A slave helped her onto the horse and she left the little Boucassin house where she had lived moments she would never forget.
XX
IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock in the morning when she arrived in Port-au-Prince. Jasmine burst into tears upon seeing her, then wrested her away from all the market-women and pulled her into the house.
“Christ have mercy, how you’ve grown, how you’ve changed!”
“My sweet Mama, in just two weeks?”
“It’s true – you’ve changed. There’s something different – it’s the look in your eyes.”
As she spoke, she brought Minette’s bags into their narrow little bedroom.
“Have you had lunch? Do you want to eat something?”
“I can hold off for a bit. Tell me what Joseph and Lise have been up to.”
“They’re both doing well. Lise is having a lot of success in Les Cayes and she’s been writing me the craziest letters…”
“She must be just perfectly thrilled, my dear little sister.”
Jasmine kept talking as she unpacked Minette’s things. Stretched out on her bed, Minette observed her mother out of the corner of her eye. She noticed the gray hairs mixed throughout her messily piled up chignon. She saw the deep wrinkles etched in the sagging cheek of her mother’s prematurely aged face.
“Mama, you’re the one who’s changed,” she could not help pointing out.
Jasmine turned away quickly as if terrified by Minette’s gaze.
“I’m an old woman, you know that – an old abandoned woman.”
She left the room and returned a few moments later with a cup filled with a yellowish liquid.
“Here,” she said to Minette, “I made you a lemongrass tea – strong, just the way you like it.”
Minette took the cup in her hands and swallowed a few sips of tea.
“Mama, don’t you have anything to tell me?”
She placed the cup on the little table near the bed.
“Mama!”
At that moment someone pushed violently on the front door. Relieved, Jasmine left the bedroom to see who had come in. Minette heard Nicolette’s strident voice. She had the impression Jasmine was whispering, for there was a brief silence during which she heard nothing.
She rose from the bed and left the bedroom.
“Ah! There you are,” cried Nicolette in her lilting Creole. “How good you look! Let me give you a hug…And the dresses, were they a success?”
She let out a crude little giggle.
“The air in Arcahaie did you some good…”
She then took a note from her bodice and handed it to Minette.
“Read this to me, will you,” she begged. “My sweetheart thought it was a good idea to send me a love note. I never dared to tell him I don’t know how to read.”
“It’s high time you educate yourself,” said Minette, looking over the note.
“Why? None of that matters. You can’t learn to make love from a book.”
Jasmine looked at her with an offended air and walked away.
“So what does it say,” she asked, taking the note out of Minette’s hands.
“It isn’t a love note,” answered Minette. “He’s ending things.”
“What?”
“This gentleman is letting you know that he’s soon to be married and warning you not to try to see him ever again.”
“Oh! The pig! It’s clear he’s no aristocrat. Oh! And anyway, I don’t care. There’s plenty more fish in the sea…”
She tore up the note and, bending over Minette, said:
“And so, your rendez-vous? Is he a faithful white man at least?”
“He isn’t a white man at all.”
“Lord have mercy! So we’re all the same. We sleep with Whites to get money and show off a bit, but for true love we turn to the freedmen. Even Kiss-Me-Lips…”
She launched into the story of her friend’s strange love affair, torn between the love of a “poor White” and a young Mulatto with “silken hair,” thank you very much. The “poor White” intentionally insulted the young Mulatto, who responded in kind. So the former had the latter arrested, claiming that he had raised a hand to him. The tribunal had the young Mulatto whipped, and he died soon afterward of indignation. According to Nicolette, this was the cause of the debauched life Kiss-Me-Lips now led.
“Back then, she went by her given name: Marie-Rose…”
“Marie-Rose,” murmured Minette.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by a flood of memories so great that she became dizzy: the image of her lover filled her heart and she felt the salty taste in her mouth that comes right before tears. She ushered Nicolette out, pretending a sudden fatigue, and went back into the bedroom, where she found Jasmine.
“That Nicolette is shameless,” said Jasmine.
“She’s not a bad person, Mama.”
“It’s true she lost her mother very young, but what a rough way of speaking she has!”
“She didn’t grow up in the ‘big house’ like us.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She was born free, and so was her mother.”
At that moment, Minette noticed her mother shiver and had the feeling she was hiding something.
She stood up abruptly and clutched her mother, crying:
“Speak, Mama, speak – I’m begging you.”
“Oh! I wanted to have at least one day with you,” she complained. “I wanted to spare you the bad news for at least one day. My hair has gotten whiter, my face has a new wrinkle – it’s because of this situation, this horrible situation…”
“Come on now, speak, Mama!” cried Minette.
And in her terrible impatience, she was almost hurting the poor woman, completely distraught.
“It’s Joseph,” began Jasmine.
“What’s happened to him?”
“They found a runaway at his place and the police have brought him to Monsieur de Caradeux.”
“Joseph, my God!”
“We haven’t managed to find out anything yet. The day after his arrest, Labadie came over here with a very beautiful young black girl.”
“Zoé!” Minette immediately exclaimed.
