The Salt Roads

by Nalo Hopkinson

  At the binding taste of salt, I begin to fall once more.

  Tossed helpless through the fog of the sky, going where I don’t know. I land.

  I am here. In someone’s soul case. And though I beat and hammer on its ribs, I am caught. I can no longer see everywhere and everywhen, but only in straight lines, in one direction; to dissolution.

  Blues

  Paris, 1842

  Bitter,” his friends called me. I didn’t pay them no mind. Most of them were only vexed that I wouldn’t raise my skirts for them, those stingy men of money, counting every sou. He was generous. Lise was right; he treated me well.

  Except this morning. He’d cancelled our regular Sunday morning assignation, so he and his hoity-toity mama could have petit déjeuner in the fancy Paris hotel she was staying in while she’d come to visit him. Yesterday evening when he and I had been at the café together, he’d scarcely acknowledged me, so nervous he was, anticipating his mother’s arrival. And so I was alone today. Wouldn’t do for him to introduce me to her. Just not done, to insult your mama with the presence of your mistress.

  But I knew how to fix them. I knew where they were taking breakfast.

  “Do you wish your boots now, Prosper?” asked Margot sullenly, using the nickname given me by the other girls. She yawned and rubbed at her eyes.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I told her. “Go and get my gown first.”

  She glared at me and slouched off. She couldn’t complain, and she knew it. When I couldn’t find Lisette in her room, I had panicked and woken Margot up to help me make my toilette. The younger dancers had to do what the more senior ones told them.

  How nervous I was! My heart was fluttering like something frightened had flown in there and was trying to get out. But I wanted to see this formidable maman who had her fist so tight around the strings of Charles’s purse. Lisette would help me do it, would meet me there at the restaurant, just two friends taking Sunday breakfast. Let Charles pretend that he did not know us; I didn’t care.

  But where was Lise? Probably she had spent the night in the apartments of the new gentleman who was courting her. Probably it was only that. Hoped she’d remember to meet me.

  Would Charles be too displeased? Or would he think it great sport? He must remain sympathetic towards me. Now that I had known what it was to want for nothing, I couldn’t sing at the Thêàtre Porte-Saint-Antoine any more. Couldn’t face pasty manager Bourgoyne grinning at me any more, pushing his hand sly between my legs while I waited to go on stage, while I remained quiet instead of spitting in his eye, for fear I would spoil my face paint. He liked to hide in the wings and fondle me again when I came off stage, salty with sweat; liked to shove his hand down there, hard, pull it away, smell the salt damp on me. I couldn’t do it any more. And I had sent word for Maman to come, that she could live with me in the apartment that my lover would provide. She had left off whoring, was packing to join me in Paris. Charles was our only hope.

  “Prosper?” called Margot, her voice muffled from among my gowns in the closet. “Jeanne?”

  “What is it?” I kept smoothing chalk onto my cheeks.

  “Which dress shall I bring you?”

  I sighed. “Never mind that yet. Come and help me find my honey powder.” I put down the chalk, dusted my hands, set about looking for the powder. It was nowhere on the dressing table. Grunting like a great lazy pig, Margot got down on her hands and knees and looked under the table. It wasn’t there either. I set her to searching about the room, ignored the banging and scraping noises she made while she did it. I rouged my cheeks.

  Where the devil could that honey dust have gotten to? Charles said it came from India. It had a sweet smell. He liked me to brush it on my bosom. Sometimes he did it for me, so that he could lick it off. At least his hands were dry when he touched my breast. He always smelled like soap, not like stale tobacco and bad rum. Not like Bourgoyne. Charles, he treated me like a lady. Waited gentlemanly after the performances while I scraped off the rouge and changed into something pretty. I think his mama might like me, if she got to know me. If I had pale skin like Lise. If I could fly to the moon and crow like the cock when I got there.

  Margot was back under my dresser, still looking for the powder. I nudged her with my toe. “Never mind.” Silly chit. I wager it was she who took my honey dust to try and make her stinking body sweeter. “Come and help me do my hair.”

