The Fury and Cries of Women

by Angèle Rawiri

  When Emilienne opened the door to the closet to get a nightgown, Joseph wrapped his arms around her and caressed her breasts. Emilienne took a step back, then two, and fell into his arms.

  “You’ve gotten more beautiful, you know,” Joseph whispered in her ear.

  He threw her on the bed and lifted her dress, which she pulled back down, struggling.

  “What has gotten into you?”

  Turning a deaf ear to his wife’s words, Joseph threw himself on top of her. Emilienne melted.

  THEY PARKED their car in the Elite restaurant’s parking lot, next to which two men in their fifties dressed in white stood stiffly. The soft light of the spotlights between the plants lit up about twenty cars, all of them quite impressive. One of the parking lot attendants swiftly opened the door for Emilienne then led the couple to the entrance of the restaurant, where two young people in white suits and black bow ties welcomed them. They both bowed respectfully before the couple. Across from the main entrance was a huge garden with short, trimmed grass, several flowerbeds, and four palm trees through which shone a soft, yellowish light. Wooden sculpted pillars supported the marble-floored terrace. Two large pots of bougainvillea were placed by each side of the double doors. One of the waiters brought them into a long hallway; on the left was a bar, also made of marble. At the same time, a young French woman wearing a black lace dress with a provocative plunging neckline came to greet them. With her ample bust protruding, she shook the couple’s hands.

  “Good evening, Madame Eyang, Monsieur! How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Joseph replied. “Is our table ready?”

  “Yes. Do you want to wait for your party at the bar or do you prefer to be at your table?”

  Joseph turned around toward Emilienne and, very respectfully, asked:

  “What’ll it be, darling?”

  “We’ll settle in at our table and wait for them.”

  “Please follow me,” said the hostess, smiling.

  The walls and the floor were covered, the first with a red velvet fabric, and the latter with a thick carpet in the same tone. Tall plants separated the round tables draped with white embroidered tablecloths. Golden sconces lit up the two-level room. Rays of fan-shaped light illuminated beautiful frescos. The young hostess led Monsieur and Madame Eyang toward the lower part of the restaurant and seated them a few yards away from a white grand piano, where a black man with a beaming smile and a bald head played jazz. Emilienne sat across from her husband. From her seat she could see the secretary of social affairs and the chairman and managing director of the National Forestry Company.

  “They should be here any minute now,” Joseph said, looking at his watch.

  “Would you like an aperitif?” asked the server, who elegantly sported a red bow tie and a black suit.

  “What’ll you have, darling?” Joseph asked as he smiled at his wife.

  “A red martini with lemon and a lot of ice.”

  “Come now, darling, how about drinking something other than your usual martini tonight!”

  He slid his hand between her legs underneath the table.

  “No, that’ll be it! You know I cannot stand other alcoholic drinks,” she answered wrathfully.

  “Give us a dry whiskey and a martini.”

  “Very well, Monsieur.”

  Although she didn’t want to admit it, Emilienne appreciated being out with her husband; it reminded her of the first years of their marriage before and after the birth of their daughter. Once a week, Joseph would take her out so they could try the new restaurants. That was how they ended up sitting at all the best tables in the city. Both having an appetite for fine food, they tasted Chinese, Italian, Indian, French, and African dishes one by one. So that she didn’t put on weight, Emilienne would skip the midday meal to be able to eat at night without any guilt. Back then, he was truly in love with her and his caresses underneath the table were not a game, as they were now.

  Slowly, she took his hand out from between her thighs, even though she liked its soft, delicate touch. And to avoid reading an expression in his eyes that she would not know how to interpret, she fixed her attention on the neighboring tables. Above all the voices, she could hear the secretary of state and his friends as they laughed heartily and spoke with grand gestures—at least the two men she could see, the others being hidden behind the plant.

