Victoire

by Maryse Conde

  When they went to sit down, the maids of honor passed out white rectangular cartons with gold lettering that Anne-Marie, true to character, had had printed. But this time she did not communicate the menu to the press, as if she knew that Victoire’s role was a fabrication. In the secret of their hearts, all those who sat down at table were disappointed. Victoire was not in one of her good days, you could sense it. They didn’t hold it against her, however. What writer produces one masterpiece after another?

  Around five o’clock the wedding couple left for Trois Rivières, where the boat for Terre-de-Haut, an island in Les Saintes, was waiting for them. There they would spend their honeymoon, for Maximilien, although he had been to Venice and Rio de Janeiro, considered the Saintes one of the marvels of the world. Except for a few fishermen, descendants of Bretons, as blond as corn, the island was virtually uninhabited: beaches of white sand, the sea. In other words, paradise on earth! As Valérie-Anne was throwing her arms around Victoire’s neck, her “true maman” as she liked to call her, and showering her with kisses, she noticed that her cheeks were soaked with tears.

  “You’re crying,” she exclaimed. “But why?”

  Victoire was incapable of saying why.

  My theory is that beginning with that stay at La Regrettée, Victoire was convinced there was nothing left for her on this earth, where her life had lost both meaning and usefulness, and she turned to face death.

  AT THE RISK of irritating Jeanne, Victoire had to stay behind another week at La Regrettée. It’s true it wasn’t her fault. She had caught cold and could not leave on the appointed day.

  They were strange, the times she spent in the deserted drying house. Only Jérémie stayed behind with her and faithfully brought her grogs and herb teas. He talked to her untiringly of the importance of labor unions and strikes. Thus began an odd friendship. Later on when Victoire was bedridden, Jérémie found his way to the rue de Condé. He would sit down in her bedroom, ignoring Jeanne’s snooty expression and suspicious looks since she took him for a nobody—which he wasn’t. Jérémie Cabriou, that was his full name, founded a few years later the first unified union of workers in Guadeloupe, of Marxist allegiance. He was also the first to give his political speeches in Creole, something Légitimus and his people, I think, were incapable of doing. To my knowledge he was the only person who offered to teach Victoire how to read and write. But she brushed him aside.

  “An ja two vyé à pwézan!”

  “Too old!” he protested. “You must be joking!”

  He had no idea that something had died in her.

  At night the drying house at La Regrettée was left to the racket of the wind. It made a hell of a row, rushing through the corridors, banging doors and windows, mewing as it burst into the dormitory and playing leapfrog over the single beds. Victoire was unable to get to sleep. Her mind, haunted by the fever, relived and dramatized all the quarrels with her daughter, hearing once again all the remarks she had made to her in anger or impatience. Instead of treating them as a banal result of that inevitable conflict of generations that every parent goes through, she loaded them with a formidable meaning.

  She believed she understood why her presence on the rue de Condé was causing a growing embarrassment. The more Auguste and Jeanne felt at ease in the circle of Grands Nègres, the more she reminded them of an embarrassing past.

  One dream in particular had a lasting impression on her, she who unlike Caldonia never paid any attention to them. She was following Alexandre along a narrow path, uneasy and stumbling over hidden roots. Suddenly he stopped. They found themselves on a plateau, flat as a platform, at the top of La Soufrière. Or was it the Montagne Pelée? Lost amid the smell of sulfur and lightning. In front of them the ocean.

  “Don’t be long,” Alexandre said. “I’ll be waiting for you. It’s been too long already.”

  Then he threw himself like a swimmer into the void. She woke up panting. All around her the cavern of the night resounded with the din of insects and the vociferations of frogs.

  Yes, what was she still doing on this earth?

  Death, if you call her, is always ready to answer “present,” that’s a fact. She heard Victoire’s voice.

  Victoire’s fever went down, however, and her cough improved under the combined effects of Jérémie’s grogs and herb teas, perhaps, and she returned to La Pointe.