  She came yawning and rubbing her eyes, took her sweet time to stand up, too, stood over me too close. “Yes, Prosper.”

  Her body was nearly touching mine. I opened my nosehole to breathe her in. Honey smell? Or salt sweat? Couldn’t tell. “Never mind. Don’t come near me. Go and get my day dresses. They’re on the left hand side of the closet.”

  She brought them out. She held out the lavender one with its pale green sleeves and black ribbons. I put it against my body, looked in the mirror. Too vulgar, though I know Charles liked the way it showed off my bosom. So out of that dress, into the powder blue, the one with the blouse that was pale yellow and olive. No, too fussy; more better for evening. A dress like that would only inform Charles’s mama that here was a showgirl, come to breakfast in a fine hotel. I wore that blue gown too often anyway; time Charles bought me a new wardrobe.

  The terra-cotta made me look like a child. Its rose jacket with its brown fur trim brought out the darkness of my skin too much. Gods, I wish my mama had fucked a thousand more white sailors if it would have made me less brown!

  I bade the slow girl fetch me the creamy pale yellow dress, though she was rolling her eyes at how I couldn’t decide. Insolent missy. I wanted Charles to get me my own maid, but one with a sweet temper. And darker than me. He liked me dark, he said. Liked my spirit. Said hot country women always had more fire. I was born here in France, though, like my mama before me. I needed to send her some money for the trip to Paris. Hoped Charles would be generous with that.

  When Lise and me are in the restaurant, I must try to remember to speak proper. I wished I had come younger into the company of gentlefolk, to learn their talk sooner.

  I looked in the mirror, and I jumped. Were those my eyes looking back at me? Looked like someone else’s. Frightened, I was so frightened today. My heart was dashing itself against my chest, beating me-out, me-out.

  Margot shifted on one foot, still holding the yellow dress. I regarded it. It was nice. Champagne bodice with violet cuffs and bretelles. It showed how my waist was slim, and it moved gracefully with me when I walked. Maybe Charles’s mama would spy me entering, would lean over and whisper to her son, “Who is that sweet young woman, dear? She’s clearly of fine breeding.” Huh. Maybe the salt would disappear from the sea, too.

  “What hour is it?” I asked Margot.

  “Just after half ten, Jeanne,” she replied. “The bell tolled minutes ago.”

  “I’m late! I was to meet Lise at ten!” Oh God, Lise would leave if I wasn’t there, and I’d have to sit there all alone, with Charles glaring at me! I struggled into my pantalettes, almost tripped over the lace ruffles with which they were hemmed. “My hair’s still not done, and my shoes! Hurry, then, don’t just stare at me so! Help me with my shoes!” Move, silly wench!

  “Which ones, Prosper?”

  I sucked my teeth with impatience and pointed out the pumps to her. She went to get them and brought them back, muttering, “I’ll just come and fix your hair.” But I ignored her. I sat at the vanity mirror and started undoing my plait. I was used to doing my own hair to go on stage anyway. Margot with her lanky tresses wouldn’t know what to do with mine. I fiddled and fiddled with the damned hair. It was tying itself in knots today, strong as chains.

  She put the shoes near me. I stuffed my feet into them. She straightened and picked up the comb just as I shook my hair loose. Undone, the tresses sprung out, a cloudy mass of wiry black. Her eyes got big. She put the comb back down. I ignored her, set to twisting and coiling and pinning. Charles’s mother would shudder, were she ever to see my hai
r unbound like this and flinging itself about my shoulders and waist.

  Hair done. Now more packets of powdered chalk for my face, neck, and hands; yes, I looked more like a lady now. Then the hoopskirt around my waist, binding it to a proper slimness. Margot helped me into my corset, laced it up the back. She pulled it damnably tight, the hussy. But it made my breasts thrust out further, the way that Charles liked, so I endured it. She slipped the dress over my head carefully, so as not to muss my hair or face, but of course, a few of the curls came loose, so back I went to twisting and pinning. Gods, the time, the time was fleeting!

