Victoire

by Maryse Conde

  VICTOIRE

  ALSO BY MARYSE CONDÉ

  Heremakhonon

  A Season in Rihata

  Segu

  Children of Segu

  Land of Many Colors

  I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem

  Tree of Life

  Crossing the Mangrove

  The Last of the African Kings

  Windward Heights

  Desirada

  Tales from the Heart

  Who Slashed Celanire’s Throat?

  Story of the Cannibal Woman

  VICTOIRE

  My Mother’s Mother

  Maryse Condé

  Translated by Richard Philcox

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  This book is largely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are transpositions of the life of the author’s mother and grandmother.

  Copyright © 2006 by Maryse Condé

  English translation copyright © 2010 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Published by arrangement with Mercure de France.

  Originally published in France in 2006 by Mercure de France as

  Victoire, les saveurs et les mots.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-4165-9276-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-0058-5 (ebook)

  For my three daughters

  and

  two granddaughters

  Those who have helped me in this reconstitution are too numerous

  to mention. But I would like to thank personally Raymond Boutin,

  Lucie Julia, Jean-Michel Renault, and, in particular,

  Jean-Pierre Sainton.

  What does it matter whether I remember or invent,

  Whether I borrow or imagine.

  —Bernard Pingaud,

  Les anneaux du manège: écriture et littérature

  VICTOIRE

  She died long before I was born, a few years after my parents were married.

  All I have of her is a sepia-colored photo signed by Cattan, the photographer in vogue at the time. Set on top of the piano where I practiced my scales, the photo depicted a woman wearing a dress with a wide lace collar that gave her the look of a schoolgirl. An impression heightened by her slight figure. On her tiny feet were a pair of patent leather button shoes like those of a first communicant. A gold chain necklace was clasped around her delicate neck. How old could she have been? Was she pretty? I couldn’t say. However, once she had captured your attention you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

  The sight of her never failed to make me feel uneasy. My mother’s mother had that Australian whiteness for the color of her skin. Her soft-colored eyes like Rimbaud’s, set deep in their sockets, were reduced to two Asian slits. She was staring at the lens without the shadow of a smile and without any attempt to appear gracious. Her headtie knotted with two points signified an inferior station. Kité mouchwa pou chapo (Swap the headtie for a hat) was the expression of the time that paid homage to a woman’s social ascension. In short, she jarred with my world of women in Italian straw bonnets and men necktied in three-piece linen suits, all of them a very black shade of black. She appeared to me doubly strange.

  One day, I must have been seven or eight, I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer.

  “Maman, what was Grandmama’s name?”

  “Victoire Elodie Quidal.”

  The name filled me with admiration, especially as I lamented the sound of my own. I particularly loathed my first name, which I considered insipid. Maryse, little Mary? Her name resounded with the deep ring of a bronze medal. Resonant.

  “What did she do in life?” I persisted.

  I can remember dusk was falling and the sun was already an orange color in the sky that was veering to gray. We were in my mother’s bedroom. Me, sprawled on her bed, although it was strictly forbidden. She, sitting next to the wide-open window to take advantage of the last rays of sunlight. With her finger elegantly encased in a silver thimble, she was pushing a needle as she darned.

  “She hired out her services,” she blurted.

  “You mean she was a . . . servant?” I said, mortified in disbelief.

  My mother turned to face me.

  “Yes. She was a cook.”

  “A cook!” I exclaimed.

  I couldn’t believe it. My mother, the daughter of a cook! My mother, who had no palate and was notoriously incapable of boiling an egg. During our stays in Paris we would make do on weekdays scraping out cans of food, and on Sundays, we would scour the neighboring restaurants.

  “A peerless cook,” my mother emphasized. “She had the touch of a genuine chef.”

  Delighted, I hastened to add, “Me too, I’d like to be a cook.”

  Going by my mother’s expression, I knew I was on the wrong track. She wasn’t bringing me up to be a cook, not even a chef. I quickly changed the subject and made a diversion.

  “And she didn’t teach you anything, not even one recipe?”

  She continued without answering the question.

  “She first worked in Grand Bourg for the Jovials, some relatives of ours. That ended badly. Very badly. Then . . . then she migrated to La Pointe and hired out her services to the Walbergs, a family of white Creoles, right up till she died.”

  “That’s where I grew up,” she added.

  I went from amazement to stupefaction. Reality was stranger than fiction. To think that this woman, my mother, who was a black militant before her time, had grown up with a family of white Creoles! How could this be? I tried to clarify matters.

  “She never got married, then? Who was her father?”

  Such a conversation might surprise some people. At the time, to have a father, to be recognized by him, to share his daily existence or quite simply bear his name, was the prerogative of a rare privilege. It was no shock to me that my parents, like so many others, emerged out of a kind of fog. My father, an unrepentant chatterbox, claimed that his father had gone to dig for gold in Paramaribo, Dutch Guyana, abandoning his mother, who was breast-feeding her baby on the Morne à Cayes. Other times he claimed his father was a merchant seaman, shipwrecked off the coast of Sumatra. Where did the truth lie? I think he re-created it at will, taking pleasure in enunciating the syllables that made him dream: Paramaribo, Sumatra. Thanks to him, from a very early age I understood that you forge an identity.

