Who Slashed Celanire's Throat?

by Maryse Conde

  He had gone inside the church without really knowing what he was doing and fallen on his knees in front of the statue of Saint Anthony of Padua, a saint he loathed, with his tonsure, his missal, and his silly expression. For the first time in his life he was shaking with fright, as helpless as a child!

  Poor Mavundo! Since learning of Madeska’s death, he had gone to a lot of trouble. He had worn out his dwarves. Now he was giving Agénor wangas, potions, powders, unguents, and lotions of his own making. He lit candles in a circle around him. He made scarifications in the fleshy parts of his arms and thighs and inserted amulets. He whirled around and drew circles in the undergrowth. Agénor looked at him in pity. He knew full well all this agitation was a waste of time. His days were numbered. When the mischief maker had finished aping around, Agénor paid him generously and climbed back onto his horse. Delighted at leaving, the animal, now with wings on its hooves, flew through Grande-Anse and galloped without stopping until they reached the Fouques-Timbert plantation. On leaving La Regrettée, Agénor did not notice the flock of egrets scatter in a commotion behind Colibri’s rump. He did not realize that what had scared them was another bird, attired in black plumage like a frigate bird or a buzzard. During the conversation between Mavundo and Agénor it had kept its distance, perched motionless on the branch of a guava tree, observing the scene with its cruel, round eyes. Once the conversation was over, it had taken flight, following Agénor and Colibri from afar, its wings spread wide like the arms of Christ on the cross.

  When Agénor arrived home, the bird wheeled around for some time above the estate, as if it were deciding on where to settle. Then it made up its mind, swooped down on a magnificent mahogany tree, and nestled among its shiny leaves.

  4

  Every Sunday at three in the afternoon, the fatal hour of the death of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the same scene never failed to occur. Zuléfi, Madeska’s eldest son, his tall body draped in a white robe, took up his position on the seafront. Behind him, the crumpled fabric of the waves and the silhouette of the ships leaving for Veracruz. Above his head, the yellow eye of the sun that seemed to mock his antics. A few feet away, Hosanna, his wife, and their six children, dressed in the same white, rang their bells and harangued the tired, poor, and huddled masses, who were convinced there was a curse on the black race, to draw closer to the Master’s Envoy. Oh, yes! The black race had suffered in the holds of the slave ships. It had suffered in the sugarcane plantations. Its blood had reddened the earth. Its sweat had drenched it. First and second slave emancipations alike had changed nothing. They were still eating out of the same bowl of misery. And they would continue to do so. And for what reason? Because they were paying for unspeakable crimes, vile and horrible acts, acquired while they were in Africa and perpetuated in Guadeloupe—human sacrifices, fornication with animals, and depravity of all sorts. But those who reasoned along these lines, preached Zuléfi, were not entirely within reason. The Good Lord knows no curse. God forgives. He forgives everyone, even those who are black of skin, vile, and crouching in the gutter. If they learned to ask for forgiveness, the black race would be rewarded with a wondrous thing. In the afterlife they would be equal among nations.

  Difficult as it may seem to believe, this sermon had a considerable following. As early as Saturday morning folk from La Pointe crowded onto the bridge leading out of town, and the procession set off in the direction of Basse-Terre. Crowds poured in from the Leeward Coast, from Deshaies, Vieux-Habitants, even Sainte-Rose, plus a few fanatics from the Grand Cul-de-Sac. By noon the seafront in Basse-Terre was swarming with people: women and more women, but also men, even teenagers. While they waited, they sang psalms, some sitting on the ground or small benches, others standing, drawing themselves up to their full height. The more the priests thundered from their pulpits against Zuléfi, the more the politicians scoffed at his “naive rhetoric,” the more the crowds kept coming. After the sermon in Creole, which usually lasted two good hours, Hosanna and the children passed around the small wicker baskets for people to give what they could—from brand-new bills to penny coins. Then came the solemn moment of communion. Zuléfi asked the Good Lord to fill the bread twists with His presence before handing them out. Every time there was an incredible commotion. There was never enough to go around. People elbowed their way through the crowd, clawing and fighting like the possessed, and one wondered why the Good Lord did not simply repeat the miracle of Canaan and the multiplication of the loaves.

  That Sunday, the three o’clock sun was especially harsh. The worshippers sheltered as best they could under parasols, bakoua hats, pieces of toweling, and jute sacks. Now that the hurricane season was over, the experts predicted a volcanic eruption, given the baking heat. Folk who slept on the volcano’s slopes had been woken by rumbling noises. Up by the Yellow Baths, it stank of sulfur. Ashes had blackened the bed of the river Galion. Zuléfi himself dripped great drops of sweat. Though he looked as if he were lost in prayer, he was watching every movement among the crowd and could have described every one of his congregation. When he saw Matthieu arrive, he was not surprised. He had been expecting this visit for the past twenty-five years. He knew that one day some smart police officer would think of interrogating him, now that his father was gone. Yet so convinced he was of divine indulgence, he was not scared of mortals. Matthieu’s impeccable behavior never betrayed the real reason why he was present. Like everyone else, he knelt down in the scorching sand. Like everyone else, he sang the psalms. During the sermon he devoutly placed his head between his two hands. He struck his breast twice as hard demanding the Lord’s forgiveness. However, he did not budge for communion and merely watched as his fellow disciples filled themselves with the presence of God. As the crowd dispersed, he stood up, dutifully made the sign of the cross, then walked over to Zuléfi with a look that meant, Now it’s our turn.

  Zuléfi had often imagined this moment when he would be able to get this weight off his chest and confess.

  “Who put you onto me? You must have been surprised that I, the child of a mischief maker, raised amid vice and magic, suddenly took refuge in the Good Lord. You want to know why?

  “Because one day the scales fell from my eyes like Saul on the road to Damascus. The stench of my sins and those of my father grabbed my nostrils. I can’t tell you which smelled the worst. All I know are those that wake me up in the middle of the night. I, Zuléfi, committed the mother of atrocities—I performed human sacrifices. It’s no use telling me I was still a little boy. I was twelve. I understood perfectly well what I was doing. And to be honest with you, I had already dabbled in the waters of women. My father’s ancestor landed here in 1640. He came from the kingdom of Abomey. He was a Yavogou from a noble family and one of the court’s highest dignitaries. The Yavogous are not merely princes. They can see and talk with the spirits, like I’m talking to you at this very minute. The invisible world holds no secrets from them. That’s why they alone perform the supreme sacrifice—the human sacrifice. When it comes to the annual celebrations and royal funerals, they are the ones who decide how many widows, slaves, virgins, and albinos must be sacrificed. On the death of a member of the royal family, they decide who must follow them to the grave. Once the sacrifices are over, as guardians of the spirit world, they knead the earth around the shrines with fresh blood. You can imagine that, coming from a tradition like that, my father wasn’t going to break his back under the sun cutting sugarcane. He used his powers to turn the heads of the Fouques-Timbert family. Fair’s fair. He helped them become the most powerful family of planters. In exchange, he and his family were virtually free.

  “Like his father and father’s father before him, Madeska had inherited the lithalam, the name for the sacrificial knife made from a bull’s horn, so sharp that as soon as its tip touches the flesh, it slits the skin in two. Blood was its staple diet. From the age of seven I attended every one of my father’s sacrifices. Fowl, sheep, goats, bulls, humans—I didn’t miss a single one. But my favorites were the
newly born. Every time I was fascinated by the incredible sight. My father would pray out loud, kneel down, then do what he had to do. With one stroke of the lithalam—it should never need two—he sliced the neck of the infant, no bigger than a quail’s. The blood gushed out in great spurts; at first bright red, then slowing to a black trickle. Finally, the baby uttered a muffled gurgle. Its eyes clouded over with a gray film and slowly faded into oblivion. For a long, long time afterward its body shook with violent convulsions. It was as if there were frogs hidden under its skin who were all trying to escape the agonized little body at the same time.

