He was hosting a Christmas party and numerous carriages had entered the courtyard. The horses, blinded by all the torches, reared up and whinnied. The sound of their hooves somewhat muffled the shouts of the street entertainers and of the church bells calling the faithful to midnight mass. A few people entered the church, both white and colored. Jasmine and some other young people followed behind them. They turned around upon hearing the sound of the first fireworks being set off on the parade grounds. Illumined by the shafts of light, hands clapped, people embraced one another and shouted: “Hurrah for Christmas! Hurrah for Christmas!” as the bells rang even louder in the church, which had been suddenly lit up. A few congregants went in to kneel in prayer, as the priest and the choirboys intoned the hymns. Before the nativity scene where the statue of the Christ Child had been placed, people stopped to dip their fingers in holy water then crossed themselves. Kneeling next to Minette, Joseph prayed, head bent, forehead hidden in his hands. That evening, Jasmine saw him in a new light, and her affection for him grew. The former slave woman was suddenly overcome by memories that took her away for a moment. She saw herself seated next to an old man, a slave like her, who was teaching her. Thanks to him, she had learned her letters and come to know Christ, the true lord, righteous God-in-Man who had suffered for all men and who called for the fusion of all classes, opening his arms to everyone, no matter what their station or color.
She had tried to show him to her daughters as he was and as she had been taught to love him, this man crucified by his fellow men for having cried out the truth, as he knew it. She remembered the old slave Mapiou. He knew how to read, write, and sing the hymns. Sold to Jesuit priests as a young boy, he had been taught to read. He became an apostle himself and, even after changing masters, continued to educate the Negroes from Africa, able to discern at first glance whether they came from his country or from another.
Jasmine sighed and looked over at her daughters. Minette’s eyes were fixed on the Christ as if she was asking him something; Lise was yawning and trying to steal a glance at the people entering the church. Their mother saw no sign of true piety in either one of them. They did not pray with anything near Joseph’s fervor. He was in true communion with a Being that he admired and venerated. When he raised his head, Jasmine was astonished to see in his magnificent eyes a reflection of the same flame she had once seen in those of the Jesuit priest who had taken her in with her daughters once they had been freed from their master’s house…
When they left the church, the excitement had reached its peak. From one house, belonging to colored folks, the sounds of dance music and applause could be heard. The sound of the orchestras created a cacophony so deafening that there was no way to tell a minuet from a country dance.
Once home again, Jasmine and her daughters sat down on the beds for a moment, still chatting with each other about the evening and Minette’s success. Before getting undressed, Jasmine asked her daughters to kneel down and thank God, and to ask him to keep them pure and without sin until their death.
“Ask Our Lord to help you keep the memory of the past in mind, and because you’re the oldest, Minette,” she added, looking at Minette meaningfully, “to keep you from becoming superficial and corrupted, like so many of the women in this country.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Whenever you find yourself tempted, remember the past – yours…and mine.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Minette understood that her mother was speaking to her alone, as the eldest, to whom the former slave had revealed the humiliating marks left on her breast and back by her white master. Her mother was right. That memory had helped her onstage when it came time to sing. She would never forget it.
She lay down in the bed she shared with Lise and noticed that her mother was undressing behind the door, as she always did – her calico blouse was closed with a pin at the base of her neck so as to hide the scars imprinted on her skin. The emotions that had been running through her in the two long hours of Minette’s performance had left her so exhausted that she fell asleep as soon as she went to bed. Minette, overexcited by that first evening in high society, was still unable to sleep an hour later. She decided to wake her sister.
“Hey, Lise – want to make some plans with me?”
“What?” asked the girl, waking with a start.
“Shhh! Don’t wake Mama…I can’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“This whole night, you know. All this success. The kindness of the actors. They’re white, but they were so kind.”
“You might not believe me,” Lise whispered joyfully, “when I tell you what I was already dreaming about. I saw us riding in a green and gold carriage, with fine clothing and jewels.”
Minette hugged her sister, a faraway look in her eyes.
“Do you think that could happen some day? Do you think we’ll be rich?”
“Since you sing at the Comédie,” Lise reasoned, “you’ll be paid.”
“True,” said Minette, “but surely not enough for everything I’d like to do.”
“And what would you like to do?”
“I want to buy all the slaves in the country so that I can free them.”
“Free the slaves!”
“Yes.”
“But then you’ll never be a great lady, because you can’t be one without having a slave in your service.”
“Well, then I won’t be a great lady.”
“Your dream is impossible. It’s completely crazy,” responded Lise. “And believe me, you’re even more of a little kid than your sister.”
In the distance, the sound of a lambi horn suddenly pierced the silence. Minette shivered without knowing why.
“Listen,” she said to her sister, holding up her index finger.
“What?” asked Lise, yawning.
“The sound of the lambi. Those are messages the maroons transmit to one another in the hills where they’re hiding out.”
“Why?”
“They want to be free, Joseph told me…All right, sleep now. It’s late.”
