Makandal cries! Tears were flowing like river water down his face now. I saw how he was full of sorrow. But I must know my own mind. I told myself he was just an own-way, murderous man who thought if the Powers didn’t act in a way that made sense to him, well then he must make himself one of them and do the job he wanted them to do. Yes, he thought he knew best. That couldn’t be right.
I stood up. Threw the bones of Lasirèn’s gift towards the water with thanks for my meal. A wave caught the bones and pulled them off the sand, back to their home. And so I knew she accepted my prayer.
A sniff came from Makandal. He was still weeping, looking to me for answers. I wondered what it was like for him, turning himself into a Power, no salt. The sweat of his body, the piss, and the jism; I wondered did they taste sweet. “Those tears,” I said, “salt, or fresh?”
He flung himself to his feet, muscles popping out on his arms and chest. I was an elder, I would not back down. He glared at me. Hooked my dress with his staff; my one garment that was lying on the sand to dry. Flipped it into the fire, he. Then stalked off into the darkness.
For a while the fire flared brighter, trying to eat my frock, but the cloth was too wet. I snatched my dress back out again. By the light of the fire I watched at Makandal climbing the steep ascent back up to the plantation.
Eh. Children will throw tantrums. I pulled the damp frock on. It stuck to my skin, and it had a burned place. I would beg Marie-Claire to get me some more flour bags from the kitchen.
Was time for me to go too. Didn’t want the overseer to look in my hut and see me missing. I pulled a half-burnt branch out of the fire. It would be my torch to go back with. I took another branch and spread the coals around with it to put them out.
Something was gleaming from the pile of dying coals; something the firelight ran over like liquid. I flicked it out onto the sand. It was glowing, red, too hot to touch. I fetched salt water in my mouth from the sea, spat on it. It hissed, grew dark. Fetched more water, did it again. Then I waited little bit, squatted over the thing, touched it with a fingertip. Still warm, but not hot any more. I picked it up, looked at it good by my torchlight. Glass. A lump of glass, shaped like a whale. I smiled. All that sand Makandal had kicked into my fire. Thank you, Mama. I folded my hand tight around her sign.
Climbed the hill, me, to Tipingee’s arms. I’d be cutting cane again tomorrow as the sun rises. And all the time I was walking, I was thinking, how I must help a Power?
Throwing
Paris, 1842
The delicate china cup clipped Charles’s ear as I flung it past him to smash against the wall. His cry of pain mingled with the crash of breaking china. His hands flew up, too late, to protect his head. The cane in his right hand knocked one of his precious paintings askew on the wall. Hands to his ear, a look of horror on his face, he glanced to the painting, then to me. I smiled, pointed behind him at the havoc I’d wrought. “That for your jowly, pompous mama!” I said. Even a day after encountering that woman, the thought of her still made me want to spit.
Streaks of milky coffee trickled down the beautiful red wallpaper. The stain would never come out. He’d have to replace it. Good.
“You hurt me!” Charles cried, still cradling his wounded ear.
Gods. I can’t act this way with Charles. Can’t afford to. I needs must coddle him now, mustn’t let my anger rule me so. I gave a little “oh” of contrition, a hand to my mouth. Let him see the regret on my face. I rushed to his side. “Oh my dear, my Charles, I’m so sorry. Here, let me see.”
I clucked and tutted at him, exclaiming the while about my unruly temper. I remembered to keep my body inclined low, to shrink myself smaller than he. He was sensitive about my greater height.
He allowed himself to be fussed over. “Truly, Jeanne,” he said sternly, “there are times when you go too far.” He straightened the sleeves of that ridiculous frock-coat, smoothed down his lapels.
“Yes, I do, I do.” Truly, he looked like a crow in that stern black. “Dear Charles, you are so kind, to bear up under my fits and tantrums.” I blew gently on his reddening ear. He shivered. That always got his blood to rising. For good measure, I leaned over and licked the length of the ear. It was greasy, salty with sweat.
He gasped, giggled. “Jeanne!”