  My mother folded her darning.

  “I don’t want to talk about all that just now. It’s too painful. Another time, perhaps. Go and do your homework.”

  Petrified, I left the room.

  Obviously, there never was “another time.” We never resumed that conversation. My mother never revealed to me who her fath
er was or the circumstances of her birth. Yet I could never get that conversation out of my head. It was probably then that I made the resolution to research the life of Victoire Quidal. But my own life has been so chaotic. I let the years go by. Sometimes I would wake up at night and see her sitting in a corner of the room, like a reproach, so different from what I had become.

  “What are you doing running around from Segu to Japan to South Africa? What’s the point of all these travels? Can’t you realize that the only journey that counts is discovering your inner self. That’s the only thing that matters? What are you waiting for to take an interest in me?” she seemed to be telling me.

  Now I have the time to follow her footsteps.

  Her picture is somewhat blurred and difficult to identify. For some, she was lovely. For others, pale and ugly. Yet others saw her as a downtrodden creature, illiterate and of no interest. And some as a real Machiavelli in a petticoat. When describing her, my mother would use those worn-out clichés of the Antilles that no longer mean anything.

  “She could neither read nor write. Yet, she was the mainstay of the family, a formidable woman.”

  Certainly not! Certainly not the mainstay of the family. However, with her meager resources she managed to force open the doors of the burgeoning black bourgeoisie for her daughter.

  But was it really worth it in the end?

  That is the real question I ask myself. That ample faculty my mother had for suffering and torturing herself, which she left to all of us—Victoire was the cause. Thinking she was acting for the best, she condemned my mother to live her childhood in solitude and ostracism, which had a considerable influence not only on her character and behavior but also on that of her descendants.

  I often wonder what would have been my relation to myself, my vision of my island, the Antilles and the world in general, what my writing that expresses all this would have been, if I had been cradled in the lap of a buxom, jovial grandmother, full of the traditional tales: Tim, tim! Bois sec! Is the audience asleep? No, the audience is not asleep!

  A grandmother, former dancing star of the gwo ka and mazurka, whispering in my ear sweet myths of the past.

  Such as it is, here is the portrait I have managed to trace, whose impartiality or even exactitude I cannot fully guarantee.

  ONE

  In the hamlet of La Treille on the island of Marie-Galante, not far from the town of Grand Bourg, the name of Quidal is as common as grains of sand on the beach. This is their domain. Rumor has it that they are descendants of the property belonging to Master Antoine de Gehan-Quidal, owner of a sugar plantation. Ruined after the abolition of slavery, he returned to France and left behind a hundred or so “new citizens” in his slave cabins. The branch I come from had nothing to distinguish it from the others. Just as black. Just as famished. My great-grandparents were a strange bunch. Oraison, the third son of Dominus, who, like his father and grandfather before him, cast and hauled up his fishing nets deep in the ocean, had married, or rather lived with, his cousin Caldonia Jovial. They had engendered a dozen children, five of whom still remained on this earth. Their cabin was no different from the others. Built of pine-wood and protected by sheets of zinc siding. No veranda. No cement floor. Cooking and washing was done in the yard where a group of male papaya trees grew. Oraison, a petroleum blue Negro, as long as a day without bread, had a stock of tales that any qualified research specialist would describe as “erotic.” Fish were compared to the male member, thick and sticky; seawater to the liquid that soaks women down there. He also sang in a pleasant high-pitched voice. Although he was no professional, his singing talents were often called upon at wake ceremonies. As for Caldonia, she interpreted dreams. People came from far and wide to unlock their dreams.

  “Caldonia? Ka sa yé sa?”

  And she would coast confidently from one answer to the next: “Fish means mortality. A lost tooth, death. Pregnancy, good luck. A wound, bad luck. Blood on yourself, grief. Blood on others, victory.”

  One night, a dream bid her to take a closer look at the belly of her eldest daughter. Eliette, who was not yet fourteen, was pregnant. But Caldonia was quite pleased. Girls are meant to give birth. Better earlier than later. Eliette, however, made a great secret of it. She refused to reveal the name of her accomplice, so resolutely that Oraison ended up whipping her with his leather belt. She bore the lashes like a martyr, but still didn’t open her mouth and kept mum. Her brothers and sisters described her sobbing at night and how at eleven o’clock every morning she would run to waylay the postman. Was she hoping for a letter, she who couldn’t even read?

  On Sunday, August 15, Caldonia was slipping on her best dress to attend mass when Elie came to warn her that his twin sister had lost her waters. The birth was not looking good. Her pelvis was too narrow. Seeing Eliette’s blood gradually seep over the straw mattress, Martha Quidal, the midwife, had no choice but to send for Father Lebris, who at one thirty in the afternoon recited the prayer for the dead.

