The slave was a very young man, about Joseph’s age. Underneath the tanga barely covering his thighs, his supple and powerful muscles stood out like thick ropes. The guards had put a chain around his neck and while two of them held him on a leash, two others followed behind, muskets at the ready.
The people gathered in the street were trampling all over the vendors’ wares to the great indignation of the latter, who yelled for them to clear off. Upper-class people dressed in hastily thrown-on transparent gaules geared up for the spectacle. Domestic slaves, crowded on doorsteps, craned their necks with curiosity, while the youngest among them cried out in Creole:
“They got him, they got him…”
Someone alerted the crowd:
“There’s his master.”
An older white man made a path through the frenzied crowd. He wore a three-piece linen suit, mud-covered gaiters, and a large straw hat. Standing before the slave, he unfurled a long leather strap and said:
“So you wanted to run away, too, huh?”
The slave said nothing. He simply raised his head, which had been lowered, and closed his eyes so as to avoid being blinded by his sweat.
“You’re going to regret that little getaway!” continued the planter. “Now walk!”
Passing in front of Jasmine’s door, the slave turned his head and looked at Joseph. He tensed his muscles as if to break his chains. The white man saw what he meant to do; his strap whistled through the air and landed with a single strike on the Negro’s cheek. Minette let out a cry that was lost in the tumult of the crowd and the noise of the chains. The slave looked at her. She had grabbed on to Joseph and was weeping nervously: for she had just noticed fresh scars on his back and saw that his sweat carried with it bits of clotted blood as it ran down his torso. That must have been what her mother’s back had been like just a few years earlier. Never had such a scene so overwhelmed her. Like all children in the country, from a very young age she had seen slaves beaten. That was their lot in life and not hers. But now that she knew that this had also been her mother’s life, now that she understood that this very easily might have been her fate as well, Minette’s conception of slavery had changed.
She had not cried out of pity, no. Something altogether different had suddenly gripped her, overwhelmed her, possessed her. Pity would not have tied her stomach in knots like that, it would not have tensed up her nerves to such a degree, it would not have made her nauseous or made her want to run up to that white man and strike him, bite him, curse him. All of this was provoked by the bloodied back she saw before her and that seemed as if it had come there expressly for her to see, if ever she had forgotten, what a slave’s back could be when made to suffer the punishment of the whip. Her mama, her mama had suffered such things! Oh, the evil of the white man, oh! What swine! Galley slaves and white trash! Every Creole swearword she could think of passed her lips. On seeing her daughter cry, Jasmine lowered her head and sighed. Such spectacles were unbearable for her, too, for she hated anything that reminded her of her vile past. She brought Joseph and the girls inside and closed the door behind her. Minette sat down in a corner of the room and, with her hand covering her mouth, tried vainly to stop her sobs.
“It’s her nerves,” said Jasmine to Joseph. “She’s at a difficult age. But it will pass.”
Lise, taken aback, watched her sister crying. “But what’s the matter with her today?” she seemed to be asking. Joseph went to get a glass of water and had her drink it, assuring her that it would calm her down.
“I hate him,” said Minette with a painful hiccup.
“Who?”
“That white colonist. I could kill him…”
“Hush!” said Jasmine, terrified. She opened the door quietly and looked outside. A long scream of pain immediately rushed into the little room.
“Close the door, mama – I beg you,” whimpered Minette.
“But what’s the matter with you,” asked Lise. “Is this the first time you’ve seen a slave get beaten?”
There was another scream, smothered this time. At that moment, Nicolette entered. Following the example of Kiss-Me-Lips, she was wearing silk madras scarves adorned with fake jewels and a transparent batiste blouse. She was often accompanied by white men, both young and old. She would emerge from their carriages arrogant and proud, disheveled and smug.
She gave Joseph a seductive sidelong glance and ran to preen before the little living room mirror.