  Joseph gulped down his fourth whiskey as Emilienne wondered whether her husband’s friends had gone to the wrong restaurant. And, just when they decided to put in their order, two striking couples appeared. Introductions were made euphorically. Emilienne noted that the three men were more or less the same age. In contrast, the two women seemed younger than her. To show off the most attractive features of her body to the best effect, the younger of the two had chosen for this outing a silk bolero stole, twisted at the back, and a wraparound spandex skirt draped with silk crepe. Her bun at the nape of her neck was set off by a set of diamond earrings and a matching necklace. Her shoes and her handbag were from Carel, Emilienne observed, who had the same ones. She thought she recognized, too, golden jewelry from Tania Apor on the second girl. Taller than the other, the second wore a shapely bustier and a tight-fitting skirt, which was oversewn with denim above the knee.

  Underneath their artfully applied makeup and elegant outfits, the two women were undeniably beautiful and alluring. Emilienne, who had also made an effort to look stunning that evening, smiled at the companions of her husband’s associates. Even though she admitted they were beautiful, she did not believe that she was less attractive, not in the least. As for her, she wore a half-cup bustier that emphasized her waistline, and high-waisted dark orange knit cotton pointelle culottes, which left her legs bare, and, over them, a damask suit with satin and raw silk stripes. The white blouse was printed in matching tones. After all those years of near separation, she wanted to prove to her husband that she could compete with the most beautiful women in the city. And, judging by his attentiveness to her and his furtive looks, she was not disappointed by the effect she had produced in him.

  The conversation was very lively, and the bottles of champagne kept coming every fifteen minutes. After cursory observation of the two women’s behavior, Emilienne noticed that Agnes never looked directly at her husband, who clearly had nothing to say to her either. And, even though Pauline spoke loudly, which, incidentally, took away all her charm, her gaze clouded over every time it crossed her husband’s.

  Between a mouthful of caviar or smoked salmon and a gulp of champagne, the three men told racy anecdotes. To Emilienne, they belonged to that generation of Africans who, having succeeded the old conscripts who had carried out service in newly independent countries and taken up their positions, had decided to make the most of their power and influence. The great majority of them took delight in having an official car, cashing in on numerous bonuses, and having a housing allowance. That material comfort did not keep most of them from creating their own businesses parallel to their official functions. Joseph, whose rise to the portals of success had been slower, didn’t necessarily shoot off sparks compared to his friends. He unquestionably had the look of a company CEO, enhanced by his superb sense of style.

  Emilienne came out of her shell when she heard Pauline’s shrill voice:

  “I agree with Joseph. We are not going to see the creation of a Western-style multiparty system in our countries, not today. Quite plainly, it would mean the splintering of our populations, insofar as each ethnic group would want to form its own political party. Just imagine our country made up of about twenty different parties, each claiming its own regional and ethnic constituency.”

  “That’s not all,” Joseph picked up again, “let’s have the courage to recognize that we are a selfish tribal people. Take a look at what is happening in the ministries and state-owned companies! First they hire a member of the family, regardless of their abilities, and, if they have none, they look among those around them from their own ethnic group. No, believe me,
in order to have a real multiparty system, Africans are going to have to manage to place national interests above their own. In the meantime, the single-party system seems to be what we need. Let me explain: when a country is under the aegis of a single party, its nationals, whatever group they’re from, are forced to meet, discuss, and exchange their opinions about issues that concern them all. They don’t have the time to dwell on tribal issues. Collective motivations almost always win against frictions between individuals. Obviously, with such a political alliance, men learn how to tolerate one another, to love one another, and above all to work toward the same ideals. Isn’t that the goal sought by our leaders!”

  He filled all of the glasses and brought his to his lips. Pauline emptied hers in one gulp, and her eyes came alive. Ogoulat took advantage of the short moment of silence to put in his two cents. While he spoke, he devoured the hostess with his eyes as she passed between the tables.

