Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  “And your tic is going full force,” retorted Mme Acquaire. “Which makes a mess of everything. Let me speak to the poor child…Listen here, Minette, we’ve come to you as a delegation. The government is anticipating a visit from the Duke of Lancaster, third son of the King of England, in exactly two weeks. We’ve been asked to organize an evening in his honor. Do you realize what that means?”

  “Yes, Madame Acquaire.”

  “You’ll play the part of Myris in The Beautiful Arsène. This’ll be an incredible opportunity for you to confront the public, as they won’t dare to show any ill will in front of such an important personage.”

  Joseph nodded his approval while Jasmine clasped her hands. Her daughter was going to sing before the son of the King of England! Minette ran to get dressed and followed the Acquaires to the theater where they met up with Saint-Martin and the actors.

  “There’s our beautiful Myris!” shouted the young director on seeing her.

  Joyful and enthusiastic, he explained to her that they would showcase her this time in a fairytale decor.

  “It’s a very popular opera that’s taken Paris by storm. I’m sure you’ll be up to the task.”

  “You can count on me, Monsieur.”

  “And I have some good news for you. If you’re as successful as I predict you’ll be, I’ll personally make it my business to hire you for the next three years.”

  “Under contract?”

  “Patience, Minette – take things as they come. Monsieur Mesplès doesn’t want you to have a contract.”

  “Well, then I won’t sing in this opera, Monsieur.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I demand an evening where I keep the profits and I insist on being hired with a contract. If you refuse, I’ll quit the Comédie.”

  “You can’t be serious. Miss this opportunity to win over the public for a question of pride! What do you think – that we haven’t lifted a finger to convince Mesplès? Ask Goulard – who fought maybe even a little too hard for your rights – how he was almost fired from the theater!”

  “Well, then I’ll go see Monsieur Mesplès.”

  “What? You…”

  “I’ll go see Monsieur Mesplès. I’d already been considering it.”

  Saint-Martin seemed to think this over for a moment and had a strange smile on his face. This little wisp of a woman, rebellious and proud, appealed to him. He extended his hand to her.

  “You never know what can happen. I wish you luck, Minette.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  As she went on her way, she saw Goulard running after her. He took her hand.

  “So when are we going for that walk, Minette?” he asked.

  “Where can this possibly lead, Claude?”

  He leaned over her and said breathily:

  “To love. You know perfectly well that I love you.”

  “Yes, I know you’re sincere.”

  “I’d like to see you alone. I need to speak to you. I’m begging you, Minette!”

  She took her hand out of his and smiled, slightly embarrassed.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I’m begging you!”

  She hesitated, then said abruptly:

  “Tonight, Vallières Square. I’ll be there.”

  With that she escaped, leaving the young actor dizzy with hope and joy.

  She returned home and took out the trunk containing her most beautiful dress – the one she had worn to play the role of Isabelle and that Nicolette had tailored using enchanted scissors. For what she was going to do that evening, she would have to lie to Jasmine. She did not hesitate for a second: she would lie. She believed, confusedly, that in order to truly have the “freedom to act,” as she put it, she would first have to escape her mother’s supervision, even at the risk of disappointing her. Naturally, she would spare her as much as possible, but now that she understood that nothing in life could be attained by sitting around, arms crossed and complaining, she had bravely opened her eyes to the world and would defy it.

  That afternoon, Jasmine was complaining of back pains and asked Minette to go to the market for the day’s provisions. She went off while Lise studied with Mme Acquaire. She crossed through the diverse crowd of people, where planters’ wives in European dress, rag-clad vendors, languorous Creoles in transparent gaules and billowy madras scarves, flanked by their ladies-in-waiting, arrogant planters armed with whips, bewigged civil servants in frilly lace shirts, and slaves waiting to be sold like animals all mingled together.

  Minette carved out a path for herself among this excitable crowd of people laughing, debating, and calling out to one another. In the corner where the slaves had been thrown together, the crowd was so dense that she had to stop. A planter was haggling over two young black boys, inspecting them as invasively as possible; another one, poking a young Mulatto girl with the end of his whip, made her stand up and walk for him, after which he pulled down the straps of her dress, lifted her skirts and demanded that she smile.

  “How much?” he said, addressing the merchant.

  “Two thousand pounds, Monsieur. Look at her – she’s a real beauty. Get undressed,” ordered the merchant, shoving the young slave.

  She was crying as she removed her dress. Soon she was naked.

  “She’s too expensive,” said the planter, grimacing. “She’s skinny.”

  “Skinny – this beauty?”

  And to force the potential buyer to appreciate the merchandise, he turned her every which way, praising her long hair, the curve of her hips, the firmness of her breasts.

  “One thousand five hundred pounds,” said the planter coldly.

  The deal done, the slave got dressed, crying as she followed her new master.

  “She’s a virgin,” shouted the merchant to the planter as the latter walked away. “You got a good deal.”

