by Maryse Conde
Saint-Louis was already flooded, its streets stood in three feet of water and its inhabitants perched on beds and tables in their cabins. Most of the trees had been blown down and branches and leaves were strewn over the land. Razyé entered Ma Tétéche’s where come hell or high water the regular rum guzzlers were drowning their sorrows in neat rum. He did not even take the trouble to wish them good day, but yelled: “Where does she live, that schoolteacher?”
They recognized him and immediately twenty mouths stammered directions and forty hands shot out to point the way. He dashed out as quickly as he had entered.
Cathy’s house was at the far end of the village, the last of a jumble of cabins made of straw. Since she moved in she had put all her efforts into making the garden as pretty as she could, distinguishing it by a bed of flowers, roses that were now flattened, heads drooping under the deluge, sadly dripping petals. Razyé was oblivious to these details and almost knocked down the door with a shove of his shoulder. He had not counted on the bad weather playing havoc with his plans. There were no lessons that day, and only Cathy and Romaine cradling her little Déodat appeared in front of him. A stream was lapping across the floor of beaten earth. The two women had opened an umbrella over their heads and were perched on an oleander-wood chest of drawers inlaid with magnolia, one of the remaining pieces from her childhood bedroom that she hadn’t the heart to part with. What Razyé had not counted on either was the effect that Cathy would have on him.
He had never seen her before. He had never been curious to see her.
Suddenly, the rumour he had heard, the rumour he had never paid attention to, first of all because he was not a man to listen to rumour, but mainly because his head was too filled with mourning, engulfed his memory in a flood of conviction. This was no wicked slander. In this face in front of him he saw his own eyes, his forehead and his mouth. How could this be possible? During her final days she had been so fragile he no longer touched her, however much he had wanted to. And were the people around so blind that they suspected nothing? Had Aymeric been really such a dolt? And yet he was taken with regret, a regret tinged with bitterness and a kind of fury. The daughter looked nothing like the mother. Nothing at all. Once again, she had cruelly slipped between his fingers and left him empty-handed.
Cathy jumped down from her chest of drawers and stood facing him.
“What are you doing in my home?” she shouted at him.
Razyé got control of himself and used the first excuse that came to mind.
“I’ve come . . . I’ve come to see my good friend Romaine. I didn’t know she worked for you.”
Cathy spun round and in stupefaction asked the servant:
“What? You mean you know him?”
“That’s a fine trick you played on me,” said Romaine, gloomily. “Now I’m out of a job, with a baby on my hands!”
It was as if the infant realized its misfortune for it started to squeal like a piglet. Razyé drew a wallet out of his pocket.
“How much did she give you each month?” he asked. Romaine, looking woeful, did not answer and he placed a wad of banknotes on the table in front of her. At the sight of so much money, her face lit up. However, when she looked up to thank him she had a sudden illumination. The resemblance she couldn’t place ever since she had worked for Cathy was his! Him! It was the same burning eyes, the same slightly heavy lips and the same wilful chin. After a moment she took a grip on herself, telling herself she was losing her senses. Whatever could she be thinking of? Aymeric de Linsseuil’s daughter looking like Razyé? It was pure madness. And yet the more she looked at him through the dim candlelight, the more she saw another face take shape beside his. It was the expression that was different and deceiving. One was young, glowing and tender, the other ageing, bitter and aggressive. One belonged to the soft light of dawn, the other to the black night of a hurricane. It was simply their expression that was different. As she couldn’t help gaping at him, he barked in his usual manner:
“What are you looking at me for like a horse that has thrown its rider?”
She grabbed his hand, not knowing exactly what she was going to say to him. He shook himself free.
The regulars in the bar were watching and the diabolical wagging of tongues began. Who would ever have thought that someone like Razyé would have dealings with a good-for-nothing like Romaine? You never can tell with men! They must have met when she was living in La Pointe. That’s right, it was rumoured she was often seen with the Socialists. It didn’t take much to jump to the conclusion that her illegitimate son was his. Some denied it categorically. No, no! The child was as black as midnight with tight peppercorn hair. If he’d had Razyé as a father, he’d have come out better than that.
Oblivious to the stir he was causing, Razyé made for the door and opened it, letting in a blast of wind laden with whirling leaves and branches. Bending over, he grabbed the bridle of his horse who was dejectedly soaking up the fury of the rain under a flamboyant tree. Then he began to walk along beside it at an uncontrollable pace. He was plunged into a state of utter confusion. This Cathy, so different as to be a traitor to the first, disgusted him, and he had no inclination to claim her as his own. A daughter who does not look like her mother is a monster. Yet, to claim her would be a revenge more cruel than any he had ever imagined. No more secrets. Everyone would know what had happened in the past. The name of Linsseuil would be tarnished. His offshoot would replace the master stock.
