“Hello, Mama, hello Papa,” she said.
“Hello, daughter,” they answered.
Jean-Pierre Lambert was in his carpenter’s workshop. He had a hammer in his hand and was getting ready to nail some planks together when Minette and Zoé arrived. The workshop was a narrow room, a sort of shed with a broken-down roof where planks, furniture in need of repair, and all sorts of woodworking tools had been piled together.
“Jean-Pierre!” called Zoé.
She handed him the note Minette had brought.
He read it over, frowned and said:
“Who gave you this message?”
“A young coachman.”
“Do you know his name?”
Minette shook her head.
“What did he look like?” continued Lambert.
“Very tall, very strong.”
“It’s Samuel,” he said simply. “That man is gifted with an unparalleled intellect and Monsieur de Caradeux should watch out.”
He looked at Zoé.
“You see,” he added. “I’m speaking freely in front of your friend. I trust my gut with her.”
Zoé put a hand on Minette’s shoulder as a response.
“Have I ever been wrong, Jean-Pierre?”
“You haven’t, I’ll admit it.”
“I’m blessed with a sixth sense, you’ve said it yourself. But according to our father, it’s this ‘lucky charm’ that makes me ‘gifted.’ ”
And she pulled from underneath her skirt a minuscule black bag sewn together at the four corners.
She regained her tragic air and fixed Lambert with her strangely gleaming eyes. Lambert read over the note again.
“I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m strong, too, and I’ve taken precautions. Let them come, the police, I dare them…”
The door to the workshop opened abruptly and a man entered. It was Beauvais, Lambert’s friend. He was the legitimate son of a white man and a Mulatress and had skin as fair as Minette’s, silky curls, and a round mouth, stubborn and tight. He was wearing white linen breeches and a straw hat.
“Look what this young girl has brought me,” Lambert said to him, holding out the note. “For the moment, I’m not worried at all. The last ones I hid are already at Louise’s place and they’ll soon head for the mountains. What do you think Louis?”
Beauvais put his chin in his hand with a familiar gesture.
“What do I think? Well! You’re not taking enough precautions. I’ve always said that. More than ever before, our young colored brothers in the constabulary, prodded by the compensation the Whites are offering them, are being particularly zealous. I’d recommend prudence, extreme prudence.”
He spoke the perfect French of students trained in schools in France. He had spent his youth there. Lambert shook his head as if to say to his friend that sometimes boldness was called for and that he did not like to hesitate before acting.
Beauvais turned toward Lambert and, indicating Minette:
“Who’s she?” he asked.
Zoé was the one to respond.
“A young colored girl who’s been breaking the law.”
“How’s that?”
“She sings at the Comédie.”
“Ah! She’s the one!…”
Beauvais looked at Minette for a long time. From head to toe, she thought, without admiration and without particular interest – simply with indifference mixed with a kind of psychological curiosity. When he looked at you it was as if he took no note of the physical but saw instead what was hidden inside – that which, according to him, the eyes or the mouth could dissimulate. So his prolonged visual interrogation was generally somewhat unnerving for whoever was being made to sustain his probing gaze, so dark, impenetrable, and cold. What a difference, said Minette to herself, between Lambert and Beauvais! The one is disconcerting, and seems to turn over ideas in his head a hundred times before expressing them; the other is all fire, spontaneity, and rashness.
As she sustained Beauvais’ gaze with a boldness he found greatly amusing, she took note of the fact that he, too, had heard of her – that no matter what, she was something of a celebrity. These ideas went to her head like clouds of incense. Her pride and her youthful vanity had found a perfect pretext for their expression. Among these thousands of people of color – bullied, humiliated – she had carved out a path for herself. She had been chosen by destiny to represent them in the world of the Whites, and to prove through her talent that their so-despised race had produced exceptional beings. A white public had put her on a pedestal, and from that pedestal she looked down and saw everything unmasked. And what she saw was horrific. It was a shame. How lovely it would be to be rich, celebrated, adored, without regret. She sighed without lowering her eyes from Beauvais’ gaze. He smiled. Decidedly, she had a gift for pulling smiles from the most strained lips.
