The Fury and Cries of Women

by Angèle Rawiri

  VI

  The Last Resort

  Emilienne was swimming with broad strokes in the stagnant waters of apathy. Her pain had turned into paralyzing discouragement. And if from time to time she snapped out of it, it was either to drown herself in beer, wine, or whiskey, those drinks she’d always hated, or to throw herself into Dominique’s arms.

  At night, she would stuff herself with cakes, chocolates, and sandwiches before starting in on the hearty dishes Godwin prepared for her, all of which she ate alone, as her mother-in-law and her grandchildren had left on school vacation. She knew that she was definitely sinking into what she called her quagmire. The only way she could live with herself was to immerse herself in masochistic behavior. Since she was denied simple healthy pleasures, she relished in abandoning herself to the kind of pleasures she could find.

  In that regard, she would have liked Dominique to be more available. Despite her attempts to get closer, her secretary became more evasive. Sometimes, during their most intimate moments, she would push her tender caresses away. When Emilienne would demand an explanation, they would end up in a vicious argument. The next day, Dominique would miss work, and would return several days later without even mentioning she’d returned. Alcohol wasn’t enough for Emilienne anymore, and she lapsed into a state of frightful terror. That morning, she had waited, trembling, in hopes that her secretary would open her office door and throw herself into her arms. Several times she’d gotten up, run to Dominique’s door, and stood still before it, raising her hand to knock, then, defeated, locked herself up again inside her four walls, listening to every little noise that came from the hallway. When her phone rang, she jumped and eagerly picked up the receiver. Finally, finally, after two or three hours had passed, Dominique opened her boss’s door apprehensively.

  She went in, then stood a few feet from Emilienne, giving her winks, half smiles, and some empty phrases, all of it sparing to say the least. And as Emilienne clung to her desk to keep from throwing herself into her arms, the young secretary walked around the table, smiling, and with a slow step and a detached air, bent down toward her employer.

  Encouraged by her advances, Emilienne invited her over to her place.

  The two women embraced on the big bed. The floral sheets lay on the carpet. In a voice that was calm after weeks of agitation, Emilienne asked:

  “What is going on, Dominique? Why do you enjoy playing with my feelings? Would you by chance be tired of me? I demand the truth.”

  Moving away from her and feigning a bad mood, Dominique snapped back:

  “I’ve had enough of this life we are leading. Do you hear me? I’ve had enough! Enough! I want you to be entirely mine instead of hanging on to a husband who knows how to live without you. What are you waiting for from him, anyway; do you believe that he will abandon his mistress and come back to you? I’m going to tell you the truth since you want to hear it! You’re wasting your time. Soon, you’ll have to choose between him and me. I want you, me, no child. You won’t have him anymore if you don’t give him one.”

  She sat down on the bed, looking sulky, and took a pornographic comic out of her bag.

  Carried away by an indescribable hilarity, Emilienne burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that her friend put down her comic book and turned toward her, appalled.

  “You should have told me sooner,” Emilienne added between two bursts of laughter. “If I’ve understood you correctly, you are asking me to divorce so that I can live with you!”

  She belched, and her intoxicated breath floated into the young secretary’s nostrils, who threw her head back slightly.

  “I am flattered by your request. Have you forgotten, you little scatterbrain, that you and I don’t live on a deserted island, but among our respective families and friends in a society that condemns relationships like ours?”

  “Do you think I haven’t thought of all of that?” Dominique snapped back, annoyed. “There won’t be any problems if we know how to play our game. Since you get company housing, I will be able to move in here without shocking people. Everyone will just think that I am your protégé. Listen,” she added, with a pout on her face as she caressed Emilienne’s breast, “aren’t we happy together?”

  “And what would you do with your children and your little brothers? Are you going to leave your lover for me?”

  “Oh, him, I hate him. My brothers will live with my sister and my children will come with me here. Please, do it for our happiness. I am so miserable when I’m not near you.”

