The Story of the Cannibal Woman Read Free

had remained intact. There was no question of robbery.
    â€œPerhaps the thieves had been disturbed before grabbing the wallet.”
    â€œDisturbed by whom?”
    â€œSecurity guards. Pick ’n Pay customers. Other thieves. I don’t know. Who’s leading the investigation?”
    â€œAccording to the cashier, Mr. Stewart did not enter the Pick ’n Pay. He was killed at the other end of the sidewalk.”
    Inspector Lewis Sithole, with the surprising slit eyes of an Asian, nodded his head. His opinion was that Mr. Stewart had not gone to the Pick ’n Pay to buy cigarettes but to meet somebody.
    Who? What an imagination!
    â€œTry to recall,” he insisted, “whether you heard the telephone ring.”
    She had been asleep in the bedroom under the roof. Her studio occupied the entire second floor. They had taken down the inside walls to allow for more space and air. Stephen’s study opened out onto the traveler’s tree on the ground floor. In other words they were at opposite ends of the house. And then let’s keep up with the times! Nowadays everyone has a cell phone. Stephen’s didn’t ring, it vibrated. Even if she had strained her ears, she wouldn’t have heard anything.
    And precisely, Inspector Sithole inquired, where was this cell phone?
    The hospital hadn’t given it back.
    â€œFind it,” he ordered. “It’s an important piece of evidence!”
    This was the second time a man had abandoned Rosélie with so little consideration. Twenty years ago, her flesh was still palatable! In despair she had resorted to another stratagem. The oldest profession in the world, so they say. It’s not with a glad heart that a woman sells her body. She really must have nothing else up her sleeve. However much she tells herself and takes comfort in the feminists’ point of view that even a legitimate wife, who has been blessed in white by the mayor and the priest and wears a ring on her finger, is nothing but a prostitute, something holds her back. In this case, however, Rosélie had no choice. Besides, it wasn’t complicated: all you had to do was sit with your legs crossed at the Saigon bar along the seafront in N’Dossou. From six in the evening customers swarmed in like flies on a baby’s eyes in Kaolack, Senegal. Tran Anh, the owner, was a Vietnamese whose hatred of communism had landed him in this corner of central Africa. He lived with Ana, a Fulani from Niger, driven by poverty to the same corner. The two of them had produced four boys with uncircumcised willies—much to their Muslim mother’s grief—who squabbled naked under the tables. From outside, the Saigon didn’t look like much. But it was always packed. Packed with civil servants who sipped their pastis while bemoaning their bank accounts. It was only the tenth of the month and they were already in debt! Not a franc left to pay for the daily ration of rice. They were polite and, in this AIDS-ridden age, strict users of condoms. Thank God there was not a single government minister, private secretary, or personal advisor among them, those who think they can get away with anything. At the most, some former division heads ejected on orders from the IMF. The height of luxury, the Saigon had its own generator, and oblivious to the power outages that were the plague of N’Dossou, the air inside was as fresh as an Algerian oasis. While waiting to be picked up Rosélie would read copies of Elle and Femme d’Aujourd’hui that Ana had kept for her. She liked to muse over the cooking recipes, strange for someone who never cooked. A well-written recipe makes your mouth water.

    Stuffed Eggplant
    Preparation: 30 min. + 30 min
    Cooking time: 45 minutes
    215 calories per person
    For six helpings…

    The bar also served a mysterious cocktail without alcohol called the Tsunami, invented by Tran Anh, sour as the bitterness of exile and green as tomorrow’s