  Minette, overwhelmed, followed the young slave with her eyes. Her heart was beating as if it would burst, for as she watched the scene she saw her mother’s past, that past that Zoé had evoked so vehemently that she had been marked by it from that moment on. In that instant, a horrific revolt welled up inside her and she was overcome by such energy that she felt capable of killing someone. Oh! It would be so easy, truly, to thrust a knife in a few necks, to poison people, to start fires. She shivered and realized that her gaze must have been suffused with as much fever and passion as that of the Lamberts, and she understood that there was a metamorphosis happening inside her. At an age when she should have been thinking about clothes and love, jewels and seductions, a threatening lesson was spelling itself out incoherently inside her young girl’s heart. What was in this lesson? She did not know yet. But she knew that it had begun to destroy in her the young girl she had once been, and to transform her from that moment on into the woman she would be soon, reducing her to a mere machine in the service of destiny. She had planned a rendezvous with Goulard that evening. How nice it would be to love him, to let him kiss her, and to experience the unfettered joys she dreamed about sometimes.

  She bought the provisions without even bargaining, risking a scolding from Jasmine, and went home to get dressed. Disregarding Mme Acquaire’s advice, she put on some jewels and let Jasmine know she was going out.

  “Going out! And where to?”

  She lied and answered:

  “To the Comédie, Mama.”

  “Are you performing tonight?”

  She did not have the heart to continue lying.

  “Yes, an important role.”

  “Minette,” shouted Jasmine, “be careful!”

  She went over to her mother, and took her head in her hands.

  “My poor, sweet mama,” she murmured.

  Jasmine squirmed abruptly out of her grasp.

  “Oh, let me be,” she said. “You’re hiding something from me. As you’ve gotten older you’ve become a stranger to me. I no longer recognize you.”

  “Come now, Mama.”

  “N
o, I don’t recognize you anymore. You think secretively, you act secretively, and you’ve learned to lie.”

  Her eyes brimming with tears, she looked at Minette and repeated:

  “I have no more children, I have no more children,” dabbing at her cheeks with an old cloth she was darning.

  Minette looked at her mother reproachfully and, with a loud sigh, walked out. It was early. She walked slowly, trying to think about what this interview would be like, preparing lines she then immediately replaced with different ones in the very next instant. In front of the painter Perrosier’s house, she heard someone calling her. Perrosier was on his doorstep, his palette and brushes in hand. His hair was a mess and his shirt stained with ink. He was smiling at her admiringly.

  For the last few weeks, he had set himself up on Traversière Street, in a minuscule two-room house whose appearance was even more wretched than that of Jasmine’s. On some nights, he got drunk and painted busts of black women with their breasts exposed, which he called his masterpieces. He was known to stagger by the market-women, who called him the “old white drunkard,” and Minette thought he was perhaps the dirtiest white man in the whole country.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said to her. “I want to paint your portrait.”

  He took a few halting steps toward her.

  “I have no money to pay you, Monsieur,” answered Minette, laughing.

  “But I’ve heard you work at the white people’s theater.”

  “Yes, but I earn very little.”

  “Always the same problem – class exploitation,” he spat out, mealy-mouthed, and with the attitude of someone unaware of the importance of his words. “Get what’s due to you, my dear, otherwise they’ll have you working for free. Myself, I…”

  He was about to launch into what was likely a familiar speech when Minette, eager to put an end to these confidences, interrupted him saying:

  “Monsieur Perrosier, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I promise I’ll come by and knock on your door one of these days.”

  “Promise?” he insisted.

  She laughed again and made a friendly gesture with her hand. She thought he was a nice guy, that scruffy young bohemian tramp. He was of the poor white class, devoid of hatred and envy, with art his unique passion.

  For him, the social classes all melted together; they represented, without distinction of blood or wealth, no more than the group of individuals that might pique his interest according to his inspiration of the moment. Thus had he never been able to make his fortune in those five years since a boat from Nantes had off-loaded him in Saint-Domingue. In the beginning, luck had smiled on him. Having learned of his arrival, a M Renodeau came calling to ask that he commit the mawkish blond beauty of his drab and ethereal sixteen-year-old daughter to canvas. This was an incredible chance for the young painter to establish his reputation. But in the middle of the first sitting, a young slave – dark-skinned and half-naked – came into the room. On noticing her, Perrosier let out a shriek of admiration, put down his brushes and cried:

  “My God, she’s beautiful – how I’d love to paint her portrait!”

  Lady Renodeau, annoyed that someone would admire a slave in her presence, turned her back on the astounded painter, who was immediately escorted out by a black servant. As for the slave girl, she was made to pay for the white painter’s ill-placed tribute with twenty-five lashes of the whip.

  From then on, Perrosier lived in utter misery. He took to getting drunk, and turned into a wandering painter, sketching the lascivious and sensual silhouettes of the free colored women on the public square for a few coins here and there.

  Nicolette, who had in her room several of Perrosier’s sketches of her own fiery little being, recounted this story to Minette, telling her that the young painter was a fervent admirer of hers and that he had asked her, Nicolette, to bring Minette to him.

  “He swears that you’ll be the masterpiece that helps him reestablish his reputation in the country,” said the young courtesan.

  “He’ll be even more reviled – I’m nothing but a poor colored woman.”

