Most of the time the bar rang with the din of dice, tokens, and dominoes being flung down on the table. The atmosphere was full of wrangling, mockery, and challenges that were hurled into the air and never came to earth. Once as I crouched under the counter I saw a frail young man called Ti Paille suddenly get to his feet, his eyes bulging with rage, and shout: “No people deserves death, but I say the Negro deserves death for living as he does. Don’t you agree it’s death we deserve, brothers?” There was a silence, then another man got up and said he was going to kill Ti Paille just to teach him how to live. But Ti Paille answered that he wanted to die, that that was the very thing he longed for, and when, a little while later, he was carried out wounded in the head, he was smiling. This incident made a great impression on me. I was also very interested when the men started to talk about spirits, spells, a man who’d been seen the week before running about like a dog, and old Ma Cia, who flew about every night over the hills and valleys and cabins of Fond-Zombi, her ordinary human form insufficient for her. Grandmother had already spoken to me about this woman, her friend, who was closer to the dead than to the living, and she was always promising to take me to see her one afternoon. So I listened avidly to all that was said about her. One day Old Abel told the story of how Ma Cia had given him the scar he had on his arm, a scratch from the claws of the flying Negress. He was coming back from a night fishing when two huge birds started hovering over his head. One of them had breasts instead of wings, and Old Abel recognized Ma Cia by her transparent eyes and the breasts he’d seen one day as she was washing in the river. As soon as he recognized her, Ma Cia circled down and alighted on the branches of a nearby flame tree, which began to move around Old Abel, followed by all the other trees, their leaves rustling. Then, as Old Abel didn’t give way, the trees withdrew and an enormous wave came down out of the sky, seething with foam, rocks, and sharks with their eyes full of tears. But Ma Cia was foiled again, for the water spout disappeared up into the sky as swiftly as it had come. Then there appeared a horse the size of three horses one on top of the other. But Old Abel never flinched, and the horse galloped away. Before its final retreat, however, it lashed out with its hoofs, and it was then he got this gash.
And Old Abel, tracing the scar, which ran from wrist to elbow, with his fingernail, said in a low, expressionless voice: “Oh, I was on the edge of a precipice, where to draw back was to die. But I wasn’t afraid, and here I am with a tongue in my mouth still, with which to say—‘Help me, my friends.’ ”
When I recounted all this to Grandmother, astonished that she should be friends with such a creature, she shrugged her shoulders and admitted, smiling: “It’s true Ma Cia is not satisfied with the human form God gave her, and has the power to change herself into any animal she likes. And who knows, perhaps she’s this ant running over your neck and listening to all the nasty things you’re saying about her.” “But why should anyone turn into a bird or a crab or an ant, Grandmother? Isn’t it really for the animals to turn into men?”
“It isn’t for anyone else to judge Ma Cia. Man didn’t invent misfortune, and before yaws came to eat the soles of our feet there were already flies in the world. Men take pleasure in winding their tongues around Ma Cia and tossing her about like the clothes we beat on the rocks to get the dirt out. It’s true people are afraid to talk about her, and that it’s dangerous to pronounce her name: But do they tell you what they do when they dislocate a bone, or have a muscle cramp, or can’t get their breath?”
She concluded in a firm voice, smiling reassuringly: “The truth is that Ma Cia is a good woman, but it’s best not to get on the wrong side of her.”
Next morning Grandmother gave me a peculiar look, attended to her usual tasks, gave the animals a good feed, shut the door, wedged it carefully with a long stick, and said: “We’re going to see Ma Cia.” Turning toward the mountain, we took a little path overgrown with weeds. At first there were only ferns, then on either side of the path there appeared clumps of malaccas, tamarinds, and Chinese plum trees with their tempting fruit. But I never even thought of picking any—I was completely engrossed in following the long, silent strides of Queen Without a Name. Up above, the leaves of the tall trees touched, bent in the wind, hid the sky. The path came out into a clearing, a huge disc of red, sun-baked earth, in the middle of which stood a rickety little cabin. The thatch was almost green, the faded boards the same color as the mosses, rocks, and dead leaves in the neighboring copses: it seemed to belong entirely to the spirits of the forest that rose up not far off against the hesitant light of dawn. Here and there, rags tied to branches, sticks driven into the ground, and shells arranged to form crosses protected the cabin from harm.
Queen Without a Name walked quickly up to the house, called out in a low, anxious voice, “Does anybody live here?,” and without waiting for an answer walked away to a nearby mango tree, where we sat down in silence on some fine flat river stones. At that moment, an ordinary-looking little old woman came out of the cabin. She was barefooted and wore a full Creole dress with a big white head scarf tied behind and falling down her back. As she glided swiftly toward us over the clay soil, I saw a subtle face that spoke of ecstasy, and involuntarily closed my eyes. With the hem of her dress the old woman wiped the sweat from Grandmother’s brow and kissed her several times, apparently not noticing my presence.
“How’s life, Toussine?” she said.
“I’ve had a dream, Cia, and I’ve brought the dream here to anoint your eyes.”
“What do you mean, a dream?” cried Ma Cia, pretending not to understand.
