise, it will lose its power. Remember all I’ve said and tell no one.”
“You still playing goddess at that crazy Whitey’s place?” asked Virginia.
“Why not?” replied Veronica. “He dresses me up as an Egyptian, covers me with perfume and incense, photographs me, draws me, paints me. But he doesn’t touch me: I’m his statue, his doll, his goddess. I dance before She whom he painted in my likeness and sometimes I feel as if I, too, have been transported to another world.”
“I think you’ve been seized by old Fontenaille’s madness. You scare me. I don’t know where this is all going to lead you.”
“What’s there to lose? You and me, I often wonder what’s the point of us continuing to study in this high school where they train, as they say, the so-called female elite. We’ll never be a part of their elite. We get the best grades, not because we’re the most intelligent but because we just have to be the best, and we make believe our good grades will protect us, that thanks to them, we may still be a little hopeful about our future. But look at the others: for some of them at least, coming to class is purely a formality, it’s like they’d already got the diploma, it’s like they were already some minister’s wife, they go along to class like a bureaucrat goes along to his office, grades are secondary, that’s not what interests them. But you and me, what’s to become of us? A Tutsi diploma isn’t the same as a Hutu diploma. It’s not a real diploma. That diploma is your meal ticket. If it’s marked Tutsi on it, you’ll never find a job, not even working for the whites. That’s the quota for you.”
“I know all that, and I often tell myself I should have stayed and farmed on my hill. But my mother imagines the diploma will save everything, me and my family … So, you’re still going to see your Whitey.”
“Yes, of course, he sent those portraits he made of me off to Europe, says they we
nt down very well, and the photos too, that he made some money off them, he says that I truly am his goddess, that I bring him good luck, that this money is for me, too, and that part of it will pay for my studies in Europe. And he even says that now I’m known in Europe, they’re expecting me. I might become a star, like in the movies. Fontenaille may be a crazy fool, but he’s a crazy fool who made his delusions a reality, and maybe he’ll make my dreams come true. Him, he lives in his dream. He’s hired young men who didn’t pass their national exam or who were kicked out of the core curriculum because of the quota. He wants them to live like the Tutsi of olden days. He’s even taken on a former courtier to teach them to dance. They’re his shepherds, his dancers, his intore, his Egyptian warriors. The boys accept it, he pays them well and makes these vague promises about finding them a school later on, I don’t know how. Meanwhile, he lectures them at length about their Egyptian roots. I’m afraid some will end up believing him. He no longer knows who he is, sometimes he’s a great Tutsi chief, sometimes a priest of Isis. He also told me some journalists would be coming from Europe to do a report about him and his temple. They’re even going to make a little movie. I’m going to act in their movie. I’ll be the goddess, the star. If only they could take me away with them!”
“You’re dreaming too. Fontenaille’s madness will get the better of you. Watch out for that. But I’d like to go to Fontenaille’s place on Sunday.”
“See, you too want to act out the white’s crazy notions. Come along, he can’t wait to see you. He’s always asking me where his Queen Candace is, if she’ll be coming back one day. He’ll be mad with joy to see you return and to dress you as Queen Candace. He showed me the outfit that awaits you, and you alone.”
“It’s not to dress up as Queen Candace that I want to go there, it’s for something that I can’t tell you about. I have to go on my own. Please, don’t be cross, I don’t want to take your place, I don’t want to play Queen Candace every Sunday, but I need to go there once by myself.”
“I don’t understand it at all, but you’re my friend, so I trust you. I don’t think you’re out to trick me. Whatever it is must be really important for you to go to Fontenaille’s, but it’s quite mysterious of you! Sunday, you’ll go to Rutare, to those massive rocks, where the jeep will be waiting. I’ll give you a letter for Fontenaille saying that I’m sick and that I’m sending you instead. He’ll be pleased to have his Candace, but still, I don’t understand it at all …”
“I can’t tell you anything, it would bring us both misfortune.”
“It’s my Candace!” cried Monsieur de Fontenaille, seeing Virginia climb out of the jeep clutching her bag to her chest. “I was expecting her, I knew she would come back to me one day. But where is Isis?”
“Veronica is unwell. She’s written you a letter.”
Monsieur de Fontenaille read the letter. Dismay spread across his face.
“Don’t worry,” Virginia reassured him. “Veronica will always be your Isis, she’ll be here next Sunday, and today I will happily be your Queen Candace, but on one condition.”
“On one condition?”
“There’s a real Queen on your estate. You’ve built a pyramid over her remains. I’m scared she won’t put up with seeing another queen here. As you know, we Rwandans are quite fearful of the spirits of the dead: they can turn evil if we offend them. I’m not really a queen, and if Nyiramavugo sees me dressed up as a queen, her spirit will become enraged, she’ll pursue me – and you, too – seeking revenge. So, first I need to make her an offering to reconcile us.”
Monsieur de Fontenaille hesitated for a moment, trying to understand what Virginia meant, what lay behind her words. Then, he seemed overcome with sudden elation.
“Yes, yes, my queen … of course, you must pay homage to the former Queen, to she who lies beneath the pyramid of the Candace queens. And you, whom I saw on the stele at Meroë, you will make whole the chain of time again.”
Monsieur de Fontenaille closed his eyes as if dazzled by the unbearable brilliance of a vision, his hands were shaking. After a long moment that Virginia thought would never end, he became calm again.