  “Have you gone mad?” Emilienne countered. “Do you think that things are done and undone by the wave of a magic wand? You need to leave, now; we will talk about this another time.”

  SHE WALKED her to the gate, came back, and served herself a big glass of white wine. She carried the three-quarter-filled bottle over and sat down on the terrace. In less than fifteen minutes, Emilienne had emptied the entire bottle. If she had followed her own desires, she would have got up to get another. But she had no more energy, and, well, there was always tomorrow.

  She was sorry she hadn’t bought an entire case. Tomorrow, she would change wine sellers. The one from whom she was getting her supplies was starting to shoot her little looks that she didn’t like at all. Did he also know that her husband was living with the mother of his children . . . ?

  Emilienne grabbed the empty bottle with two hands and brought it to her mouth. Three drops fell onto her rigid tongue. Her hands trembling, she threw the bottle, and it shattered against the low terrace wall. “Where did the guard and Roxanne go?” she wondered. “May they stay far away from me tonight; I don’t want to see anyone.”

  Emilienne sucked on her tongue and rubbed it against her palate. She needed to drink something to calm herself down, anything. Whiskey would do it and would certainly relax her. Besides, the days were not so long when she drank. It allowed her to laugh about herself and everyone else who sought her downfall.

  Emilienne tried to get up: her right leg slipped; the other folded under her. She ended up sitting back down. And as her head was spinning, she let herself slide onto the cement while singing: “On the Bridge of Olamba, We all dance there, we all dance there . . .” Then she broke out in nervous laughter.

  “Who does he think he is? He can go screw himself. And this minx who wants a turn at controlling me. I wonder what’s the matter with them.”

  She finally managed to stand up on her two limp legs. And so, staggering, she headed toward the little bar in the living room. In one gulp, she emptied the last of the gin that she’d found there, and had flopped onto the divan when her head started to throb violently. As soon as she felt better, she crawled to the kitchen and got a large scoop of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, which she devoured as she stood there, even though most of it just drizzled down her chin.

  As she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her blouse, she was suddenly overcome by a desire to vomit. And before she even had the time to bring her two hands to her mouth, the first surges of the alcoholic mixture spurted out and splattered all over the cupboards and the walls. The nauseating mixture ran pathetically down in a line, from where it fell onto the white tiles. A halting wheezing began again in her throat. This time, refusing to be taken by surprise, she ran outside. Her stomach contracted. Bent over, she let herself empty out.

  As she stood up feeling light, a horrible wrenching in her lungs—unless her entire rib cage was burning—paralyzed her. Emilienne leaned farther forward, resting her hands on her bent knees. She stayed in this uncomfortable position for a long while, then again tried to stand up slightly. The pain was less acute. She could walk, although stooping, toward the bedroom, where she rinsed her mouth and face. Her ideas still muddled, she lay down on her bed and fell right asleep.

  SHE WAS AWAKENED by the heat in the early morning hours. The air conditioner had stopped. She got up and tried, in vain, to make it work.

  Emilienne got undressed and went back to bed. As she lay on her back, her hands und
er the nape of her neck, she let her thoughts wander until her secretary’s delirious words came back. Of course, she acknowledged that their relationship could become cumbersome, but she wasn’t thinking of ending it for the moment, because nothing, she believed, could effectively replace her inner chaos, not even alcohol.

  In any case, they wouldn’t be able to appease the brutal awakening in her body. It was more of a psycho-sentimental awakening that shocked her. Masturbation was not her thing. She always felt the need for physical contact. And as Dominique’s body was similar to her own, it allowed her not only to rediscover herself, but also to provide her with a certain balance. This forbidden relationship was like a drug, and she knew that its sudden withdrawal would make her completely crazy.

  TIME RAN OVER Emilienne like sticky water. Every so often, fleeting thoughts about her status as an unfaithful wife crossed her drowsy mind. But they no longer affected her. It wasn’t even a sign of resignation. She simply no longer dwelled in her own skin but instead was living in someone else’s. She forbade herself to judge this other woman severely: one could even say that she was very lenient toward her, a feeling that led to pity, which she had always despised when it came from others.

