Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  “Come on, get over here. My word, you’re quite the little lady. Who bought all those jewels for you, huh, who? I don’t know what you all are thinking lately, always trying to imitate white ladies. You copy their gestures like monkeys and you gain nothing from all this frippery. What’s the matter – you scared?”

  Although she was shaking in his presence and felt humiliated by the scene, she made an effort to speak.

  “No, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m not scared, but if I’ve come here, it’s merely for the honor of speaking with you.”

  “Are you playing some kind of game with me, by chance?”

  “No, Monsieur. I’d planned to but I couldn’t do it. I’m poor and I could never afford a toy as costly as you.”

  He looked at her, surprised, and spit out – as if he could barely contain himself:

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “No, sir, only those with means have the luxury of joking.”

  “Well then, shut up and come over here. Oho! You’re looking me straight in the eyes – you’re a proud one, almost shameless.”

  He rose, put his hands in his pockets and walked toward her.

  “Why have you come here?”

  Minette took a deep breath. Whatever happened, she had come to talk and she would speak. He was certainly used to colored courtesans, flattering and hypocritical, speaking to him on their knees. But she would shock him by speaking to him as his equal, without shame, but with all the respect she knew she owed him.

  “Monsieur Mesplès…” she began.

  He interrupted her.

  “If you’ve come to beg for money from me, you’ve wasted your time!” he shouted at her.

  It was her turn to interrupt:

  “Monsieur Mesplès, I’ve decided to leave the Comédie.”

  He started in surprise, a gesture which did not escape Minette. She immediately thought to herself: Ah! You’re trembling. You need me for the next opera because the King of England’s son is coming. You need me to double your sales but you want me to sing for free.

  “What’s this you’re telling me?”

  “I’m leaving the Comédie, Monsieur, if I’m not given a contract.”

  “So that’s what this is. You’ve pulled that right out of your bag of tricks. I warned Saint-Martin you’d get uppity.”

  Anger suffused his face.

  “So you want a contract?”

  “Yes, sir, what I’m given is barely enough to pay for my costumes.”

  “Well,” he answered, looking at her with disgust. “It’s clear you like luxury.”

  “I’m beginning to appreciate beautiful things, Monsieur, and also to place myself on the same level as the other members of the company I belong to.”

  “You don’t belong to any company!” he shouted at her again. “We allow you to sing – that’s all!”

  She lost her composure and raised her voice like a willful and spoiled child. I don’t owe this man any respect, she said to herself. He wants…she hesitated…to exploit me.

  “It’s unfair, unfair, unfair!”

  She screamed these last words with violence and at the same moment saw a hand reach out and slap her face. He hit her once, twice, three times – so brutally that she began to scream.

  “There’s your contract. Now get out of here. I’ve wasted enough time with you. Allowing myself to be tricked by a little slut – me! Me!”

  Furious, he was about to strike her again, and she began to run out.

  “That’s right – get out of here if you don’t want me to throttle you, you dirty little Negress!”

  The door opened as if to help her escape. When she left the room, she saw that the young slave was holding the doorknob.

  “Go,” he whispered to her. “Get out of here. He’s a monster and might come after you.”

  As it was pouring rain, she ran to shelter herself under an awning where several others were already huddled. A thin line of blood trickled from her mouth. She wiped it away with her handkerchief and stared at the stain as if trying to understand where it had come from. Blood! Her blood! She had been struck so hard that her mouth had been torn. Why? As she watched the rain come down, she tried to recall the scene. What had she said that had enraged M Mesplès to that point? She could not remember. An immense weariness forced her to lean against the wall. Eight chimes rang out from a nearby church. Eight o’clock! she said to herself. Heavy tears welled in her throat, but her pride pushed them back to the point of almost choking her. No, she would not cry, no, no! When the rain stopped, she walked until she reached Vallières Square. Someone ran to catch up with her. It was Goulard.

  “Minette!” he called.

  She raised her stricken face to him.

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “Oh! Leave me be, just leave me alone. I hate you, I hate you all – you and all your kind!”

  A few passersby stopped.

  “Shhh!” said Goulard. “Calm yourself. My poor child, how you must be suffering to be saying such things!”

  The young man’s voice seemed so sincere and compassionate that Minette suddenly threw herself against his comforting shoulder and began to sob. They came from a very deep place, her sobs. They had been stifled for so long that they came out as hiccups, spasmodic and despairing. Goulard led her into a darkened corner, to shield her from the curious passersby.

  “My child!”

  “Claude, if you only knew…”

  “Tell me, if it will make you feel better.”

  “Monsieur Mesplès!…”

  “Him! What did he do?”

  He peered anxiously into her face.

  “He hit me again, and again, and again – look, my mouth is bloodied. And all because I asked for a contract,” she explained feverishly.

  “That brute!” he said, relieved that it had not been much worse.

  He took her in his arms and lovingly pressed his cheek against hers.

  “Promise me one thing, Minette. Let me speak about all of this to Saint-Martin. And above all, with or without a contract, perform the role of Myris. It’s the best way to get your revenge.”

