“Tell me, Simon, who taught you to play the violin?”
“Why, Monsieur Saint-Ar himself, Mistress. He’s a great violinist and people come from quite far to hear him play.”
He bowed, awaiting her orders.
“That’s all. You may go.”
He brought his violin back to his shoulder and played as he walked away. A wave of memories flooded over Minette. Once again she saw the little house perched on the hillside. The Indian-style curtains in the bedroom. A shiver passed through her. Her blood still burned from the man’s embrace. She remembered his youthful laugh, the sadness of his expression, his careful lovemaking, his tender attentions. She blocked her ears so as not to hear the violin.
At that moment, someone rapped gently on the door and, before she could even answer, Marie-Rose’s lovely head appeared.
“May I come in?”
“By all means, Miss.”
“Oh, no – call me Marie-Rose. No formalities between people of color,” she said as she gently closed the shutter of the door.
“You, Miss!” Minette let out, so astonished that she promptly forgot what the girl had asked.
“Yes, me. I’m the daughter of a white man and one of Madame Saint-Ar’s slaves. My mother died giving birth to me, and so people think I’m Madame’s relative.”
“I never would have thought…” said Minette, looking at her closely.
“Why – because my skin is so fair? My mother was a Mulatress.”
She was spirited, slight, and spoke with childishly charming inflections. As they chatted, she admired Minette’s dress spread out on the armchair.
“Do you have a gown for the ball? Let me see your trousseau. There will be quite a lot of people – we sent invitations as far away as Les Cayes.”
Minette felt the sadness wash away. She knelt down on the floor with Marie-Rose and took out the dresses Nicolette had made for her.
“They’re pretty well made and the fabrics are lovely. But at a great ball, the women only wear low-cut gowns. I’ll speak to my godmother…Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Ten minutes later, they had become such good friends that Marie-Rose confessed, laughing gaily, that she was in love.
“I have a lover, you know. His name is Fernand de Rolac. He’s a young White who’s just arrived in the country…He’s young, he’s handsome…you’ll see him soon enough, at the ball…”
She hugged Minette and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll have someone send you some food. You must be starved. Goodbye for now. I’ll come back to help you choose your costume and your gown.”
“Thank you, Marie-Rose.”
She made a funny little face, showing her affection for Minette, and then rushed out of the room.
XVIII
FINAL PREPARATIONS for the ball were made against the backdrop of the most gorgeous weather. An incandescent sun gleamed in the sky. The leaves sparkled on the trees, and the little “Love” fountain spouted a stream of water, heated by the warm weather.
Since that morning, carriages had been arriving non-stop, depositing a steady flow of gaule-wearing women and bewigged gentlemen.
Fifty or so slaves had been mobilized and put in the charge of a “master chef,” a sturdy Congolese Negro with a prominent belly and deep voice who barked sharp orders that could be heard echoing through the residence. Twenty or so cooks and kitchen hands bustled about the food warmers underneath an arbor. Little Negro girls and boys on their knees noisily fanned the wood fires using straw hats.
Minette arose at ten o’clock in the morning. Mme Saint-Ar was right: a bit of solitude had helped her. She felt less sad and a great deal calmer. Since arriving in that house, all her convictions had been completely destabilized. She had learned not to put all the white planters in the same category and, in allowing her hatred to dissipate somewhat, her heart had been greatly unburdened. So it’s true, then, that slaves can be happy with their masters, she kept repeating to herself, naively indifferent to the superficiality of her question. Having discovered goodness in some masters, she absolved them quickly, all too happy not to have to condemn the lot of them or to hate them all. Hatred is a heavy load to bear; to unload it is a relief. Minette’s youthful nature was far better suited to joyfulness and untroubled gaiety than to a somber ideal of sorrow and bitterness. She was saddened to have discovered in Mme Saint-Ar the indulgence and the decency that she so desperately had hoped to find in Lapointe. Here, the Blacks were happy, whereas her beloved treated them like animals. She was not aware at the time that certain, more even-tempered planters found that they could get better results from their slaves with kind words and little treats than with blows. She was not aware that exploitation, camouflaged or not, had but one objective, which, in the cold light of day, bore the same face of suffering and horror. She would later learn that M Saint-Ar, as kindly and smiling as he appeared, resold his old, infirm slaves by the ton so as to replace them with new “recruits” whose strength and fitness assured the smooth functioning of the machines in his workhouse. For the moment, it sufficed for her to learn that some Whites actually bought violins for their slaves for her to feel just like the slaves themselves – infinitely grateful.
Besides, the welcome she had received was flattering, and further enhanced her gratitude. The slaves called her “Miss,” and for the first time in her life she was an “invited guest” in a white salon. She was not being forced on anyone – she was being welcomed just like everyone else. Her golden skin and her beauty were admired by all, and M Saint-Ar had kissed her hand with a smile. All the mocking courtesy and Machiavellian diplomacy hidden in those gestures had escaped Minette. Their objective was too well concealed and she allowed herself to be caught up, despite her intelligence, in the gears of a clever ruse.