“What a strange little woman!” said Beauvais.
And then, planting himself right in front of her:
“Have you ever lowered your eyes before anyone?” he asked her.
“Never, Monsieur, not even before a white man.”
“Not even, huh!”
He laughed. Lambert made a sign to Zoé, who immediately left with Minette. The two men stayed there alone.
XIII
THE BIG DAY had arrived. The preparations had been completed since the previous night. Enormous sums had been spent on the sets and the costumes. Saint-Martin, lacking funds, had been obliged to appeal to the Governor’s generosity. The seats and benches of the theater had been completely restored; the whole place had been repainted. Everything was sparkling clean, from the orchestra to the upper tiers. Minette’s dress, in white velvet embroidered with gold, was laid out on her bed. The ship carrying Prince William was expected since that morning. The Governor, dressed in velvet, and shod in gold-buckled shoes, inspected the soldiers-in-arms who were lined up to welcome his illustrious personage with great fanfare.
A colorful crowd invaded the square, flowered, bewigged, gloved, and bustling. Also since that morning, people had been passing by Jasmine’s home to admire Minette’s costume. “Lord, she’ll be beautiful!” people exclaimed. “Lord! She’s so lucky – to sing for a prince at the Whites’ theater!”
A few ladies in the neighborhood enthusiastically called Jasmine into the corner to give her a few makandals or simples to bring her luck, enjoining her to have Minette wear them. Torn between her superstitions and her desire to follow the advice of the old Jesuit priest who had taken her in, dying of starvation, with her daughters, on the day she had left the plantation of her dead master, Jasmine hid them in a drawer, not daring to get rid of them. She had never been so happy before. As people came by to congratulate her, they spoke of her daughter as a separate being, thus making clear to her that she now had to resign herself to Minette’s ascent – that all future happiness would come from Minette and that she should show her daughter great respect, venerate her like a goddess. Immediately, she would change tactics. Everything Minette said, everything she did was to be accepted without contradiction. If she had been able to rise so high, it was because she had been born with a blessing that put her above her peers. She would be the source of money, of joy, and of respect from the Whites. She was the fortunate one and, in the same way one respected a plant or a good luck charm, Jasmine and the people of the neighborhood now saw her as something of a sacred being. Scipion brought her flowers and kneeled to kiss her hand and the hem of her dress. She received fruits from the neighbors, jams and jellies from little girls, and small plates of food from grandmothers. Strangely, no one was jealous of her talent and her success. She was the one the gods had chosen to bring honor to them all and they would cheer for her at the theater with as much pride as Jasmine herself.
Little Pitchoun came over early that day. He was wearing shoes and his curls were well tamed. He took Minette to the side and brought her to the outer courtyard under a male orange tree, strong and heavy with scent. He pulled a little metal
object out of his pocket and handed it to the young girl.
“Here,” he said. “It’s a ring. I made it for you.”
It was a little pewter circle decorated with flowerets along the exterior. Minette put it on her finger and kissed the boy to thank him. He was three years younger than she but it did not seem so, given how tall and well built he was.
He ran quickly away after promising her that he would be at the theater that evening with his mother and that he would applaud her till his fingers broke.
“See you tonight, Minette,” he cried from the street. “Don’t forget to look up toward our seats. I’ll be there with my mother.”
Minette turned the ring around her finger.
“Thank you for the ring, Pitchoun,” she answered.
When the cannon announced the arrival of the boat in the harbor, she could not run down to the square with Lise, for Mme and M Acquaire had just arrived in a state of nervous agitation.
“Don’t go into the sun this morning, my dear. You’ll tire yourself out,” advised the Creole woman. “Stay in bed for a bit, stay in bed.”
