Windward Heights

by Maryse Conde

  I must admit that after living with us for three months, Razyé was transformed. You couldn’t say he was handsome because of the color of his skin, his facial features and his big purplish mouth. But his height and build had developed. With his black hair braided into a plait down his back, he looked like Otaheite, the Indian hero you see in picture books.

  Neglected by father and sister alike, because of this newcomer, Justin inevitably came to hate Razyé.

  Nelly Raboteur was stopped at this point in her story by a commotion of voices. They had just learned through the Morse system on board that the battleship Maine had mysteriously exploded in the port of Havana.

  Accident? Attack? Perpetrated by whom? And why? Whatever the case, two hundred and sixty sailors were dead and the United States of America was calling for revenge. There was already talk of declaring war on Spain. What lay in store for Cuba?

  4

  Nelly Raboteur’s Tale (continued)

  In fact, Nelly Raboteur was only able to continue her story the following morning. They were a few hours away from landing at Pointe-à-Pitre and she would have much preferred to pack her trunks and the wicker baskets with the clothes of the family from Le Moule she was working for. But she was assailed by her eager young lady listeners.

  Life would have gone on that way for years and years if Hubert Gagneur hadn’t been struck down in the prime of life, in his forty-first year. We think a mason-wasp must have crept into the ear of his horse which took fright, galloped madly across the savanna and tossed him over the cliffs. Two fishermen mending their nets beside their boat saw him take a nosedive. They ran as fast as they could but to no avail. His brain had squirted out and his arms and legs lay broken on the rocks. They picked up what they could, put the remains into a basket and brought them back to l’Engoulvent on the stroke of noon. Justin and Cathy were having their lunch.

  Nobody bothered to give Hubert Gagneur a wake, even less a venéré, nine days after. He was merely the illegitimate son of a mulatto without a bank account or a cent to his name. The priest came in his rumpled surplice together with two half-asleep choirboys, poured some holy water on the rough pinewood coffin, mumbled a bit of Latin and took to his heels as if he were afraid of meeting a blood-sucking soukougnan in the savanna. Then without taking the trouble to remove their bakoua hats pulled low over their foreheads, a group of laborers dug him a hole next to the grave of his late wife.

  So ended the life of Hubert Gagneur.

  While Cathy cried her heart out, Razyé remained quite unmoved and perfectly dry-eyed. It was as if the death of the man who had so spoiled him meant absolutely nothing to him. Hubert’s death slid off him like water off malanga leaves. Out of respect for Cathy, he did not say a word, and stood next to her, as stiff as a scarecrow, a bwa-bwa, waiting to be burnt on Ash Wednesday. It was at that moment I think I realized his true nature. Only one person counted on this earth and that was Cathy. At the same time I had the feeling that he was especially flattered by the exaggerated way she clung to him and that he had nothing in his heart but pride. Now I’m wondering if I wasn’t mistaken about him, and if, out of the two, he wasn’t rather the victim.

  As for Justin, he became a different person overnight. He drew himself up and blossomed like a sunflower that had finally found the sun. Hubert Gagneur had hardly been laid under the earth than Justin did everything he had never been allowed to do. He sold a strip of land along the cliffs to the colonial authorities who had been requesting it for years to make a panoramic route. With the money he set about repairing l’Engoulvent, which sorely needed it, and hired four Indians from Calcutta. They arrived in an ox cart from Le Moule, the women wrapped in their golden veils and the men bearded and broad-shouldered. On orders from Justin, they abandoned the sugarcane that had never really thrived over our way, and by cartloading buckets of water and wheelbarrows of cowpats they grew lettuce, endives, peas, tomatoes, cabbages and carrots. Every week baskets of vegetables were sent off to the markets of Grande-Terre. Then Justin went to find the schoolteacher at Grands­ Fonds-les-Mangles. Hubert Gagneur had never set foot inside a school or even thought of sending his children, because he thought education a waste of time. Every evening, by the light of the hurricane lamp in the dining room, Justin toiled over his reading, arithmetic and natural science books. So much so that he passed some examination or other, and proud as a peacock, started at the school in Anse­ Bertrand in a uniform I washed and starched for him. From then on he only returned to l’Engoulvent at the end of the week, giving orders left and right like a real Monsieur.