She first began to come to her senses when one of the slaves caught his hand in the mill. When the bell went off, the guests left their rooms and, curious, ran to gather on the back gallery where the sweating Negroes were preparing the banquet. A portly old slave woman who had been kneeling and blowing on a bundle of sticks stood up and nervously looked toward the workhouse along with all the others. A magnificent, unusually tall slave came in, held up by two other slaves who murmured words of comfort in his ear. One of the poor wretch’s hands had been torn off to the elbow, and bright red blood poured from his frightful, shredded stump. Heavy beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, blinding him, and he moaned without even opening his mouth.
M Saint-Ar made his way through the crowd of guests and was soon in the front row of spectators with Minette and Marie-Rose.
“Bring him to the medic!” cried M Saint-Ar to those holding up the wounded slave.
The two of them ran up the staircase.
“He wants to speak to you, Master.”
“My dear friend,” said a bewigged man wearing shoes with gold buckles, just like those of M Saint-Ar, “how can you possibly think to allow your slaves to come disturb you in your home? Your kindness to these creatures truly has no limits.”
The wounded slave wrested his arm away from his companions and he ran to throw himself at M Saint-Ar’s feet.
“Do you see Master, do you see?”
And seeing that his Master was looking at him severely:
“It wasn’t my fault, Master, I swear it. Oh, Master, you were so proud of my strength and my endurance. You called me your good Congo and you spoiled me. But now, Master, I’m disabled. You won’t sell me like the others, Master, you aren’t going to sell me?”
He got down on his knees to kiss M Saint-Ar’s feet. The latter remained impassive.
“Master, say you won’t sell me.”
“We’ll have to see, Michel, we’ll see,” said the planter in an annoyed tone.
“Oh, Master, Master, I’d rather die.”
“Do you think any work would ever get done if I kept on a bunch of cripples and old men?…Let’s go, take him to the clinic and get him fixed up.”
The
slave rose to his feet, weeping. With his good hand, he pressed forcefully on his horrific wound.
“What kindness,” exclaimed a young woman whose transparent chiffon gaule exposed half her bosom. “My dear Monsieur Saint-Ar, how can you waste your time listening to a slave go on like that? He deserves a good beating, I’d say.”
“Aren’t you a pretty little monster,” responded M Saint-Ar, taking her in his arms.
The guests headed back to their rooms, still chatting about the incident.
“That big ape interrupted my nap,” said a young girl in a mauve gaule. “I’ll have terrible color this evening. Are you coming, Louise?”
She wrapped her arm around a blonde girl who was laughing loudly at the comments made by a young man wearing a blue vest and white pants.
“What kind of story is that devil Fernand telling you now?”
“It’s about colored girls. He says that…”
She leaned in to whisper some hilarious story in her friend’s ear, making the latter burst out laughing.
“Let’s go, my dear. It smells like billy goat in here,” she said, looking around at the slaves and scrunching up her nose.
Minette saw Marie-Rose turn pale and took her hand. Was the smug-looking young blond man telling obscene stories about colored girls her lover? Minette wondered.
“Come, Marie-Rose, let’s go to my room.”
“Dear Miss Briand,” interrupted Fernand de Rolac suddenly, “are you leaving?”
The blond man stopped in front of Minette and Marie-Rose and bowed.
“Oh, Fernand,” murmured Marie-Rose plaintively.
“What’s the matter, my sweet?”
“Me, nothing really…”
As he spoke, he stared at Minette. “Where have I seen that face before,” he seemed to be asking himself. He bowed graciously.
“Will I see you later on, dear Marie-Rose?”
“Of course, Fernand.”
He went off and the two young girls remained alone.
“Let’s go,” said Minette.
Two carriages came furiously up the driveway. Two couples emerged and Mme Saint-Ar went to greet them.
Marie-Rose sighed:
“I must go help Godmother. I’ll come back and see you a bit later.”
“All right.”
Minette returned to her room and sat down on the bed. Her heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe. Fleeing for a moment from the truth that had just been revealed, she vainly sought to figure out the cause of her distress. What was happening? Why had she felt something suspect and hypocritically inhuman in M Saint-Ar’s attitude? Didn’t he love his slaves? He didn’t beat them, he fed them, he spoiled them, he cared for them. Wasn’t that the truth? Still refusing to understand, she put her head in her hands. What is it about me, dear Lord, that my thinking about things only makes me suffer? she said to herself. Why can’t I resign myself to my fate and just accept that of others?
She thought about Jasmine, about Joseph and, walking over to a little desk, took out a piece of paper and a long quill pen, which she dipped in a nearly overflowing inkwell.
Dear Mother, she wrote.
Do not worry about me. I am at the home of Mme Saint-Ar, to whom M Saint-Martin had the kindness to introduce me. She is a very rich white lady, married to a Creole from Arcahaie. I am surrounded by slaves who seem happy, and who cry at the very idea that they might ever be sold elsewhere. Marie-Rose, Mme Saint-Ar’s goddaughter, lives as an equal with her godmother, although she’s a quadroon. They call me “Miss,” and M Saint-Ar kissed my hand when I presented it, as if I were a lady. Tell Joseph that certain white masters are less evil and less cruel than some black and mulatto masters…
It was one o’clock by the time she had finished her letter. The lunch bell called the guests into the dining room. Minette rose and ran to the mirror to fix her hair. She was about to leave to head to the dining room when there was a knock on her door. She opened, and Simon entered with a large platter filled with food.
