Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  Everyone was quiet as they headed back down the road that led toward the south.

  Saint-Martin had already arrived, accompanied by Scipion, who carried his bags. Lise, dressed up like a proper lady, wore one of Minette’s dresses, which Jasmine had fitted for her. She looked ravishing. Looking her over, Saint-Martin thought it would be amusing to have her pass for a white lady by bringing her with him into the select coach. It was one more opportunity to make a mockery of the country’s ridiculous prejudices. A few minutes before the departure of the car headed for Les Cayes, the actors showed up in a mad bunch.

  “Goodbye, Lise,” said Mme Acquaire. “Be sure to write and tell us about all your successes.”

  “Farewell, little sister,” called Joseph. “And remember: whenever you put your heart into what you do, success is guaranteed.”

  Lise wept as she kissed her mother and Joseph. Interrupting the sad farewells, Saint-Martin pointed toward Zabeth and his sons as they hurried toward him.

  “Look at them, Lise,” he said. “I’m leaving them without shedding a tear. There, there, we’ll be back soon.”

  Zabeth was trying to drag the children along as quickly as possible. They were barely able to keep up with her and stumbled, crying, as they clutched at her skirts.

  By the time she had managed to reach the actors, the travelers had already taken their seats in the stagecoach. She bent down, took her sons in her arms, and began crying out:

  “Monsieur François, Monsieur François!…”

  Saint-Martin stuck his smiling head through the open window.

  “Farewell, Zabeth,” he said. “Don’t think too much about me, it’ll make you look sickly. Take care of yourself and wait for me.”

  “François!…”

  She sobbed desperately. Goulard took one of the children and put his arm around the young Mulatress’ shoulders.

  “There, there, Zabeth, calm yourself. Remember, François hates tears.”

  “Monsieur Goulard, he’s leaving!”

  “This isn’t the first time.”

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I just don’t know,” she repeated so despairingly that Claude Goulard shivered.

  The scene had dampened the mood of a farewell that everyone had hoped would be cheerful, and the actors – without understanding why – felt nervous as they watched the car head off into the distance.

  Macarty was the first to snap out of it and chase away the gloomy atmosphere. Taking the tiny hand of the child Goulard was carrying, he waved it back and forth shouting:

  “Bye-bye, see you soon!”

  Everyone immediately followed suit and Jasmine had to turn away to hide her tears. She was alone now, more alone than Zabeth, even, who had her little ones to console her. That’s what it meant to be a mother: to kill yourself working to raise little beings, to watch them anxiously as they grow up and then, one day, to let them go, saying only: “Go live your life; you don’t need me anymore.”

  Joseph put his hand on her shoulder and walked back toward home with her.

  A year had passed since the signing of the famous contract, but Joseph and Jasmine were surely unaware that, although she had signed that contract in a private agreement, Minette still worked at the Comédie without even daring to demand her wages.

  XVI

  THE COACH ROLLED along on the rocky, potholed road. Sandwiched between a dull-looking elderly black man and a young, heavily made-up câpresse with her hair covered by a jeweled madras scarf, Minette dozed intermittently and watched the landscape pass by through the old cart’s poorly sealed flaps. It was pouring rain. Fat drops of water splashed the passengers from time to time and the black driver, warmly wrapped up in a waterproof cloak, swore in a booming voice:

  “Hey, this way! Damn it – to the right, you crazy ’orses – to the right, damn it!”

  He was barely avoiding the potholes and the mud-caked wheels rattled as if they would soon fly right off.

  “What awful luck having to travel in such weather,” sighed a fat, ruddy woman as she made the sign of the cross.

  “It’s rather surprising for March,” responded a young black man seated just across from Minette. “But there’s nothing to do but get used to it.”

  Knocked about and shaken up, the travelers who had been sleeping were abruptly awakened by terrible claps of thunder that seemed to explode right next to the coach.

