Free Our Lady of the Nile by Scholastique Mukasonga Page B

tables, but they rushed over to the staircase. Virginia got there first and leaned over Veronica.
    “Nonsense. She’s not dead, she’s not dead, she fainted, she fell down the stairs and banged her head on a step.”
    “Must’ve had one too many,” said Gloriosa. “She must’ve gone to Leonidas’s bar. She’s scared of nothing, that girl. Shameless. The boys bought her a few drinks, and she didn’t say no.”
    “Maybe she’s been poisoned,” said Immaculée. “There are way too many jealous girls in this place.”
    Sister Gertrude, who doubled as a nurse, fought her way through the throng of girls.
    “Move back, give her some air. Help me carry her to the infirmary.”
    Sister Gertrude took Veronica’s shoulders and Virginia lifted her legs, shoving a suddenly helpful Gloriosa out of the way: “Don’t you dare touch her!”
    They laid Veronica on the metal bed in the infirmary. Virginia wanted to stay and watch over her friend, but Sister Gertrude asked her to leave and shut the door. A small group of girls waited outside for the Sister’s diagnosis. Sister Gertrude eventually opened the door and declared:
    “It’s nothing, just a bout of malaria, I’ll deal with it. She mustn’t be disturbed, there’s nothing more for you to do here.”
    Sleep eluded Virginia. What had happened to Veronica? What had that madman de Fontenaille done to her? Virginia didn’t dare imagine. The whites here thought they could do anything – they were white. Virginia reproached herself for refusing to accompany her friend. The two of them would have defended themselves; she had her little knife and would have convinced Veronica to flee before it was too late. As soon as the wake-up bell sounded, while the others washed and the Sisters attended morning Mass, Virginia slipped off to the infirmary. Veronica was sitting on the bed, her face deep in a large bowl. As soon as she saw her friend, she put the bowl down on the bedside table: “You see,” she said. “Sister Gertrude’s been taking good care of me, she gave me some milk.”
    “What happened to you? Tell me before Sister gets back.”
    “It’s tricky, like waking from a bad dream, a nightmare. I don’t know if what I’m about to tell you actually happened. The whites are worse than our poisoners. So I went to the meeting place, at the rock. The jeep was waiting for me, but it wasn’t Fontenaille at the wheel. It was a young guy, a Tutsi obviously, probably one of those he calls his ingabo . In the living room was that servant with the gold braid, holding his tray of orange juice. He told me to drink it. The juice tasted funny. Fontenaille entered, draped in a white cloth with one shoulder bare.
    “ ‘Your friend didn’t come?’
    “ ‘No, she’s sick.’
    “ ‘Too bad, that’s her loss, she won’t discover her Truth.’
    “I can’t recall what happened to me next. It was like I had no more free will, like I no longer belonged to myself. There was something, someone, in me, stronger than me. I saw myself in the temple. I was like the painted women on the wall. I don’t know who undressed me. My breasts were bare and I was wrapped in see-through gold fabric. But I felt no shame. It was like a dream you can’t wake from, and I saw myself in this dream. Around me, the fresco warriors had stepped off the wall. They didn’t really look like intore . All they wore were these cropped shorts, and they carried lances and large cowhide shields. I’ve no idea whether their hair had been straightened, or whether they were wearing wigs. Now I think they were the warriors Fontenaille was talking about. I felt like I was in a movie. Fontenaille made me sit on the throne and placed the hat with the large horns on my head. I saw him as if through a fog, sweeping his arms about and speaking incomprehensible words like the priest at Mass. I can’t remember what occurred after that. I lost consciousness. Maybe I fell from the throne. I don’t remember