Confession of the Lioness (12 page)

No, my dear. If I read, do you know what will happen? I'll stop seeing the world. Read me the story of the queen of Egypt.

It was his favorite text. I already knew it by heart. Grandfather would close his eyes and I would recite it, always in the same tone:

It is said that Ra, the sun god of ancient Egypt, weary of the sins of men, created the goddess Sekhmet to punish those who needed to be punished. And that's what the goddess did, with an excess of zeal, according to some. Sekhmet's vengefulness even began to fall upon the innocent. In despair, the followers of Ra asked the god to help, but he was unable. So the Egyptians had the idea of creating a drink that was the color of blood, and they managed to inebriate the goddess. As a result, she fell asleep and once again fell under the control of Ra.

When the story was finished, my grandfather remained with his eyes closed. Then, he kissed my hands, saying:
You, my granddaughter, are my goddess.

*   *   *

Adjiru's constant presence at the mission gave me peace of mind, but threw into relief other absences. One time, I managed to overcome my fear:

Grandfather, tell me something: Are my parents saddened by me?

It's just that the war is now taking up all our time. That's why they don't visit you. Everyone's gone, and I and one or two others of no importance are the only ones left.

Aren't you scared of being killed?

I'm so skinny that any bullet would miss me.

In truth, the sound of gunfire and explosions was increasing in the vicinity. Father Amoroso was called to conduct funerals ever more frequently, and at an ever greater distance. The inhabitants of Kulumani, including my parents, had moved to Palma months ago. Only Adjiru and his five brothers remained. They were convinced that they would be spared because they were elderly. But it wasn't their age that saved them. They paid for their security. What they hunted was given to the soldiers of both armies.

That's how things are, Mariamar
, Adjiru recalled.
In war, the poor are killed. In peace, the poor die.

*   *   *

One time, the Kapitamoro clan brought the eldest of the brothers to the church. His name was Vicente and he was wounded, shedding blood, his weakened feet dragging along the ground. Held up by his brothers' arms, Vicente entered the holy sanctuary, unable to see anything in front of him through the prevailing shadows. He was blind. Yet it was he who showed his brothers the way. He knew the church like the palm of his hand. He had built those walls that now offered him shelter.

They sat him on the long wooden bench, supporting him shoulder to shoulder. Adjiru walked over to the priest and addressed him in a tone that mingled entreaty with threats:

This is the house of God, no one can die here. Do you hear me, Father Amoroso?

Let us pray, my son, let us pray.

The Kapitamoros yelled their prayers, and for sure no one had ever prayed with such aplomb before an altar. The booming voices of those demented brothers were intimidating: The gods had better watch out in case there wasn't a miracle.

At first we could still hear our wounded relative babbling. What he was asking for, however, was the exact opposite of what his brothers wanted: He was praying for his Creator to allow him to depart, tired as he was of suffering. What then happened was proof that God doesn't listen to those who shout loudest. Vicente Kapitamoro breathed his last without anyone noticing, his devoted fingers intertwined, his head slumped over his knees.

This incident proved a blow to Adjiru's faith. From then on, he no longer went to mass. He stopped at the entrance to the church and asked his brothers to go in and pray in his name. Let them pretend they were him, let them borrow his name and his soul, that's what he asked.

We're alike. God won't notice.

Unhappy, Father Amoroso reflected on the situation. He was disappointed by Kapitamoro's attitude. However, he couldn't confront such an eminent figure in the village. He waited for time to bring him inspiration. And time brought peace. Gradually Kulumani resumed the life it seemed to have lost forever. The wounds of history healed, and broken affiliations were reforged. The missionary thought it would be good to make use of the wave of reconciliations and requested Adjiru to meet him in the churchyard so as to remind him of his sacred duties.

Tomorrow I shall say a mass for your brother Vicente's soul.

My dear sir, with all due respect, I shall not go.

And why won't you come?

I'll go to the
matanga,
our own ceremony for the dead.

And how will you explain yourself before God?

I'll explain myself before Nungu, our God. With all due respect.

For years he had been criticized for frequenting the mission and converting to Catholicism, and, in the words of Kulumani folk, for having become a
vamissau
. In his own defense, he had argued:
The others have the drum dance, I have the Bible.
In the beginning, Adjiru still had a reason for his apparent conversion: to entrust the drums to the hands of God, and make the sacred book dance. That was why he taught me the art of dancing. Now, however, any purpose had long been abandoned.

Appealing to divine inspiration, Amoroso picked off a long rosary of arguments. The hand of God, he said, is a sightless guide. What this hand seeks is that we should be the masters of our journey. But journeys last as long as a star. By the time we see them, they have long ceased to exist.

All this is just words. What hand of God sends us on a journey to war, Mr. Amoroso?

Why do you call me Mister? Why don't you address me as Father anymore?

You live shut away in your own world. Look what's happening out there. And you'll see that sometimes the gods die in wars …

How can you dare to say such a thing in the house of God?

I'm the one who built this church. I and my brothers. We started building it when we were still slaves.

He paused, measured his words, and in the end burst out, without any rancor, as if he were among friends:

At the time, we should have thrown the church into the river.

Holy Mother of God!

Standing as tall as he could, his voice trembling with emotion, everything in the priest contrasted with my grandfather's tranquillity:

Do you want to see a miracle, Adjiru? Well, look at your granddaughter
, and turning to me, he ordered,
Show him, Mariamar, show him …

I got up and walked toward Adjiru. My legs swayed, but my steps were firm. Grandfather didn't seem surprised.

Mariamar can walk again, I'm very happy. But let me ask you this: Have you taught her to kick, Reverend Father?