VI
THE NEXT DAY, early in the morning, even before Jasmine had laid out her wares, Mme Acquaire came knocking triumphantly at her door to tell her about all the accolades being lavished on Minette, praising her talent. She even mentioned the names of several planters and told her about a certain Mademoiselle de Caradeux who wanted to have her sing at a party in her home.
“Success, my dear, a resounding success!” she said to Minette. “At the next concert, you’ll sing a grand aria and make a real splash.”
She departed, leaving Jasmine so pleased that she had not for a minute considered asking Mme Acquaire what Minette’s wages would be at the Comédie. It was already enough that she was being allowed to perform, she told herself, by way of excuse. “No demands just now, or everything could fall apart!”
She waited nervously to hear what the public had to say. The gazette, generally off-limits to Negroes and Mulattos, spoke flatteringly about the fifteen-year-old “young person” who had been such a success in the role of Isabelle. The article drew attention to the Saint-Martin players’ liberal attitude in having a colored girl perform alongside them, and it applauded the welcome change to convention that showed the actors’ independence and disdain for caste politics.
The article, while approving, was not without irony, and risked provoking the ire of the planters, already up to their necks – largely for economic reasons – in the politics of race. They easily could have protested and demanded justice from the government. Fortunately, as they were always in the midst of some dispute or another with the latter, they made no complaint, proving by their indifference how little thought they gave to actors in general, be they white or black. It did not harm them personally in any way and really only concerned the Governor. They looked the other way, declaring that such talent in the colony was so rare that they would continue to applaud the “young person” at her next performance.
The Go
vernor sent for François Saint-Martin and made him promise, in an effort to keep order, not to let the theater be invaded by “those creatures” and only to promote true talents.
“Certainly you will agree, Your Governorship, that this young girl has exceptional talent,” said the director of the Comédie.
“My dear Monsieur Saint-Martin, we Governors have eyes and ears like every other man, believe me. That ‘young person’ is devastatingly beautiful and sings like an angel. Promote her, yes, but for heaven’s sake, make sure she remains the only one…”
There was a devilish twinkle in his eye that did not fool Saint-Martin.
“These women are beautiful,” he added, “and from what I’ve heard, the Bursar and the King himself pay tribute to them in ways that are a bit too…public for my taste.”
He excused Saint-Martin, rapping him on the shoulder and calling him lucky, which made the director smile. With his white wig and laughing eyes, the Governor seemed to him like an old letch, only too happy to admire pretty young girls like Minette on the stage.
Charles Mozard, owner of the gazette, may have been a bad poet, but at least he had enough good taste to appreciate talent in other people. Agent, slave-trader, printer, playwright, and poet, he was as active with his various projects as was Saint-Martin with his theater. Married to a modest, not particularly beautiful Frenchwoman, he had just put on his first play – African Vengeance, or, the Effects of Hatred and Jealously – that very year in Cap-Français. The authorities were displeased by certain somewhat suggestive scenes containing kidnapping and revenge. Disappointed by the cold and reproachful reception, and annoyed that people had gone so far as to suggest that he lacked talent, he came back to Port-au-Prince, where he took up his old activities. He was taking perverse pleasure in praising Minette’s charm and talent, thus avenging his recent frustrations.
Mme Acquaire, holding the paper triumphantly in her hand, had run over to Jasmine’s house for the second time, only to find Joseph Ogé and Minette there reading Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s The Village Soothsayer. It was Joseph who was first to read nervously through Charles Mozard’s article. When he had finished, he folded up the newspaper, took Minette by the shoulders and, looking her in the eyes, said:
“I think you’ve won,” he said to her. “I’m as proud of you and as happy as if I were your…brother.”
“But, you are my brother, Joseph.”
“Thank you, Minette.”
Beside herself with joy, Lise called Jasmine, jumping up and down and clapping her hands – for once forgetting to behave like the young lady she so wanted to be. Jasmine, who was in the middle of setting up her stand, was so overcome with emotion that she let her wares fall to the ground, which was cause for screams of protest and a general outburst of laughter. While everyone was helping to clean up the mess, Mme Acquaire went to tell Minette that they would soon begin rehearsals again, given that on February 13 Saint-Martin planned to put up a new opera, The Fifteen-Year-Old Lovers, in which she would once again play the lead role.
“Monsieur Saint-Martin expects to play you in a fairy-like decor this time. He’ll take in the proceeds from the evening and will pay for your costumes himself.”
Joseph looked at Jasmine. Minette was not going to be paid, it seemed. She would perform for the benefit of others and be at once exploited and protected. Not qualified to broach the subject, he did not dare give his opinion in front of Mme Acquaire. But he was waiting for her departure to open Jasmine’s eyes and advise Minette. He was more than surprised to see the latter approach the Creole woman, look her straight in the eyes, and say to her unabashedly:
“And what will I get out of this arrangement, Mme Acquaire?”
Joseph again looked over at Jasmine, seeing her just as astonished as he was, and then turned away to hide his smile.
“I’d like a night where I take home the proceeds, Mme Acquaire,” she added with the same tone.
“You take home proceeds one night…well yes, naturally. I’ll have to speak to the Director…”
She looked at Minette as if she were seeing her for the very first time.