  After the black hole and the bottomless abyss, Emilienne was at an impasse, a path that led nowhere except back to the beginning. As far as she was concerned, that meant she would have to reconsider all the facts about her marital situation, which would force her to make a decision about the future, at least about what was up to her. If during the day she barely managed to clear her head, aided by an almost permanent drunken state and moments spent with Dominique, her nights were filled with nightmares.

  Her state of health resisted her troubled sleep and her alcohol abuse less and less. For a few days, she was waking up feverish and her body numb. In the morning, the imprint of her body was drawn pitifully on the big bed. Her nightgown clung to her skin like a piece of clothing that hadn’t completed the spin cycle. She continued to shiver and her teeth chattered, even when she turned off the air conditioner and the temperature in the bedroom got as high as 86 degrees. She ended up getting out the wool blanket and rolling herself up in it even though it was prickly. For three days and nights, her fever persisted, and even the many malaria pills she took did not manage to bring it down.

  Emilienne grew weak, and her weight loss was clearly visible. She was able to get around by leaning on doors and furniture. Godwin brought her tea in bed, a good half of which spilled onto the sheets, since her hands trembled so when she brought the cup to her mouth.

  Roxanne left the foot of the bed only to relieve herself or to call the cook or the night guard. One morning, when Emilienne was moaning and twisting about in her sweaty sheets, Roxanne looked sadly at her mistress and, doing a 180-degree turn that would surprise any human being, jumped outside, over the gate, and onto Charles de Gaulle Boulevard. She plunged across several streets, weaving her way through pedestrians and cars before coming to a small market in a residential neighborhood, then stopped at an intersection, and without hesitating, turned into one of the alleys just as a disabled person came hobbling along with a cane. With her momentum, Roxanne did not have time to dodge her. The disabled person’s cane was knocked out from under her; she fell flat onto the loose gravel, shrieking. A young child ran to help her up. His little friend picked up a stick and ran after the animal. The latter managed to lose him, but a pack of raw-boned dogs blocked his path farther on. With a half-animal half-human stare, Roxanne gauged their strength and then started to growl. The horde approached her, determined to attack. Roxanne backed up and with a leap cleared the barrier the sickly dogs had made, and they, frightened by her, flattened themselves to the ground. She now crossed a little bridge where children waded, laughing, in a muddy river. Like an animal being hunted down, she slinked between the rows of flowers and the houses’ outer walls. Finally, she recognized the imposing gate at Eva’s house. Weakened from her long race, she was happy just to scratch insistently at the gate and growl. The children who were playing in the yard were stunned when they opened the door for her. One of them ran to look for their mother.

  To Eva’s many questions, the animal answered with groans and a tearful look. She ran to phone, first, Emilienne’s office, then her home. Nobody answered. Eva then took the animal in her arms and got into the car.

  Emilienne was only half-conscious when Eva had her sister admitted to one of Olamba’s private clinics. According to the doctor, she had a severe malaria attack that would have been fatal if she had stayed home one more day.

  A few days after her admission to the clinic, her temperature, which was oscillating between 104 and 102.2 degrees, finally went down. Although she was still weak and had lost a lot of weight, she woke up smiling and was ready to return home. The doctor decided nevertheless to keep her a little longer so that, he said, he could watch her very low blood pressure. Her family, colleagues, and friends took turns visiting her. Joseph, summoned by Eva, also came every evening to spend two hours with his wife.

  To fill this long time, during which they exchanged only a few banal sentences, Joseph read his newspaper, and then went back to their home, which he had returned to since his wife’s hospitalization.

  EMILIENNE RECOVERED rather quickly from this disease that had nearly killed her. She was very grateful to God, who had not found the moment appropriate to call her to him. And, like all those who passed so close to death, she felt the irresistible urge to live.

