The Story of the Cannibal Woman Read Online Free PDF

Stephen assured her it was both a reward for the best in the department and a sure way of breaking the ice between professors and students, in other words between whites and blacks. When masters and disciples get drunk together, it’s something they never forget. Rosélie bumped into these young things, awkward and embarrassed, as they came out of the toilet, and quickly withdrew so as not to embarrass them even more.
    Manuel Desprez was still talking.
    â€œI’ve been away in France on a sabbatical and when I got back at the beginning of the week I heard what had happened. I was about to come and see you.”
    She closed up. He was probably going to spout some commonplace remark, bemoan the absurdity of the crime, and find fault with the local police. It was true, in fact, that despite Inspector Lewis Sithole’s constant visits and the notes he kept jotting down, Stephen’s murderers seemed to have disappeared into thin air. But instead of uttering the predictable, his question was direct, even brutal:
    â€œAren’t you going to return home?”
    Home? If only I knew where home was.
    Chance had it I was born in Guadeloupe. But nobody in my family is interested in me. Apart from that, I have lived in France. A man took me to Africa, then left me. Another took me to the United States, then brought me back to Africa, and he too left me stranded, this time in Cape Town. Oh, I forgot I’ve also lived in Japan. That makes for a fine charade, doesn’t it? No, my only country was Stephen. I shall stay wherever he is.
    Despite the insistence of his half brothers—his mother had passed away some months earlier—Rosélie had refused to take his body back to the family vault in Verberie. Stephen, who loathed Europe, would have certainly preferred to remain in the country he had chosen.
    â€œSouth Africa is such a tough place,” Manuel insisted.
    The whole world is a tough place. They take potshots at you on the sidewalks of Manhattan as well as in London’s Chelsea. You’re not safe in the deadly Twin Towers, symbol of American capitalism. Almost three thousand dead, killed in a single morning. They rape old ladies in the east of Paris. They tell me that even my little Guadeloupe is keeping up with the times.
    â€œI’m not talking just about violence.”
    About what, then? Racism? Let’s talk about racism. I could write volumes on the subject. If racism is more deadly than AIDs, it is also more widespread, more commonplace than flu in winter.
    I’ve always dreamed of writing a book on racism. “Racism Explained to the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.”
    He became confused and changed the subject.
    â€œThey tell me you’re a painter.”
    Rosélie stammered out a yes. This type of question always embarrassed her. As if she had been asked to put on a swimsuit, despite her cellulite, and pace up and down the stage of the Miss Guadeloupe contest. Manuel called a waiter, ordered a single malt, then went on to explain:
    â€œMy sister has a gallery on the rue du Bac in Paris. If I can help you in any way, I shall only be too pleased.”
    The tone was sincere. The things he must have heard at the university! Doris, the coloured secretary, entertained her audience with her hissing voice:
    â€œThey’re not married, you know.”
    I was the one who refused. He proposed regularly. Without any real desire, in my opinion. Like a broker offering comprehensive car insurance.
    â€œIf something happens you’ll be covered.”
    It’s true that if I had listened to him I wouldn’t be where I am today! Worrying about how to make ends meet.
    â€œSo of course she’s not entitled to a pension,” Doris hissed excitedly. “Since she can’t do anything except paint ghastly pictures that nobody would want in their house, she’s bought a crystal ball and calls herself a medium.”
    Split between hysterical laughter and