“A root of luck, then,” said Grandmother, smiling, “and I’ve brought it here for you to breathe its scent.”
Turning to me, Ma Cia noticed me at last, gave me a long look, and began to kiss me: a first kiss on the brow—for herself, she said, and the pleasure I gave her; a second one on the left cheek, because I was not one of those who danced when others pulled the strings; a third so that my right cheek wouldn’t be jealous; and a last one because she could already see I was a fine little Negress. And she added, enveloping me in her lovely tranquil gaze: “You will rise over the earth like a cathedral.”
The two old women began to talk under the big mango tree, while I stared avidly at Ma Cia trying to make out what made her different from other people. I scrutinized her curved fingernails grooved lengthwise like claws, her gray feet with their big prominent heels, the small bony body almost like a child’s, and the weathered face, peeling in places. And the more I looked at her, the more she seemed just like everyone else, an ordinary little old woman from Fond-Zombi. But just the same, there was something about her, this friend of Queen Without a Name. And what was it? It was those eyes—huge, transparent, the sort of eyes people say can see everything, bear everything, because they never shut, even in sleep.
While I was studying and staring at her freely, she suddenly turned her transparent witch’s eye on me and said:
“Child, why do you look at me like that? Do you want me to teach you to turn yourself into a dog or a crab or an ant? Do you want to stand aloof from human beings from now on, to keep them off with a barge pole?”
I would have liked to sustain that clear, serene, underlyingly laughing look, which seemed to contradict the seriousness of the words. But a great fear prevented me, and I hung my head in shame and stammered:
“You can see I’m not a cathedral, and if you’re looking for a fine Negress she’s not here.”
Grandmother frowned.
“Is that all you have to say to each other on this fine Sunday? What a waste of light!”
Then Grandmother was leaning close to her friend and telling her a dream. She was bathing in a river, and dozens of leeches were around her head. One of them attached itself to her forehead, and she thought, It’s drawing off the bad blood. But mightn’t it have been her life that the leech was sucking away? Mightn’t it be a sign of approaching death? Grandmother ended with an uneasy smile.
“What
do you mean, death?” cried Ma Cia briskly. “The leech was just drawing off the bad blood, and that’s the long and the short of it. When your hour comes you’ll dream your teeth drop out, you’ll see your body and your clothes floating along in the river, and you’ll find yourself in a strange country with trees and flowers you’ve never seen before. Don’t pay attention to any dream but that. Meanwhile, my dear, I don’t know whether it’s a fancy of the dead or the living, but the smell of the stew I’ve got on the stove is going to my head—I can feel the meat melting in my mouth. So come along.”
We laughed and got up, and when we came back a little while later, each with a steaming bowl of stew, Queen Without a Name said to herself, sighing:
“There you go, you wretch, listening to the sound of your own voice, nineteen to the dozen, and no more thought of the dead than fly in the air.”
And she sat down abruptly with a bitter laugh, and some gravy spilled out of the bowl and onto the ground.
“Oh,” said Ma Cia. “So the dead are served first now, are they?”
“You know Jeremiah always had a weakness for stewed pork,” said Grandmother, smiling.
“And how is he?” asked Ma Cia gravely.
“He hasn’t forgotten me,” said Grandmother happily. “He comes to see me every night without fail. And he hasn’t changed, he’s just the same as when he was alive.”
“But is he well?” said her friend.
“He’s very well,” answered Grandmother gravely.
We were steeped in day, the light came in waves through the shifting leaves, and we looked at one another astonished to be there, all three, right in the stream of life. Suddenly Ma Cia burst out laughing.
“Toussine, do you think we’d eat this nice stew so contentedly if we were still slaves?”
Her eyes grew sad and ironic. They suddenly seemed washed out by sun, rain, and tears, all the things they’d seen that had sunk right into her brain. I was surprised, and plucked up the courage to ask:
“Ma Cia, dear, what is a slave, what is a master?”
“If you want to see a slave,” she said coldly, “you’ve only to go down to the market at Pointe-à-Pitre and look at the poultry in the cages, tied up, and at the terror in their eyes. And if you want to know what a master is like, you’ve only to go to Galba, to the Desaragnes’ house at Belle-Feuille. They’re only descendants, but it will give you an idea.”
“But what do you expect her to see now, Ma Cia?” said Queen Without a Name. “She’ll see nothing, nothing at all. They smile, people bow to them, in their weird porticoed house. But who would think, to see them all smiles, that their ancestor the White of Whites would take a Negro in his arms and squeeze him till his spleen burst?”
“But what did he do that for?” I said, terrified.
Ma Cia thought for a while.
“Long ago,” she said, “a nest of ants that bite peopled the earth, and called themselves men. That’s all.”
Queen Without a Name leaned up against Ma Cia and tried to take away some of her bitterness.
“Who can blame a dog for being tied up?” she said. “And if he’s tied up, how can you prevent him being whipped?”
“If he’s tied up he ought to resign himself,” said Ma Cia, “for he’s bound to be whipped. For a long time now God has lived in the sky to set us free, and lived in the white men’s house at Belle-Feuille to flog us.”