  As soon as she felt strong enough, she got out of bed and opened the windows wide. Her arms outstretched and her head turned toward the sky, she breathed in the fresh air from the garden. The aroma of a thousand fragrances of flowers rose up to her nostrils. She breathed in deeply several times and closed her eyes. A gentle calming wind caressed her face, making it seem like her pores were also breathing. She stretched out, leaned her head forward, and smiled. She hummed along to the music playing on the radio as it drifted out of one of her neighbor’s windows. She laughed at the birds that landed hesitantly on the windowsill of the bedroom above hers. She let a tiny black ant run over her arm, contemplating it with the astonishment of a child who was discovering the outside world for the first time.

  “WELL, WELL! Our patient seems to be doing better today,” the doctor exclaimed as he entered, followed by his assistant and a nurse.

  “Good morning, Doctor. I’m doing very well. I hope you aren’t going to keep me here another day.”

  “Don’t you worry, Madame Eyang, we will release you tomorrow morning, if, of course, your blood pressure doesn’t play anymore nasty tricks on us. Please, sit down. And give me your arm . . . Everything looks good, Madame,” he said after taking her blood pressure. “Are you having a fever at night?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  “Has your appetite returned now that your fever has gone down?”

  “It’s fine. I am eating well; I’m going to need to go on a diet when I get out of here,” Emilienne said with a laugh.

  “Forget about your figure for the moment,” the doctor replied, very relaxed. “You need to get your strength back. I’ll see you again tomorrow before you’re discharged; continue with your treatment. Have a nice day, Madame Eyang.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  WHILE HOME for a week on sick leave, with her cleaning lady’s help, Emilienne kept busy organizing all the rooms. Every evening, she assisted the guard with his chore of watering the lawn and the plants in her huge yard, then tended personally to her vegetable garden. Thanks to her cook, she would still eat peanuts, onion, tomatoes, and good lettuce this season. These simple tasks filled her with joy.

  When night fell, she listened to classical music or jazz or read a novel. Joseph slept at home every night, getting back very late in the evening. The married couple avoided brushing bodies in the large bed and still were not speaking to one another. When the situation forced them to, they exchanged measured, respectful words. One would have said that each was afrai
d of opening up to the other, of sharing any words that would reveal what they were thinking. In the morning, they would go their separate ways after brief greetings and fleeting looks.

  This morning, after her husband had left for his construction company, Emilienne called the hypnotist, who made an appointment for her in the afternoon.

  THE YOUNG WOMAN was received by Monsieur Eric Chevalier in an apartment on the sixth floor of an imposing eight-story building. The man was gigantic with white hair and a white beard. His twinkling eyes lingered on Emilienne as he led her into his spacious office.

  “Please do sit down,” he said, indicating a large salmon-colored armchair facing the door in front of his worktable. “I am happy that you’ve come,” he continued. “Dr. Pascal explained your problem to me in lengthy detail.”

  He sat down in turn. A dozen files in salmon-colored folders were piled on his desk. To his left was a single bed covered with a beautiful white bedspread.

  “Before we begin our first session, I must explain to you what hypnotherapy is, since you will be undergoing it for several months, even after you’ve had proven results. I am surely going to sound a little scientific to you, so don’t hesitate to interrupt me and ask me questions. You see, at first people are afraid of hypnotists because we are not as popular as doctors. Before I came here, the Kampanans had never heard of our work. However, our healing method is as old as the Earth. Do you know that Jesus was in some ways one of the very first hypnotists to heal the sick by the laying on of hands?”

  He stopped to answer the telephone, which had just rung. Fascinated by the hypnotist’s impressive build and by his introduction to the subject, Emilienne had only given a cursory glance to the office. And so she used the phone call as an opportunity to look around.

  Before her stood three tall windows, and on the other walls were surrealist paintings, which fit perfectly with his profession. Behind her in a corner, a giant thick palm grew majestically in a black pot.