Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Terez Rose
The women of the village appear to have adopted Henry. Several
hover nearby, in village attire of a pagne—a swath of colorful fabric
wrapped around the waist, accompanied by a blouse or T-shirt. Henry
takes Kate and Carmen into the smoky cuisine to meet the woman
who is preparing for the New Year’s Eve feast. She is small, almost
pygmy-sized, neither young nor old. When she stands, Kate sees
that one of her legs is hideously twisted in a way that makes her limp
when walking. She beams and shakes their hands with a surprisingly
strong grip. She pauses after shaking Kate’s. Peering closer into Kate’s
face, the woman crows and says something in the local language. The
other women exclaim and nod. One of them propels Kate toward the
door where the daylight spills in. They all study her face. Finally, one
of the women explains in French. “It’s your eyes. She says you have
spirit eyes.”
Kate’s pale blue eyes, like her pale hair, draw constant attention
here. She has learned to simply nod and smile. “Merci, mama,” she says
to the lame woman. “Merci,” she keeps repeating. Finally the women
return to the cooking fire, chattering among themselves.
The darkness that falls in a region with no electricity seems
that much more dramatic. The inky blackness on New Year’s Eve,
however, does nothing to dispel the festive air in the village.
The food for the celebration, set out on a table inside Henry’s
house, varies little in color and texture. Bowls of rice sit next to dishes
of stewed pangolin, stewed river rat, stewed monkey, all cooked in a
fiery tomato sauce. Piment, the local fiery pepper, helps disguise the
gamey flavor of the river rat, which, a woman assures Kate, lives in the
jungle, not in a sewer or latrine. Feuille de manioc, a dish of chopped
manioc leaves, tastes a bit like spicy creamed spinach with smoky,
earthy undertones.
“Not bad,” Kate says to Carmen as they sit on benches set up
outside. “Except that I just pulled this thing out of my mouth.” She
points to a grayish curl of skin on the edge of her tin plate. “It was
furry against my tongue—I think it’s monkey skin.”
Henry holds up his plate of stewed pangolin. “Tastes just like
chicken, doesn’t it?”
Music blares from Henry’s battery-operated cassette player. Two
men light an enormous bonfire. The group swells in size and the
villagers eat every last bite of food. Once the women clear away the
dishes, the cassette player is turned off.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 135