  Minette was still thinking about the painter’s story as she arrived at Vallières Square. She raised her eyes to the sky: big, dark clouds were gathering, thinning the air and stirring up great waves of heat. Despite the threat of rain, a small crowd was jostling to cheer on a new group of acrobats who had situated themselves under large tents set up right in the middle of the square. Soldiers on horseback puffed out their chests and waved around their riding crops to attract the attention of the women. Two little white children, shod in worn slippers, held a monkey dressed as a free colored person on a leash, prodding it forward and crying:

  “Who wants to see a monkey dance on a tightrope? Fifty shillings, for fifty shillings you can watch this monkey dance on a tightrope.”

  A horse ridden by a soldier in high boots galloped past the monkey and his trainers and nearly knocked them over.

  “Make way, make way, for the King’s Bursar,” someone shouted.

  Minette arrived at the edge of the sea, where the daily flow of sailors, travelling merchants, and prostitutes bustled about. She headed toward the Bel-Air district. Wooden houses, erected between tall posts, stood side by side with their clay roofs and immense galleries. Imported elm trees lined the paved streets and cast little corners of shadow where men looking for a little adventure positioned themselves to watch the women pass by.

  A streak of lightning traversed the sky, lighting up the edges of the black clouds like flashes of fire. A terrible crash of thunder resounded and, immediately, fat drops streamed from the sky and chased away the crowd of pedestrians, who raced toward the inns and cabarets for shelter. Minette sped up. It was only seven o’clock and already the streetlamps and the houses were illuminated. In the street, the crowd bustled about in a strange concert of laughter, screams, wheels turning, and the cracking of whips. Spacious homes lined the street on both sides and, right on the corner, she distinctly saw the Marquis de Caradeux’s house, fully illuminated by the multiple torches placed along the immense lane. She approached a stone house with a shingled roof, lined with galleries, and knocked on the door. A young slave came to let her in. Minette was astonished by the modest and uncomfortable furnishings that reminded her of the furnishings in her own little house on Traversière Street, revealing her humble, if not to say miserable situation. How could a man as wealthy as M Mesplès live in such a badly furnished home? She had dressed up like an elegant lady to make this visit, planning to fan herself flirtatiously in the middle of an elegant salon as she observed herself in large mirrors, seated in one of the overstuffed velvet armchairs Nicolette had told her about. The slave bowed low and gestured toward a chair.

  “Would it please Madame to sit and repose,” he said in impeccable French, only his rs somewhat distorted. “Whom shall I announce to my master?”

  She smiled. The slave took her for a lady. This was a good sign and she felt flattered. But what name should she give? She thought for a moment and said in flawless French:

  “Tell your master that ‘Mademoiselle’ Minette would like to speak to him.”

  The slave slipped away and returned almost immediately, bowing this time with more reserve:

  “My master will not be able to see you.”

  “But I must speak to him.”

  Up until that first obstacle, she had not felt at all nervous. She had thought about her clothes – about the impression her great beauty would make on the white man, about his surprise at her speaking to him without lowering her chin, at her holding his gaze as she had so enjoyed doing for some time when facing her superiors. Yes, she had thought of everything except of Mesplès’ refusal to receive her. What could she do to change his mind? She bit her finger in her confusion. The slave leaned toward her.

  “There’s only one way,” he said with a sly smile. “But I warn you, it doesn’t always yield good results.”

  Minette’s lip trembled. To use such subterfuge to
gain access to the white man and then to play cat-and-mouse with him – a game the Whites found so exciting, apparently, that it led them to grant all sorts of favors. The many stories Nicolette had told her may have seemed shocking before but, now that she would be using them to her own advantage, had become perfectly clear. She looked at the slave. He was still leaning over her and waiting for her response.

  “Yes,” she at last said softly.

  The slave disappeared a second time. This time, Minette’s heart was beating so quickly that she could barely catch her breath. The door opened at the other side of the room and the slave called to her: “Come.” And when she got there, he pushed her into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  François Mesplès was in his bathrobe, stretched out on his bed and smoking a pipe. He let her in without saying a word and Minette could look him over at her leisure: a strikingly aquiline nose gave his chubby face an air of incredible brutality. The face of a parrot, thought Minette, disgusted. The thin mouth and receding hairline of a thinking man were belied by his prominent belly – the belly of a bon vivant, a big eater and drinker – making clear she was dealing with a devout disciple of Epicurus. As soon as he noticed her, he exclaimed:

  “The ‘young person’!…So then, you’re here to seduce me? I warn you, I’ve grown tired of all the games you wenches try to play…”

  Pronounced in a harsh and indifferent tone, his declaration made Minette’s blood run cold. There’s no point with this one, she said to herself. And she wondered what Nicolette would have done in such a situation, with such a person. For a moment, she regretted not having sought advice before coming and, closing her fan, abandoned her expression of borrowed coquettishness. I hate him, she thought to herself. He’s old and ugly and doesn’t even seem to find me pretty. She understood her mistake when, taking a long drag on his pipe, he said to her:

  “Come over here. I like your voice, at least. I just can’t figure out how a little hussy like you can possibly have a voice like that!”

  He knocked out the ashes from the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray on the table near the bed. And as Minette had not moved: