Read Online Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? by Maryse Condé - Free Book Online
Authors: Maryse Condé
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frightful as Bingerville. Terrified of snakes and red ants, she spent the best part of her time locked in her apartments. There, with persiennes lowered, she struggled against the heat as best she could. Half naked, she showered four to six times a day, much to the anger of the houseboys, who complained she used up all the water in the tank. She fanned herself with large woven osier fans. Sometimes, in her dressing gown, she would walk out onto the balcony and weep as she looked at the encircling shrubs and trees, so different from the chestnut trees on her avenue Henri-Martin. Every day, at four in the afternoon, a house girl brought her Ludivine, her three-year-old daughter. Ludivine would fidget and push her away, now used to the caresses and pidgin of her housemaid. Charlotte did not recognize her either, now that her hair was decorated with cowries and she reeked of shea butter.
Africa therefore had taken away everything she had. Her child. Her husband, whom she virtually never saw. He told her he was working himself to death for France, whereas she knew he was working himself to death making love to a black girl. When he lay down beside her at night, her nostrils were offended by his smell. Why had he made her come to Africa? She loathed the guests he invited to dinnerâsenior officials drained by diarrhea and preoccupied by their bowel movements, priests never tired of naming the name of God and martyrizing the Africans in the name of the same God. They never had anything interesting to say, since they never opened a book and never listened to Bach or Handel. They drank too much, and gossiped maliciously. Charlotte no longer had the strength to keep up her diary, where since the age of sixteen she had jotted down her innocent adventures as a young girl. She was at a loss for news to send to her maman . In any case, letters took months and months to arrive. When they did, the paper smelled all musty.
That particular afternoon, she felt even hotter than usual. However hard she fanned herself, beads of sweat trickled down her back and formed a pool smelling like urine on the bedsheet. Charlotte was propped up against her pillows, obsessed with the idea of whether a black woman can be beautiful. She had never seen her rival, since the woman never came to church (Father Rascasse went up to celebrate mass in the chapel at the Home). She was never to be seen at any dinner, cocktail, or reception, since she kept the third Friday of every month for her own parties. She never paid anyone a visit. In short, she stayed at home like a flesh-eating spider spinning her web. What did she look like? This question tormented Charlotte. Her dreams had become nightmares, her nights torture. She could no longer bear it and got up. At that time of day, everyone was taking their siesta. She ran down the main staircase, dashed across the garden, avoiding the servantsâ quarters, and cautiously pushed open the south gate of the palace. No tarbooshed guard in sight. She had seldom ventured outside alone and almost asked her way from a passerby. Then she remembered who she was. The governorâs wife. Donât talk to anyone. Avoid getting herself noticed by Thomasâs spies.
The rain had stopped. Not for long. Clouds black with thunder scudded across the sky skimming the earth. In the little daylight that was left, the wretched faces of the neighborhood shacks stretched out in a line. In which direction was the Home? It must be this way. A path scarred with ruts unrolled beneath her feet. Left and right, the huts got fewer and finally disappeared; the forest, always ready to run riot, rolled greedily on. After less than a mile Charlotte stumbled up against a metal fence hidden behind thick foliage. She was looking for a way in when suddenly an opening gaped onto a driveway lined with dwarf coconut palms. She went in, crossed a bamboo grove, and suddenly the Home loomed up in all its elegance. Nothing had prepared her for such a
Africa therefore had taken away everything she had. Her child. Her husband, whom she virtually never saw. He told her he was working himself to death for France, whereas she knew he was working himself to death making love to a black girl. When he lay down beside her at night, her nostrils were offended by his smell. Why had he made her come to Africa? She loathed the guests he invited to dinnerâsenior officials drained by diarrhea and preoccupied by their bowel movements, priests never tired of naming the name of God and martyrizing the Africans in the name of the same God. They never had anything interesting to say, since they never opened a book and never listened to Bach or Handel. They drank too much, and gossiped maliciously. Charlotte no longer had the strength to keep up her diary, where since the age of sixteen she had jotted down her innocent adventures as a young girl. She was at a loss for news to send to her maman . In any case, letters took months and months to arrive. When they did, the paper smelled all musty.
That particular afternoon, she felt even hotter than usual. However hard she fanned herself, beads of sweat trickled down her back and formed a pool smelling like urine on the bedsheet. Charlotte was propped up against her pillows, obsessed with the idea of whether a black woman can be beautiful. She had never seen her rival, since the woman never came to church (Father Rascasse went up to celebrate mass in the chapel at the Home). She was never to be seen at any dinner, cocktail, or reception, since she kept the third Friday of every month for her own parties. She never paid anyone a visit. In short, she stayed at home like a flesh-eating spider spinning her web. What did she look like? This question tormented Charlotte. Her dreams had become nightmares, her nights torture. She could no longer bear it and got up. At that time of day, everyone was taking their siesta. She ran down the main staircase, dashed across the garden, avoiding the servantsâ quarters, and cautiously pushed open the south gate of the palace. No tarbooshed guard in sight. She had seldom ventured outside alone and almost asked her way from a passerby. Then she remembered who she was. The governorâs wife. Donât talk to anyone. Avoid getting herself noticed by Thomasâs spies.
The rain had stopped. Not for long. Clouds black with thunder scudded across the sky skimming the earth. In the little daylight that was left, the wretched faces of the neighborhood shacks stretched out in a line. In which direction was the Home? It must be this way. A path scarred with ruts unrolled beneath her feet. Left and right, the huts got fewer and finally disappeared; the forest, always ready to run riot, rolled greedily on. After less than a mile Charlotte stumbled up against a metal fence hidden behind thick foliage. She was looking for a way in when suddenly an opening gaped onto a driveway lined with dwarf coconut palms. She went in, crossed a bamboo grove, and suddenly the Home loomed up in all its elegance. Nothing had prepared her for such a
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