  “I admit that the single-party system remains our only chance to finally see all of the ethnic groups unite in tolerance and understanding. I will add though that its current form needs improvements. In my opinion, to avoid the monopoly of power by a small group of men, there must be several political opinions inside the single party, at the head of which would be a deputy secretary general. With that type of election, he would automatically become the only presidential candidate of the republic. It would have been preferable that this latter function be occupied by another member of the party, as in developed countries. Unfortunately, the experiments certain African countries have carried out show that power cannot be two-headed on this continent. Needless to say, in these circumstances, the president of the republic would have to be elected by a large majority of its people.”

  “Your version is too complicated,” Boundi retorted, having remained attentive to the arguments his friends had been making for a while. “Tell us, the secretary general of the party would be elected by whom exactly? By the political office or by all the members of the party, in other words, the people? I am against all these political arrangements. Let’s give voice to the people plain and simple. In order to avoid the harmful multiplication of political parties, a law should set their number according to the size of their population. These parties would then each present their candidate for the presidential elections. There is no other path to democracy. You know all the advantages we enjoy because of it.”

  “The lesser of two evils would in fact be democracy as you’ve just described it,” Ogoulat acknowledged. “One must not believe, however, that freedom and tolerance exist unfailingly in democratic countries. Like our country, each political party in power works at placing men from its political group in all the key positions, regardless of their abilities. Those same parties will do whatever it takes to remain in power as long as possible. They, too, influence justice and bring the shady dealings of their adversaries to the public square through the media.”

  “As it is practiced in the majority of moderate countries in Africa,” Joseph retorted, “the single-party system encourages personal initiative. A door is thus open to all initiatives for the good of our country. Single party, certainly, but colored by capitalism, which we must welcome. That said, let’s raise our glasses to our construction business’s good start.”

  Before they left, at a very late hour, all the glasses were clinked together sharply as hoarse groans ran from mouths dilated by champagne.

  TRANSPORTED BY his new status as businessman, Joseph gave the impression he was bursting out of his skin and larger than life; intoxicated with his new authority, he manipulated the steering wheel with his left index finger. With his right hand, he took out a Davidoff No. 2 from his cigar case and smoked it with great satisfaction. Between two long draws, his lips produced the smile of a man who sat enthroned above the peaks of his success.

  Her husband’s confidence thrust Emilienne into deep melancholy. Although until tonight she had veiled her eyes, she had to admit that they no longer shared anything. His success and his exploding joy, which she would have welcomed not long ago, left her impassive. Oh, she was obviously capable of hiding behind plausible excuses in order to reassure herself. But, the thing was, they would not hold up for long. If it were someone she didn’t know showing his contagious exultation, she knew that for a few seconds she would sympathize with him. For the man whom she believed she still loved, she didn’t feel a thing. His successes, which she knew excluded her no matter what he said, no longer interested her.

  Would she fear not being able to ever see him come back to her again when his fortune allowed him to display his lustfulness and all those seductive girls looking for a rich older man ran after him? Why was she losing interest in a man she didn’t have the strength to leave? Would he blame her for having no idea about her sterility and involving him in it? Before she’d gotten the results of her medical tests, she was sure that he was somehow responsible for her pain. But he wasn’t at all. This crucial problem did not concern him. This heavy responsibility on her shoulders had at first confounded and overwhelmed her and then left her in a weak state. Over the hours, her burden had transformed into guilt. Responsibility that is not shared is more painful when one is forced to bear it alone. The weight of it was becoming unbearable for her.

  Seated next to her husband, Emilienne felt pathetic, as if she had betrayed him. If only she had the wisdom and the courage to break out of herself, turn to him to better understand, to make herself better understood and be pardoned. Yet she remained resolutely silent, as if paralyzed by her guilt. However, she would have to tell him about Dr. Pascal’s diagnosis.

  AS SOON AS they got home, she mustered her courage:

  “I have something to tell you,” she declared calmly as she undressed, while Joseph drank one last whiskey Perrier stretched out on the bed.

  “I’m listening!”

  Emilienne, now in her nightgown, stood near the window.

  “First of all, I’d like to congratulate you on your business, which promises to be fruitful.”

