Zulu by Caryl Férey Page B

drums was accompanied by a flash of light directed at the audience, but Neuman was somewhere else. Those drums, that hypnotic rhythm from the depths of time, was the
indlamu
, the Zulu war dance. For a moment, he saw his father dancing, without weapons, in the dust of KwaZulu. The rhythm became more and more sustained. The four blacks beating the drums began to sing, and the stage rose. The intensity of the drums, those grave, sad voices coming from the earth before battle, his father’s hand on his head when he left to demonstrate with his students, his voice telling him he was still too young to go with him but one day, yes, one day they would go together, his hot, reassuring hand, his smile, a father already proud of his son—everything came back to him like a boomerang that had traced an arc reaching to the other end of the world.
    A woman appeared, dressed in a
kaross
14 descending to mid-thigh. A steaming vessel, perfumed with oils and spices, she began to dance to the muffled drumbeats. Her skin gleamed like the eyes of cats at night,
boom boom boom
, she was dancing in the very heart of the beast, she was the bush, the Zulu dust, and the high grass where the
tokloshe
, the spirits of the ancestors, roamed—Neuman could see them emerging from the shadows to which history had consigned them, the members of the tribe, those he had loved and had lost contact with, those he had not had a chance to know and had been killed in his place, all the tormented and injured members of a people dead inside him. The sound of the drums cracked through his skin, the air was saturated with it, and there he stood, in front of the stage, like a tree waiting for the lightning.
    The people in the front row held their breath when the dancer leaped onto the coals. Her bare feet hammered the glowing carpet of fire, jumping up and down, constantly seeking a new burn, to the rhythm of the drums and the chorus tearing through space and time. She danced with her eyes half-closed, raising her knees over her head, stamping the ground, sending coals spurting out toward the front rows, which moved back. Anger was being turned into art. Deep within the trance, there was only her, five foot nine of muscle firmly planted on the hot carpet, a hypnotized crowd in front of the stage, and her flaming beauty above the chaos.
    Neuman shuddered when the others applauded. Good God, where had this creature come from?
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    Zina was wearing a little crimson dress and, clearly, nothing else. She was showing more than enough. Neuman had found her in her dressing room, between a bag of cotton wool and her stage costumes lying on the imitation leather couch.
    There was a smell of burning in the room. Thin braids hung down the back of her neck, with two skillfully curled wisps against her cheeks. The lines in the corners of her eyes betrayed the fact that she was about forty, but her finely honed body was that of an athlete. Her features seemed carved out of clay, a hard, handsome face that gave an impression of diffuse anger and almost haughty nobility. Zina barely glanced at the photograph Neuman showed her, busy as she was rubbing the hard skin of her feet with
intizi
, a traditional ointment made from animal fat, which would soothe the burns.
    â€œYou know what happened to this young woman, don’t you?”
    â€œHard to avoid the news,” she replied.
    Masks, tubes of paint, pigments, musical instruments—the dressing room was a complete mess. He saw her leopard skins, the Zulu clubs against the wall, and the traditional shields Inkatha had used on their marches.
    â€œDid you know Nicole Wiese?”
    â€œThe fact that you’re here,” she retorted, “tells me you already know the answer to that question.”
    â€œYou were seen together on Wednesday night.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    Sitting on the stool by the dressing table, Zina continued massaging her feet—walking on fire wasn’t so