When she had finished speaking, Joseph nodded his head.
“You really owe that Marquis de Chastenoye. Without him, you’d have been arrested and put on trial.”
“He seemed like a kind old man.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. He likely has a…personal interest in protecting you.”
“A personal interest!…”
“Look, let’s drop it and talk about that terrible article that’s working to undermine your incredible theater debut. Have you seen Saint-Martin or the Acquaires?”
“No. I haven’t left the house since yesterday.”
“They might have come here.”
While Minette and Joseph were discussing the infamous article, the Acquaires – furious – had run to Charles Mozard’s office.
“Why would you write an article like that about our protégée?” Mme Acquaire had asked him, trying to contain her outrage.
“It’s for her own good, believe me,” the journalist had responded, unmoved. “She wants to climb too high. The higher we let her rise, the more terrible her fall will be.”
M Acquaire, blinking his eye disconcertingly, alleged that the Governor had given his word to Saint-Martin that he would offer his total protection to the “young person,” in whom he recognized a true talent, and that if he, Mozard, continued to attack Minette, he would bring his complaint to the Governor. Mme Acquaire tugged at her husband’s arm to calm him down, for she feared angering the journalist. But the latter burst out laughing and suggested they go have some drinks together at a nearby café. Mme Acquaire accepted, hoping to have the chance to convince him. But after laying out all her arguments, she had to admit defeat.
“But you were so complimentary and encouraging when all of this began, my dear Monsieur Mozard,” Mme Acquaire murmured to him with a tone that implied he had allowed his opinion to be bought.
“That was then,” responded the journalist, unperturbed as he sipped his drink. “Since then, your protégée has had her little moment, and now that’s enough.”
“So you reproach her…”
“Her affinity for the garish and for tacky and expensive clothes that the Negro in her shows off with such distasteful vulgarity.”
“But those are costumes…”
“More showy than realistic, you yourself will admit.”
Mme Acquaire placed her hand on the journalist’s arm and adopted a decidedly seductive and coaxing tone:
“Just try not to be so harsh next time, I beg you…”
“Send her to me and have her ask me herself.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mme Acquaire, shocked. “Are we making a deal here?”
“My dear lady, you appreciate straight talk, even if it’s tough to hear; you yourself use a veil, even if it’s fairly transparent…”
Mme Acquaire made a disgusted little grimace, stood up, took her husband’s arm and dragged him away.
“He must have pocketed a nice little sum, our dear Monsieur Mozard!”
“Which he’d be happy to spend on Minette.”
“That – never!” protested Mme Acquaire. “That girl is only fifteen years old and I promised her mother…”
“Nonsense,” interrupted M Acquaire. “The day she decides to sleep…to fall, she’ll be damned certain not to ask her mother for permission.”
As they walked along, they arrived at Jasmine’s house, where they found Minette, calmer, seated in the front room sewing a bodice. Mme Acquaire, overexcited, did not understand the young girl’s signal for her to be discreet and began talking about everything in front of Jasmine and Lise. Jasmine raised her hands to her head in a gesture of despair and nearly knocked over her tea.
“My Lord God,” she screamed. “Minette, why didn’t you tell me anything about all of this?”
Minette immediately spoke up in her own defense. She put down her work on the table and slowly said:
“From what I’ve understood in all of this, Madame Acquaire, I’m being reproached for rising too high too fast…”
“Monsieur Mozard nonetheless has a certain…admiration…for you.”
“Well, he has a strange way of showing it. Madame Acquaire, I won’t forget the gratitude I owe you – and since I’m becoming a source of trouble for you, I’ll stop singing at the Comédie.”
“Come now, Minette, everything will work out,” said the Creole woman, her tone slightly changed. “The public will call for you, you’ll see.”
“I won’t be able to be a part of the company without the respect and the freedom of action accorded to my fellow cast members. It’s enough that I’m being exploited. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I work without a contract and get paid whatever you all want to pay me, but now I’m angry and I just want peace.”
“Minette,” protested Jasmine, “show Madame some respect.”
“I do respect her, Mama…”
“Listen, Minette,” said M Acquiare, inserting himself into the conversation, “we’ve been defending you, and we’ll keep doing it, and as far as your contract is concerned, if everything calms down we hope to be able to convince François Mesplès.”
“François Mesplès!” exclaimed Minette, as if she wanted to retain the name. “I would love to meet that man.”
Mme Acquaire quickly exchanged a glance with her husband.
“That’s a wonderful idea, my dear,” she said obligingly. “You can go to his home. You know where he lives, no?”
“Who in Port-au-Prince doesn’t know where to find the home of the wealthy Monsieur Mesplès?”
“Be sweet, beseeching, and above all don’t wear any jewels,” continued the Creole woman.
Minette’s eyes had a worried expression that her mother didn’t fail to notice. As the Acquaires took their leave, she observed her daughter, who, with her gaze fixed on something invisible, seemed hypnotized.
She had just come up with a plan that she would keep to herself and that she swore to execute. This M Mesplès, was he not the white man who had so chagrined her that morning at the Comédie? Because of him, she had truly suffered, for she had not forgotten the hateful disdain in his voice when he had spoken of her presumed rights and her future at the Comédie.