  She paused. Joseph emptied his glass. He was seized by a coughing fit. “Oh, my God, I don’t believe a single word of what I just said.” She turned toward Joseph. “This is horrible. He knows that I am lying.”

  Impassive, Joseph stared at his image in the mirror. Emilienne began to speak again, in a tone she hoped would sound natural.

  “This morning I went, as you had advised, to Dr. Pascal. Actually, it was my second appointment. The tests I took and X-rays didn’t show anything abnormal. I am fine. He said he wanted to see you.”

  Joseph leapt to his feet. He frowned and stared his wife down with hateful eyes.

  “If I understand you, you want to make me bear the responsibility for your inability to bear children. I can assure you right now, I am healthy. And believe me, because I know what I’m talking about. You are wrong to think that I am getting some kind of pleasure out of this tension due to the absence of children in our house. When our daughter was still alive, I displayed great pride in talking about her. At times I even praised her so much that my friends would joke with me about my feelings, which they found excessive. I am not going to hide the fact that I sometimes deplored the fact that she had not been a boy to carry on my name. When she died, I, too, shed tears of sorrow every time my eyes fell on her photo in my office, and I would see her sitting again on the seat of my car or hugging me when I got home.”

  Emilienne looked down with tearful eyes.

  “That is surprising to you, isn’t it! Yes, my pain has been as intense as yours, though I’ve had no witness to mine.”

  His hands became tense in his pocket, and he stared at the tip of his shoes.

  “Nine years ago, I wasn’t expecting it, but one of my mistresses told me she was expecting my child.”

  Emilienne staggered as if she had been dealt a blow to the head.

  “I wanted to tell you about the birth of my son without hurting you. I couldn’t, though, because at the time our marriage was still holdin
g up, despite the fact that I was coming home late most nights.”

  Emilienne had difficulty breathing. Her hands and the soles of her feet were sweating. She grabbed desperately at the window to hold up her body, which was giving way underneath her.

  He stared, first at the rug, then at the silk sheets, and then continued:

  “I had a daughter with the same woman eighteen months afterward. Don’t think it was easy for me to accept their births. The consequences of my nocturnal escapades, which sometimes extended into the day as well, materialized through the arrival of kids that I hadn’t wanted, even less so with a woman other than you.”

  Emilienne clenched her teeth so hard it made her jaw hurt. She flattened herself against the window and bit her lips until they started to bleed.

  “After my son, naturally I wanted to break things off with his mother to minimize the impact of my betrayal. For that reason, I refused to go see my son at the hospital. For a month I didn’t answer the insistent telephone calls from his mother. And then one night, I couldn’t help myself. My blood called out to me, my blood in a son. Like a thief in the night, I went to see him. He looked like me. He was beautiful. You cannot imagine how overjoyed I was.”

  He fell silent, aware of the wound in his wife’s heart that he was enlarging with a scalpel, but he didn’t want to and couldn’t stop. He would deliver his narrative to the end. He was suffering from the cry he heard rise up inside Emilienne’s throat and then suffocate behind her pursed lips. At that point in his story, that cry and that pain were also his. His voice almost lifeless, he continued:

  “The son I had long awaited had finally come. In a few short years, he was to become my best friend and companion. That event in my life transformed me completely and threw me back into the arms of the woman who had given me this son I had hoped to have with you. Parallel to this happiness, my feelings of guilt toward you were mounting. But I could not avoid the birth of my daughter. However, after having spent an evening with them, I made the very difficult decision not to see them again so that I could try to make you happy, you and Rékia, and to end the feelings of guilt that were haunting me in my sleep to no end. Each month, though, I would send a large money order to the mother of my children. Our marriage became stronger, and for a year we were, I believe, happy, until the problems resurfaced. During those twelve months I yearned with all my heart for a second child who would strengthen our relationship. I broke down again when the mother brought our two children to my office. They had grown. The elder one ran over to me and called me papa as soon as he saw me. That was a moment of very intense emotion for me.”