VII

An Atmosphere of Suspicion

I hadn’t slept since Vercingetorix’s speech calling for northerners to be hunted. When will my turn come? I worried every night. I had dreams of Kimbembé turning up at the house, followed by the Negro Grandsons.

In the district it was common knowledge that he had a northern wife. Why had I not quickly shared Gaston’s fate? Christiane could see clearly: it was because Kimbembé had become an active participant in their cause. But how long would the grace period last? The Negro Grandsons would make their minds up one day or another.

Fear was creeping over me. Christiane alone could speak to me, tell me what was right for my daughter and me. She had heard rumors about Kimbembé and me. Kimbembé was under pressure from the Negro Grandsons. He’d had to promise them that he would personally take care of things, though discreetly. It wasn’t easy for him. I hadn’t done anything to him. Nor had my daughter. How should he proceed? By provocations, changes of mood. I did not respond, for I sensed the consequences. I was cooped up in the house with Maribé. Certain signs made me think: for example, when Kimbembé watched closely to see what I was cooking. I had to taste the dish before him. He was afraid of being poisoned. We no longer made love. Except the times he would grab hold of me, or surprise me as I slept, pushing me and turning me over. Face tense and lips shut tight, he concentrated on his task. The next day, without a word, he would leave again for the Palaver House to talk with the district elders before busying himself getting supplies to the rebels hiding in the forest. He had stopped working because salaries had ceased to be paid since the events in Mapapouville. He didn’t even read anymore the way he used to when I met him. He got up in the morning, went out without washing, and met up with his fellows in the cause.

I knew he could no longer be reasoned with when he took it out on his daughter for the first time. Maribé had gone to the center of Batalébé with a school friend. Informers had let my husband know that the parents of the friend in question were northerners. That was true, though I didn’t know the family; it seemed they came from Onzoto, a district in the North. Maribé kept company with their daughter, who incidentally never came to our house. On that day Kimbembé raised his voice, insulting his daughter in vulgar, indecent words. Maribé fled to her bedroom. Kimbembé forced the door open and dragged Maribé out into the living room by the arm. Snatching down a large spoon that hung on the wall, he hit her, hit her again. Maribé threw herself toward me, begging for help, though she knew she couldn’t count on it. The blows that Kimbembé landed on her wounded me too. Every sob from my little girl broke my heart. I tried to step in, offering my body in place of our daughter’s. He gave me a kick in the belly. I doubled over, then collapsed on the ground next to Maribé. Our tears kept coming. He called us “descendants of brutes who only knew how to handle a canoe or an assegai.”