The Fury and Cries of Women

by Angèle Rawiri

  The bath had gotten cold, the suds had dissolved, and Joseph was cold. He got out of the bathtub and dried himself off quickly and then ran into the bedroom to turn off the air conditioner. Before joining his wife in bed, he put on the only pajamas he still had in the closet.

  Emilienne slept like a little child on the edge of the bed, her legs curled up to her chin. A psychiatrist would say she had low self-esteem and that she subconsciously wanted to be back in the safety and security of her mother’s womb. Several things of late were revealing of her mental state. For example, she always wore white clothes when she had her period, as if to tell the world that she was a woman like any other.

  Contrary to what he had hoped, the bath had not relaxed him. He got close to his wife; she whimpered quietly. He pulled back the sheet and looked at her body wrapped in a pink silk nightgown. Her buttocks and thighs had grown curves. Her stomach had thickened as well.

  “Well, well, she’s gained weight,” he said to himself. “She was always so careful about keeping her figure despite my wish to see her gain weight. Has she finally decided to please me! Even the most stubborn women always end up giving in to their husbands’ desires when they realize they are about to lose them. That’s when they find themselves doing the very things they wouldn’t even admit to themselves they were doing.”

  Emilienne’s whimpers grew louder. Joseph pulled the sheet back up under her neck. Soon cries of terror filled the room. She squirmed. In her agitated sleep, she gave a few good punches to her pillow. Her tangled hair was scattered across her tensed face. Worried, Joseph shook her. Emilienne let out a scream and woke up, her face wet with tears.

  “Where is my baby, I want my baby, they have killed her!” Joseph leaned over her.

  “Calm down, you’ve just had a nightmare.”

  Emilienne curled up in those muscular arms in which she’d always felt protected. Outside, a gust of wind shook the trees so hard they could hear the sound of the rustling leaves. With her head buried in her husband’s chest, she told him about the dream:

  “I dreamed that I was carrying a beautiful baby that looked like you in my arms and that some masked men and women tore him from me and tried to kill him right before my eyes. It was awful, Joseph.”

  Emilienne cried.

  “It was just a bad dream,” Joseph said softly to her, caressing her fingers.

  “A bad dream that we’ve actually lived. Have you forgotten, Joseph?”

  “How could I forget Rékia’s abominable death?”

  He remained silent for a long time before continuing:

  “I was called to the police precinct yesterday. They told me they’ve given up on finding her murderer.”

  “They have no right to do that!” She exclaimed. “How are we supposed to go on living knowing that our daughter’s killer is somewhere in this city, unpunished? Why did he choose her, what right did he have to take our daughter from us? Who called you in? Did you try to find out who was in charge of the investigation? Let’s go back to the precinct tomorrow. I want to know who the murderer is. I want him to die inside the walls of a prison.”

  “I had the same reaction, you know. Try to understand that they have absolutely no clue. Despite the missing person reports, no witnesses came forward. And as they say, they’re swamped. Let’s try to forget our loss.”

  All of a sudden, Emilienne appeared more fragile to him, shattered. As he looked at her, he felt that something had broken deep inside her. He hadn’t thought she had been so devastated by their daughter’s death. He should have realized. His silence about the traumatic event could not be mistaken for a sign that he had forgotten. Would his presence at home have soothed her suffering?

  “Why don’t you go back to your gynecologist? People say that Dr. Pascal treats desperate cases.”

  Emilienne tensed up then got out of bed.

  “I don’t want to rush you, but it is time that you think about it,” he went on. “A miracle can always happen.”

  “You believe in miracles, do you? Not me,” she replied dryly. “What is it with all of you asking me to get myself treated?”

  “Emilienne, having a child would change a lot of things, you know?”

  “Is that it! If I have a child, you will leave your mistress. If I have a child, you will love me again. If I have a child, your mother will embrace me and my family will be satisfied. In a word, everything will be back to normal. Now, I’m just upsetting you all.”

  “I am still your husband, and it is natural that I want you to get better. Unless you ask for a divorce, I will accept whatever you decide.”

  “Please, stop saying such foolish things. And why are you talking about divorce? Are you suggesting that to me? Be clear about it then. I don’t want your pity. That’s it! You want the breakup to come from me so that you have a clear conscience. You would consent to a divorce if I asked you for it out of respect for my rights, is that it? What are you doing about your rights! Am I to understand that you’re sacrificing them for me? No, Joseph, I can see right through you.”

  He clenched his fists and his forehead wrinkled.

  “How can someone live with a wife who doesn’t understand him? No matter what you do, there are things you cannot stop me from doing. The reasons that drive me are profound. In a word, I need a certain balance that I have not found within the walls of this house.”

  “You want me to understand that you are doing a favor to the barren woman I am by letting me decide the fate of our marriage. You want me to understand that while waiting, you need to get away from it all and bask in the arms of your mistress, for your own equilibrium. So what are you waiting for, go ahead and leave, you have my blessing.”