Kick? Is that something one teaches a girl?

Of course, Father. Precisely because she's a girl, she ought to learn to punch, bite, kick …

Those aren't the words of a believer. Here, we teach people to love one's nearest and dearest.

It's from one's nearest and dearest that we most need to defend ourselves.

He got up and walked around me, his hands tapping his chest as if it were a drum, and he began to wave his arms. Grandfather knew that we were forbidden to dance by the priest.

Can you still dance, Mariamar? Now, then, show me you still know how to kick up some dust.

Amoroso's watchful gaze didn't allow me to sway my hips. I tried one or two clumsy steps around the room and, without waiting, Grandfather raised his arm to put an end to the performance. In a dry tone, he ordered:

Go and pack your bag, because I'm coming to fetch you tomorrow.

The following day, he returned with a small wheelbarrow. I reminded him that I could walk on my own two feet, but he pointed uncompromisingly at the rough-and-ready vehicle and asked:

Do you know what day it is today, my dear?

Today?

You're sixteen today. You've got a right to be carried.

Seated in my little carriage, I crossed the village, listening to the missionary's frantic cries behind me:

Mariamar can walk, it's God's miracle, it's a miracle! She's being wheeled along, but she can walk perfectly. Come and see, for it's a miracle!

I gazed around me, astonished. I hadn't been outside the mission for months. Kulumani was unrecognizable. With the end of war, people had returned to the village. My family had also settled back in our old house. And there seemed to be more inhabitants than ever. A crowd of hawkers filled the road that led to Palma.

At home, only Sil
ê
ncia rejoiced in my return. My mother was sifting rice and looked up unenthusiastically. I was the one who spoke after a long silence:

Grandfather says it's my birthday today.

Grandfather invents calendars. That's why he hasn't died yet.

Whatever the day, it's good to be back. To be back now that we've got peace …

Without averting her gaze from her sifting, Hanifa Assulua mumbled in an undertone. I was talking of peace? What peace?

Maybe for them, the men
, she said.
Because we women still wake up every morning to a timeworn, endless war.

Hanifa Assulua was in no doubt as to the condition of women in Kulumani. We awoke in the early morning like sleep-deprived soldiers and we got through the day as if life were our enemy. We would come home at night without anyone to comfort us over the battles that we had to face. Mother recited this litany of complaints in one breath, as if it were something she had been waiting a long time to say.

That's why you should have left all this talk about peace back at the mission, dear daughter. During the time you lived there, we had to survive here.

She was accusing me. As if I were the one to blame for her solitude and the unhappiness of all the women. I retreated down the hall with the small steps of a prisoner returning to her cell.

 

The Hunter's Diary

FOUR

Rituals and Ambushes

Where men can be gods, animals can be men.

—THE WRITER'S NOTEBOOKS

Hanifa comes to call me in the middle of the night. She is so terrified that I rush off after her without changing clothes. With a long nightgown hiding my knees, I look like a clumsy ghost.

The lions have reached my house.

They'd been prowling around the village ever since nightfall. Hanifa had heard them in the distance.

I didn't hear anything
, I confess.

The woman has no doubts. There are three of them and they're making for the village. We wouldn't hear them again. The closer they get, the more careful they become. I pick up my gun and step out into the garden, gauging the darkness and the silence. Hanifa follows me. The writer, gripped by terror, brings up the rear. In no time at all, we are standing in the Mpepes' yard.

Don't switch on your flashlight, sir
, the woman whispers to the writer.

So how am I going to see where I'm going?
Gustavo asks.

Be quiet, the pair of you! And you, Hanifa, go and get Genito immediately!
I order.

He's sleeping.

Suddenly Hanifa points at some bushes which are stirring and urges me:

Fire, it's the lions! Fire!

My forefinger on the trigger grows taut. In the arch of bone and nerve lies the decision of the gods: whether or not to extinguish a life in a bolt of lightning. But in this case, my quivering finger hesitates. It's a lucky delay: A figure emerges from the shadows, hands raised like a drunken scarecrow.

Don't shoot, it's me, Genito!

The tracker had gone to buy some liquor in the nearby village. He raises the bottle as proof.

Now go inside, Hanifa. You know I don't want you out here at night.

Your wife went to call us
, the writer explains,
because she seemed to think there were lions in the neighborhood.

The tracker looks at the bush from which he has just emerged. He shakes his head, raises the bottle to his lips, and takes a generous swig. He makes sure his wife has gone back into the house. He sits down on the ground and invites us to drink with him. Neither of us accepts. We stand there looking at the stars until Genito breaks the silence.

Hanifa knew it was me. She knew I was on my way home.

I don't understand
, says Gustavo.

Do you know what happened here? It was an ambush. Hanifa wants to kill me.

Don't be so absurd …

She thinks I'm guilty of terrible things.

What things?

Our things. You know something? There's no law here, no government, and even God only visits us occasionally.

*   *   *

When I get back to my room, I remove the cartridges from the chamber of my rifle and repeatedly press the trigger. I'm still trembling slightly, but in general my body obeys me immediately. As always, I take time to reconcile myself to sleep. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I once again picture my last visit to the psychiatric hospital. I can't get Roland's farewell out of my mind—his long hands gain wings and flutter blindly around the room. I spend some time like this. As they say in Kulumani, night only ends when the owls fall silent. Without the presence of these birds, night loses its ceiling. And there are those who, without even being aware, scare these birds of omen away. We have these owl chasers to thank for every new break of day. There at the other end of this remoteness, Roland's hands shape each of my sleepless nights.