He’s not the least bit scandalised at my ways, but he likes us to pretend that he might be. I could see the fabric of his trousers tenting. I laved his ear again with my warm, wet tongue, directed a warm breath into its very centre. He squirmed, stepped away from me. Not for long. I could see the little smirk on his face. He turned, took me by both shoulders. “My maman is a good woman,” he proclaimed, gently. He shook one leg a little, trying to set his cockstand more comfortably in his trousers, I’d wager.
“And I am a mere entertainer, I suppose.” I wasn’t in the mood for this game.
His look became more serious. “Sweet Lemer, understand me,” he pleaded. “Maman will allow much from me, her only son, but I cannot overstep her morals and manners too far. Recollect, her husband controls my inheritance.”
Could I forget? Money had us both in thrall. “Oh, Charles, it’s all so dreary. He controls your mama, your mama controls you . . .”
“She loves me. She wishes well for me.”
“. . . And you control me.” I pouted, crossed my arms huffily over my bosom, well aware that the action made my titties swell. I saw Charles noticing. His little pointer stiffened to attention again. Oh, these proper gentlemen; how little it takes to excite them!
His desire heated my blood too. Sometimes it happened that way. Really he was a good man, my Charles, if overtimid with his mama. I cast my eyes down prettily, pretended shyness. He loved that. He swept me up in his arms, let his cane fall—oh, theatric man!—and began planting kisses and kisses and kisses on my face.
“Jeanne,” he breathed, “how I want you.”
His damp attentions were smearing my face powder. I giggled to see it dusting his lips, brushed it off him with my fingers. He took the fingers into his warm, wet mouth. Low, I murmured to him, “How do you want me, Charles?”
He groaned.
“Do you wish to throw me on the day bed, tilt my petticoats over my head?”
“Ah, you slattern, you gutter-tramp.”
The wild strangeness I’d been feeling since yesterday flared inside me. I opened to it, let it feed my heat. “Do you wish to climb aboard me, straddle my waist, slip your cremorne into my mouth?”
He was unfastening my frock as quickly as he might, wrestling me towards the day bed as he did. He trapped my wrists in his two hands, stretched them above me so that my breasts strained to rise free from their corsetting. The nipples dragged against the fabric, arousing me further. I stumbled backwards. In his haste, Charles stepped on my hem. I heard fabric tear. I laughed, let myself fall onto the bed. He would buy me another frock after all. I swung my skirts into the air, spread my knees for him, so he might gaze on my purple, swollen coynte through the open crotch of my frilly pantalettes. He sighed, fell on me, mouthing me eagerly through the pantalettes.
For a time, my body responded to his as eagerly, and I was glad. But as ever, he nibbled too hard in some places, not hard enough in others. My bohemian Charles thrilled to think that he was doing such a debauched thing, but for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to learn to do it well. I lay back and thought on other, softer, more skillful mouths.
Tipingee stood a minute to enjoy the sight of Mer laughing, laughing as she watched Oreste and Belle dancing the kalenda, twitching their shoulders at each other, making eyes. Mer didn’t laugh much. This one day each year, when the blans were feasting the birth of their god, they let the Ginen celebrate, let them have some little joy. A few times today she and Mer had hid behind the cabins and Mer had smiled for her; put her lips in between Tipingee’s and chortled sweet pleasure into them. The taste of Mer’s mouth had danced in Tipingee’s like the kalenda. The Christmas sun was hot, the music nice, and the smell of
the sweet potatoes that Papa Kofi was roasting in the fire nearby was making Tipingee’s belly rumble.
Ti-Bois and his sister Ti-Marie came struggling up from the beach, each of them bearing two green water coconuts the men must have chopped down. The little ones put down the coconuts and began imitating Belle and Oreste, jigging about and laughing, till Hector shooed them back to get more coconuts.
“Tipingee!” Oreste cried out. Belle had gotten tired, was fanning herself, coming to sit by her and Mer. This day, Belle was turned out in petticoats, and a fancy gown of bleached calico. That Georgine could turn a flour bag into a wonder, oui. Belle looked like a queen.
“Tipingee, you forgot how to dance?” Oreste said.
“Ouf,” huffed Belle, planting her behind on a rock. “He wore me out. Go and dance with him, Tipingee?”