“That is a fine word,” said Grandmother. “And after that sadness here is another: to see the fire go out and the puppies playing in the embers.”
“With your permission, my friend, I’d say it is a piece of sadness, not a whole one. The whole sadness was the fire. But the fire is out, and it’s a long time now since the White of Whites was in the ground, rotten meat that will not grow again. And even the embers will not last forever.”
Queen Without a Name, her eyes shining strange and feverish, gazed at me for a long while and said:
“No, even the embers will not last forever.”
The two old women fell silent, the afternoon slipped away, everything in heaven and earth was clear and tranquil. Queen Without a Name and her friend Cia sat propped up against each other, their faces peaceful and confident. In the silence I looked at them, and wondered where all the fires came from, all the sparks, that they kindled out of their old patched-up bodies.
Later, we went for a little walk in the woods to gather leaves and wild fruit, and Ma Cia suddenly seemed thoughtful. Grandmother and I watched her all the time, observing the light and shadow in her face, and we saw that though we could not guess what was concealed behind her brow, it irked her to have us looking at her while she was thinking. Then Grandmother heaved a deep sigh that signified our visit was almost over, and Ma Cia, turning to me, child that I was, said, “Be a fine little Negress, a real drum with two sides. Let life bang and thump, but keep the underside always intact.” Grandmother nodded, and we went back down the overgrown path, clinging to each other. The sky was already low and purple; it was the hour when you could sense the weary flight of the moths through the heavy air. As soon as we got home I walked soberly to the far side of the yard and hid in the lower branches of a clump of bamboo, invisible in my little cage of leaves. For the first time in my life I realized that slavery was not some foreign country, some distant region from which a few very old people came, like the two or three who still survived in Fond-Zombi. It had all happened here, in our hills and valleys, perhaps near this clump of bamboo, perhaps in the air I was breathing. And I thought of the laughter of certain men and women, and their little fits of coughing echoed in me, and a heart-rending music arose in my bosom. And I listened to the laughter again, and I pondered, and thought I heard certain things; and I parted the leaves to see the world outside, the fading outlines, the evening rising up like an exhalation wiping out everything, first the cabin, then the trees, the distant hills, and the slopes of the mountain. The summit still shone in the sky, though all the earth was plunged in darkness, under the uneasy, unreal trembling of the stars, which seemed to have been put there by mistake, like everything else.
3
ONE DAY Mama Victory paid us a flying visit, radiant, wild, somewhat disheveled, and bearing about her the signs of love and all its pangs. She would smile without reason, or put a hand to her brow and enter into a state of meditation in which her eyes wandered over us without taking us in. Hurriedly, briefly, in words both evasive and ringing, she told us the latest news about my sister Regina, who was now living with her real father in Basse-Terre, sleeping in a bed, eating apples from France, wearing a dress with puff sleeves, and going to school. This last detail particularly delighted her, and she kept referring to it, saying that little spicy-headed Negress could already sign her name. “Ah,” she would say, “talk of anyone you like, Regina has all the columns of the white folk in her head, she writes as fast as a horse can gallop, and smoke comes out of her fingers. She won’t ever sign any paper without knowing all the whys and wherefores. Do you know anything more horrible or humiliating than when you’re asked to sign something and you have to put a cross? You can’t read or write, my dear Negresses! It’s a shame one can’t forget. And when it happens, the earth won’t even open and swallow you up.”
As we listened to her, Grandmother and I were filled with an unnameable sadness, and our heads hung down as if under some invisible burden. But even now Mama Victory was throwing her arms around us, weeping, laughing, stammering indistinguishable words; and with a gesture of farewell she rushed out and hurried to meet her fate. Haut-Colbi was waiting for her at the landing stage in Pointe-à-Pitre, and that same evening, on the shrewd advice of a sorcerer, they both set sail for the island of Dominica, in the hope of escaping the fate pursuing the Zambo-Carib, a connoisseur of feminine flesh and no mistake. We never saw Victory again.
A few years later I saw my sister in a procession of married couples outside the church in La Ramée. Regina had become an elegant city lady. I took advantage of the crowd to
go up to her unobtrusively, and as I bent forward to kiss her she held out a gloved hand and said awkwardly, “Why, you must be Telumee!”
Queen Without a Name was talented, a real Negress with two hearts, and she had made up her mind that life was not going to lead her up the garden path. In her view a human back was the strongest, toughest, most flexible thing in the world, an unchanging reality stretching far beyond the eye’s reach. On it descended all the ravages, all the furies, all the eddies of human misery. For a long time the human back had been so, and it would be so for a long time still. The main thing, after all the changes and chances, the traps and surprises—the main thing was just to get your breath back and go on; that was what God had put you in the world for. Nothing made her rejoice, or feel sorry for herself, or complain, and no one knew what she had boiling in her pot, meat soup or a stone from the river. She had put up her cabin at the far end of Fond-Zombi, away from all the others, at the spot where the forest begins, where the trees come to meet the wind and carry it up to the heights. The people still couldn’t make her out: for them she was a “freak,” a “loonie,” a “temporelle,” but all this only made her shake her head and smile, and she went on doing what God had created her for—living.
Bridge of Beyond Page 5
