The Story of the Cannibal Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone, she, like the Catholics on a pilgrimage to Lourdes, religiously headed for the Mount Nelson Hotel, where he loved to take afternoon tea. It was a magnificent colonnaded building, one of the last remnants of the British Empire, the colossus with clay feet that had crumbled into dust, a living example of “grandeur and decadence.”
    â€œBritannia rules the waves,” they nevertheless proclaimed from India to Africa.
    Right up to the early years of the twentieth century, it was filled with aristocrats fleeing the English winter and fog, for Cape Town is known for its bracing and energizing climate. Today the Mount Nelson is mainly a tourist attraction. Hordes of tourists in Nikes and T-shirts, leaving their all-inclusive deals at the Holiday Inn, invade the gardens and have their pictures taken as they walk up the drive of centuries-old oaks or pose smugly in front of the greenhouses of orchids from Thailand. In spite of this, the power and majesty of the place had such an effect that Stephen, who as a rule hated everything English in him, rediscovered the intonations of his childhood to address the waiters, those bearded, formidable Indians, tightly bound in their cummerbunds, who glided around like well-trained ghosts. Rosélie, less susceptible to the lost glories of a colonial past, liked the Mount Nelson for quite a different reason. The undesirables in Nikes and T-shirts never ventured onto the waxed parquet floors inside. Trained in the art of discretion, some would say hypocrisy, the personnel swept by, their eyes fixed on the horizon. Consequently, for the space of a few hours, gone were the inquisitive looks that ambushed Rosélie and Stephen, whatever they did and wherever they were. They slipped into anonymity as if resting in eternal peace. In the Churchill room they would sit facing a gossamery pianist wearing a dancer’s headband who played “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and listen in silence as they filled their plates with scones and muffins, Stephen adding egg and cucumber sandwiches. They would drink gallons of Darjeeling tea. When outside in the garden it began to grow dark they would stroll home, making a detour by the Big Bazaar on Kloof Street, where they rummaged through everything and bought nothing, which gave the owner, an Afrikaner, an extra reason to be angry.
    Rosélie thought she saw Stephen slip between the deep red chintz drapes. In the past, leaning against the piano, he would hum along in his nice, melodious voice. The Indian waiters knew all about the crime that had made headlines in every paper, even the very serious Manchester and Guardian , more geared to political analysis than brief news items. They never approached her, however, to present their condolences. Despite their reserve, something in their silence testified to their compassion.
    One afternoon she was pouring herself a second cup of tea when a white man greeted her. Tall, with a slight paunch, a shock of black hair, gray eyes, and tanned cheeks. In answer to his polite request, she nodded that he could join her.
    â€œMy name is Manuel Desprez, but everyone calls me Manolo because I play the guitar. You don’t recognize me, do you? I used to teach at the university with Stephen. We got on very well together. He told me so much about you I have the feeling I know you. What’s more, I have spent several evenings at your place.”
    In Cape Town, like in N’Dossou and New York, Stephen would organize such lively and successful dinner parties, they never ended before dawn. Ever since an Australian, a Keats specialist, took her for the maid, Rosélie no longer attended them.
    â€œYou’re making a lot of fuss about nothing,” Stephen shrugged it off. “David is so absentminded he wouldn’t recognize his own mother if she was standing in front of him.”
    She was by no means convinced and locked herself in her studio. Quite a few students came to these parties.