  A few more minutes and I was finally ready. I grabbed my cloak and ran out of my room, down the echoing stairs, and out of the concert hall. I hurried as fast as I might onto the street. I was gasping a little for breath in the tight clothing. My heart beat even harder. So strange and unsettled I was feeling, not myself. I bustled past the street urchins on the roadside, just waking from where they’d wrapped their bodies around each other in the Paris mud and settled down to sleep. I stepped around horse shit and a gaunt, spotted bitch dog, her dugs hanging, nosing at garbage. Not many folk out yet this morning. Oh. There was a carriage free. I had some money from Charles. I was going to spend it on breakfast, but if I didn’t get there soon, would be no breakfast with Lise for me. The driver stared at me as I approached, his eyes measuring my bosom, going slack with hunger when they marked my brown skin. I nodded at him. “Hôtel Saint-Michel, if you please. And quickly.”

  And for all that he had enjoyed filling up his eyes with me, the salaud never even got down to help me up. He just waited, looking, while I struggled into his flea-bitten carriage.

  But he got me to the hotel quickly enough. His massive paw was sweaty when I dropped the coin into it, and his gaze fixed on my chest. I didn’t tip him. Kept some of the money back for a sweet croissant and some coffee. I pulled myself up tall and swept into the hotel. The concierge made to block my path. He knew that some of his guests would never brook having to dine in the same room as an Ethiope. But I said, haughty as I might, “I am to meet my fiancé and his mother for breakfast. They are in the dining room, come before me.” A lie, but he stood aside. Oh, my saints, I prayed that Lise would arrive soon.

  I got closer to the dining room. I could smell meat and fresh bread. It made my belly grumble. My feet were heavy as blocks of wood as I approached the door. My hands were icy. My heart banging, banging. A waiter balancing a laden silver tray on one hand swept on ahead of me. He held open the door, and turned to bow at me, smiling. His cheeks were as pink as though they’d been rouged, and his blond hair dark with the macassar oil he’d used to slick it back. “Mademoiselle,” he said, so respectful. There are some such as he. His graciousness lent me courage. I gave him a brief smile back. Time to play out this game I had begun. I stitched my brightest smile across my face and stepped with my foreign-feeling self into the room.

  And there they were. Monsieur Charles Baudelaire and his mama the dame Aupick were at the table closest to the door. Charles saw me, gasped, and stood. He’d blanched utterly. Looked pale as the dead in his dandy’s black. His mother turned to see what had made him act so. A bland, plump woman, scowling.

  Everyone in the restaurant was looking. My waiter friend was placing butter and croissants at Charles’s table. Charles sat back down, tried to compose himself. I slowed to a more graceful walk. I breezed right by Charles and his mother. Only then did I see Lise, waving and smiling at me from a place right beside Charles’s. Mischievous chit had arranged her seating so that Charles and I would have to look at each other the whole time. But she hadn’t forgotten me. I went cold with relief, so grateful I was to see her there. I went to her.

  “I knew you would be late, Jeanne,” she said cheerfully.

  “And you? When did you arrive?” The waiter was behind me, pushing my chair in for me.

  “Oh, about five minutes ago.” She giggled. “I was late too.”

  Then came a voice from Charles’s table: “Pass me the butter please, chéri.” It was Charles’s maman.

  “Here it is, Mother.”

  “Thank you, son. Are the blackberries sweet this year?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “They only bear briefly, but their taste is strong. An almost vulgar tartness to blackberries, wouldn’t you say?”

  “They’re sweet this year.”

  “You must be careful, though. If you eat too much of the blackberry, you might spoil your taste for the more genteel fruit.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And they make such a dreadful dark stain, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Soil your fingers with them, and you’d think that black mark will never come out.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Mother.”

  “Oh,” said Lise, a little too loud, “you must try the cheese, my dear. They get only the finest here.”

  But I scarce heard her, for Charles was rising to his feet again, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Excuse me for a little minute, please, Mother,” he said. And then I could barely hear myself think for the beating in my chest as Charles came over to me, grinning big and reaching eager biscuit-pale hands to hold my caramel ones, not so much darker than Lise’s after all. Charles, he said, “Jeanne! My darling Lemer. What a pleasure to see you here.”