“It’s true you’ve really grown up, indeed. We’ll have to keep that in mind from now on…”
She quickly met Joseph and Jasmine’s eyes then, again observing Minette, gave her a light tap on the cheek and said:
“Don’t you worry, we’ll sort it all out.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
Once the actress had left, Joseph burst into laughter:
“Well, well!” he said to Minette, “you’re quite the businesswoman!”
“I’m not going to let myself be…” she thought for a moment, as if looking for the right word, “…exploited,” she concluded. “You’ve explained that word to me and I absolutely loathe the idea.”
Jasmine smiled hearing her speak.
Though she may not have been made for fighting that battle, her elder daughter would be able to defend herself. At fifteen she already saw things for what they were and would never let anyone lead her anywhere by the nose.
“The thing is, Minette needs lots of money,” declared Lise with the attitude of someone who knows they are about to make someone angry by revealing a secret.
“A lot of money,” replied Joseph, turning toward the young girl with a worried look. “And what for?”
“Be quiet!” cried Minette, rushing toward her sister.
“Speak,” interrupted Jasmine, as worried as Joseph. “Is it to buy yourself jewelry, dresses, and…”
She stopped herself and hesitated, as if it were too difficult to say the word.
Lise ventured a sorrowful glance toward her sister. She saw how tense she was, her eyes flashing and fists clenched.
“Go ahead, speak then, you little idiot,” Minette hissed angrily. “Finish what you’ve started to tell.”
And then turning toward her mother and Joseph, Lise continued:
“She wants to buy all the slaves so that she can free them and then…”
“You little fool!” Minette screamed at her and, leaving them all standing right there, she went to hide in her room, her sobs audible.
Joseph asked Jasmine’s permission to go after her, which she granted with a slight nod of the head. The young man went to kneel beside the bed where Minette was crying, curled up in a ball. He lifted her chin, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped her eyes.
“It’s wonderful, just wonderful to have such lovely and generous thoughts,” he said to her. “Stop crying. Come, I brought a book with me today. A priest wrote it. His name is Father Raynal. Come listen to what he says about the right to freedom and the condition of slaves…After that, we can all go see my old professor, Labadie. I’m sure you’ll like him…”
…They found the old man seated at his worktable, on which piles of scholarly books were stacked.
“Would you ever want to know that much?” he asked Lise.
“Me? Oh! No, I’d go mad.”
“And you?” he again asked, looking at Minette.
“Yes, I think so…” she hesitated and then added, “Sir.”
“Don’t bother calling me Sir, my child; the law is the same for all people of color.”
Taking them by the hand, he led them out to the garden, which gave onto an immense sugarcane field. Hundreds of voices gave rhythm to the Negro songs out there, in the workhouse. “Some slaves are treated with humanity,” he had said to Joseph. Likely affected by those words, it seemed to them that the voices they heard were neither muffled nor monotone and that, on the contrary, they were declaring an act of faith and gratitude. In the garden, birds chirped, locked inside bamboo cages, and goldfish chased each other in a shallow basin surrounded by flowers.
“He’s rich,” Minette thought to herself. “Rich like all those white planters.” And she could not help feeling proud of that fact.
Labadie looked at the girls as they gushed over his treasures. Standing up in the middle of the garden he appeared sma
ll. His white, silky hair framed a prominent forehead, under which his gray eyes shone with a gaze so meditative that it seemed cold. He spoke simply, but with elegance, and to hear him speak one would think he had studied in France.
“Their voice is marvelous,” he said, once the songs had died down. “I understand why the Whites see in their talent a divine attribute.”
Then, he kissed the girls and offered them some flowers and candies.
As they left, Lise begged Joseph to take them to the town square where there would certainly be something going on that evening. Acrobats and jugglers would be putting on a show. The prices were displayed on various posters:
ENTRY: ONE GOURDE-PIASTRE FOR WHITES, TWO GOURDINS FOR MULATTOS, AND TWO ESCALINS FOR NEGROES.
They were disappointed, not having enough money to pay for tickets.
“How much money do you have, Joseph?” asked Lise.
“Six escalins.”
“I have an idea. Let’s coat our faces with tar and pass for Negroes.”
“Lise!” exclaimed Minette.
Joseph let go of the young girls’ hands and looked at Lise, his face strained.
“What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that. You’re scaring me.”
He didn’t answer, and took her hand again.
That night it became clear: Minette was his favorite.
VII
IN LESS THAN two weeks, Minette had learned her entire part and done the fitting for the costumes, which had been made for her this time by a French vendor recommended by Magdeleine Brousse and Mme Acquaire. She had been overjoyed to find herself back among the theater folk: Goulard, as attentive as he was charming; Mme Tesseyre and little Rose, who worked tirelessly on their dance routine; Depoix and Favart, top-notch actors with whom she was meant to perform in the February 13 show; and Macarty, the comedian who always delighted her, making her laugh with his terrifying grimaces. In the meantime, Durand had returned from Saint-Marc and had said, in her presence, after hearing her sing, that he found her extraordinary. Nelanger, still convalescing, plucked his guitar to keep his fingers nimble.
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