At around ten in the morning, she brought Lise to her lesson with Mme Acquaire, despite Jasmine’s tearful insistence that none of this mattered now that M Mozard’s article had ruined everything. Knowing that some Whites disapproved of her daughter’s performance on the Comédie stage made her tremble, and she had already lowered her head, defeated, like a person used to obeying and to bowing and scraping.
But for Minette, this was not the end. She was going to fight – with her beauty, her youth, and her talent. She already had a little list: the Marquis de Chastenoye, the Governor, and all those officers who had written her love letters. If she gave the signal, they would all be at her feet. When she returned home, she was surprised to find Joseph there waiting for her. This was not his usual time, which worried her even more, given that he was looking at her like he wanted to probe the depths of her soul.
“Minette,” he began, “do you know who killed the sailor?”
She turned her head and answered:
“All I have are suspicions, nothing but suspicions. I couldn’t accuse anyone.”
“I’ve seen the Lamberts, Minette.”
“The Lamberts! You know them?”
“Yes.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That they’d brought you into their group despite your youth. I’ve been tasked with talking to you.”
“Into their group!”
“Be discreet and take care. God has just placed you on a path rife with troubles and roadblocks. In order to navigate it, you’ll have to let go of certain dreams, disregard certain things. I, too, have been pleading your case because I believe you’re ready.”
“Speak, Joseph…”
“Lambert is one of the heads of the insurgency. He hides runaways and helps them escape.”
> Minette shivered and clasped her hands.
“But why?”
Joseph brought his mouth close to her ear and said a few words to her in a low voice.
Immediately, her expression changed. A sort of brutal contentment colored her features and gave her an almost ferocious air.
“So you, too, then?…”
“Yes, me, too, Minette. Although, as Lise has said so well, I seem…different from the others. I’m part of their group. I fight with them because they’re the weakest. God knows that this is my calling. I feel like I can tell you everything now…”
A burning flame shone for a moment in his eyes.
“I would have so loved to be a priest!”
In a burst of emotion, the young girl took his hands.
“So that was it!”
“Fighting with them to obtain their rights, I’m convinced I’m fighting to get closer to God.”
The burning flame had disappeared from his eyes, and was replaced by a glow so tender, sweet, and compassionate that Minette’s eyes filled with tears.
“Ah, Joseph!” she exclaimed, “You have to hope. Haven’t I managed to take a step forward? And I’ll keep going, despite the obstacles. I swear it.”
She had spoken too bitterly.
Joseph immediately lowered his gaze to rest on her. She saw such worry in his eyes that she tried to reassure him.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got my head on straight. Nothing can derail me.”
He made a gesture of contented acquiescence and, taking her hand, brought her out to the street, where Jasmine was crouched behind her stand, selling her wares. The two of them sat down next to her and smiled as they listened to Lise’s voice, whose well-practiced and careful trills they could hear clearly.
“Clearly, she’s been working hard!” noted Joseph with satisfaction.
Jasmine heard him. She looked up at him, her eyes once again dulled with sadness.
“What’s the use, now,” she sighed. “The gazette has ruined everything…”
Joseph left, then came back in the afternoon and sat down near the stand where Jasmine and Minette were still seated. He had been there for a few minutes when suddenly something strange created a commotion among the vendors. The sounds of women screaming rang out, terrified and strident. And then, knocking everything over, as if in a state of madness, a tall, strapping man, branded on both arms and half naked, hurled himself into the crowd of market-women. He ran blindly, his eyes protruding and mouth hanging open. Minette seized Joseph’s hand. Oh! What can I do, for the love of God, I want to do something, she said to herself.
Standing now a mere ten paces from Jasmine’s stand, the slave was looking wildly around in desperation. Abruptly, he fell to the ground and crawled toward Joseph. At the very same moment, police swarmed the street. The slave, curled up at Joseph’s feet, remained motionless, his head lowered to the ground.
The silence had become distressing, and so unbearable that, apparently coming to some sudden resolution, Joseph furiously began throwing Jasmine’s madras scarves and fabrics from nearby stands on the poor man’s body, grabbing anything he could get his hands on. He then cried out, following through on the subterfuge:
“Hello, Sir, Madame, c’mon over and have a look at our beautiful handkerchiefs, fabrics, soaps, and perfumes…”
Of all the witnesses to the scene, only one person might have betrayed him. An old, poorly dressed white man who had stopped to haggle over fabric with Jasmine. One of the slave’s feet was badly covered. The old man threw the handkerchief he was holding over it. Ten constabularies passed by, peering into faces and screaming about the punishment awaiting anyone who hid runaway slaves. But what could they possibly see, what could they hope to make out in this tumult of voices calling for customers – out of these hundreds of dark-colored arms brandishing soaps, madras scarves, and fabrics?
Even once the soldiers had left, the excitement continued apace, keeping up the same energy so as to throw off the scent. The panting slave began moving the fabrics.
“Be still, my friend,” said Joseph to him in Creole. “They’re gone and soon it will be nighttime.”