“That slave is going to get what’s coming to him,” she stated in Creole, powdering the tip of her nose.
Not getting any response, she turned toward Minette. “Well, what’s the matter with you? Why are you crying?”
“It’s because of that slave they’re beating,” answered Lise.
“Because of a slave!…”
Minette stood up without a word, fists clenched. She passed in front of Nicolette, went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her with such force that the little house shook.
V
DESPITE EVERYTHING, the next days were full of delight for Minette. The joyfulness of youth offered a soothing balm for her recent wounds. First of all, there was the bit of money Mme Acquaire gave Jasmine for her costumes. It was December 15, and the big day was approaching. These were days of unbridled joy during which the two girls ran from store to store. For the first time in her life, Minette experienced the pleasure of buying things. Heeding Mme Acquaire’s advice, she bought herself a taffeta skirt at Miss Monnot’s place on Bonne-Foi Street. Then she chose some transparent lace, earrings adorned with fake stones that she tried on laughingly in the mirror, and pink shoes that matched the color of her skirt. Lise got to keep a fan that she had been wanting for some time and that she held the whole way home with a ladylike attitude that delighted her sister.
“I’ll be holding it on the day of the performance. Don’t forget to look at me before you start to sing,” she advised Minette.
They stopped, enchanted by the store windows of the jewelers and perfumers. But they had no more money and so were obliged to return home without having bought gloves or perfumes.
“Ah! Minette, how I would love to be rich enough to buy myself everything I want,” sighed Lise, clutching her packages to her chest.
“Do you think there’s anyone in the world who wouldn’t want to be rich?” responded her sister…
…So as not to have to pay a dressmaker, they called on Nicolette, who immediately arrived armed with a pair of scissors that she claimed were “special,” taking a mysterious tone that made clear to Jasmine that Nicolette held certain superstitions.
Whatever the case, she made herself so useful and was so spontaneously generous that Jasmine herself was grateful.
“Where are you off to with that get-up fit for a lady?” Nicolette asked Minette, “to the ball or to Vaux-Hall?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” she replied, with a secretive tone.
“Are you in love? Does he have a carriage? Is it a white man?”
“A white man!” exclaimed Minette with a peculiar tone of voice.
“Nicolette,” scolded Jasmine, “Minette is still a child…”
“When I was fifteen,” exclaimed the courtesan, “I already had two lovers.”
“Enough, enough, Nicolette,” interjected the mother, alarmed.
“All right, all right, I won’t say anything more to your two little innocents. But believe me, they’re as rare in this country as diamonds in the pockets of slaves. I was telling Minette recently about Kiss-Me-Lips – you know her, Jasmine – that young mulatto girl that the king’s Bursar wanted to take for his mistress. She told me that in two years, Minette will be more beautiful than all the women in this country.”
She left as soon as she had finished cutting out the dress, to the great relief of Jasmine, who worried about her influence on the girls. It was already enough for her to worry about the fact that Minette would soon be confronted with innumerable temptations…
Nevertheless, o
nce they had put away their wares in the evening, they began sewing enthusiastically. The girls sang as they pulled the needle, and when Joseph Ogé knocked on the door, he stopped for a moment to look at the charming little group. Inspired, he recited a few phrases that Minette then integrated into the simple melodies she was inventing.
On Christmas Eve, Minette’s robe was ready. Jasmine sprinkled it with jasmine-scented flower sachets. That evening, they gave what Lise called the general rehearsal with, for their audience, the Acquaires, Joseph, and a few neighbors that Jasmine had invited. When Lise opened the bedroom door to announce triumphantly: “She’s ready,” Minette was greeted with a buzz of admiration. She wore effortlessly the long taffeta skirt that had been perfectly tailored by Nicolette and upon which Jasmine had patiently embroidered large flowers with golden thread. Her lace bodice, though only slightly low cut, nevertheless revealed the beginnings of the most perfect little breasts. Mme Acquaire rose, untied a package she had been holding in her hand, and took out a splendid tiara, which she placed on Minette’s head saying:
“With this, you will be an irresistible Isabelle.”