“What do you want to do, my Queen? I’ll do everything you tell me to do.”
“It’s just a matter of giving the Queen that which a Rwandan holds most dear: milk. And you have the right milk for a queen: that which comes from inyambo cows.”
Virginia took out the little pot from her bag, as well as the leafy umurembe branch.
“We need to fill up my little milk pot, it’s just the right amount to soothe the queen.”
“Follow me. My shepherds will fill your pot with this morning’s milking, then we’ll climb up to the Queen’s tomb so you can carry out your duties to her.”
“Monsieur de Fontenaille,” said Virginia as he made to enter the funereal grove with her, “please don’t be angry with me, but I must proceed alone into the kigabiro. It’s a forbidden wood. You must have cut down trees, you dug up the earth, uncovered the Queen’s remains, and built your monument on top. You’re a white man, but you’ve violated the kigabiro all the same. I’m afraid that the Queen will refuse my offering if you’re with me. If we annoy the dead, we may have to fear their evil. Perhaps this is of no concern to you whites, but it’s me who’ll receive her vengeance. Please, don’t be angry, I beg you.”
“But of course I’m not angry, Candace. On the contrary, I understand, I respect the rituals. When you get back to the villa, you’ll dress yourself in Queen Candace’s clothes again. I’ll do your portrait. Isis, Candace, the evidence is accumulating. Even if the Tutsi were to disappear, I am the custodian of their legend.”
Virginia slipped between the gnarled trunks of the ancient fig trees, avoiding the clearing where the pyramid stood, trying to find the flame tree in the eerie and closely growing thicket. A thought entered her head: “What if the python is stalking me from within the undergrowth?” She hurried and soon reached the far side of the wood: “Rubanga deceived me,” she said to herself. “He’s just an old charlatan.” But as soon as she got out into the open, she saw a tree standing on its own not far away. It wasn’t covered with red blossoms (she knew it only flowered in the dry season), but she recognized it as the tree she sought from its twisting branches and cracked bark: the flame tree, the umurinzi, the guardian, as it should be called out of respect, the tree the abiru chose long ago to receive the Queen’s umuzimu. She circled it, plunged the umurembe stem into the pot, and sprinkled the umurinzi with milk drops while reciting the words: “Return without thorns, like the umurembe.” When the little pot was empty, she knelt at the foot of the tree and dug a hole with a flat stone, in which she buried the pot and the umurembe branch. When she stood up, she thought she saw the flame tree’s leaves tremble and she felt as if bathed with a serene strength. “From now on,” she thought, “the Queen’s umuzimu will bring me good fortune, I am her favorite, but her favorite in this world.”
As they walked back down to the villa, the servant ran toward them and breathlessly announced:
“Master! Master! There’s a visitor: the old padre, the one with a big beard. He came on his ipikipiki.”
“That old Father Pintard, he still rides that motorbike at his age! He’s back again to convert me to his biblical absurdities. He’ll try to convert you, too. Twenty years, he’s been trying. Don’t listen to him. And don’t forget it was me who told you where you come from, from Meroë, I recognized you as Queen Candace.”
Father Pintard was waiting in the large living room. The little bamboo chair he was sitting on seemed ready to collapse beneath his imposing stature. His white cassock spattered with mud was swathed in chunky rosary beads, like a hunter with his cartridge belts. His long patriarch’s beard made a big impression on Virginia.
“Fontenaille, hello, I see you’re still attracting gullible young ladies to your demonic chapel. If it’s for your perversions, which reassures me a little, then it must be because you’re so well past it that you
r true favorites are queens from four thousand years ago.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have greatly sinned,” replied Fontenaille, laughing. “This young lady’s name is Virginia, I’m drawing her portrait and you’ll see how much she resembles a queen from two thousand years ago.”
“Dear girl, don’t listen to Fontenaille, listen to me instead, you’re Tutsi I presume, in any case there are only ever Tutsi at Fontenaille’s. When I arrived in Rwanda, almost forty years ago now, people swore by Tutsi and only Tutsi, bishops as much as Belgians. They’d had to change kings, but we were soon to baptize the new one, it was Constantin they wanted. Then the Belgians and bishops turned coats: they swore by Hutu and Hutu only, the doughty democratic farmers, the Lord’s humble sheep. Well, I’ve got no views on the matter, I obey Monsignor, and those young missionaries just fall for everything they’re told about the majority demokarasi. But I’ve spent nearly forty years studying: the Bible on the one hand, the Tutsi on the other. It’s all in the Bible, the story of the Tutsi and everything else.”
“Pintard! Pintard! That’s nonsense! Don’t exhaust us with your ridiculous theories. Virginia doesn’t want to hear it.”
But Father Pintard didn’t want to hear it either. He had launched himself, apparently still addressing Virginia, into an endless monologue, part sermon, part lecture. “Without going as far back as Noah, let’s start with Moses. The Israelites left Egypt, Moses parted the waters of the Red Sea with his staff, but some of them went the wrong way, heading south, and arrived in the land of Kush, these were the first Tutsi, then there was the Queen of Sheba, who was also Tutsi, and she went to visit Solomon and returned home with the child she begat with the great king, and then her son became emperor of a land where the Jews were Tutsi called Falashas,” and at the end of all that, Virginia hadn’t understood why it should finish in Rwanda, where the Tutsi were the real Jews, along with the abiru who knew the secrets of King Solomon’s mines.
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