  Major changes were in the works on the rue de Condé. In October Auguste left his job as principal of the school for boys on the rue Henri IV. The effect of this was first of all a lot of additional work that he hadn’t foreseen. Instead of having an easy time of it, taking his time to walk to his office, going out at ten o’clock for a cane juice at La Palmeraie while joking with the owner, M. Carabin, and nonchalantly presiding over the staff meetings and prize giving, Auguste locked himself up the entire day in a stuffy building on the rue Gambetta and often worked late into the night. Since dividends were still limited, there were no more lavish receptions awash in fine wines. Once a week, the directors of the Caisse Coopérative des Prêts squeezed into the living room, which they filled with thick smoke. When midnight caught up with them, heads lowered over their calculations, they snacked on codfish sandwiches and beer bought from the local corner store.

  On Thursday afternoons, however, Jeanne started to receive her friends.

  This initiative was much criticized. It was seen to be proof of her megalomania exacerbated by her husband’s improved status. She showed off. She played the role of wife of a bank director, a role that the modest Caisse Coopérative des Prêts had difficulty filling. What nobody knew in fact was that she was merely obeying Auguste, who blamed her for being too solitary, too secretive, and encouraged her to become a socialite. My mother obeyed, but she never had any friends. She was too hypersensitive, touchy, hurt, tormented, and offended by teasing or a joke that was perhaps in bad taste but quite harmless. She took offense at the slightest remark and harbored resentment over trivialities. Her bruised and wounded soul never healed.

  Once a week she docilely opened her door to the elementary school mistresses of her age and class who talked, laughed, and dressed alike. They were all fond of the same dark fabrics in reaction against the vulgar flowery dresses and straw-colored moleskin hats. All of them showered her with smiles to her face. All of them bad-mouthed her behind her back. In next to no time, she was already a character around whom swirled numerous stories, be they true or false.

  She was constantly blamed for the same things, for being arrogant, irascible, and selfish. Taking sides with the Walbergs, somewhat suspiciously, people also called her ungrateful. And finally they accused her of being insensitive and heartless, taking as an example the way she treated her mother.

  These ladies ate coconut sorbet in silver bowls and nibbled on madeleines. They pretended to scorn the slander and mainly talked about their classes. Admittedly they were a studious group. That’s how they edited Les Cahiers du Patrimoine, a series of booklets designed to teach natural science that cataloged local trees and plants together with their medicinal properties. For the time it was considered revolutionary. They were thus rivaling with the aristocracy of white Creoles and mulattoes who believed they had the monopoly on such charitable works. My mother began to demonstrate that generosity which together with her religious devotion soon became excessive, as if she was hiding something in her heart that she was constantly atoning for. At the end of her life she would hand out indiscriminately money and food to needy mothers who, fawning and insensitive to ridicule, called her Saint Jeanne of Arc.

  The spitefulness that never left her in peace suggests that during these visits by her “friends” she forbade Victoire to appear, ordering her to stay in her room. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Like on the visits to the Grands Nègres, it was Jeanne who forced her to be present, to eat sorbet like the rest, and smile. She didn’t seem to realize that this was torture for her mother. Victoire had her explanation for this, which deep down I share with her. Je
anne was so keen to allay suspicion and convince everyone that she was not ashamed of her mother, whom she paradoxically loved more than anything in the world, that she became tyrannical and cruel.

  In short, we might say that with every passing day Victoire was firmly convinced of her uselessness. Caring for the children could have consoled her. But they were being taught to sing “Frère Jacques” and “Savez-vous planter les choux?” Jeanne was intent on showing they had “good” manners. What was the use of this Creole-speaking, illiterate grandmother?

  One Thursday, Jeanne managed to drag her to see Dr. Mélas, who got on well with her. But he was an obstetrician; in other words, he was capable of giving a wrong diagnosis in fields different from his own. As a consequence, Jeanne never forgave herself an act of thoughtlessness that as a woman of extremes she described as criminal. Because of this, she bore a grudge against the doctor and broke off all relations with him. After a perhaps superficial examination, he believed Victoire was suffering from a “pernicious anemia.” Her heart, liver, and kidneys were functioning normally, he assured her. Her blood pressure was a bit low. He therefore prescribed some iron in the form of tiny black pills, of which Victoire had to swallow twelve three times a day. With the iron, the affection of her daughter, and that of her grandchildren, everything would soon be back to normal, he concluded jovially.

