The Story of the Cannibal Woman by Maryse Conde

Author:Maryse Conde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2005-06-11T16:00:00+00:00

Marinella, oh reste encore dans mes bras,

Avec toi, je veux jusqu’au jour

Chanter cette chanson d’amour.

He showed her the Folies Bergère and the Moulin Rouge, but she was shocked by the dancers and thought they were little better than the ladies of easy virtue back home, showing off their legs and their breasts. Once, he was in the mood for a bit of culture and bought orchestra seats to a matinee performance at the Théâtre de l’Odéon of Corneille’s Le Cid, which they used to recite at school.

Rose was bored in Paris. She returned home to Guadeloupe, determined never to travel again, and with the help of her illness, she kept her word.

Stephen chose Italy. He was astounded that the only museum Rosélie had visited as a child on Saturday afternoons under the supervision of her French teacher was the Lherminier Museum, a pretty colonial house with wrought-iron balustrades. All it housed were collections of faded postcards, lace and mother-of-pearl fans, and children’s spinning tops. But it was the only museum in La Pointe. Rosélie got to know the museums in Paris much later when she was a student. Stephen couldn’t get over it.

“When did you feel you had a vocation?”

Vocation? Rosélie was incapable of giving an answer. A child does not have a vocation. She wants to paint. Period. It’s her caprice and her freedom to choose. She had entered into painting like a novice enters into religion. Without suspecting what lay in wait for her. Uncertainty. Fear. Solitude. Exhausting work. Lack of money and self-esteem. The search for recognition.

“You’re a miracle,” Stephen marveled. “You’ve reinvented painting.”

Florence and Rome appalled Rosélie. She thought Art was a delectation enjoyed by the happy few. An elitist and outmoded notion. It is fodder for senior citizens, corporate employees, and underprivileged children. White-haired tourists and schoolchildren elbowed one another around the Uffizi and crowded onto the Ponte Vecchio. Paper litter, African priests, and Indonesian nuns fluttered around the square in front of St. Peter’s.

The brightly colored grotesques daubed on the ceilings of the convents and libraries in Parma, and Venice, especially Venice, despite its hordes, reconciled her to Italy. The city of the Doges drifted on the waters of a lagoon the color of the Sargasso Sea. Ocean liners, reviving the journeys of long ago, were escorted lazily out to sea. Rosélie dragged Stephen along alleyways off the beaten path, into obscure churches and hidden monasteries. And that’s how she came across Antonio Vivaldi. One evening, out of curiosity, they followed a small crowd into a patio cluttered with chairs and benches open to an indigo sky. They were giving a private concert, a common sight in the city. The concertgoers all knew one another and kissed and hugged with that Latin effusiveness. They made room for the strangers, turning round to whisper and stare. Yet this open display of curiosity was as vivifying as a hot bath. One man came up to them. Was the signorina from Ethiopia? Ignoring her negative answer, he began talking about Ethiopia.

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