Suddenly he was deafened by a terrible noise. It sounded as if two sugarcane trains had collided at full speed and been derailed. At the same time the fronts of the houses flashed as bright as day, while a tree splintered halfway down its trunk and fell across the road. Razyé was forced to seek refuge in one of the few cabins still standing. The dying flame of a hurricane lamp was flickering. In the shadows, a large woman and three young children were holding up part of the roof with all their might and never stopped calling on the name of the Good Lord. At the other end of the room, serene and almost smiling on his mattress, a man appeared to be meditating. By his bearing and the secret, sagacious expression in his eyes, Razyé, who had seen a fair number of them, recognized a seer. Without further ado, he sat down beside him and offered him a little of the chewing tobacco that for years he had been sent from Cuba. The man willingly helped himself and spoke as if he were talking into space.
“What’s good about life is that whether we are twenty, forty or sixty, it always has a surprise in store for us.”
Razyé sighed.
“Yes, but sometimes you’d like it to be pleasant.” The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Hey! What are you complaining about? In my opinion, you should just let things happen now. You win. Every time.”
Razyé was about to press him with questions when the remaining sheets of corrugated iron on the roof lifted away from the helpless hands and blew off with the wind. The woman screamed. A torrent of water poured inside and he found himself wriggling in the middle of an icy flood. Silently, the bodies of his companions slipped into the night. Fortunately, he had learned how to swim.
When he returned to Grand-Anse at the end of the day, he was being mourned as one of the missing.
The sky was suddenly washed clean. Anonymous (at this time hurricanes were not given names), the tropical storm continued on its course toward other islands, leaving a trail of ruin and hundreds of homeless behind it. At the inn, Razyé emptied half a liter of rum, had his chest rubbed with camphor then set off for the church, the only building still standing, where, despite protests from the priest, the political meeting was to be held. Those who accompanied him realized full well he was not to be approached, he looked so sombre and withdrawn. In fact, though there was a large turn out, nobody was in a mood to discuss the squabbles between Socialists that evening. They had had a close call with desolation and death and people felt united. They were black and unfortunate, wasn’t tha
t right? There was a general outcry against the smallholding contracts granted by the white factory owners—the favorite topic of conversation. The smallholders cleared the ground and prepared the soil. Though half the artificial fertilizer was paid for, it was up to them to provide the manure, cut and carry the cane. What profit, they wondered, would be left for them? As for the Indians remaining on Marie-Galante, the last of them had taken the boat for La Pointe the day before, with no hope of return, because the black workers got two francs a job, whereas they were only getting one franc twenty-five.
Exploitation, disrespect!
Suddenly Razyé was fed up with the same old slogans. To everyone’s surprise he left the church, cut a path through the rubbish and amidst the salty breath of the wind slowly walked to the end of the jetty.
All around him, the listless immensity of the sea. Above him, the black sailcloth of the sky.
He remained standing for a long while, then sat down on the rough stones, his feet dangling in the void a few feet above the water. Strange that for almost twenty years he had never thought of putting an end to his life. It was not as if he were frightened of displeasing the Good Lord and finding himself in hell. His hell was inside him, where his heart lay. He was a coward, that’s all. He hadn’t the courage to leave ahead of his time. Or else he was a hypocrite. Though he had never admitted it, something had made him cling to life all this time. He had remained attached to life’s little pleasures. The flesh of a lady of easy virtue, the scent of iodine and salt from the sea, the sear of the sun, the burn of rum and the smell of sweat of men playing cards or dominoes. But now he had lost his taste for everything.
So what was he waiting for?
He would do better to swim out with a calm stroke to the swell of the open sea, and once there, with eyes closed and fists clenched, rolled up in a ball like a foetus in its element, he would lower himself further and further to the very bottom of the body of the ocean.
The flabbergasted fish would welcome him with a serenade. Far away the world would continue its crooked course; but that would no longer be his business.
5
A Well-Kept Secret
Saint Theresa of the Infant Jesus, Saint Anthony of Padua and the Archangel Michael looked on with contrite expressions, for admittedly the sight was a sorry one. The pews that hadn’t been washed out to sea were scattered here and there in the aisles; leaves, branches and even tree trunks littered the nave; a layer of mud covered the floor, to the great satisfaction of the fowl who pecked around with cluckings of joy. A group of homeless had spent the last three nights in the chapel of the Virgin Mary to the left of the main altar and had hung their rags to dry on the edge of the font. Unlike the saints in their niches, however, the inhabitants of Saint-Louis were not really sorry for the state of their church, parishioners who for years had never attended mass without an umbrella open over their heads to catch the leaks through the roof. Noisy and unruly, the children waited in front of the confessional for their catechism. They were all to take communion the following day for a mass of thanksgiving. Father Dupuytren wondered whether he should get them to shut up with a kick as he usually did, then decided to stay where he was. Through the mesh he could see Cathy, who took confession every Saturday, for every Sunday she received communion and offered her prayers to the memory of her papa. He could have recited her sins by heart. Venial. Always the same, week after week. A few fits of temper, for she was choleric and flared up at her pupils. A little greed. She was fond of the crab patties and calalu her servant Romaine cooked for her. Stale stuff, in other words. Nothing juicy. Nevertheless, if he had been observant, as any man of his calling should be, he would have noted that her familiar, pretty face was unusually careworn. Head lowered, striking her breast with her hand, she whispered: “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. Seriously.”