  This was not to be the case. Just the contrary. In the course of the following months, Victoire’s health deteriorated to such an extent that she had trouble climbing two stairs on the staircase. She lost weight and weighed eighty-eight pounds, no more than a child. Jeanne was now worried sick. She was prepared to follow the most ludicrous advice. Someone spoke highly of the beneficial effects of the sea, although thalassotherapy was not yet in vogue. Straightaway, she began looking for a rental at Bas-du-Fort or Le Gosier. Though she never missed a day of school, her idea, proof of how worried she was, was to take a leave without wages in order to look after her mother. But Victoire didn’t want to miss her daily rendezvous with Anne-Marie. Since an acquaintance had mentioned to her a masseuse who did miracles in Le Lamentin, Jeanne was prepared to drive Victoire there. But since the masseuse demanded half a dozen candles and a yard of white percale, Victoire objected that as a God-fearing person, she did not want any part in magic.

  It was then that Dr. Combet arrived from Lille.

  He was not a Grand Nègre. He was blond, almost red-haired, with blue eyes. His practice was located on the Grand’Rue in an elegant building not far from the house of Eugène Souques, the actual Saint-John Perse museum, and surprised the inhabitants of La Pointe by making his staff wear face masks. He himself wore a genuine astronaut’s outfit: boots, goggles, and a strange uniform covered in pockets. His wife came from Buenos Aires. In short, he seemed to embody the ostentation of the mulattoes. Nevertheless, Victoire’s health was reason enough to bend the rules and Jeanne quickly went for a consultation. Something unusual for the time and which added to his prestige, he did not risk a diagnosis before conducting a series of examinations and laboratory tests. For weeks, then, Victoire had to climb docilely up the hill to the hospital, accompanied by Jeanne. She filled vials of blood and urine. Spit into flasks. Gave stool samples. Let them X-ray her organs.

  One morning Jeanne and Victoire returned to the Grand’Rue, where Dr. Combet told them in a hushed voice:

  “It’s leukemia.”

  What terrified Jeanne was the expression on this man of science’s face. Slumped in his chair, he stared at her in awful seriousness. Her intuition told her that very soon she was going to face that moment which terrifies every one of us: the death of one’s mother.

  TWENTY

  In those days they didn’t really know how to treat leukemia.

  At the very most they gave Victoire regular blood transfusions. Surprising as that may seem, the treatment first of all appeared to work. She gained weight. The color came back to her cheeks. She sang for her beloved grandson:

  Là ro dan bwa

  Ti ni on joupa

  Pèsonn pa savé ki sa ki adan

  Sé on zombie kalenda

  By the way, this preference for Auguste irritated Jeanne. She saw there evidence of her mother’s elusive character and her faculty, under her submissive and subordinate airs, to do just as she pleased. She wouldn’t admit it, but Jeanne was jealous of her own child. Had Victoire felt the same way about her?

  When Victoire gained ten pounds, she found renewed hope. Once a week Victoire went to see Dr. Combet for tests, which he assured her were satisfactory, and she returned home in good spirits.

  At the Dubouchage school, Thursday afternoons were reserved for the “open air.” Jeanne led her fifth-year pupils to Bas-du-Fort. All along the two-mile ramble, the mistress and her pupils aroused the admiration of bystanders. Jeanne for her elegance and bearing—“Such a handsome woman,” they whispered invariably—the children because they marched in rhythm to songs they shouted at the tops of their voices:

  A kilometer on foot,

  Wears out, wears out

  A kilometer on foot

  Wears out your shoes

  Or else:

  One more ki-ki

  Ki-lo-lo

  Kilometer

  One more ki-ki

  Every week Jeanne would now drag along Victoire, stubbornly trailing at the back of the group, so that she could fill her lungs with the sea air. It was the time when bathing started to become fashionable. The Guadeloupeans were beginning to appreciate the splendors of their beaches. The children in their panties cheeped and splashed about without venturing too far from the sand. Jeanne and Victoire did not go swimming. They sat on the beach and, both wincing from the sting of the sun, shared a rubber cushion. Jeanne boldly laid her head on her mother’s lap and her love for her welled up and suffocated her. “Why has she always been so cold toward me?” she asked herself. “So distant? So reserved?”