“Yes, Tipingee, go,” Mer said to her, touching her shoulder lightly, so lightly. Oreste was dancing a little pattern towards Tipingee, moving his head in time to Hector’s playing of the menuet. Georgine and Pierre were both clapping in time. It was strange to see a backra here. The Ginen were watching themselves, cautious with him around. But he didn’t belong at the great house either this day; only the rich ones were invited there. Pierre was a man without two sous to rub together, and Georgine was his only family in Saint Domingue.
Tipingee marked how Georgine’s belly was big like a watermelon again. She would soon have another porridge-coloured baby to replace the one she’d lost.
Oreste was still imploring Tipingee, holding his hands out to her. She could see Babette’s jealous face behind him in the crowd. But it was Tipingee that Oreste wanted, not that ugly Babette. Tipingee rolled her eyes. “Oreste’s feet are like two big yams,” she told Belle and Mer. “If he steps on my toes, he might break them. Patrice now, he could dance. Lighter than breathing. You remember, Mer?”
Only with Patrice would she dance the kalenda. She wondered if he was making Christmas in the bush with the maroons? She wondered if he had a new woman now?
The music was sweet, oui. Mer looked down at Tipingee’s feet and smiled; her toes were tapping to the music. Tipingee curled her rebellious toes under, but the music just went dancing along her spine, begging it to move and sway in time.
“Tipingee, soul,” said Mer, “I think you want to dance. Your feet want to dance.”
“Yes, go, Tipingee!” Belle said. “You’re spry enough to keep out from under Oreste’s feet if they mash you.”
Belle and Mer laughed and pushed Tipingee into the centre of the dance. The music was sweet and Oreste was handsome, and she let them do it.
Oreste’s face was glowing with sweat, his steps nimble. She knew she’d only been bad-mouthing him. She smiled, set her body just so, challenged Oreste with her eyes. And she began to dance.
He was good, this Oreste: the way he twisted and turned to the music; the flourishes he made with his hands. He gave a little jump and Tipingee heard the crowd say, “Ah.” She quirked her lips at him and matched him, move for move; made up some of her own into the bargain.
When the “Ah” came again, Tipingee thought it was for her, stamping out a rhythm with her feet, faster than hummingbird wings. But the music fell silent. “Hector, what’s wrong with you?” she cried out, gesturing at him to continue. “Play, man!”
But Hector was staring past her, to the path. Everyone turned to look. Tipingee spun around. It was Father León striding by, black cassock dragging in the dust, putting backra magic on them all as he went; signing the cross and murmuring backra incantations at them in his Spanish-flavoured French. He was smiling, pleased with himself.
And beside him . . . “Patrice!” she shrieked, and ran to him. Patrice, her Patrice, her dancing man.
“Tipingee.”
He embraced her. One of his wrists had rope tied around it. Father León was leading him by it, but Tipingee could see that the knot was deliberately loose enough that Patrice could slip it off if he wished. He’d come back of his own desire, then. Any runaway could do this; find someone to intercede for them, and return in the peace of Christmas time. On Christmas day, the masters would usually be lenient.
Patrice smelled of the green bush where he’d been living and of man sweat. His sweat. Tipingee felt her belly go soft with desiring. “Patrice.”
“I’m home, Tipingee. Missed you too bad.”
Yes, it’s so his eyes used to crinkle when he smiled. So he would catch up his bottom lip between his teeth. More than a year she hadn’t seen him. She sobbed into his neck, inhaling the smell of him as hard as she could.
“Let him go there, girl,” said Father León. “Don’t writhe on him in so heathenish a manner.”
Tipingee drew away, her hand still on Patrice’s shoulder. This day, Father’s word would have to be law.
“Tipingee is my wife, Father,” Patrice told him. And her Patrice grinned and winked at her.
His cheeks were hollow. What, did the maroons never feed him?
Father smiled a thin smile, tugged on the rope at Patrice’s wrist. “Your wife? How quaint. Well, she must wait to perform her wifely duties until after we see what Simenon will do with you. Come along.”
So along they went; Tipingee, Patrice, and Father León, with two or three of the small children running after them for a chance to get inside the great house. Little Ti-Bois was yelling and jumping with the excitement. Tipingee felt she could do the same; leap and kick like a young goat. Then she looked behind her. Hector had started playing his music again, looking a little sadly at Patrice. One who had got free had put the coffle back on his own neck. Some of the escaped did this, sometimes. Couldn’t make treat with the maroons, and were starving, so they came back. Or couldn’t live in the bush, so they came back to the torment they knew. Or missed their fellows too much. Patrice said he had come home for her. Tipingee could have wept with the joy of it, and the sadness.