She smoothed her hair, holding back her tears. Joseph taken to M de Caradeux – Joseph enslaved – no, it wasn’t possible!
“What are you going to do, Minette? There’s nothing we can do. It’s no use. Stay with me, stay with me.”
She grabbed her bag and, embracing Jasmine:
“My poor, sweet Mama! How hard this life is!” she said simply.
She squeezed her in her arms and then ran outside, where the merchants and neighbors welcomed her once again with joyful greetings. She responded to their show of affection with a forced smile and crossed the street, cluttered with little stands and stalls. Avoiding the block where the Comédie stood, as well as the Acquaires’ house, she headed down Bretagne Street and passed by the King’s Garden to arrive at the Lamberts’.
The street was abuzz with the tumult of the big city and the colorful crowds of inhabitants. A carriage passed close to her. The driver tugged at the reins and slowed down. A head leaned out through the curtains: it was the Marquis de Chastenoye.
“Where have you been hiding, lovely child?” said the old man to Minette.
“Excuse me, Sir – thank you, Sir. You do me a real honor, Sir.”
She was so distracted that she almost failed to recognize him. As she stammered out the niceties required for addressing all white men of his standing, she remembered the day he had saved her from certain arrest. He was powerful; he could help her. She looked at him more closely: he was old, so old he seemed decrepit. She smiled at him as she recalled the wave of memories that the slightest word brought to mind – to the point of making her dizzy. Everything was coming to her in a sort of free association of thoughts, bringing her, breathless, back to the little house in Boucassin.
“Would you like to join me?” pleaded the old man with his quaveri
ng voice.
Minette’s lips trembled. Was she going to be able to stand the half-impotent old man’s bold and libertine gropings? My God, they were brave, those girls who sold themselves to such wrecks for a few bucks!
When she was seated next to him, she was surprised to see him keep his distance. He spoke to her protectively and respectfully, and told her how much the public missed her presence at the theater.
She turned and looked at him squarely.
“I’m nothing more than a buffoon for them, Monsieur.”
He took her hand gently and with such fatherly concern that she looked at him with curiosity.
He had fine features that once must have been filled with life, and his blue eyes, with their faded lids, looked into hers with something more akin to sympathy than disdain. His old powdered face was framed by a wig, whose curls cascaded down his frilled shirt. A gold chain, from which there hung a heavy charm attached with a diamond-encrusted pin, knocked against his vest.
“Don’t be bitter, my child. A clown exerts himself flattering people and making them smile, whereas you…”
He stopped himself and let Minette’s hand fall on her skirt, as if to prove to her that there was nothing untoward in his actions.
“You,” he continued, “you charm and you seduce. It’s a big difference…”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
“You look people in the eye. It’s important to be able to look people in the eye. I have a soft spot for you: your voice reminds me strangely of the voice of a woman I once knew, way back when…oh! it’s been a long time. I’m old and I live on memories.”
The carriage crossed the King’s Garden in the reverse direction and reached the block where the Comédie was situated.
“Here you are in front of your theater, my child.”
“In front of the theater! But I wasn’t going to the theater…”
“The driver will stop wherever you wish to go.”
She was suddenly afraid of him. An irrational fear that he knew she was headed to the Lamberts’ and that he had figured everything out. She felt the same chill that came over her every time one of those bewigged white men spoke to her. It was the fear of the oppressed before the master who, with a gesture, could save or crush them. She began to tremble.
“What’s wrong, my child?”
“Me, Monsieur? Nothing at all.”
“I have no desire to harm you, believe me.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Didn’t I save you once before?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“So why are you trembling?”
“I don’t know, Monsieur.”
“You look people in the eye, but you tremble.”
She burst into tears and threw herself at his feet, kneeling on a cushion that had been tossed on the floor of the carriage.
“Oh, Monsieur! If only you could help me.”
“I’ll help you. But do get up.”
“It’s my brother, Monsieur. He’s been taken by Monsieur de Caradeux for having hidden a runaway, and it’s killing me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Joseph Ogé.”
“Calm down, dry your tears, my child. I promise I’ll help you.”
He shouted a quick order to the driver.
“Would you like to get out here?”
“God himself put you on my path. Oh, Monsieur! I swear I’ll show you my gratitude some day.”
“Go along now, my child.”
She got out of the carriage with such elegance and lucidity that she had the feeling she was performing a role – a role that would help her save Joseph. She had barely begun to fight. She would run to the Lamberts’ and then she would go to see Céliane de Caradeux. All sorts of ideas took shape in her thoughts suddenly, as if to strengthen her resolve. Yes, she could fight; yes, Joseph would once again be free. The Marquis de Chastenoye admired and respected her. Once again her voice had made a miracle. A noble, rich, powerful white man had said to her: “You charm and you seduce,” and he had not asked for anything in exchange for the help she had asked of him.
She barely looked at the passersby and walked quickly to the Lamberts’.