“Remember,” added M Acquaire, “you’re performing for His Royal Highness tonight, Prince William, Duke of Lancaster!”
Jasmine clasped her hands together and ran to arrange the pillow under her daughter’s head. Minette let out a little sigh of annoyance.
For the past two days, she had heard no news from Joseph. At noon, she had not been able to eat anything, despite the parade of appetizing little dishes that had been offered to her by the neighborhood women.
“Look at the marinades that ‘Gratine’ Rosa sent you!” said her mother.
“And this grenadine jelly,” offered Lise, tasting all the dishes greedily.
Nicolette also came by to admire Minette’s costume. She had brought along Kiss-Me-Lips, who tapped her pink slippers with the tip of her fringed parasol, just like a European lady.
“Lord, aren’t you chic!” exclaimed Lise, clapping her hands. “Look, Minette, I want a parasol just like the one Kiss-Me-Lips has. Please, Minette…”
And as her sister had no response:
“Well, anyway, since I’m going to be working soon, I’ll buy that parasol myself.”
“Is that true?” asked Nicolette, curious.
“Soon I’ll be going with Monsieur Saint-Martin to Les Cayes, where I’ll make my stage debut.”
“Les Cayes?” repeated Kiss-Me-Lips. “My children, your navels were surely cut with golden scissors. I’ve never seen such good fortune!”
They went on to admire Minette’s Myris costume, which they found dazzling, and then ran off when the cannon exploded a second time. Prince William had just arrived. The whole wealthy white population of the island had risen to its feet. The planters surrounded the Governor and the other representatives of the government. The Marquis de Caradeux, having returned from his property, had spent the whole night traveling in the hopes of meeting the Prince. He had practically forced his daughter Céliane, who secretly harbored an inclination for a religious life, to join him. For the moment, she stayed close to him in her white dress and looked like a schoolgirl with her high collar and long sleeves.
The Marquis of Caradeux was popular among the planters. Very wealthy, he had more than three hundred slaves in his workhouses and, on his magnificent Bel-Air dwelling, more than fifty domestic slaves cluttered the immense dining room during receptions. A brash politician, he was the leader of an ostensibly high society club where the richest and the most subversive planters gathered. The club overtly flaunted its antipathy for the government and its desire to undermine its authority. The idea of separatism had even taken shape in some of the more daring minds – those who, to fortify their audacious plans for revolt, invoked the Boston Massacre, still fresh in everyone’s minds.
The Marquis de Caradeux smiled at the Governor, however, as he shook his hand, each man well aware of where he stood with respect to the other, despite this outward show of goodwill. The new Governor knew that, on several occasions already, the planters in the club had written to the Metropolis to complain about him. Both of them men of the world, the Marquis de Caradeux and the Governor smiled despite their mutual hatred. Governors had been revoked and replaced too often. Sometimes, too, tired of the depressing atmosphere of petty plotting, they decommissioned and left for the Metropolis, loudly denouncing the planters as outcasts and anarchists. The King’s Bursar made a point to cry far and wide such evidence of ineptitude and, in long letters addressed to the powers-that-be, proclaimed the incompetency of these governors faced with the hostility of the planters.
However, for the moment, each one made an effort to put his personal grievances aside. The point was to greet the King of England in the most pompous and entertaining possible manner. An entire program had been laid out: dinners, theater, fireworks, musical fanfare, music-hall revue. As the cannon and the bells mingled their bass and light soprano voices, the clergy – in their holiday cassocks – and the wealthiest of the island’s population advanced toward the illustrious visitor. The Marquis de Caradeux offered his daughter his arm and, as she curtsied, bowed and said:
“Monseigneur, I hope you will honor my home with your presence. May I count on you for tomorrow evening…”
The King’s Bursar interrupted him, shouting:
“Long live His Majesty the King of England and long live the King of France!”