“I am listening,” the priest answered, routinely.
Cathy took on an inspired air as if what she was about to confess frightened her. Then she leaned forward, her forehead glued to the wood of the confessional. Her cheeks were flushed, the color of a freshly sliced sapodilla. A mixture of dark brown and red. She seemed beside herself and murmured: “Father, I wanted to kill someone.”
The priest looked at her in amazement.
“You?”
She nodded and told her story. How a few days earlier, vomited up by the fury of the storm, Razyé had had the nerve to show up at her house and how, face to face with the man who had murdered her father through a series of strikes and riots, who had stripped him of his land and his factory, she had only one desire: to grab the kitchen knife and stick it in his back. Like a woman of the Maroons hacking with a cutlass at the master who had raped her. As she spoke, she relived the events of that night with growing passion. She interrupted herself to catch her breath then resumed with an even greater violence.
“At one point I had a kind of dream, more frightening than reality. I found myself in a room whose window was wide open to the rain and the chaos of the wind. Somewhere I could hear a shutter banging. He was lying on the ground, his clothes soaked, not dripping with water but with blood. His horrible black eyes were staring blindly, seeing nothing but the blackness of death. And I had killed him. I leaned over him. I pushed his body outside and the water carried him off to hell.”
“My dear Cathy!” the priest protested, aghast.
He had not expected anything of the sort and realized that the paltry number of rosaries he was going to prescribe would be a small penance. As if she still had a lot on her conscience, she started off again.
“That night I turned Romaine out with her child, the poor little Déodat. But this time it was not in a dream. It was for real. She who had always been so good to me, even more than mabo Sandrine at papa’s. I wanted to hit her. I took a stick . . . yes, a stick!”
She began to cry.
“Romaine? Why? Why?” the priest could only stammer. She looked up in agony.
“I got it into my head that she had had dealings with Razyé and that she had hired herself out to spy on me.” What was there to say?
Father Dupuytren searched his memory for the seminary lessons, then stammered, realizing as he spoke the pitiful nature of his homily.
“One does not pay back evil with evil. This is not what the Good Lord wants. Even if Razyé is a devil, and that everyone knows, you must have compassion in your heart for him. Like your brother or even your papa, whom he so wronged. We are all the children of the Good Lord. He created us. It’s for us that His son Jesus Christ died on the cross. What is going to happen to this poor Romaine and her child? Though she is unmarried, she’s not a bad person. You know that. You must ask her forgiveness and take her back.”
Cathy lowered her head and groaned: “Will she accept?”
“Go and ask her,” the priest ordered. “As for your unholy thoughts . . .”
Thereupon he began to mumble again. When he stopped, Cathy, still in tears, made the sign of the cross. Then she went and kneeled in front of Saint Anthony of Padua whose blue eyes and plump, bearded cheeks she had liked since she was a child. With one hand on her heart, she recited her five dozen rosaries, which calmed her a little bit. Prayer has that effect on those who believe in its virtues.
When she came out of the church, the sun was wistfully hesitating on the horizon. Was he going to take his daily dip?
One day is never like the next. You would never have thought that less than a week earlier Nature had unleashed its forces. Now the sea, picture perfect, was caressing the sand along the beaches and the fishermen’s nets drying beside their boats. The flock of the silk-cotton tree fluttered on the evening breeze and the air seemed to be floating with butterfly wings as white as cotton.
She recalled that Romaine used to live just round the corner from the prison in a lakou, a tenements’ yard called the Luttrel lakou after the landlord, Simeon Luttrel, one of the town’s mo
st respectable merchants. The yard was connected to the street by a stinking passageway squeezed between two cabins. On account of the recent weather, wooden planks had been thrown over the mud and Cathy had great difficulty keeping her balance. Since it was mainly occupied by single women, some with children, malicious gossip claimed it was a den of women of easy virtue that the town hall would do well to look into. The tropical storm had had fun tossing away the sheets of corrugated iron and planks that made up the yard’s two-story buildings, and the unfortunate women, who had lost everything in the way of clothes, furniture and crockery, were trying to shelter their nakedness.
They looked at Cathy menacingly, insulted by her youth, her percale dress, the large velvet bow in her hair and her tiny embroidered slippers, now covered in mud.
After clearly hesitating, one of the tenants decided to answer her questions and told her they hadn’t seen Romaine or the little Déodat since the storm. They had probably been swept away by the sea that had flooded the town. She said this in a matter-of-fact tone of voice that made the information even more horrible. Cathy was appalled.
“Disappeared? But it can’t be true!”
Another woman, who was sweeping up heaps of rubbish, shrugged her shoulders.
“It seems there are hundreds missing on Marie-Galante and there’s no counting the numbers in La Pointe.”