An old black man dressed in rags was walking just ahead of her, limping and holding his hat. One of his arms was wrapped up in a cloth that all of a sudden became soaked with blood. He turned around and Minette saw his terrified face, distraught with suffering. The expression lasted no more than a second. Just as quickly, his thick lips parted in a beatific smile and, holding his filthy straw hat in his free hand, said:
“Anything to spare for me, Miss, anything to spare?”
The old man walked slowly, but from time to time he quickened his step as if hurrying to get off the street before attracting attention. The bandaged arm was still bleeding and the cloth had become red with blood. No one paid him any attention and the bustling crowd passed right by him indifferently. When he looked at the bandage, Minette, who was following close behind him, had the feeling his fear had suddenly become real panic. She removed her shawl and, passing near to the injured man, close enough to touch him, she slipped it to him furtively. She left that first street, then a second, and still he followed her. When she knocked on the Lamberts’ door, he came up to her and raised his head.
“My God!” she murmured.
He was so pale that his dark face had become ashen.
The door opened and Zoé appeared.
“Minette!” she exclaimed.
“I’m hurt,” breathed the injured man, and he wobbled on his legs as if about to fall.
Zoé looked up and down the street and then seized his wrist.
“Come in,” she said to him, closing the door carefully.
As soon as he was inside the house, he dissolved in tears.
“They sawed off my arm, they sawed off my arm…”
“Come.”
With Minette’s help, she pulled him into Lambert’s workshop.
Seeing them come in, Lambert closed the little window that provided all the air in the tiny room.
“Where do you come from?” asked Lambert, bringing his finger to the injured man’s chin to force him to look up.
“I come from far away. The workhouse of Monsieur Laplace, on the road to Arcahaie. A slave was condemned to be starved to death; I was caught giving him food. I was condemned to have a limb sawed off every day and then buried alive. Other slaves helped me to escape.”
He threw himself to his knees and, indicating his missing arm, said:
“As I was walking, I came across this young lady; my arm was bleeding and she passed me her scarf. I followed her…”
He looked at Minette and, beginning to weep again, said:
“Please don’t abandon me, Miss, don’t abandon me,” he pleaded.
“We must bring him to Louise,” said Lambert.
“I’ll bring him,” answered Zoé.
“Get ready, sister,” Lambert answered simply. “And may God bless you for having given yourself so entirely to the work we’re trying to do.”
Then turning to Minette:
“You’ve just risked your own freedom.”
“Others take greater risks than I.”
“That’s good. Go with Zoé.”
He leaned over the old slave and took his sawed-off limb in his hands, staring at it with his immense eyes with their unendurable gaze:
We’ll bandage you up and then you’ll go with my sister to join someone who’ll take you into the hills. May you never forget that by protecting you we’re risking our own freedom.”
“Oh, no, I’ll never forget – no, by all the gods of Guinea and by Jesus our Lord and savior, never, never…”
“Hush,” said Lambert, “and be strong so as not to scream. I’m going to bandage your wound…”
Minette and Zoé had gone into another room, where they found the old couple seated on their white wooden rockers. They recognized Minette and asked her why she had been gone for so long. Th
e father’s eyes, so like those of his children, followed Zoé’s gestures as she began to dress.
“Where are you going?” asked the mother, in her Martinican Creole.
“To see Louise, Mama.”
“Are you bringing someone?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Be careful, Zoé. I’m old. I need you.”
“I know, Mama.”
“I paid a high price for our freedom, Zoé…”
The young woman’s eyes abruptly changed expression. They were ablaze, as if looking at something white-hot.
“Don’t weaken my courage,” she protested, as if repressing some horrific suffering.
“Leave her be,” intervened the father, raising his eyes to his daughter.
“We’re very old – very old, and our children are trying to ruin us.”
She lowered her head and kept it down as she spoke, as if ashamed of the words she was speaking.
“Remember the past, Zoé, remember…”
“The past!…”
“Yes, our suffering, your childhood, your brother’s…”
She rose from the stool and walked painfully toward her daughter.
“Remember, Zoé – remember the whip, the hunger, the exhaustion, the fear…”
The young woman let out a light cry and threw herself against the table, bent over, her head buried in her arms.
Minette shivered. What suffering Zoé must be remembering to cause such weakness! she thought to herself.
“Remember,” continued the mother.
“Leave her be,” the father cried out a second time.
But she kept talking – and her hesitant steps, her trembling hands, and her anguished face conveyed the despair, the worry, the fear, that terrible, daily fear that had caused the constant trembling in her limbs ever since she was a young girl. She declared to everyone, completely unashamed, raising her deformed hands toward the ceiling:
“I’m afraid, I’m so afraid…”
The words escaped her in a breath that seemed to give them even more weight, to paint them red – the same color as her own blood. She, the former slave who had prostituted herself with the “poor whites” hired by the workhouse and with other slaves, so to buy her own freedom and that of her children. She had sold her favors with the sole purpose of saving money. Every night, upon returning to her hut, her limbs aching, half drunk with exhaustion – she received men whose desires she satisfied on that same hard ground where her husband and children lay asleep.
Dance on the Volcano Page 25
