Irregular Verbs

by Irregular Verbs

  “Where is the gold?” they asked. “Is it hidden here, or do you sorcel it from stones?”

  At those words Ramaad’s anger gave way to fear, because in those places a sorcerer is burned if found out, and the fires were very near. He told them about the little sack buried beneath the roots of a date tree outside his house, where he had kept a gold necklace he hoped to give a woman one day—yes, just like the one I gave you this morning. With those words they rejoiced and dug it up, but when they found it said, “What, did you think we would believe this is all the gold you have, after all you have given us? Tell us where the rest is.”

  “Truly, that is all that I have,” Ramaad said. “Take it and leave me in peace.”

  But they would not take it, and they would not go in peace; they were maddened like bees whose hive has been destroyed, and when they had torn his house apart and dug up every part of his floor they turned again to him and said, “Do you think we want this little bit of gold? Take it and keep it forever!” They took the necklace and held it in the fire, until the gold began to soften with the heat, and then they tied it around his neck, so it burned its shape on his skin. Then, to show that he was no longer a man of Akhaduu and a trader, they blinded him in one eye—for you need two eyes to see things far away, as a trader must—and hobbled one of his legs, so he could no longer travel, and broke all the fingers in his right hand, so he could no longer bargain. Then they left him there, to live in the hut he rebuilt with his ruined hand, and to wait for the man he knew would someday come to ask him about dragons.

  Well, that is the story. How do you feel now? Still? Well, tell me, what lesson do you think you are to take from it?

  Ah, I see. That is the lesson the Dead Men take from it, Ramaad’s lesson. But we take another lesson. It is the reason why I, the richest mother in our village, wear wooden bracelets and live in a simple hut, while all my sisters wear gold. It is the reason why I let your sisters beat you after your blood came, and take away all those gifts I gave you, and leave you here crying.

  The lesson we take is the dragon’s lesson, and it is this: never be worth more dead than you are alive.

  AU COEUR DES OMBRES

  Daniel stepped out of the hospital, started down the narrow staircase. A voice came from behind him.

  “M’sieu Chalkwater,” the doctor said. Daniel turned back to see him: he was garbed in red, still wearing his beaked mask, and holding a hand atomizer. “I’m sorry, M’sieu, you must be sprayed before you go. For hygienic purposes.”

  Nodding, Daniel climbed back up to the landing and closed his eyes while the doctor sprayed carbolic on his hands and face. When he no longer heard the shushing sound of the atomizer he opened his eyes and blinked at the stinging mist still hanging there. “May I go now?” he asked.

  The doctor glanced away. “Your coat, M’sieu . . .”

  Daniel reached up to undo the fastening button of his blue uniform jacket, pulled it off and handed it to the doctor. “Burn it.”

  The doctor called again when he was halfway down the steps. “You have my sympathies, M’sieu.”

  Nodding, Daniel stepped down into the narrow courtyard and walked to the street, waited to hear the sound of the hospital door closing. When it came he turned right, past the old synagogue, and headed for the Rue St-Charles. Without his jacket he felt the chill of the Nivôse air, cool even in Nouvelle-Orleans, and he was glad to see the packed omnibus approaching. He gave the old nag a pat on the neck and climbed on, sat amongst the passengers on the tightly spaced wooden benches. Out of uniform he received no special treatment, and so squeezed himself in among the democratic crowd—Creoles and Acadiens, whites and blacks, all but those rich enough to afford a private cab. Many held handkerchiefs over their noses, or else sachets of herbs or vials full of fragrant oil. Daniel leaned back, let himself be mesmerized by the slow clip-clop of their progress.

  “Descartes Square,” the driver called. By now the omnibus had emptied out somewhat, so that Daniel did not have to fight to get off. Careful to avoid the steaming piles of dry shit the horse had left he climbed out the back, took his bearings from the Goddess of Reason standing at the centre of the square. In the eleven years since she had been erected, a gift to mark the hundredth anniversary of the Revolution, her copper form had slowly turned green; only her spiked crown and torch were still kept polished. Had there been more sun she would have marked the time, pointing to one of the ten numerals around the square, but so near the winter solstice there was too little light to cast more than the weakest shadow.