  Sister

  Blind, linear, I quiet inside the ginger-coloured woman’s body. Words are new to me. They come to me as barrages of sensation that were her own, and are now mine. I know what she wants, sitting longing at the table with her hands in yours, though I do not yet know what her longing signifies. I sense from Jeanne the feelings that make her eyes burn. She longs to hear certain words from you, Charles. She aches for you to say something so: “Maman, this woman over here, she listens to me; sits still for hours staring into my eyes while I speak, opens her ears wide so that I may fill them with my hopes, my fears, my raw, new poems.” She wishes for you to say, “She makes herself beautiful for me. Does not that gown suit her wonderfully well?” You never say them, and through my dim newborn’s eyes, even I can see that you never will.

  The ginger-coloured woman’s tears bring me meaning in their salt. I learn quickly. Your mother would name her monstrous it seems, not beautiful. Your mother would think the ginger woman’s pale brown skin too near the colour of dirt. Is that so bad, then? “Dirt” seems to be a kind of food. Food brings life, a yearning to move forward. Is my wanting to break free “life,” then? Is it bad to be dirt and give life? Your mama would be mortified to know that any gentleman can have the pleasure of the ginger woman’s voice on the stage, the sight of her beauty, perhaps even in a private assignation, if he can afford it.

  I do not want to understand what all that is, do not want to care. I want to fly free again. But the ginger-coloured woman floods me with words, with meaning, and with something more powerful. Now I know them as emotions. Unwilling, I take it all in as the sea-sponge sucks in salt. Some more words: Do you remember unpinning the careful rolls and coils of her hair, Charles? How surprised you were to find it soft, like unspun wool? How you thrust your hands through it and brought it to your nose? She remembers that she did not wince, though you tugged dreadfully. She remembers how deeply you inhaled, how you breathed as you might the needful air the scents of that place—the Indies?—from her hair; remainders of things that had lived once; cinnamon and nutmeg and oil of cacao. Sweet perfumes, her mind tells me; not bitter. She wishes she could bind you to her with that hair; you and your money. “Money” seems to also be a kind of food, and the woman wants for it often. Goes hungry for lack of it. Has slept in cold open spaces for want of it. I feel in her body the memory of cold, of hunger. Those are bitter things. Your sweet “money” can soothe them. She does not want to be bitter. She has had to suffer touches that sometimes hurt to this soul case that is our body. Men like you give her this food called money if she will allow them to do the things that are sometimes sweet, but som
etimes hurt her. For yourself, you try not to hurt her, and often will feed her. For this, for this sweet thing that you do, she has agreed to be by your side. She wants to hear from you that you will honour that contract.

  I learn more words. I sense what is in the woman’s heart. You do not speak to your mother of her sweetness. You do not tell her how you sigh, “Douce, douce,” singing her sweetness in the night as the wet warmth of her tongue laves the musk from your thighs.

  The ginger woman longs to scandalise you and your mother both. She thinks how one does not speak to one’s mother of these things that lovers do in the shameful dark. Dark I understand now, but not shame yet. She thinks whether she might speak out loud of the shameful things anyway. She imagines telling you and your proper mother how she prepares to greet you for your assignations, of the hours she spends dressing her hair and body, of the honey powder she keeps in a jar on her night table. You told her that it is brought in ships from the perfumed hives of India, as her grandmother was brought from Africa’s belly and sold as a creature for the pleasure of gentlemen, whatever those are. Too many ideas I don’t understand. But this money thing, this exchange of food for sweetness, that begins to make sense. You pay for her honey powder. It makes her nose itch, but it is to delight you that she wears it, dusts it over the dusky, smooth flesh of her breasts until her nipples stand forth proudly. And when you arrive in her room with your moist, longing eyes, are not those nipples ready to meet your hand or mouth? Are they not dark and sweet between your lips as those blackberries your mother fed you?