  XII

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Minette, accompanied by Lise, left the house early to go to the Comédie.

  “Do you know what Mama said to me this morning?” Lise asked her.

  “What did she say?”

  “That the white people’s theater has stolen her little girls from her and that she doesn’t recognize you anymore.”

  “I’m growing up, that’s all.”

  “No, Minette, you’ve really changed.”

  “But you’ve changed, too. I’m telling you, we’re just getting older…”

  “Do you remember all our plans, our marvelous plans?”

  “Ah, yes! To ride in a carriage on the arm of a handsome white man, wearing expensive dresses and jewels!”

  “You’ve already got the jewelry and the dresses…”

  “My jewels are fake, you know that perfectly well; and as for my dresses, I buy them for the stage.”

  “How I’d love to do the same,” Lise sighed longingly.

  As they spoke, they arrived at the theater. The whole company was there, aside from Mme Tesseyre and her daughter Rose. Goulard had probably let Saint-Martin know about the incident that had transpired the evening prior between Minette and Mesplès, for he ran over to greet her. Taking her face in his hands, he looked her over carefully, like a true artist fearing some alteration to a beloved work of art.

  “Thank God,” he began, “he seems not to have left a mark…”

  With a quick movement of her head, Minette gestured toward Lise.

  “I’d rather speak to you privately, if you don’t mind, Monsieur.”

  She left Lise with Mme Acquaire, who sat down immediately at the piano to begin a lesson with the young girl. Once they were alone, Saint-Martin said to Minette:

  “We were wrong to encourage you to go to that man’s house. Goulard told me eve
rything, and he’s right that things could have been much worse. In any case, Monsieur Mesplès behaved like an absolute brute. And so, with the support of the entire company, I’ve decided to make things right for you. You’ll sign a private contract allotting you eight thousand pounds as an annual fee and acknowledging that the Comédie owes you for the past two years, during which you’ve performed non-stop. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Saint-Martin!”

  “Whatever the gazette says about you, you are a part of this company. I’m sure certain obstacles will arise down the line, but we’re here to help you surmount them when they do.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Monsieur.”

  The offer was too generous. Not one of the actors there believed it to be sincere. But Minette was overcome with joy.

  What a consolation after the previous day’s horrific disappointment! Life was good and fair after all. After her suffering, this was just the balm she needed to heal her wounds. She was going to sign a contract – to be on equal footing with the other artists, and even be compensated for her two years of work! Oh, how wonderful it would be to look M Mesplès in the eyes and see him defeated! The director and all the performers in the company were protecting her. What did it matter that it was their own self-interest that had pushed them to support her, as long as they agreed to her terms and respected her. They had been wonderful to her, and Goulard had shown himself to be a charming and selfless suitor. All these thoughts moved her so greatly that she grabbed Saint-Martin’s hand and pressed her lips to it.

  “I’ll never forget this, Monsieur.”

  He caressed her face.

  “You’re sweet. Come, let’s sign that contract.”

  Giddy with joy, Goulard placed it before her.

  A rush of blood flooded her cheeks! She was ashamed of her name: Minette – “Kitten”! What had her mother been thinking to choose such a name! It screamed her social status. It was banal, stupid, without personality. It did not suit her at all, she realized. As a little girl, she had suffered when the children in the neighborhood, crouched in shadowy corners, would meow at her as she passed by. And now, this was the name she was going to use to sign that contract. How he would laugh, that M Mesplès, when he saw it! Ah! A curse on that white man, her father, who had brought her into this world and abandoned her with nothing.

  “Go ahead and sign it, my dear!”

  She raised her eyes to Goulard. Emboldened by the affection in his gaze, she signed.

  “A final bit of good news,” announced Saint-Martin, clapping his hands together. “I’ve decided that profits from the next performance will go to Minette….And now, let’s not lose any more time. Madame Acquaire, will you begin rehearsals? Depoix and Fayart, to your instruments. Macarty, your flute – look, it’s over there in the dust. You’re going to end up with a rash!”

  Macarty, ever the comedian, picked up his flute with a grimace so horrifying that Magdeleine Brousse swore she was about to faint, which of course made him do it all over again – this time right under the nose of the beautiful actress who, instead of passing out, gave him a kiss and ran off.

  “Hey, Magdeleine – you aren’t going to rehearse your part?” shouted Saint-Martin.

  “I’d love to, my dear handsome director, but an actress also has the right to her little romantic trysts, no?”

  “No, I’m not denying that, certainly. But you’ll go to your rendezvous after the performance!”

  Disobedient, she immediately slipped away, while Saint-Martin shook his head indulgently, as if to say she was completely crazy.

  Leaning on the piano, Goulard ran lines with Minette, and when it was her turn to sing, Mme Acquaire turned the piano over to the orchestra’s pianist, who had just arrived, late and completely out of breath. She was meant to sing a duo with her husband and, observing her, Minette could see clearly how much she loved her profession.

  After the rehearsal, as Macarty expressed his concern about the absence of Mme Tessyre and her daughter, Saint-Martin told them that Rose had fallen ill and that they would all go together to check in on her.