Georgine with her heavy belly started trying to teach Pierre the dance steps. Pierre was jigging from side to side like a grasshopper. All red his face was, like the blans could get. His mouth was fixed in a shy smile. He looked embarrassed.
And there was Mer, just standing there on the edge of the circle, sad eyes staring after Tipingee. Tipingee beckoned for her to come, that half of her heart, but there she remained.
The other piece of Tipingee’s heart was Patrice. A whole year she hadn’t seen him, and now he had his hand in hers again. So Tipingee went with him this time. Mer must understand.
By the time they reached the walkway to the great house, they had become quite the procession; bunches of the Ginen came with them to see what would happen. Some were still singing the Christmas songs, carrying and drinking the portion of rum, distilled from their labours, that they got for this day. There were poor blans there too; the ones that Simenon employed. All come to see the fun. Even Mer had come, following along in the back of the crowd where she thought Tipingee wouldn’t see her.
“Hey, Patrice,” the book-keeper called out cheerfully. “Got tired of those jug handles you call ears, eh? Come to get them lopped off?” Then he and his compères laughed, slapped each other on the back. Tipingee held tight to Patrice’s hand, the unshackled one. She glanced at him. He was biting his lips, but no other sign did he give that he had heard.
“Shush, fellow,” Father León scolded the book-keeper. “Unseemly behaviour for our Lord’s birthday.”
“Yes, Father,” the man muttered, tugging at his hat.
Patrice never said a word to the book-keeper. Tipingee knew why. If he responded, the book-keeper might imagine that a slave dared to make sport with him. Better they think you sullen than insolent. Heart aching with fretfulness, Tipingee squeezed Patrice’s hand, but said nothing either. Too many blans around. She wasn’t going to show them any weakness. By the Code Noir, Simenon could sever Patrice’s ears for running away. He shouldn’t have returned, shouldn’t have risked the agony and disfigurement. Not for her. She jittered along beside him, vibrating wit
h fear for him.
The gravel of the pathway felt harsh beneath Tipingee’s bare feet, not like the moist earth of the canefields she was used to walking on. Rose bushes edged the path, open and panting in the late afternoon heat. That smell of flowers; that the world should have such sweetness in it! The only flowers in Tipingee’s life were the scratchy yellow blossoms of her pumpkins. Butterflies and fat bees floated amongst Simenon’s roses, gorging on nectar. The steaming Christmas air hummed with bees.
The great house loomed in its whiteness before them, like a large albino toad on the path. The verandah that wrapped around it looked cool and shady. Tipingee felt her heart beating warning. She’d never set foot on its steps before; never had business that gave her permission to be here. Suppose they made Simenon mad with their impertinence, accompanying Patrice like this? Suppose their master decided to punish them all? Only Father they had to intercede for them, and him a chancy saviour. She closed her eyes briefly and made up her mind to stay with Patrice, to brave Simenon’s whips so that she might be with Patrice when his fate was decided.
Father led his flock gravely up the stairs. The only sounds were their feet thumping on the stone steps. If there are gods still, Tipingee prayed, help us now. She looked back. Yes, Mer was still there. Tipingee felt a little better. Not reassured completely, but a little more comforted.
“Do any of you heathens know ‘Venez, Divin Messie’?” Father asked. By the look of disdain he directed at the whole bunch, it was clear that he included poor whites and blacks both in “heathen.”
“Yes, Father,” said a few voices.
“Good. Be ready to sing it, then. When I tell you, mind.”
“Yes, Father.”
He sighed, set his shoulders. He banged the knocker on the huge wooden door. It clunked like an axe biting into the chopping block. He knocked again, and favoured Patrice with a small, grim smile. “All will be well, Patrice.” He sounded to Tipingee like a man trying to convince himself of what he was saying. He frowned at her, but she kept her hold on Patrice’s hand. Patrice squeezed back. His palm was damp and slippery.
The Salt Roads Page 7