  She left the window she had been leaning against and stepped toward him contemptuously.

  “Stop wailing, you’re going to wake up the whole house. Do me the pleasure of making an appointment tomorrow with Doctor Pascal. This discussion is over. I want to sleep now.”

  “Oh, no! That’s too easy,” she replied wildly, pulling him by the sleeve of his pajamas. “Is your sleep more important to you than our future?”

  Joseph let his wife pull him back. He sat back down on the bed and gave her a wily look. Standing facing him, enraged, Emilienne continued:

  “The thing is, you are incapable of addressing the root of the problem. Tell me! How many times can you stand the sight of a leper who refuses to take on the responsibility of a separation! I had forgotten that in our marriage agreement there was a clause that stated that the validity of our marriage was conditional upon my ability to provide you with heirs. And I bet that my not respecting this clause, by the date that you have no doubt preset, will mean capital punishment for me.”

  To soothe the spasms brought on by her fury, she sat down on the dresser.

  “Stop your whining for a moment. I’m going to tell you once again, it is not possible to have a discussion with you. Listen! I am going to sleep in the living room,” he interrupted as he got up.

  “Go ahead!”

  She threw the pillow at him.

  Joseph went out and didn’t turn back. Emilienne went to the kitchen, took a bar of hazelnut chocolate and a packet of madeleines out of one of the cupboards, and devoured them under the covers.

  IN THE MORNING, she dragged herself drowsily out of bed. As she sat in front of the pile of folders in her office, she tried to concentrate so that she could forget the words she had exchanged with her husband the previous night. And again, her thoughts carried her away.

  What to do now that she knew her husband took pleasure in his role as unfaithful husband? Why, actually, wouldn’t she ask for a divorce? If there was one positive thing in her life, it was that she was not financially dependent upon her husband. Instead of supporting a mother-in-law and children who were not even hers, she could invest in a business. Like many women her age, she could build houses and rent them out or open up a fashion boutique. Free of her marital problems, she would dedicate herself fully to her b
usiness, her career, and her family.

  “COME IN,” she answered to the slight rap at the door.

  The handle moved, but the door did not open.

  “What is happening to me—could I be losing it?”

  She got up to open the door, which she had locked earlier.

  “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, Madame,” her secretary said, examining the distraught look on her employer’s face. “I finished typing up the report that you left for me yesterday.”

  “Put it there,” the young woman replied coldly, her gloomy gaze wandering over her secretary.

  Dominique pulled at her tight-fitting knit dress, clicked her heels together, and held her lips, which were smothered in several layers of lipstick.

  “Do you have work to give to me?” she added hesitantly.

  “You can leave,” Emilienne answered.

  Seamlessly, she plunged back into her inward meditation.

  “How could I, at my age, start a romantic relationship with someone other than him? God, what is it that makes me love him at this point? I am getting sick over it all, and envisioning divorce is making me crazy. I can’t do it. Could my sister be right? Without him, my life has no more meaning, and it is not my professional career that’s going to bring me happiness.”

  She left her office and went to sit by the bay window, which was hermetically sealed. From her office, Emilienne tried to picture herself outside in the rain breathing in the smell of baked earth, one of those scents so specific to tropical countries. In her imagination, the deep breaths of air she took into her lungs and the drops of warm water streaming down her body gradually brought her back to life, as if each breath of air, each drop infused her cells with vitality and renewed energy. She felt so good in that new body that she forgot herself completely. For several fractions of a second, she was happy.

  Her moment of bliss was interrupted by the telephone ringing. Reluctantly, she walked sluggishly back to her office.

  “It’s me again,” her secretary announced. “Can I speak with you?”

  “What is it? Is something the matter?”

  “It’s hard to say . . . I . . .”

  “You can come.”

  Intimidated by Emilienne’s questioning look, her secretary stood there, embarrassed.

  “Sit down, I’m listening.”

  “I thought that after your visit at my place, I would be able to talk more openly to you.”

  She went silent and fidgeted, then continued:

  “I wouldn’t want to pry, but perhaps I could help if you’re having problems.”

  Since that Sunday when Emilienne had agreed to go to her place, when the two women had talked for a long time, Dominique had thought that their professional relationship would turn out to be friendlier. That was a disappointment for the secretary. Instead, Emilienne was more distant and at times cold.

  “What do you think of barren women?” her employer asked, without beating around the bush.

  Her secretary jumped and stammered:

  “I, I don’t know, Madame.”

  “Please, be frank. Do you consider such women to be ill?”

  “If I was barren,” Dominique started, encouraged by Emilienne’s matter-of-fact stare, “I would have made a pact with the devil to have at least one kid.”

  “Why and for whom?”