  For three hours, the flooded cart rolled along the road lined with trees whose waterlogged leaves lay flattened into the mud. When it finally came to a stop and the driver shouted: “Arcahaie, Arcahaie – anyone for Arcahaie,” the rain had only just stopped.

  Minette was first to disembark. She went to collect her things from the driver and stood for a moment on the street. A few minutes later, the young black man – the man who had been sitting across from her – got out as well. All he had by way of baggage was a bundle of clothes he tossed nimbly over his shoulder. He stopped next to her and raised his head to the sky. Above them, the trees were shaking off the rain in the refreshing breeze. Minette lifted her skirt slightly and held it clutched in her hand to keep from dirtying it; her slippers were already covered in mud. All along the street large puddles had formed and people could not help but splash each other as they walked through them. Two Negro soldiers from the constabulary passed by on mud-splattered horses; a covered carriage driven by an elderly black coachman rolled straight through the puddles. A few beggars, missing limbs and covered in rags, looked pleadingly at the passersby.

  Houses with shingled and slate roofs rose up at the end of driveways lined with orange and flame trees.

  Minette looked up and down the street. Which way was she meant to go? At that very moment, the young black man with the bundle of clothing turned to her.

  “May I be of some service?” he asked her in an only slightly accented French.

  “Thank you, yes. Which road do I take to reach Jean-Baptiste Lapointe’s estate?”

  “Jean-Baptiste Lapointe, the griffe of Arcahaie! Why, he lives quite a ways from here, in Boucassin. You’ll have to go there by horse and head back a bit the way you came.”

  “Ah!”

  “It’s a half an hour from here; in the countryside.”

  “Where can I find a horse?”

  “Well, that you can get anywhere. Look, walk over to that gate over there. Ask for Nicolas and tell him Simon sent you. He’ll help you.”

  He adjusted his bundle on his shoulder and raised his straw hat.

  “Normally, I’d take you over there myself, but I’m a slave. I’m running errands and I’m already late.”

  Minette looked at him attentively.

  He wore short cotton pants from Vitré and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck. On his feet he wore sandals whose straps exposed his toes. Minette had seen domestic slaves with Vitré or Morlaix cotton shirts before, in the streets of Port-au-Prince. But what seemed absolutely new to her was the expression of contentment and serenity on the slave’s face. Of course she had already seen Negroes dressed in livery serving as valets and lackeys, drivers dressed in gold-buttoned shirts like M de Caradeux’s coachman, but they all wore a sort of closed, darkly unhappy expression on their face, which immediately revealed their social station. This young Negro was different; he seemed happy. Could there possibly exist, other than Scipion, a single slave who wasn’t beaten, spied on, distrusted, and ill-treated – who enjoyed his master’s confidence? She had always known that the slaves were so unhappy that they only awaited the right moment to flee into the hills; and that the masters, because they were masters – be they white, black, or mixed-race – treated them like beasts of burden.

  She left the young slave with a smile and watched him walk off as she kept thinking about what she had seen. She finally began walking. After a few steps, her skirts were soaked and so dirty that she stopped paying attention. Once at Nicolas’ gate, she noticed a little wood house lined with galleries and a large courtyard where a few horse
s were tied up, eating cut grass. An elderly one-armed man came over to her and asked what she needed in a lisping Creole.

  “Simon sent me,” she answered. “I’d like a horse to take me to Boucassin.”

  “Right away, right away,” answered the one-armed man. “And you’ll have a guide as well; you’re not from around here – you’ll need a guide. Fifty escalins for the horse and twenty escalins for the guide. Will that be all right?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  And she immediately took a little purse from her bodice and emptied its contents into her hand.

  Once she had paid, she looked at her feet and at the hem of her skirt. They were caked in mud. Softened by the humidity, her madras headscarf was wrinkled and leaned too much to one side. She straightened it. Alas! Was this the state she would be in for this rendezvous? Her chambray bodice, her silk shawl, and the little clutch bag Nicolette had so carefully embroidered were all crumpled. She looked like one of those young freedwomen who sold meat, pork, and fish at the market.

