The Story of the Cannibal Woman by Maryse Condé Page A

the Montagne Pelée and the total destruction of the town of Saint-Pierre in Martinique. Only one person escaped—a prisoner by the name of Cyparis…Oh, I’m sorry, that’s another story.
    What upset Simone the most as a devoted mother of five was the government’s disregard for children. Didn’t they know they were the future of the nation?
    The child is the future of man.
    In her opinion, kindergartens and nursery schools should be under government control and not left to individuals, who were only intent on making a profit. Having investigated several of these places, she had seen for herself how these innocent children were left to macerate in filth, urine, and fecal matter. No intellectual stimulation. The lucky ones had a few cuddly toys, coloring crayons, and modeling clay. So at the end of December she begged Rosélie to play Santa Claus with her and accompany her on a toy distribution mission. Rosélie, who had the regrettable habit of being intimidated by anyone whose willpower was stronger than hers, gave in. One afternoon, then, they set off in the embassy’s Peugeot to empty their sack of toys at strategic points. The way they were received at Bambinos as well as Sweet Mickey’s as well as Tiny Tots’ Palace filled Rosélie with dismay. Worse than intruders, veritable undesirables! The directors scarcely poked their heads out of their offices while their assistants grabbed the packages in such an offhand way, it was to be feared the cumbersome objects would end up in the garbage.
    Why, for goodness’ sake?
    Simone hadn’t always been a homemaker. She had been a brilliant student at the School for Political Science in Paris and read all the classics of decolonization. So the explanation she provided was inspired by her readings of years gone by.
    â€œWe’re not white women. We are black. The whites, however, have brainwashed these people to such an extent that they not only loathe themselves but everything of the same color. What’s more, it’s the class struggle. Here we are in a luxury car. We don’t live in the townships. We’re bourgeois. They hate us for not living like them.”
    Bourgeois? Speak for yourself. I live like a parasite. I don’t have a career. I don’t have any money or own any material or spiritual goods. I have neither a present nor a future.
    Simone had a short memory; she hadn’t always been a bourgeois. She was born in one of the most destitute villages of Martinique. Her father was a cane worker who had been a regular customer at the company rum store. There was never any meat on the table. The family was lucky when the fig bananas were accompanied by a slice of codfish and a little olive oil. At the age of ten, though she had never worn anything else but sandals, her godmother, a bourgeois mulatto from Prêcheur, gave her a pair of shiny pumps that her third daughter had not quite worn out. At boarding school she washed and ironed the only two dresses she had, one for weekdays and the nice one for Sunday mass. Right up to graduation she “massacred” the French language, which made her classmates die laughing. When she met Antoine Bazin des Roseraies, a minor aristocrat, nothing more, an egghead and first in his class, she had not been impressed. He had won her over only after a persistent courtship. Then, like in Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding , after a marriage of convenience, the buds of love had blossomed.
    At the present time, Simone would have been perfectly happy with a faithful husband and a loving family, if her public life had not been a calvary. On the many occasions when she represented France at her husband’s side, she was systematically ignored and snubbed. Under her own roof, at her own receptions, the guests never spoke to her. At other people’s dinner parties she was relegated to the bottom of the table. Nobody would believe she had studied at the School for