The rain had stopped. Not for long. Clouds black with thunder scudded across the sky skimming the earth. In the little daylight that was left, the wretched faces of the neighborhood shacks stretched out in a line. In which direction was the Home? It must be this way. A path scarred with ruts unrolled beneath her feet. Left and right, the huts got fewer and finally disappeared; the forest, always ready to run riot, rolled greedily on. After less than a mile Charlotte stumbled up against a metal fence hidden behind thick foliage. She was looking for a way in when suddenly an opening gaped onto a driveway lined with dwarf coconut palms. She went in, crossed a bamboo grove, and suddenly the Home loomed up in all its elegance. Nothing had prepared her for such a picture of harmony. At Bingerville the administrative buildings were massive and devoid of grace. Who was the inspired architect who had designed this marvel? What gardener had laid out these flower beds, pruned these bushes, and grafted these trees? At the same time she had the feeling that a thousand pairs of eyes hidden in the nooks and crannies of the doors and windows were watching her. She thought she saw a window open on the second floor. A shape leaned out. A hand motioned to her to come closer. It was her, it was her! Galvanized into action, she ran to the front door and vigorously rang the bell. After a very long wait, the door finally opened.
A search party was organized to look for Charlotte.
In the night soaked with water, torches were lit by the soldiers, the militia, and the askaris. Some searched the length and breadth of the treacherous lagoon that had swallowed up so many human lives. Others marched down to the slime of the mangrove and the swamps, stubbing their feet on the mangrove trees and twisting their ankles against the buttress roots. Another group roamed the villages around the lagoon, flattening the huts with their rifle butts, terrifying the inhabitants, who imagined the slave trade had started up again. Some hacked a path through the forest with axes and cutlasses, only to face the sea. Others searched deep into the pale green savanna rippling to infinity.
Racked by remorse, Thomas directed the search operations. His sweet, gentle Charlotte! Why had he neglected her in such a fashion? It was beyond understanding; as if Celanire had bewitched him. The feelings he felt in his heart for his wife were not to blame. It was his body, that wretched shroud of flesh, that had betrayed him.
His eyes brimming with tears, he recalled how they had got carried away dancing to the “Blue Danube” that summer they had first met; how, strolling through the English garden, he had described to her his life in Africa. She was not impressed: she would have preferred a senator or a banker for a husband, somebody more reassuring. But love had won the day, and they got married at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule.
The search lasted for four days and four nights. Despondency had gripped every heart. At the mission, Charlotte was given up for a case of suicide. Africa can give you a nervous breakdown! Especially for women like her who cannot find comfort in God. She was never to be seen at confession or at communion. But in his grief and guilty conscience Thomas refused to give up, fretted and fumed, ran in all directions and gave contradictory orders left and right.
In the end they found Charlotte’s body in the semidarkness of the forest not far from the village of Tiegaba. Straight and smooth, a Bassam mahogany tree was watching over her. One wondered how she had managed to travel so many miles without guide or tipoye in this impenetrable, stifling vegetation inhabited by monkeys, leopards, and wildcats. Twice she must have crossed rivers infested with caymans and crocodiles, without stepping-stones, bridge, or ferry. The guards who made the macabre discovery backed away to vomit in the mud. The sight was horrible. It was as if wild beasts, eaters of human flesh and drinkers of fresh blood, had done her in. All around the body the earth had been clawed into ruts. Yet no lion had been reported in the region. They covered Charlotte with branches. They loaded her onto a makeshift stretcher, and the cortege set off for Bingerville. Spontaneously, mourners from Tiegaba now switched their tears and vociferations from the deceased scepter bearer, Adueli Kabanlan, and made a terrible din all the way back to the palace. Exhausted, the governor, who had not slept a wink for three nights, was taking an afternoon nap. He emerged in his shirt-sleeves and almost fainted, seeing what was left of his beloved. But his grief made the entire colony shrug its shoulders. What? A cheat, a liar, and an adulterer making all this racket! Keeping to his bed as if he were in agony! Ordering a first-class funeral. Strewing the coffin with natural and artificial flowers. Ordering all flags to be flown at half staff, as if it were a national mourning or the death of a senior French official!
For the second time in a few months Hakim set foot inside the church. Because of Charlotte. He had met her one day, escorted by her askari, while she was shopping at the SOCOPAO company store. She had not yet that zombie look peculiar to the whites in Africa, and she stared him straight in the eye. To think that all her vitality was now reduced to a heap of pummeled flesh at the bottom of a wooden box! The church was filled with a French congregation who had never seen either the front or the back of Charlotte, but were grief-stricken even so. The newspapers in France had given the tragic event wide coverage, as had the Courrier de l’Ouest Africain, whose head offices were in Dakar. Standing to the left of her papa, Ludivine was crying because her maid had told her, calamity of calamities, she would never see her maman again. Her head ached from all these flowers piled onto the coffin. On behalf of the Home, Celanire had sent an enormous wreath of assorted dahlias, roses, and lilies. But neither she nor her good friend, Madame Desrussie, had come in person to the mortuary at the governor’s palace. Those who love a bit of scandal were highly disappointed. For the general opinion held her responsible. How come? Although the Europeans did their best not to give in to superstition, the Africans had no such qualms. There was no doubt about it — Celanire was a “horse.” The number of mysterious deaths around her was beginning to mount up. Monsieur Desrussie: one. Alix Pol-Roger: two. Now, Charlotte de Brabant. Who would be the next victim?
The wreaths had not yet wilted on his wife’s tomb when Thomas set off again for the Home. Blacks and whites alike saw it coming. Even so, they were shocked. Should a defenseless child be handed over to her maman’s murderer?
They say you cannot remember anything before the age of five.
However young she was at the time, Ludivine was never to forget the first time she met Celanire.
She had left the governor’s palace midmorning. Her papa had explained to her he worshipped her like the apple of his eye. But a father cannot take care of his little girl all on his own. He was placing her therefore in the care of a lady who was as good as she was beautiful, who would take charge of her education. She would not live all alone in the palace, lost in a huge mansion. She would have lots of little playmates her own age. He made her say farewell to Ana, her beloved maid. Then they had left. The weather was terrible, of course. To protect her from the rain Ana had dressed her in boots and yellow oilskin, which made her feel too hot. The path up to the Home seemed a difficult climb, pitted with potholes filled with rotten leaves and muddy water. Thinking of Ana, she could not help whining and sobbing, even though her papa kept repeating, somewhat irritatedly; “Stop crying, for goodness sake!”