  “To keep my boyfriend around, for my family, and, of course, for myself. You know, men cannot stand women who challenge their masculinity. And the family doesn’t forgive you for that. And then, you know, Madame, a woman without a child is like a one-armed person. How do you explain that? Her whole existence, she would be missing this other life that comes from her, without which she is crippled. Her whole life, people would point at her, ridicule her, pity her.”

  “What do you think of women who choose not to bear children?”

  “You’d have to be sick in the head to decide such a thing,” the secretary said indignantly.

  She held her silence for a moment and went on:

  “That’s not your case; you’ve already had a child.”

  “That doesn’t change anything since I can’t have any more.”

  Emilienne got up again and went over to the bay window to conceal the tears streaming down her face, although the sky had dried its tears. On the big public square lined with coconut trees, the constant comings and goings of men, women, and children caught her attention. After hesitating a moment, her secretary joined her.

  “What is going on?” Emilienne asked as a group of men in military uniforms got off a truck.

  Very quickly, they planted posts in the ground and tied five hooded men to them. Then, the dozen armed military men backed up several meters, formed a straight line, and stood at attention. The motley crowd swelled, kept back by police and barricades.

  “Where was my head?” the young woman exclaimed. “This is of course about the execution of the five murderers the media has been talking about for the past two days.”

  “They were tried two days ago. Do you know that the murderer at the bistro in my neighborhood is among those sentenced to death? In my opinion, it’s a good thing they’re paying this way for their crime.”

  Emilienne shuddered and instinctively drew closer to her secretary. The two bodies brushed against one another. Outside the jubilant crowd was pushing and shoving to get a good view. A few reckless fools managed to get past the barricades.

  The people condemned to death did not wait long, as the soldiers raised their rifles and fired, spraying their victims with bullets. The victims collapsed one after the other. Emilienne let out a cry, which she quickly stifled with her hand over her mouth. Dominique threw herself on her, grabbing her by the shoulders. The two women embraced. The cameramen and photographers immortalized the last twitches in their camera lenses. One head that was still moving was decapitated by a final spray of bullets. The two women’s bodies intertwined and shuddered.

  Those four heinous crimes, committed within the span of a week, and the capture of the biggest criminal in the country at the same time, had shaken public opinion, which had called for an exemplary sentence. A formal judgment had been delivered within a few days, and, to put an end to such murders, they had all received the death penalty.

  Judging by the large crowd, the criminals did not deserve mitigating circumstances. This exemplary punishment, the first in Kampana’s contemporary history, would give rise to a national polemic among the intellectuals, who would divide into two camps: those who would be fervent defenders of justice served, and others who would strongly denounce the sentence. The intellectuals of the latter group, greater in number, would ask if the criminals were not in reality those who had consciously ordered the death sentence for murderers who had acted without premeditation, excepting the thief. “Who are we,” they would chant, “to calmly decide to take another’s life, even a murderer’s! Who gains from this? Do the murderers or their families, who will always bear the marks on their foreheads! We weigh our words carefully when we say that all of society has condemned these poor innocent victims to a slow death. We say that a society that uses the death penalty in its justice system is heading fast toward decline.”

  Their opponents would fiercely defend the thesis that a society cannot evolve if each individual does not respect its established rules, which are the barriers needed to avoid chaos and anarchy. The laws, above all, aim to protect the individual, to inspire respect for the other, which men left to their own devices easily forget. And the lack of respect for the life of one’s neighbor deserves punishment by the law.

  This passionate debate would go on for a long time, without the polemists’ reaching a satisfactory conclusion.

  ON THE PUBLIC SQUARE, a dreadful silence surrounded the last of the onlookers, who wandered along with their heads and shoulders slumped.

  “Hold me tight,” Emilienne whispered. “I don’t feel well.”

  Her mouth hung half open. Dominique shuddered, her lips quivering, her eyes c
losed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Flashes of lightning streaked the sky, crisscrossing from east to west, north to south. The stragglers ran toward some makeshift shelters. The rain began pattering again, as if the earlier calm had been meant for the purpose of allowing the men to accomplish their task.

  IT RAINED for forty-eight hours. The public square, people say, was washed of its stains. The same was true of the whole city, its human excrement carried along toward overflowing gutters, water flooding its avenues and alleys.

  In the slums, entire neighborhoods collapsed and were carried away by devastating water currents. The turbulent waters fell in cascades down the hillsides. On the second day, the flood was replaced by a blast of wind that spared neither the trees nor the old plank and bamboo houses. Looking like unidentified flying objects, branches, sheet metal, and thatched roofs flew across the sky then landed on roads and on residential areas. Inside the gutted houses, children cried and old people wailed, all huddled under their beds.

  Roxanne, who had been cooped up with her owners this whole time, started to show signs of claustrophobia. She got up onto the divan, climbed up on Yvon and Nomé, and pawed at Joseph and Emilienne. She was wary, however, of getting near Eyang, who watched her out of the corner of her eye.