  “When it was over, my father would grab the soul as it wandered around in a daze and shove it into a jar, which he stored in a shed behind our house, in case a reincarnation proved necessary. At the age of ten, I became my father’s official assistant. My job was deadly serious. The ceremony always began in the secret of midnight. My father would hand me the lithalam in its leather sheath. Reciting the prayers, I would draw it out and hand it to my father. Once the sacrifice had been performed, I would ceremoniously wash the blade dripping with blood, coat it with sacred unguents, and return it to its sheath. Then just before dawn I would carry the bleeding victim, still warm, wrapped in seven pieces of cloth and squeezed into a goatskin, to its final resting place. This would traditionally be the clearing at Malendure, way up in the depths of the forest near the Dead Tree Falls. There I laid it on a pile of earth with its head facing the rising sun. At its feet I set down the sacrificial food of smoked herring and ground corn cooked with no salt; I made a circle of ceremonial objects such as candles, nails, and a crucifix and recited the farewell prayer. Then I left without ever looking back. If I did, my two eyes would have been gouged out by the spirits come to feast on the victim’s body.

  “That night a baby girl had gone under the lithalam. Everything had gone as planned. Just before sunrise I was about to set off for the clearing at Malendure with my bag when Virgilius came to fetch me. Virgilius was my best friend, the son of another mischief maker, somewhat less expert than my father. He had been looking for me since the day before. His cousin had been taken to hospital with a pleurisy. We could borrow his boat and take off for the island of Antigua. We’d been longing to go to Antigua for ages! I wanted nothing better, but what was I to do with my wretched load? It would take me almost a whole day to walk to Malendure and back. Then Virgilius had an idea. His father didn’t go to all that trouble, not him. He dropped his sacrifices off at the Calvaire crossroads, where he left his magic baths. I hesitated; then the longing to set off to sea got the better of me. I let him be my guide. When we arrived at the Calvaire crossroads, the sky was barely turning white. We hurriedly laid the baby on a mound of grass, set down the sacrificial food, scattered the nails, pieces of iron, and red rags, and rushed off as quickly as we could. We launched the boat into the water. The sun caught up with us around eight in the morning. I shall never forget the color of the sea at that hour. Green like the back of an iguana. We threw out our nets and drew them back in loaded with all sorts of fish—wrasse, largemouth bass, and porgies. We hauled in crayfish. When we returned to Grande-Anse the following night, the place was abuzz with talk about darling little Celanire, the baby girl found at the Calvaire crossroads by Officer Dieudonné Pylône. Miracle of miracles, Dr. Jean Pinceau, they said, had spent the entire day sewing her together again. A crowd had gathered in front of his door. My heart missed a beat. Terrified, I ran home. Maman and her cowives were in tears. Refusing to eat or drink, my father had locked himself in his prayer hut. He let me in. ‘You didn’t take her to Malendure, did you?’ he quietly asked. ‘You set her down at the Calvaire crossroads, didn’t you?’ All I could do was nod. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I’m a doomed man. Ogokpi, the great demon, has broken his pact with me. He’s convinced I tried to trick him and rob him of what I promised him. My only chance of escape is to cross the ocean.’ I fell to my knees. My head felt as if it were about to burst. ‘Can I go with you?’ I begged him. He shook his head. The next morning he set off in the direction of Montserrat without troubling to say farewell to anyone. Not even to my mother, whom he loved more than any of his wives. I cried my heart out.

  “At noon I went and stood in front of Dr. Pinceau’s door in the hope of catching a glimpse of this darling little Celanire. I stood there with the vague hope that, after all, it might be some other infant. I spent the entire day standing in the sun. But all in vain. Out of fear of infection for the baby, the doctor’s surgery was closed and nobody went in or out. In fact it was only several weeks later, on the day of her christening, that I saw darling little Celanire with my own two eyes. No doubt about it. In her yards of lace, English embroidery, velvet and silk ribbons, blouse, smock, and bonnet, it was the very same infant I had left naked, covered in blood, throat slashed, on a bed of guinea grass. Due to my thoughtlessness I had brought misfortune on all those I loved most in this world.

  “I’ve heard that the woman they call Celanire has returned to Guadeloupe. She’s now a very important person. The governor’s wife. I know she has come back to take her revenge. But I’m not scared of her. She can only hurt my body. The Good Lord has shown me the way. There are no crimes that can’t be pardoned. Both Father and myself have gravely offended Him, that’s true. Yet I need only repent to appease His anger.

  “With such faith I have been atoning for my sins for years. I have nothing more to confess.”

  Zuléfi stopped there, for the words were spinning in his head. This was no place for such a confession. Tomorrow, in the darkness of the police station, he would get this weight off his conscience. Without another word he took the summons, murmuring many thanks, as if Matthieu had just done him an act of kindness. He would obey the law and tell the truth that he had kept secret for far too long.