  A saddled horse was brought to her and a young black boy of about twelve, wearing only a waistcloth, helped her to mount.

  A six-horse carriage passed by the gate. A smiling Mulatto was driving and made a friendly gesture to Nicolas with his whip.

  “Who’s that?” Minette asked the young boy holding the reins of her horse.

  “That’s Michel, Mistress – Madame Saint-Ar’s driver.”

  Mme Saint-Ar, she thought immediately. Why, I have that letter for her from Saint-Martin. She quickly turned to look at the young guide.

  “Does Madame Saint-Ar live near here?”

  “Yes, Mistress. Look, over there – that big estate. It’s called ‘Les Vases.’ It belongs to Madame Saint-Ar! She’s a nice white lady.”

  The horse turned off the road and followed the young boy along a deserted path, lined with cotton plants. After about a half an hour, the guide, who was carrying Minette’s bag on his head, pointed toward a little hill where there was a flat house with a red slate roof and a single gallery on its right wing.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  Uncomfortable on her horse, Minette shook out her long, flowered skirt to clean it as best she could. Holding on to the saddle with one hand, she tried to arrange her madras headscarf. But as the horse was making its way up the rough incline, she fell to the side and fell squarely in a puddle of red mud, which splattered her bodice and face. She swore violently and pushed away the guide as he tried to help her up. She rose to stand, furious.

  “I’m supposed to look perfect,” she spat out in Creole, as she did whenever she was angry with herself.

  The guide, doing his best not to laugh, helped her back up into the saddle.

  “Hold on tight, Mistress,” he advised. “The slope is very steep.”

  Five minutes later, the horse stopped in front of the gallery abutting the right wing of the house, where three slaves, dressed just like the guide in a rough cotton waistcloth, ran up beside her. They helped her down from the horse by holding out their hands for her to place her feet. Two enormous dogs came toward her, barking and with their teeth bared. Terrified, Minette began to scream.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” someone immediately questioned. “Settle down, Lucifer and Satan, settle down.”

  The door to one of the rooms of the house opened and Jean-Baptiste Lapointe appeared.

  He wore a pair of white linen pants and a sheer chambray shirt unbuttoned halfway, exposing his strong neck and the glistening skin of his young, muscular chest. For a moment, he looked at her curiously, before coming down the stone stairs situated beneath the gallery. Recognizing Minette, he made a brief gesture of surprise and then burst into laughter as he looked her over. He laughed so long and hard that tears ran down his cheeks. Each time he tried to get a hold of himself, he ended up sputtering and doubling over even more violently.

  Minette observed him, her eyebrows raised. She was standing before a madman. Jean-Baptiste Lapointe was completely mad. What kind of mess had she gotten herself into?

  When he was finally able to calm down, she realized that he was only having a good laugh. He apologized for having greeted her in such a manner and held out his hand to help her up the stairs.

  The dogs, now as gentle as lambs, rubbed against the young man with plaintive little yaps, subdued by the sound of his voice alone. He pushed open the outer door and Minette found herself in a great hall, decorated with meticulously clean wood furniture, hanging Indian-style curtains, and an abundance of plants growing in earthenware vases.

  “Your home is beautiful,” she said with a coquettish smile.

  She turned and looked into a large mirror, about to remove her madras headscarf, and was suddenly paralyzed with shock.

  She was completely soiled from head to toe. Her face was flecked with little bits of coagulated mud; her dress was stained from the hem of her skirt up to the waist, and her damp madras headscarf was folded over like a clown’s hat. She burst out laughing, just as Lapointe had done.

  “An explanation for my slightly mirthful welcome won’t be necessary, then,” affirmed Lapointe, still laughing. “But you’ll still need to have a bath and a chance to change clothes.”

  “But, your parents – might I greet them first?

  “Well it’s just that…there must be some misunderstanding. I’ve always lived here alone.”

  “What?”

  Once again she saw that cynical and unsettling look on his face, with his dark eyes stretching toward his temples.