  Daniel walked past the Cabildo, saluted the officier de la paix standing guard outside; surprised, the man frowned before tentatively saluting back. Passing the great double doors of Reason Cathedral Daniel reached the Presbytere, saluted the officer there and went in.

  “Daniel Chalkwater to see the governor,” he told the man at the desk inside.

  The man frowned. “Chalkwater?” he asked dubiously; his accent was pure Parisian—either a well-educated Creole, like most of the civil service, or a Continental whose ambitions had somehow been frustrated at home. He glanced down at the open logbook on his desk, ran his finger down the left-hand page. “I’m sorry, M’sieu, I see no Chalkwater here.”

  “The Governor asked me to come at my convenience,” Daniel said. “Could you let him know I’m here?”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to disturb him—”

  “Allow me, then,” Daniel said, walking past the man’s desk and into the atrium; Creoles tended to type him as a bullheaded Saxon the moment they heard his name, and now and then he liked to prove them right. Ignoring the clerk’s sputtering he climbed the marble stairs, turned left and went to the oak door labelled CHARLES HENIN, GOUVERNEUR. He took a breath, knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” a voice called from within.

  Daniel opened the door, leaned in. It was a large room, big enough to hold a council; empty benches were spread in two rows on either side of an aisle that began at the door, all pointed at a large, marble-topped desk. There sat the governor, a man in his early fifties with pink, scarred cheeks and straight white hair that fell to his shoulder. The desktop was spread with documents, and despite the cool weather his face was flushed. He looked up at Daniel as he entered, frowned.

  “M’sieu le gouverneur?” Daniel asked. “I’m Daniel Chalkwater. We met at the ball here in Frimaire, the reception for the Gustave? You asked me to come if . . .”

  “Ah—yes,” the governor said, nodding. He gestured to one of the two wooden chairs that sat directly in front of his desk. “Please—sit.” Once Daniel had moved to the chair and sat the governor began looking through the papers on his desk, finally lifting up the bust of Jacques Hébert and drawing from beneath it a brown cardboard folder, which he untied and spread on the desk. “I understand the Gustave sailed at the beginning of the month. You are at liberty, then?”

  Daniel glanced away. “I chose not to renew my commission,” he said.

  “At full pension?” the governor asked. “How long had you served?”

  “Twenty years—I joined the Navy when I was thirteen.” He shrugged. “I had meant to retire—perhaps open a shop—but my wife . . .”

  The governor’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he nodded. He looked down at the pages spread out in front of him. “Your rank, at retirement?”

  “Lieutenant-Commandant.”

  “Bien. And you have experience, captaining a steamship on a river?”

  “I commanded the Chénier, in Guyane,” Daniel said.

  The governor glanced down at the papers before him, made a note. “Very good. Though you may find the Mississippi a more challenging river than the Marowijine.”

  Daniel took a breath. “I know a bit about the Mississippi, gouverneur.”

  “Ah?” the governor said, then ran his finger quickly over Daniel’s file. “I wasn’t aware . . .”

  “Not
from my Navy service. I spent some time there as a child—my parents were Americans. Abolitionists.”

  “Ah. So you know the territory—good.” The governor made another note, his pen moving in quick, precise strokes. “And your parents, are they—”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “Eh bien. My sympathies.” The governor glanced at Daniel, then down at his notes, then back to Daniel. “At any rate, let me tell you why I asked you to come. After due deliberation—about a hundred years!—the Convention has decided at last to change la Louisiane from an inland territory to a full Department, of which I am to be the Director.”

  “Congratulations,” Daniel said.

  The governor held up a hand. “It’s not an honour I’d choose, believe me. This territory has always been the most resistant to reason, between the Blacks, the Acadiens, even the Creoles—half of them, you know, are descended from fugitive aristocrats. Barely ten years ago the Catholics and the Jews were allowed to practice their faiths in public. And that’s only the city; as for inland . . . well, you know it. . . .”