  One Saturday when the devil was beating his wife behind the church, as we say, and it was raining our way but the sun was out over La Désirade in the distance—I have kept the memory of that day in my head as if it were yesterday—he came home from Anse-Bertrand and found Razyé and Cathy sitting in the kitchen. Their cheeks were stuck together as they ate Jamaica plums. With one arm slipped around Razyé’s neck, Cathy was popping them one by one into his mouth in fits of laughter. Razyé was swallowing and groaning with pleasure. At first Justin remained rooted to the spot, as if his eyes could not believe what they saw. Then he rushed over to his sister and with one cuff sent her sprawling to the ground. At the same time he revived his Creole that he had been neglecting somewhat and shouted:

  “Kimafoutiyesa! Ti-ma-fi, sé on vant a krédi, ou vle poté ban mwen? E épi yon nèg anko?”

  She tried to get up, but a second slap sent her flying again with a bloodied mouth. Justin turned to Razyé and shouted at him like a dog.

  “Dèro! Dèro, mwen di-w! Mache!”

  From that day on Justin forbade Razyé to set foot inside the house and confined him to the fields with the Indians. He hired an elderly nun from Petit-Canal, as withered as an over-ripe passion fruit under her grubby winged coif, to teach Cathy French, a little reading, a little writing, but above all embroidery, sewing and good manners. At first Cathy locked herself in her room on the day of the lessons, but the nun did not give up and drummed on the door for hours so that in the end Cathy gave in. I felt sorry for her when I saw her sitting on a bench in the dining room pricking her fingers as she awkwardly tried to thread her needle. But gradually she seemed to like being with the nun, who told her stories of when she was in France during the Revolution and how the fanatics wanted to snip the nipples off all the Sisters. I could hear them giggling together.

  As for Razyé!

  You would have expected him to buck like a horse against the whip. For at that time he was fifteen or sixteen years old and the size of a locust tree. But nothing of the sort! l’Engoulvent had a stable that had never housed more than one horse and leaked all over. That was where he now spent his nights, after having toiled with the Indians and eaten his root vegetables out of the same gourd. It was as if he took pleasure in his abjection. I watched him with his chin down to his chest as he watered, weeded, hoed and lit bonfires. He no longer washed. A comb never touched his hair. Whenever I passed him by, my nostrils revolted at his smell—a mixture of dirt, sweat and cowpats. All the liveliness and boldness had gone out of him. He had become sullen and uncouth, a repulsive animal.

  The only person who did not seem to notice this trans­formation was Cathy. Once the nun had left she managed to escape Carmélien’s attention and join Razyé in the stables. She stayed there until I hung a hurricane lamp out in the yard to frighten the rats away. Sometimes even much later. The moon had time to light up the whole expanse of sky. What went on when they were together? I couldn’t help turning this question over and over in my head. Yet when I came up with an answer, the only answer possible, I convinced myself I must be mad.

  How could such a lovely girl bear to be embraced by such an individual? And how could he possibly appreciate such delicacy? For a monster to be happy, doesn’t he need to meet his match?

  At the end of June, when an embroidered indigo handkerchief was stretched to the four corners
of the sky above our heads, Justin assembled us all in the dining room, all of us, even the Indians, even Razyé. It was then I could see how changed he had become on reaching manhood. He was as different from his father as first light is from dusk. Slim, tall, as straight as a whistling pine. With his light brown hair and his grey eyes he could be mistaken for a white Creole. He looked us straight in the eye and declared: “I am going to be married. Not to just anybody. To Marie-France La Rinardiere, heiress to one of the best white Creole families, related to the Linsseuils. So I want everyone of you to be on your best behavior in her company. I shall not tolerate any bad manners.”