For more than two hours he remained there, hunched over, paralyzed, and trembling with fear. Once night had fallen and they were sure the district was no longer under suspicion, Joseph had the slave crawl into the courtyard where, without losing any time, they dressed him in one of Jasmine’s camisoles. Lise, who had gone to see Pitchoun, came home at this very moment, and passed by the stand without noticing anything unusual. With his head wrapped in a scarf and unrecognizably dressed as a woman, the slave was then about to leave the house, accompanied by Joseph, when Lise came out to the courtyard.
“Good evening…neighbor,” she said, looking at the slave in surprise.
And she whispered into her mother’s ear:
“Who’s that? I don’t recognize her.”
“A friend of Joseph’s,” responded Jasmine.
Minette looked at her mother and was astonished by the expression on her face. Everything that had been dulled in her features had been reanimated, as if she had come into contact with a powerful breath of galvanizing air. Of course, her trembling hands revealed her worry and she was breathing as if she were suffocating. But at the same time, for a brief moment, her expression reminded Minette of Zoé. She was standing before a slave and looking him straight in the eyes. She undoubtedly saw something familiar there, for she shook her head quiescently, as if to say that she understood.
“Goodbye,” said Joseph then.
And pushing the slave in front of him, escorted him out.
“Is Joseph’s friend mute?” Lise then asked her mother.
“You talk too much,” interrupted Minette, exasperated.
“What’s the matter with you?” replied the young girl.
“Speak French,” interjected Jasmine, in her habitual droning monotone.
“How did your lesson go?” asked Minette, to change the subject.
“Fine. And Madame Acquaire promised me that she would sort out everything with that Monsieur Mozard.”
As if overcome with remorse, Minette kissed her little sister and went into the bedroom. Once there, she sat down on the bed and clasped her hands. There were things she had kept from her mother, believing her incapable of withstanding certain dangers. And now the two of them were accomplices in something that could cost them their freedom. Did they have the right to risk Lise’s future in that way? She was so young, so carefree, so unfit for serious things! Minette thought of Joseph and trembled. He was in grave danger. So as not to have to speak to Lise when she came in, Minette preferred to undress and go to bed right away. That whole night she suffered horrific dreams in which women and children were tortured as she looked on.
XI
THE FOLLOWING DAY the director of the theater paid Minette a visit, accompanied by the other actors. This goodwill visit proved the performers’ overwhelming solidarity and confirmed Minette’s conviction that they represented a distinct class vis-à-vis all the other Whites in the country. Goulard, more smitten than ever, was looking for an encouraging sign from her which she still could not quite muster. Saint-Martin, who had approached the Governor a second time seeking protection for Minette, guaranteed her that she had nothing to fear from that quarter and promised her that at the next performance both the public and even Mozard would be so charmed by her voice that they would come around unreservedly. They all shook her hand affectionately and Goulard offered to take her for a walk around Vallières Square, where acrobats from France were giving a free show. She thought of Joseph and turned him down, too worried to have fun.
“Won’t you come with me, Minette?” pleaded Goulard.
“Not this evening, but another time, I promise.”
She waited in vain for Joseph, stealing a glance in the direction of her mother from time to time to see if she, too, was worrying. In the distance, the rolling of a drum resounded and was answered, as always, by the
harsh sound of the lambi. Startled, Jasmine, who had stooped down to pick up some laundry she had left to dry in the sun, remained frozen in that position for a moment, listening to the doleful plaints. Inside, Lise was doing her singing exercises, a music notebook in her hand, and Minette, silent, her hands crossed on her lap, awaited Joseph’s return. At nine o’clock she had to go to sleep, as Jasmine had called her to bed. After Lise had fallen asleep, she saw her mother rise and get dressed.
“Stay put. I’m going to see what I can find out,” she said to Minette dryly.
“Mama!”
“Shhh! Be quiet and wait for me to come back.”
She returned two hours later and Minette, who had not been able to sleep at all, rushed into the front room as soon as she heard the door open.
“And so, Mama?” she whispered.
“Nothing. I couldn’t find out anything. The doors of the house where he rents his room were all closed. I couldn’t find out anything.”
Joseph arrived very early the next morning, as if he knew his friends would have been too worried to sleep. He waited to speak to them until Lise had left, and then recounted how he had been able to help the slave escape without raising the slightest suspicion – and how the slave had thanked him, kneeling down to kiss his hands.
“And now he’s somewhere safe,” he concluded.
“Quiet,” warned Minette. “Someone’s coming.”
Almost immediately, the door was pushed open and M and Mme Acquaire entered. Talking over one another, they tried to explain to Minette that she was needed, that she had to sing, that a prominent personage was expected, that the Governor himself had asked her to accept the next role because of the arrival of this esteemed personage, etc. Completely stunned, Minette covered her ears with her hands.
“I’m not sure I understand, Madame Acquaire.”
“She’s right,” responded the latter, looking at her husband with what was meant to be a fierce expression. “You’re interrupting me, you’re speaking over me, you’re stuttering…”
“And your tic is going full force,” finished M Acquaire, imitating his wife.
Dance on the Volcano Page 11