  Daniel nodded. France had never abandoned its claim to the vast swath of land that ran up the Mississippi, but neither had it ever expended much energy on it. Over the years it had developed into a nearly lawless country, a half-dozen trading posts in a wilderness filled with Indians, fugitive slaves and abolitionists from the American States and the slave hunters that pursued them.

  “At any rate,” the governor went on, “with the new work done by M’sieu Pasteur and his colleagues, the Convention has decided it may be possible for white men to survive out there. And so it has been given to me to rationalize our operations.” He opened his desk drawer, drew out two sealed envelopes; one was blank, on the other was written Coeur-Lion. He handed this one to Daniel, as well as a photo of a man with close-cropped black hair, fierce eyes and an aquiline nose. “Hippolye Coeur-Lion is our intendant in Sainte-Genevieve. He is a good man, a true rationalist. You are to deliver these orders to him, sealed, and see that he reads them. In your presence, please.”

  “Of course,” Daniel said, taking the envelope. “May I ask—why did you want me for this, specifically?”

  The governor’s mouth tightened. “Saxons have a native stubbornness our people lack. It inhibits reason, as your parents saw, but it has its uses. The interior—” He shook his head. “As we seek to change it, so may it change us, yes? It is my hope you will not be changed.” He looked down at the blank envelope, picked up his pen and wrote Chalkwater on it in nervous strokes. “If you have cause to doubt Coeur-Lion’s health, or his faculties, open these orders. Otherwise, burn them without reading.”

  Daniel took the envelope, held it carefully. “Certainly,” he said.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then the governor nodded once more. “There is a ship, the Eugénie, waiting at the Ponchartrain docks. She has an engineer, but you will have to hire a crew. Is this acceptable?”

  “Yes,” Daniel said. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath. “I’ll depart as soon as possible.”

  The governor smiled. “Good,” he said. “Best of luck, then, Captain. My regards to Coeur-Lion.”

  It took Daniel longer than he had expected to gather a crew: though there were many out-of-work sailors at this time of year, few were willing to go up the river. In the end he had to recruit from among the skiff-pilots that plied the lake and the bayous, Blacks, Acadiens and half-breeds; men little more civilized than the coureurs de bois that lived inland. After two decades of military discipline Daniel at first found their company difficult, but with the clamour and chaos of preparing the ship he soon grew used to them. They were, after all, the kind of people he’d grown up with.

  It took nearly ten days to crew and fuel the ship. The Gustave had been stocked with Pasteur’s new hygienic canned rations, but the Eugénie was to be provisioned in the old-fashioned way, loaded with beads, blankets, hatchets and brandy to be traded for food and dispensed as gifts. When the long process was finally at an end Daniel signalled to the engineer, who directed the stokers to fire up the boiler. The engine was just working up a head of steam when Daniel spotted an officier de la paix walking towards them on the dock, waving a blue flag. Daniel ordered the engineer to valve the pressure, dropped the gangway and went to meet the policeman. “What’s the problem, officier?” he asked.

  “Quarantine,” the officier said. He handed Daniel the blue flag. “All ships are ordered to remain in port for the duration.”

  “What is it?” Daniel asked, annoyed.

  “Cholera, in Tremé.”

  “We’re going upriver, not into the Gulf.”

  “All ships. Those are my orders.” The officier shrugged. “Don’t worry, it should be a few days at the most.”

  “A few days?” Daniel had been on board the Gustave in Guadeloupe when the cholera had hit there; the port had been closed for a full season until it died down.

  The officier nodded. “It’s the new hygiene. All the men from the Academie Scientifique have to do is isolate the source and then they can sterilize it.” He smiled. “It’ll be the end of the yellow fever, too, and the malaria. We can grow into a real city now.”

  Daniel nodded. “How wonderful,” he said. “Thank you, officier.”