  The following Sunday a procession of tilburies rolled up to l’Engoulvent. Nothing but white Creoles. Ladies in straw hats and veils, gentlemen in gloves and gaiters, children with hair in ringlets. Never had we seen such a gathering at l’Engoulvent.

  Marie-France La Rinardiere had the figure and waist of a ten-year-old, the complexion of a tallow candle and white­ blonde hair that fell right down her back. She perspired and was ready to faint at the slightest effort. For generations the sons and daughters of La Rinardiere had been carried off by tuberculosis, and there was no counting the number of tombs scattered down one side of the plantation of La Grivelle in the shade of the casuarina trees. Since she only had one or two years to live, the family had let Marie-France marry Justin so as to procure her a little pleasure before she left this earth. But you could sense the contempt veiled by the smiles and the sugary words. All this high society made merry with Cathy as if they had not noticed her color, and Cathy smiled, whirled round and showed off her beauty as if she did not know that they would never forgive her for what she was. At one point, Huberte de Linsseuil, who was her own age, with her maman’s permission invited Cathy to stay with her at the Belles-Feuilles plantation, and she accepted with delight.

  Just when they were about to take their seats around the banquet table—and you should have seen what expense Justin had gone to, ordering from the caterers in La Pointe crab and conch pates, curried colombo vol-au-vent, grilled crayfish, red snapper in its jelly, stuffed goat, christophene croquettes, puree of green pawpaw, guava tarts, soursop, coconut and passion fruit sorbets, and goodness knows what else—I realized that we hadn’t seen Razyé since morning. I went to look for him and found him in the stables, his head between his hands, filthy and disgusting as usual. I caught myself taking pity on him. I took his hand that was as rough as a yam peel and said: “Wash yourself, clean yourself up and come and join the fun. Justin has given you permission to join us.”

  “What’s she doing?” he merely replied.

  “Cathy?” I answered. “She’s enjoying herself!”

  He looked up, and I noticed his eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Oh, how I wish I were white!” he shouted. “White with blue eyes in my face! White with blond hair on my head!”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “When you go to church don’t you hear the priest preach from the pulpit that the color of your skin doesn’t matter; all that counts is the color of your soul?”

  “Liar! If I was white everyone would respect me! Justin like all the rest!”

  “And I’m telling you that everyone would like you if you behaved more pleasantly . . . and if you washed a bit more often.”

  To console him, for he was really in a sorry state, I added, half-jokingly: “You know you’re handsome in your own way, with that Ashanti black skin, that fine curly hair and all those marks on your cheeks. Perhaps your ancestors were princes and princesses? Who knows what our parents were before we were brought here as slaves!”

  But nobody could have changed his mood, except per­haps Cathy—and her thoughts were far away at that moment—and he began to scream like a savage.

  “Go away, leave me alone!” I did what he told me to.

  Getting ready to accompany her new friend, Huberte, to the plantation of Belles-Feuilles, Cathy was packing her things, singing at the top of her voice. As my feelings for Razyé had somewhat changed since our conversation in the stables, I was shocked at her lightheartedness and could not help venturing the question: “Why are you so happy? If I were you I’d be wary of the friendship of those white folk.”

  She spun round.

  “I’m going to listen to Mozart. I bet you’ve never heard that name before! I’m going to dance the quadrille; I’m going to speak French with people who are not common and boring. Like all of you here!”

  “Like Razyé?” I scoffed.

  Her face fell instantly. I thought she was going to start crying like a baby.

  “Razyé? Promise me, Nelly, that you’ll take good care of him while I’m not here, for I cherish him more . . . more . . . than myself.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Well, this is a fine way to show it!”

  Thereupon I left the room, without bothering to listen to any more, and slammed the door.