  “I live alone.”

  “Then I must go immediately,” said Minette, mortified. “You were disabled, and now you’re not. You invited me to your family home, but you live alone. I detest complicated situations.”

  “Well, then you must detest life itself. Nothing is uncomplicated in this world.”

  Minette looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Standing, fist on his hip, he awaited her decision with a false show of indifference. A great weariness came over her. She longed to lie down, right there at his feet and sleep – to sleep to the point of oblivion. There was no way she could agree to remain there alone with him. She would have to take that long ride again on horseback, holding on to the saddle; and the muscles of her arms hurt so much, she felt them hanging like dead weights at her side.

  “Farewell,” she said nevertheless.

  And at the same time, she passed her hand across her face to wipe away the flecks of dried mud.

  “I won’t eat you up if you want to have a bath and change your clothes. I’m not a werewolf after all.”

  He had smiled sweetly as he said that. She looked at him and saw that his hands were trembling slightly.

  “All right for the bath,” she said, making an abrupt decision, the way she often did.

  In moments like those, she trusted her instinct over any sense of reason – an instinct to which her natural temerity was all too happy to cede.

  It was this same force, she thought to herself, that gave her those accents and attitudes onstage and that had compelled her to come to Arcahaie. She believed in that force like some mysterious thing that lived inside her and served her well. Her reaction was normal: ever since her childhood, the superstitions common to people of her race did battle with the doctrines of Christianity so often read and commented on by Joseph. Where was the truth? Some feared the gods of Guinée worshipped by the Negroes, others recognized the superiority of a single God, father of the Christ made man. She had often heard the old neighborhood healer tell Jasmine that the Whites’ god was a “resident” of the skies, just as white as the Whites themselves, and that he did not understand a word of the Creole spoken by the suffering Blacks. As she became more educated, Minette had managed to shed such naive beliefs. But, despite that, like a proper child of Guinée, she had faith in multiple little things – predictions, dreams, cursed days, and blessed days – she took them all into account.

  She would have rather died tha
n be caught telling stories in the middle of the day, or eating the top of a honeydew melon. One day, her mother had taken a stern and frightened tone to scold Lise for pointing at a rainbow. Jasmine had a talisman that an old Negro named Mapiou had given her when she was still on the plantation. All the while teaching the slaves in secret, he had spoken to them of the power of the lwa, the gods of Vodou. Minette had seen that talisman tucked away in her mother’s large trunk one day when she had gone looking for clean clothes. She had understood that this was a makandal like the one Nicolette wore pinned to her shirt to protect her from the evil eye. It was a sort of little bag filled with tiny objects as mysterious as the power of the thing itself. Lise and Minette touched it with a combination of revulsion and respect. “You never know,” they said to themselves. There were plenty of nice stories in catechism, but the ladies of the neighborhood had seen incredible things with their own eyes. That was enough to sow doubt and fear in the two young girls.

  The night she sang at the Comédie for the first time, she had always thought deep inside that it was perhaps thanks to the makandal her mother had pinned to her skirt that she had recovered her voice.

  In that moment, the force was speaking to her and said: stay. And she obeyed. She knew that she could have tried to resist, but the force would always be stronger. It was the same state of mind that Nicolette referred to whenever she declared, “My gut tells me to,” or “My gut tells me not to,” and that would suffice to convince her to do things one way or another.

  Yes, she would stay. She had to. After all, she had not gone to all this trouble just to attend Mme Saint-Ar’s ball, as M Saint-Martin had recommended, nor had she come there to admire the landscape. She was being honest with herself: it was for Lapointe alone that she had decided to take this trip. The problems at the Comédie had pushed her to escape, to forget, to be happy. It was for a chance to be happy or to forget that she had come there now. For heaven’s sake, she was not going to leave because Lapointe had lied by telling her he lived with his family. How Nicolette would have laughed at her behaving like a scared little chicken. But how Joseph and Jasmine would have suffered to know about the situation she was in!