  The officier gave him a perfunctory salute and moved on to the next ship at the dock. Daniel sighed, went to the stern and tied the quarantine flag to the pole. Whispers followed him as he went, and when he turned round again much of the crew had gathered to face him. He scanned the crowd, looking for Latour, the pilot and first mate: he was Daniel’s sole lucky find, another retired Navy man who was said to know the bayous and the river as well as any.

  “It’s true we’re under quarantine,” Daniel said, addressing the crowd but keeping his eyes on Latour. “I’m told it will only be a few days, though, and I’ll see that you get paid for that time.” In fact he had no authority to do that; the pay would come out of whatever profit he might make from this trip. He could not let the crew wander, though, couldn’t let this trip be delayed: nobody else would be sailing until spring, and he refused to stay in this city that long.

  As Daniel had anticipated, many of the crew looked to Latour for guidance; he nodded, and they began to move back to their stations. Once the crowd had cleared Latour approached Daniel. “That won’t keep them,” he said. “Not for long.”

  “It’s a better offer than they ought to hope for,” Daniel said. “Were you ever paid for a day you didn’t sail?”

  Latour shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, though. They won’t think that it’s the rational thing to do; they’ll only think of added days away from their homes. If you want them to stay, you have to stay close to them—make sure they see your face every day.”

  “My rooms are in the east, past Rue Champs-Elysees,” Daniel said.

  Spreading his hands, Latour said “Why not stay with me? It’s only a few days, as you say.”

  “I couldn’t ask—”

  “It’s no favour,” Latour said. “You see, I am rational enough to know what’s best for me, and I want to get paid.”

  Latour’s home was modest, a small square house within sight of the lake; unlike the rest of the crew, who were renting rooms at sailors’ boarding houses, he lived there permanently, with his wife and children. Though Latour had been in the Navy he had been a crewman, not an officer, and Daniel tried to maintain his distance. Still, he enjoyed the man’s company, taking meals with him and his family. It was a cheerful house, and though the quarantine flag still flew any notion of trouble felt far away.

  On the third night Daniel awoke, roused by a noise outside. There were people in the streets, despite the couvre-feu, and as he came fully awake he realized they were singing. He got out of bed, went to the window: a dozen men, or perhaps women, were standing in the street below. Some were dressed in dark robes, some in oversized clothing, others in moth-eaten finery;
all their faces were covered, either with broad hats, doctors’ masks or veils. They sang loudly as they walked towards the house:

  Bring us a treat, bring us a treat

  We don’t ask for much, just a keg of beer

  Your wife or your eldest daughter

  Bring us a treat!

  Daniel went downstairs to see Latour at the door; he was laughing with the masked men, passing them clay mugs full of beer. When they had each drunk their fill they sang another song and then moved on, towards the next house.

  “What was that?” Daniel asked

  “La Guignolee,” Latour said as gathered the fallen mugs together and shut the door. “It’s from the father country, I’m told, though now it’s only the Acadiens that do it. To celebrate the new year.”

  “The new year was more than three months ago.”

  “The old new year.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I was told to expect this kind of thing when I went up the river, but I didn’t think I’d see it here,” he said.

  “Don’t be fooled just because you can see the city,” Latour said. “You’re upriver already.”

  It was two more days before the quarantine was lifted; finally the ship’s wheel began to turn and they sailed out of the lake and west, towards the river’s mouth. Here the levees were built so high that they stood metres above the land around them: the deck was level with the rooftops of the houses as they sailed by, and when Latour blew the whistle it startled women hanging laundry. Daniel waved and smiled as they passed, glad to finally be leaving the city.

  The first day took them slowly from the lake to the town of Baton Rouge—the northernmost limit of civilization—then up into the bayou country. Here was where a good pilot was key: the river was split into a hundred branches, and only experience could guide the ship to the right one time after time. Finally the streams all joined once more into one, drawing closer to its source, and the river grew wide and sleepy. A thick wall of cypresses stood on either side, dipping their feet in the water, broken here and there by a cleared hectare and a clapboard shack with a clay chimney where an Acadien, a black or both might live.