— Are you waiting for the dead man to come and answer the door?
— Don’t talk so loud.
— You’re crazy, Mwanito. I’m going to call Father—Ntunzi said, turning his back and retreating hurriedly.
I was alone, facing the abyss by myself. Slowly, I opened the door and peered around the entrance hall. It was a wide, empty space, which smelled of time stood still. While I was getting used to the half-light, I began to think to myself: why was it that through all my childhood years I was never curious enough to come and explore this forbidden place? The reason was that I had never had control over my own childhood, my father had made me grow old from the time I was born.
It was then that the apparition occurred: out of the nothingness, there emerged a woman. A crack opened up by my feet and a billowing cloud of smoke misted my eyes. The vision of this creature suddenly caused the frontiers of the world I knew so well to overflow.
I faced the intruder out of the corner of my half-closed eyes. She was white, tall and dressed like a man, in trousers, a shirt and high boots. She had straight hair, half concealed under a kerchief, the same one we had seen on the head of what we had thought a dead body. The boots were also identical to the ones that the dead person was wearing. Her nose and lips were blurred, and together with the colour of her skin, gave her the appearance of an unburied creature.
I wanted to run away, but my legs were like the roots of an ancient tree. Without moving my head, I glanced at the ill-defined approach to the house, seeking help. There was nothing. Neither Ntunzi nor Zachary could be seen, and the land round about was shrouded in mist. Bewildered, I felt a tear weigh more than my whole body. That was when I heard the woman speak for the first time:
— Are you crying?
I shook my head energetically. I thought that if I owned up to my weakness, this would merely encourage the spectre in its demonic intentions.
— What are you looking for, my child?
— Me? Nothing.
Did I speak? Or were they words that came out of me without my being aware? For I was completely defenceless, barefoot on burning ground. All of a sudden, I no longer knew how to live. Life had turned into an unknown language.
— What’s the matter, are you scared of me?
The gentle, tender voice only aggravated my sense of unreality. I brushed my eyes with my hand to wipe away the tears and then slowly raised my face to assess the creature. But always out of the corner of my eye, for fear that the vision might tear my eyes out forever.
— Was it you who were digging a grave in the yard just now?
— Yes. Me and the others. There were lots of us.
— I could hear voices and took a look. Why were you digging a grave?
— It wasn’t for anyone. I mean, for anything.
I turned my gaze to the veranda once more, anxiously trying to discover what had happened to the body. There was no sign on the floor that it had been dragged away, for the leaves were scattered around without having been disturbed. The intruder passed by me, and I was aware, for the first time in my life, of the sweet smell of a woman. She moved away towards the front door. I noticed the graceful way she walked, but without the exaggerated gestures with which Ntunzi had imitated female creatures in his play-acting.
— I beg your pardon, but are you really a woman, miss?
The stranger raised her eyes, troubled by some age-old pain. There was a passing cloud, and then she shook off her sadness and asked:
— Why? Don’t I look like a woman?
— I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.
That was my first woman and she made the ground melt away under me. Since then, years have passed, I’ve fallen for countless women, and whenever I’ve loved them, the world has always sunk from under my feet. But that first encounter etched the mysterious power of women into my consciousness.
Feeling my strength return, I rushed off like a gazelle through the bush. The white woman observed me from the doorway, intrigued. I even looked back, hoping that she might have vanished, wishing it had all been no more than a hallucination.
When I reached the safety of home, my heart was pounding, so much so that I could scarcely utter a word when I found Ntunzi:
— Ntunzi, you. . you won’t believe this.
— I saw it—he said, as startled as I was.
— What did you see?
— The white woman.
— Did you really see her?
— We mustn’t say anything to Father.
That same night, my mother visited me. In my dream, she was still faceless, but now she had a voice. Her voice was that of the apparition, with its warmth and tenderness. I woke up confused, so vivid was the dream. I heard steps in the room: Ntunzi couldn’t sleep. He had also been accosted by nocturnal visitations.
— Ntunzi, tell me something: was our mother like her?
— No.
— Why couldn’t you sleep, Ntunzi?
— I was having dreams.
— Were you dreaming of Mama as well?
— Do you remember that story of the girl who lost her face when I fell in love with her?
— Yes. But what’s that got to do with it?
— In my dream, I saw her face.
The sound of voices outside made us stop talking. We rushed to the window. It was Zachary, speaking to our father. Judging by his gestures, we guessed the soldier was reporting the apparition. So we watched Zachary gesticulating, explaining in an animated fashion what had happened at the haunted house. My father’s expression became more and more grim: we were being visited, the earth and the heavens were shaking in Jezoosalem.
All of a sudden, Silvestre got up and vanished into the darkness. We followed him from afar, keen to discover what was going on in the man’s mind as he crossed the yard like a wounded animal. Silvestre went straight to the truck and shook Aproximado, who was snoozing in the front seat. There was no warning, or even a greeting:
— What’s this white woman doing here?
— She wasn’t the only one to arrive. Why don’t you ask me what I’m doing here?
Overcome with emotion, my father signalled to Kalash to come over. Silvestre looked as if he wanted to confide something, but no word came out of his mouth. Suddenly, he started kicking Aproximado, while the soldier tried in vain to shield our Uncle. And so the three of them spun around together, like the broken blades of a windmill. Finally, my father leaned against the front of the vehicle, exhausted, and took a deep breath, as if he were trying to regain entry to his soul. His voice was like that of Christ on the cross, as he asked:
— Why did you betray me, Aproximado? Why?
— I’ve got no obligations towards you.
— Aren’t we family?
— That’s what I sometimes ask myself.
He’d said too much. Aproximado had crossed the line. My father stood there speechless, huffing like Jezebel after her trot. And then he watched, stunned, as Aproximado unloaded a whole range of odds and ends from his truck: binoculars, powerful torches capable of drilling through the night, cameras, sun hats and tripods.