She kissed her, and everyone applauded.
M Acquaire, his tic twitching, gave her some last-minute advice on how to walk and curtsy. Then, taking her hand, he escorted her toward the makeshift crowd and bowed as he presented her to “her public.” Minette smiled, completely undaunted. With her magnificent voice she let out two notes so perfect and so beautiful that the applause started up all over again. Mme Acquaire suggested to Jasmine that she put her to bed early that night, and then left with her husband and the other neighbors.
Joseph looked at Minette without speaking a word. He realized that Minette was no longer that studious little girl he had been teaching for the past two years, but had become a young woman of great beauty whose talent was going to allow her to cross the horrific barrier put in place by the Whites. If she managed it, success and – who knows? – great wealth were guaranteed! Her took her hands.
“You are very beautiful, Minette, and when I look at you I think that a girl like you is a true credit to her race.”
“Because I’m beautiful?”
“No. Because despite your beauty, you are modest and discreet.”
“Joseph!”
“You’re afraid aren’t you, Minette?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to tell yourself you’re playing for high stakes now. If you win, all the better. If you don’t…”
“If I don’t?”
“In that case you’ve got to say: ‘too bad.’ And then you’ll keep singing – for yourself and for us. There will be ‘other things’ to help you get over it.”
He spoke as if despite what he was telling her, he was not ready to share with her what those “other things” he had in mind might be. He placed his hand on his chest and looked her over from head to toe.
“You’ve grown up and you’ve become very brave, isn’t that so, Minette?”
“I’m brave, but I’m afraid…of them.”
He grabbed her abruptly by the shoulders. “If you fought them, would you be afraid?”
“Did you say fight them?”
“Yes. Your voice is your weapon and you’re going to use it. And then…” Again, he hesitated, sighing and finally saying:
“Ah! Later, later, perhaps, you’ll understand…”
The evening of the performance, Mme Acquaire came early to bring Minette to the theater. Nicolette was helping Jasmine to dress her, while Lise, absorbed in getting herself ready, stood in front of the room’s little mirror and practiced fanning herself.
“Get out of here!” complained Nicolette. “Are you the one singing at the theater tonight? My Lord, at the white folks’ theater! What luck! I’ll be coming to hear you with my boyfriend, Minette. He’s a young officer and he has a carriage. What a shame I’ll have to be separated from him in the theater!…”
Mme Acquaire and Minette made quite a sensation in their beautiful clothing as they made their way from Traversière Street to the block where the theater was located. Cheers greeted them from all sides, and people pushed past one another in the doorways to get a better look at them. Mme Acquaire, wearing her ballerina costume and holding her slippers in her hand, walked with the lightness of a bird. She looked like a little girl with her gauzy calf-length skirt. Everything along the way seemed to astound Minette. It was as if she were seeing it all – the church she attended every Sunday, the fountains, the gardens, and the crowd gathered in front of the theater – for the very first time. At the entrance, the two women passed in front of the little refreshment stall where young white women dressed up as maids offered drinks to officers strapped into gleaming uniforms and to important planters in their velvet doublets and powdered wigs.
How often, returning from a stroll with her mother, had Minette been tempted to go in and see what was happening in that great room where she had heard that people sang, danced, and recited verse! But Jasmine had never had enough money to buy seats for them and, to console themselves, Minette and Lise would have Nicolette give them a full report of every detail of the performances. That night, she would be entering that space not as a mere spectator. She herself would play a role on the stage – the main role, that of Isabelle – in an opera that Mme Acquaire said had had a full two-month run in Cap-Français. Would she be equal to the task? She shivered and Mme Acquaire, who was holding Minette’s hand in her own, felt it tremble. She threw a wide shawl over Minette’s shoulders and brought her backstage.