  With his mind at ease, Zuléfi set off for home with his wife and their children in tow. The children, sulky and tired out by the never-ending ritual, were dragging their feet, whereas their mother was overjoyed: it had been a good collection. The congregation’s contributions had filled all the little wicker baskets to the brim. They would be able to resole the younger children’s shoes and buy some white thread to sew the robes of the older ones. There would still be money left over to buy some pork she would salt herself. It was then she heard a great commotion and shouts:

  “Baréye! Baréye!”

  Snorting and foaming at the mouth, shaking its mane, a black horse was galloping down the rue du Sable. It had thrown its rider, who was hobbling after it, brandishing his whip, and was now stampeding down the middle of the road unbridled and out of control. In a frenzy it headed straight for Zuléfi, who was standing on the sidewalk, and rearing up, dealt him two mighty kicks full in the chest. Zuléfi collapsed in a pool of blood. The horse trampled him in its rage, reducing his chest to pulp, then continued its flight.

  Oblivious to the tragic incident that was playing out at the other end of town, Matthieu walked away from the seafront. His nose itched more and more every day. Soon, he thought, he would discover who Celanire was.

  He knew that on that Sunday the members of the Lucioles association were meeting just steps away from the seafront on the Champ d’Arbaud. For some time now Matthieu no longer recognized the woman he had married. She had become Celanire’s alter ego. Powdered and perfumed, she followed Celanire like her shadow and never missed a single dance, masked ball, reception, cotillion, banquet, or book club. Matthieu practically never saw her. They no longer took their meals together. She came home when he was leaving for work and began her day when he had finished his. They hadn’t made love for ages. When they did happen to find themselves side by side in a bed, she would push him away, feigning menstruation, headache, or fatigue—unusual affectations for such a docile wife.

  The Lucioles association was housed in a magnificent edifice with a courtyard behind and a garden out front that a penniless white Creole rented to Celanire. Besides the copper-potted palms and the gilt mirrors, the hall was
crowded with men and women, mulattos and blacks, all perfumed, pomaded, and powdered alike. The afternoon session was already well under way. Elissa de Kerdoré had finished her poetry recital, and they were now launching into opera. Matthieu recognized his wife’s voice singing Johannes Brahms’s Rhapsody for Viola, opus 53. There was something shocking about this sudden obsession for singing in public. And for singing this type of music. It might have been acceptable if she treated everyone to the Kilonko epics of the Wayanas! In a bad mood, Matthieu looked around for a seat. After a while Amarante bowed to the applause. Celanire, who had been standing at the foot of the stage, gazing reverently at the artist, dashed up the steps with her usual enthusiasm and handed her a bouquet of flowers. Another burst of applause. The two women embraced each other, then kissed.

  There was something so shameless in the way they hugged, in the way their breasts rubbed against each other and their lips greedily sucked on their kisses, that Matthieu stood up in horror. Didn’t anybody else see what he saw? His nostrils itched like mad, and in a flash the truth exploded in a fit of sneezing. Celanire and Amarante were on the closest of terms. As close as husband and wife.

  We should point out that at the start of the century female homosexuality in Guadeloupe was not something completely unknown. The lovely Elissa de Kerdoré championed the cause. Twice divorced, she had devised a theory that, for want of a publisher, she expounded on every possible occasion. In her opinion, heterosexuality was an obligation imposed by society. In fact, marriage was unnatural. The proof: it failed under every clime and in every country! If women followed their natural inclinations and kept to themselves, they would experience greater happiness, intimacy, and tenderness. There was more pleasure and voluptuousness to be had from the caresses of a woman than being screwed by a man. Moreover, she didn’t mince her words when censuring motherhood, that straitjacket in which women were imprisoned. Elissa’s discourse struck a sympathetic chord, especially among the women of the upper classes who deliberately sought out their doudous from the dregs of society and paraded them openly in public. Branches of the Zanmi association had been created at La Pointe, Basse-Terre, and Le Moule. Its members lived openly as couples, some of the partners dressed in men’s trousers and pepper-and-salt-striped twill frock coats, even wearing top hats. For the church, it was an abomination. The priests recalled the sacred duty of procreation and the virtues of motherhood. Alas, they were wasting their time!