  More than the sudden death of Eliette was the appearance of the newborn that shocked the family. A full head of thick black silky hair. Eyes the color of clear water. A skin tinted pink. For heaven’s sake! Where did Eliette cross paths with a white man? There were no whites in La Treille. The only exceptions were the pallid priests barricaded against malaria, locked in their presbyteries. As for the plantation owners, most of them had deserted the sugar plantations for lack of profit. At one point there had been the soldiers of the fourth regiment garrisoned at Grand Bourg. Once they had experienced marching under the tropical sun, one-two, one-two, with knapsacks on their backs, they had gone back to France. Perhaps these were the ones who had wreaked havoc among the fair sex in their youthful ardor. Was that where we should be looking for the father?

  For the time being, indifferent to these conjectures of the baby’s paternity, all Oraison could think of was how they were going to get rid of this fateful object. The pond close to the rum factory or the cliff known as devil’s leap? The latter was the perfect setting for creatures of this type. But the child raised its eyelids and stared at Caldonia. The science of motherhood had not yet been invented, but never mind, Caldonia was deeply moved by this silent exchange. Everything was decided in that one brief instant. A bond was tied that was only to become undone fourteen years later when Caldonia died from having eaten a banana in the heat of the midday sun. The little girl stole the heart of her grandmother, who had seldom experienced such feelings. Caldonia was God-fearing, but her soul did not exactly pine for Him. Her husband irritated her. Her children left her indifferent. From one day to the next, all that changed. She became devoted, possessive, demanding, and anxious. No egg was fresh enough, no breast of chicken white enough, and no flour light enough for the baby’s stomach. To prevent diarrhea she mixed the baby’s cereal with Hépar spring water. Quite unheard of! In a place like La Treille, where the children ran naked, with swollen bellies, reddish hair, and two slimes of mucus oozing out of their nostrils, this type of love seemed incredible. You had to respect it, though. They are still talking about it today.

  The choice of first names was Father Lebris’ decision. Victoire! Because in fact her birth was a victory. Poor Eliette had gone to join the dwelling place of the dead before she had lived her life, whereas her daughter testified to the glory of the Eternal in all His ways. Elodie! Because it was Saint Elodie on the calendar. Malicious gossip implied that Victoire’s papa was in fact Father Lebris. Nothing was farther from the truth. God had given this Breton a calling when he was only eight years old. God was his rock and his fortress. As a seminarian he wrote psalms that his superiors deemed sins of pride. Did he think he was David? That’s why as soon as he was ordained, they shipped him off to the Negroes on a godforsaken island in the very middle of the Caribbean.

  On his arrival in Marie-Galante in 1870, barely twenty-two years after the abolition of slavery, he fell in love with this galette of an island that the sun cooked over and over again in its oven. The condition
of his flock broke his heart. Freedom is an abstract concept, a dream of the affluent. As slaves, these men and women were less destitute. In their servitude, a master provided them with a roof over their heads and enough not to starve to death. As free men, what did they own except their poverty? If Father Lebris had lived, he would probably have been a mentor to Victoire, and perhaps her destiny would have been different. Unfortunately, she was not yet one year old when malaria triumphed. Like Eliette, he was laid to rest under the casuarina trees in the graveyard on the outskirts of Grand Bourg. For the second time, Victoire was abandoned. She remained in the hands of a woman who worshipped her, but who was illiterate and basically incapable of educating a child.

  Around 1880, the migration from Marie-Galante began. The economists teach us that the emerging production of beet sugar in Europe began to destabilize the Caribbean market. From Saint-Louis, Capesterre, and Grand Bourg the inhabitants streamed toward the “continent” Guadeloupe, as they call it without a trace of irony. Their region of choice was Petit Bourg, where employment was to be had thanks to a factory and two rum distilleries. The sea too was bountiful: amberjack, sea bream, tuna, and snapper. You could fish with traps or dragnets. The newcomers pitched their cabins outside the town, in places today known as Pointe à Bacchus, Sarcelles, Bergette, Juston, and as far up in the hills as La Lézarde and Montebello. Elie had just set up house with Anastasie Roustain, known as Bobette, who had given him two sons. In order to feed his family, he decided to leave Marie-Galante and proposed taking with him his twin sister’s daughter, whom he considered his own despite her unfortunate color.

  Only Elie knew for certain who was Victoire’s father. He had bad-mouthed her and flown into enough tempers in his jealousy! What did she hope to get from this white man? A soldier into the bargain. A soldier’s like a sailor: instead of a woman in every port there’s one in every garrison.

  Caldonia refused categorically to let the apple of her eye go. What would her life be without the girl she idolized? Victoire was five or six years old. The sound of her voice was seldom heard. Nor was there hardly a smile, a ripple of laughter, or one of those cabriole dances that make childhood so delightful. It was as if her joie de vivre had been buried with her maman. Her hair was so straight and smooth that any braids became undone in minutes and flopped over her face, covering it with a silky curtain of mourning. In order to soothe her nightmares, Caldonia put her to sleep in her bed. Night and day, huddled against her grandmother, she acquired the bitter smell of her old clothes. The smell of sweat, dirt, and arnica.