Everything changed all at once for Minette. As before every performance, there was a very particular atmosphere: costumed actors arrived breathlessly, others showed up half dressed, costumes in their arms; still others, who were meant to play the role of Negroes in a Creole drama, swore as they slathered themselves in soot.
“Ah! This again,” one of them said. “It’s high time we got some Blacks in this company, confound it!”
“Hurry up,” cried a voice. “It’s almost time.”
“Almost – what’s that supposed to mean!” cried one of the soot-covered actors, exasperated. “Someone tell us exactly what time it is.”
Minette was beginning to create a stir behind the curtains.
The first to notice her was the theater director himself, François Saint-Martin. He was young, dashing, and handsome. A true artist, he had no prejudices and chose his conquests from among the most beautiful mulatto girls of the country – conquests he flaunted as much out of inclination as bravado to humiliate the white girls who, he claimed, simply held no appeal for him. It was on this liberal mentality that the Acquaires were counting, knowing in advance that they would be excused their audacity.
Having set up house with a colored woman named Zabeth, who everyone said was crazy about him and who had given him two children, he was known to be a terrible husband. Mme Acquaire had left Minette to go hunting for Goulard, having half hidden her protégée in the folds of the curtain. It was there that Saint-Martin discovered her.
“What are you doing here, young lady?” he asked, looking at her in astonishment. “Is there someone you’d like to see?”
She did not know what to answer and her eyes darted around desperately looking for Mme Acquaire. It was the latter’s husband, out of breath in his Venetian dancer’s costume, who came to her rescue. His tic was twitching wildly as he informed Saint-Martin that Minette, under his supervision, would be making her stage debut in the role of Isabelle.
“In the role of Isabelle? That’s quite a role for a debut. But why have you never told me anything about this young lady?”
His tic in full force, M Acquaire stammered as he turned his head to see whether his wife was coming, all of which the young director noticed.
“Anyway, I could care less,” he said. “This night is all about you two. This is all your concern. I personally like seeing new talent encouraged, as long as the rules are respected…”
“Ahem!” muttered M Ac
quaire, uncomfortable.
“What is this young lady’s name?”
M Acquaire turned sharply toward the director. “Listen, François,” he said. “I’ll tell you right after the performance – just trust me. I promise, I’ll tell you everything.”
“As you like. Who is she singing with tonight?”
“Goulard.”
He looked at Minette for a moment, hesitating, as if trying to figure out exactly what type of beauty she was, so as to class her.
“For a white woman, she has something rather fiery about her,” he whispered to himself as he left. “She must be from the South.”
During this time, the theater was filling up. The nine boxes in the front, with seven seats each, were already full, as were the five screened-in boxes and the two balconies. As for the twenty-one others relegated to the back of the theater, those of the second tier known as “freedmen’s heaven,” they were full to the brim. As the time got closer to eight o’clock, the sound of chairs being moved and weapons clattering made it clear that the Governor and the town Bursar had taken their seats. Mme Acquaire had joined Minette in her little hideout and introduced her to Claude Goulard, who was as astonished and charmed as François Saint-Martin had been.
“Claude, this young lady will play opposite you. She’ll be performing the role of Isabelle this evening.”
He bowed politely, declaring himself most flattered to perform alongside such a beautiful person, and expressed his regret at not having had the opportunity to rehearse with her, which would have been far simpler and easier for both of them. But Mme Acquaire objected, saying that Minette had been ill and that, unable to leave the house, she had been obliged to rehearse at home.
“Don’t worry, Claude,” she reassured him. “She knows the role perfectly.”
Ten minutes before the performance, she was presented to Magdeleine Brousse, the pretty twenty-year-old blonde playing the role of Gertrude.
“Hey there!” said Magdeleine Brousse. “What a mystery this show is. This has to be the first time we’ve ever rehearsed with one of the actors missing!”
Dance on the Volcano Page 5