  Cathy spent a whole month with Huberte de Linsseuil and I reproached her brother for letting her stay for so long with strangers. Who knows if these white Creoles had not invited her to their house for the pleasure of making fun of her, her family and her manners? But Justin was too preoccupied with savoring his honeymoon to listen to me. All day long, it was “my little darling,” “my doudou,” “my sweetie.” In the evening the twittering and bellowing that came out from under their bedroom door told anyone who was listening what they were up to. Even so, I could not help noticing that the bride was becoming frailer and frailer, a real wisp of a girl, that the handkerchief she brought to her pallid lips was stained with blood when she mounted the stairs, and that her forehead was damp with drops of sweat every time she walked more than a few yards or made the slightest effort. I tried to mention this to Justin, but every time he sent me packing.

  “Thunder and lightning! What are you on about now? There’s nothing wrong with Marie-France! People are jealous here, always ready to gossip and spread their nonsense!” The day after Cathy left, Razyé disappeared. As he still hadn’t returned after a week had gone by, I managed with some difficulty to convince Carmélien that we should go and look for him. We walked all over the Heights; we scoured the countryside as far as Petit-Canal, Anse­-Bertrand and even Le Moule. I was imagining the worst, when some scamps told us about a beast that was hiding in one of the caves in the cliff. They had tried throwing rocks to make it come out, but to no avail. I guessed immediately what beast this must be. When I saw Razyé with my own eyes I almost ran a mile, for he really was frightening. His eyes were as red as hot peppers and I understood why when I saw all the bottles of Belles-Feuilles rum piled up on the sand in the cave.

  • • •

  Suddenly Nelly Raboteur looked up and cried: “Good Lord, we’ve arrived!”

  Indeed a multitude of islands had floated up to the surface of the water, like trails of confetti, decorated with rickety shacks balanced on four stones, leaning coconut­ palms and sea grape trees. The town of La Pointe sprawled around the bay. Its patchwork of red and grey roofs huddled round the cathedral against a background of blue­ tinged hills. On the right the chimneys of a factory spewed columns of dirty smoke. On the wharf you could already see the commotion of ox carts drawn by horned zebus, grey donkeys, and porters wheeling their barrows between the legs of the crowd come to meet the boat. On deck there was a rush of feet, and those who had stayed behind to listen made a dash for their cabins.

  GUADELOUPE

  5

  The Return of Razyé

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, the folks in Petit-Canal, those who were out on their doorsteps, saw a black man gallop by, astride a black horse. Although his mount was strong and handsome, its hoofs echoed through the silence of the town in a limping, unequal fashion like the three­-legged horse of the Bête à Man Ibè that usually only ventures out under cover of night. People took fright. Tear­ful children ran to hide in their mothers’ rag
s. The men immediately recognized who this could be and shouted at the top of their lungs: “Mi Razyé, mi!”

  At the Bois-sans-soif rum shop tongues started to wag.

  The most inebriated of the rum guzzlers recovered their wits. They guessed that Razyé had returned to this desolate land for some serious business. He had a mission to accomplish. They settled down comfortably in the bar and watched for events to unfold.

  Razyé reined in his horse at the crossroads and contemplated the landscape where he had grown up. Nothing had changed during the three years he had been away and one got the feeling that in twenty years’ time everything would be the same. The same pitiless sun. The same coolie plums, the same guava trees, the same tét a nég, the same razyés growing lopsided in an arid soil. The same cabins, ashamed of being so ugly. With their bony oxen and goats. Ever since vegetable growing had been the death of sugarcane, the sugar mill had gone to ruin. Its stones were stained with a greenish growth, and a rough crown of acacias grew out of the top. The sea encircled all this desolation with a deep blue line. This is where he had suffered martyrdom, with never a kind word, never an embrace to soften his heart. The girl he loved had trampled him into the dust with little thought for his feelings. Nothing could have separated them, neither the Good Lord nor his saints, neither the devil and his demons nor any other creature on earth. Nobody, except her. And she had done it deliberately.