  “Before we leave to see the little one,” he added, “I’d like to speak to you all about a project I’ve sworn to see through.”

  “Boom, boom,” interrupted Nelanger, plucking his guitar.

  “Silence!” shouted M Acquaire, his eye twitching…

  “You,” interrupted Mme Acquaire, addressing her husband, “you’re taking this twitching business a little far. I was watching you as you were singing and you’d completely forgotten about your tic.”

  “Yes, I know. I had it hidden in my pocket.”

  Everyone began laughing.

  “Well, turn the key on that pocket of yours.”

  “Sure thing, my little turtledove. And I’ll only open it when we’re alone.”

  “Silence!” shouted Saint-Martin this time.

  They all stifled their laughter with some difficulty.

  “And so,” said Durand, “what about this project?”

  “Here it is. You all know that I’ve been in preliminary talks with the former director of the Saint-Marc Theater, for which I hope soon to become the agent. My dream is to run the theaters in every city in Saint-Domingue…”

  “Bravo, bravo!” screamed Macarty, doing a little pirouette.

  “After Saint-Marc, Les Cayes. In fact, we’ll soonstage a performance in Les Cayes, for which I plan to bring Lise.”

  “But, Monsieur!”

  “Yes, you. You have a lovely voice. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Well then – now you do, little chickadee,” he said, pinching her cheek.

  Overcome with joy, Lise ran to Minette.

  “Did you hear that? Did you hear?”

  “Well, aren’t you happy,” Minette replied, hugging her sister. “Have you thought to thank our director?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well go ahead, then.”

  She ran to Saint-Martin and, in her excitement, flung her arms around his neck.

  Saint-Martin smiled and looked at Magdeleine Brousse, who was just coming back. Jealous, she thumbed her nose at him.

  “Oh, come on now. She’s just a child!”

  He caught up to Goulard and, as he headed toward the exit, said to him:

  “I love that kind of woman. Full of spontaneity and precocious charm. Honestly, I don’t see how a man can have any taste for white women once he’s held one of those girls in his arms…”

  Goulard interrupted him, placing his hand gently on his shoulder:

  “You were too generous with Minette. You won’t keep your promises.”

  Saint-Martin protested:

  “Who do you take me for? This very evening I’m going to try to win the money I owe her. I adore those girls…”

  “You appreciate them with your ‘senses.’ ”

  “And that’s the best way, trust me. Besides, what’s love if not a game of the senses?”

  “What about the heart?”

  “But the heart itself is a sense. The proof is the way it behaves when it’s in love.”

  Goulard burst into laughter, but became serious again just as quickly.

  “Listen, François. I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for some time now. In all of your big projects, what do you plan to do with Zabeth and your kids?”

  Saint-Martin looked at Goulard as if seeking to read his thoughts.

  “You don’t think I’d ever leave them to starve, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “Surely not! That’s rather harsh. You could be a little gentler, you know.”

  “You’re capable of incredible acts of generosity and of the cruelest selfishness. I’m younger than you, dear friend, but I’ve watched you over the past six years, don’t forget. For you, Zabeth is the slave you managed to buy yourself and who you ended up sleeping with. But now there are those kids.”

  They had been speaking while walking at
a certain distance from the actors, who followed behind. When they stopped to wait for the others, Saint-Martin nodded his chin toward Minette and said to Goulard:

  “You love that girl, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And if there weren’t some stupid law forbidding marriage between Whites and people of color, I’d marry her.”

  “Write to the King of France.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I don’t mean any harm, you know that.”

  They arrived at Mme Tessyre’s home on the Islet of the Comédie – a modest, shabbily furnished room that she shared with her daughter. They could not all enter at the same time, so only Macarty and Magdeleine Brousse went inside. They knocked on the door as the others went back down to the courtyard. Mme Tessyre came to open the door and gestured silently toward little Rose, who – burning with fever – whimpered in her sleep. Magdeleine bent over the bed, took the little girl’s hand and called her name.

  “How deeply she sleeps!” said the actress, worried.

  “No, she isn’t sleeping,” responded her mother. “She’s been in that state for the past four hours.”

  “And you haven’t called a doctor?”

  “Yes. But he wasn’t able to come. He’s too busy. Look.”

  She opened the window and Macarty and Magdeleine leaned out.

  “There he is, the doctor, fighting since this morning to keep three little children alive. Apparently there’s an epidemic.”

  “But surely he’s not the only doctor,” suggested Macarty.

  “He’s the only one I know of.”

  At that very moment, a very thin Negro woman entered, dressed in a work shirt. She had a full cup of yellowish herbal tea in her hand, and handed it to Mme Tessyre.

  “Here, Lady Tessyre,” she said in Creole. “Have her drink this. It’s good for fever.”

  “Thank you, Mélinise.”

  She took the cup from the Negro woman’s hands and placed it on the table.

  “You called me very late,” said the woman reproachfully, leaning over Rose.

  She raised the little girl’s eyelids and, leaning farther forward, smelled her breath.

  “Give her the ‘tea,’ ” she suggested, “and then call the doctor.”

  She was about to leave when a series of heartrending cries filled the room.