“Your lunch, Miss.”
“But, I was planning to go to the dining room.”
“Madame thinks you may still be tired and that it would be best were you to eat in your room.”
“Oh!”
The truth suddenly hit her, though she pushed it away. She picked up the sealed letter and handed it to the slave.
“Would you please have this letter sent to my mother in Port-au-Prince?” she asked him.
Simon turned over the envelope to read the address.
The one they call Jasmine
Traversière Street
Next to Mme Acquaire’s house
He raised his eyes to Minette and answered her in a strange voice:
“Very well, ‘Miss.’ ”
His tone bore a slight, though not unkind, trace of mockery.
He bowed politely, nonetheless, before leaving her.
Since her arrival, Minette had not left her room other than one time, to see the wounded slave. She would have been very happy, though, to join the others in the dining room.
She opened her door and poked her head out in curiosity. The muted voices of the servants mixed with the sound of clanking silverware and dishes. Twenty or so Negresses in white aprons and bonnets came and went between the dining room and the back gallery.
The “head chef” sweated profusely as he chopped the veal quarters and grimaced from the hot oil.
A violin played an unfamiliar melody. Minette left her room and slunk among the plants of the gallery on the right. The door to one of the bedrooms opened and she flattened herself against the wall like a thief. The sound of voices reached her ears. She craned her neck. A few steps away from her, on the immense table made even longer by added leaves, fifty or so Whites ate and chatted together. A multitude of slaves cluttered the room, posted behind their chairs. They were decked out in their most luxurious livery, white linen and gold buttons. All around the table, the black housemaids moved discreetly about, offering food, while the valets served the drinks. In a corner of the room, Simon played violin for the entertainment of the guests.
“In fact,” said a voice Minette thought belonged perhaps to Céliane de Caradeux’s uncle, “which masters are in the right?”
“What do you mean, dear Monsieur de Caradeux?” questioned M Saint-Ar.
“Which of the two of you – between my brother and yourself, Monsieur Saint-Ar – is correct? My brother claims that we must treat even the most docile slaves like animals, and you believe the contrary.”
“My technique has always yielded full and complete satisfaction.”
“But certainly you’ll agree with me when I say that my brother produces the best sugar on the island. Perhaps he owes his success to his harshness.”
“Others who make lesser sugar are just as wealthy,” answered the master of the house with a polite and derisive little smile. “I’m no stickler, as long as my sugar sells.”
Mme Saint-Ar interrupted by asking Simon to play her favorite melody.
“Walk around the table as you play, my dear,” she told him.
Minette returned to her room and sat down before the rich platter of food. She barely touched anything. Something seemed stuck in her throat and after several unsuccessful attempts to swallow she pushed away the platter. The violin continued to play. Minette spread herself out on the bed but then rose to open the door to a black maid, who had brought her dresses sent to her by Marie-Rose.
“But isn’t she in the dining room with the guests?”
“No, Miss is in her room with the seamstress.”
Like all the slaves, she distorted her rs, pronounced is like us and drawled in something of a singsong. In this house, thought Minette, everyone speaks French, more or less.
She took the large cardboard box with the two dresses from the slave: they were taffeta, trimmed with lace, necklaces, and chiffon. The ball gown was pink and the Iseult costume was green, trimmed with ivory lace.
“My L
ord, they’re beautiful!” exclaimed Minette.
She dismissed the slave and threw the dresses on the armchair. Marie-Rose was also eating in her room. What could this mean? Perhaps she was tired and Mme Saint-Ar had probably asked her to rest.
The violin was still playing. It went on without interruption for the entire three hours of the lunch. Minette heard footsteps near her door, then the dull sound of a body falling to the floor. She quickly went out: two slaves were lifting Simon into a chair, while another poured rum into his mouth. He was sweating profusely and his mouth was so pale it seemed like a wide white streak against his dark face.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked the young girl.
“He fainted. Oh, that happens every time he plays for too long.”
The slave regained consciousness. He spread his trembling hands in front of his face and massaged his wrists with a painful grimace.
“These damn cramps,” he sighed.
In the dining room, the guests rose from their seats. The housemaids and valets caring for Simon hurried to head back inside the house.
M Saint-Ar, no sooner having risen from the table, had unbuttoned his vest and removed his wig, following the example of his guests. He came out to the gallery, mopping at his forehead. Noticing Minette, he cried out:
“Well then, young beauty, still tired?”
“I haven’t been tired for a while now, Monsieur.”
“Pish tosh, that’s just little girl’s nonsense. You’re all the same, you’d wear yourselves out without even noticing it.”
Simon was still seated. He smiled at M. Saint-Ar, making a concerted effort not to show his discomfort.
Dance on the Volcano Page 22