  Victoire awkwardly caressed her mop of hair, smoothing out the tiny peppercorn curls around her temples. Everything seemed so peaceful and death so far away. However, if Jeanne imagined that the end was far from Victoire’s thoughts, she was mistaken.

  One morning, out of the blue, Victoire asked Jeanne to invite Anne-Marie, Valérie-Anne, and Boniface Jr. to lunch on Sunday. Whereas everything prompted her to refuse such a proposition, she did not have the heart to reject it, convinced perhaps deep down that the guests wouldn’t come. They hadn’t seen one another for years. They no longer pretended to be united. To her surprise, all the guests hurriedly accepted; Valérie-Anne, who was pregnant and coming all the way from La Regrettée, even insisted on bringing her husband, Maximilien. A date was set, therefore, for the following Sunday after the sacrosanct high mass.

  I am going to call this meal “The Last Supper.”

  It could be the subject of a painting with Victoire in the center, surrounded by the people she had cherished throughout her life. But on that particular day she did not simply reunite those who were dear to her before death carried her off. It was her way of writing her last will and testament. One day, she hoped, color would no longer be an evil spell. One day, Guadeloupe would no longer be tortured by questions of class. The white Creoles would learn to be humble and tolerant. There would no longer be the need to set a club of Grands Nègres against them. Both would get along, freely intermingle, and who knows, love each other.

  The days preceding the lunch, Victoire went into action. She set off back to the market. Slipping on again her old habits, she bargained hard the price of shellfish and fowl. She did not let herself be fooled about how fresh the fish was or how tender the meat. No need to say that on this occasion she outdid herself. Up at four in the morning, she spent the whole of Saturday and most of Sunday morning in the kitchen, since she wanted this meal to remain a lasting memory on the palate and in the heart. My mother wrote out the menu of this memorable day on one of her exercise books that she carefully kept, scribbled with bits of her diary, memos, class timetables, and her chi
ldren’s height and weight.

  Conch and freshwater fingerling pie

  Sea urchin chaud-froid

  Fatted chicken caramelized in juniper

  White rice

  Rindless pork with breadnuts

  Yam puree

  Lettuce salad

  Coconut flan

  Assortment of sorbets

  Plus champagne, Auguste’s fine wines, and his excellent Courvoisier cognac.

  And it could be said, according to one of his favorite sayings, on that day Lucullus dined with Lucullus.

  When it came down the rue de Condé, the Walbergs’ Cleveland, although less gleaming, nevertheless caused the usual sensation. To say nothing of its occupants. White Creoles! Two men dressed in grayish beige linen suits, wearing pith helmets. Two women in mutton-sleeved, light-colored dresses, arms loaded with presents for the children. The neighborhood watched them as if they were Martians.

  Where were they going?

  To the Boucolons! Was Victoire about to pass away? They guessed there must be some sort of reconciliation around her deathbed.

  Despite the sadness of the occasion, the meal began quite cheerfully. Auguste and Anne-Marie competed for everyone’s attention: the former describing his memories of the Universal Exhibition, which never failed to have an effect; the latter, her years at the Conservatoire in Boulogne. My mother and Boniface Jr. sat staring at each other, paralyzed by the desire to make love to each other. Despite his sulky expression, Boniface Jr. was more handsome than ever, his forehead fringed with a whitish blond lock of hair that his mother accused him of bleaching. Valérie-Anne and her husband sat quietly on the edge of their chairs, Valérie-Anne clutching Victoire’s hand and calling her “darling little maman,” which made Jeanne furious. When Auguste and Anne-Marie let him get a word in, Maximilien talked of the yacht he dreamed of buying. He would sail to all the islands of the Antilles, one after another.