The crowd repeated after him and they all headed toward the government palace where cool drinks were being served. Young and handsome, Prince William seemed to be enjoying himself. He looked around, bewitched by the skies the color of faded indigo, the trees with their persistent perfumes, leaves rustled by the warm winds, the flowery and heavily made-up Mulatresses, the white women in their crinoline skirts, the shirtless slaves, and the Negresses with their sparkling smiles and provocative hips.
Lise and Pitchoun had run into Kiss-Me-Lips and Nicolette on the square. Pressed up against the young courtesans, they watched – awestruck – as the procession went by. Hearing all the fanfare, Pitchoun was unable to control himself and began marching in step, his wooden sword on his shoulder.
“Look at Mademoiselle de Caradeux,” said Kiss-Me-Lips to Nicolette. “She looks like a martyr.”
“She’s lovely,” said Pitchoun, “but sad.”
“But why? After all, she’s rich,” noted Lise.
During this time, Minette, lying on a mat that Jasmine had spread out for her in the tiny courtyard, under the orange tree, was thinking about Joseph. A half hour after Lise had gone, she stood up, dressed herself and said to Jasmine:
“Mama, I won’t be able to sing tonight unless I know what’s happened to Joseph.”
“Where are you going, my child?” her mother asked.
“To Labadie’s.”
“Go on,” was all Jasmine said, every day less able to control her eldest daughter.
Minette found the old man in his garden, reading a book of ancient history.
“Hello, Professor,” she said.
“Hello, my child. But why do you so insist on giving me a title?” he added, looking at Minette curiously. “Surely it must be a bit troubling for a young girl like you to call an old man like me by his first name. But why don’t you call me ‘Papa’ or ‘Uncle,’ as is the custom among our people.”
Minette shook her head stubbornly.
“You’re a great scholar.”
“I’ve studied a lot, but have no title.”
“If it weren’t for the injustice of our condition, you’d be a doctor, a physicist, an astronomer – Joseph told me.”
“But I’m all of that because I studied. What does it matter if I’m called ‘Papa’ or ‘Uncle.’ ”
He took Minette by the shoulders, adjusted his glasses, and looked at her affectionately.
“You’ve said some astonishing things,” he concluded. “And since I’m a bit of a soothsayer, I’ll guess why you’ve come here this morning. You want to know abo
ut Joseph, don’t you?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s safe.”
“Is that true?”
“I give you my word.”
Joyfully, she threw her arms around Labadie’s neck and hugged him. Then she ran to the birdcage, put her lips against the bars and let out two trills so beautiful that the birds listened as they fluttered about nervously.
When she arrived back home, Lise had already returned. Excitedly, her sister recounted everything she had seen at the seaside. She imitated the Prince’s gait, gushed over his smile and eyes, and declared that she thought him a very handsome fellow.
Jasmine had to interrupt her, saying she was tiring Minette and suggested that the latter lie down again on the mat, in the shade of the orange tree.
At about three in the afternoon, Joseph arrived, as affectionate, as enthusiastic, and as charming as ever. Jasmine took him in her arms like a son and then turned him over to the two girls, who exhibited a thousand signs of their affection.
“Where were you, you terrible man?”
“Why did you stay away for three days?”
He took a wrinkled little book out of his pocket, and held it up triumphantly.
“I was at school, young ladies.”
“At school!”
“Yes, at the school of Bossuet.”
“Bossuet?”
“Okay, listen to this.”
Then he recited a few passages from The Sermons out loud: “Of whatever superb distinction certain men may claim, they all come from the same place and this origin is small.”
“Listen to this, too: ‘But perhaps in the absence of good fortune, our qualities of the intellect, grand plans, and vast ideas can distinguish us from the other men! Greatness and glory! Can we still hear those names in the triumph of death? No, Sirs, I can no longer support these great words that humanity in its arrogance uses to numb itself faced with the void.’ ”
“How strange. You just read with the voice of a priest,” remarked Lise.
Dance on the Volcano Page 15
