Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  She was suddenly overcome with a rage that, in the face of her powerlessness, turned back on her. She tore out her hair, ripped her clothing, bit her fist, and felt as if she were going mad. She did not calm down until he took her hand and forced her to look at him. His face was serene and so gentle that she was ashamed of her hateful despair. He looked around for the piece of paper, picked it up, and wrote:

  I’m lucky. Thousands of others suffer in the hell of slavery.

  In writing, he explained that he had been tortured almost immediately after his arrival. The overseer, M de Caradeux, brother of the Marquis, had caught him talking to the slaves about religion. Then he asked her to be strong and to forget about all of that. Did he not have his books and the voices of his two sisters to console him? Life would carry on as before. He was going to go see Lambert that very night to see how he could be useful again. He then asked for his notebook and pencil, which he slipped into his pocket.

  He could not eat yet. Barely healed, the scar was making him suffer horribly and, from time to time, he went out to the courtyard to spit out reddish saliva. He departed at nightfall, leaving the three inconsolable women behind.

  The next day, a Sunday, Minette refused to go to mass: she swore, making Jasmine cry and then leave, dragging Lise behind her. They returned accompanied by Joseph.

  Minette was seated in the front room, her face hard and tense. Joseph asked her to sing, writing the request in his notebook. She refused, claiming to be tired. She felt as if she would never be able to sing again. She had done too much shouting, too much weeping. All night long she had been screaming inside: Cursed Whites, cursed white planters. That smothered rage had inflamed her throat and extinguished her voice. She was seventeen years old but felt as if she had lived a long, long life of suffering and revolt.

  She purposely missed rehearsal and remained closed in her bedroom. Durand, already anxious, given that the performance was coming up soon – they were meant to debut in two days – came looking for her himself. Jasmine let him into the room where Minette, still in her nightgown, had hidden herself under the covers.

  “Are you ill?” he asked her.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing in the show,” she answered, looking away.

  “Come now, Minette,” he pleaded, “don’t do this to me. I’m riddled with debt and, as you must have heard, the sale of Saint-Martin’s estate isn’t going to amount to much. I’m the one meant to take the profits from the show. Are you really going to let me down?”

  All her revolt, all her pent-up rage seized the opportunity to explode out of her then. Throwing back the covers, she launched into a tirade against the Whites, calling them brutes and exploiters.

  “Oh! So you don’t want me to let you down, is that it? You, always you, nothing but you! What’s left for any of the other races after the Whites? Have you ever asked yourself whether I might be starving to death? I’ve worked for more than three years without seeing a penny. That’s no big deal, right? Working for free, that suits people like me just fine. It’s only natural that I work myself to the bone. I will not perform the day after tomorrow – I’ll never perform again, do you hear me? I hate you, I hate the whole world…”

  She fell back on the bed, breathless and spent, her eyes shut tight. Durand, flabbergasted, looked at her without speaking. Jasmine gestured to him to come into the next room and, once he came near her, lowered her eyes and spoke to him softly. Durand left immediately. Then it was Goulard who came, Saint-Martin’s children in his arms.

  “I’m responsible for these poor souls,” he said to Minette. “Zabeth has just died, and Mesplès has begun selling her furniture. Will you help me?”

  Saint-Martin’s children! How much they resembled him. She remembered the young director’s charming, protective smile, his kindness. Alas! He, too, without any ill will, had nevertheless taken advantage of her. She held out her arm and Goulard passed her the youngest of the children.

  “What’s his name,” she asked.

  “Jean.”

  “Jean!”

  A wave of memories washed over her, strong enough to knock her over with its force. She reeled with dizziness.

  “I’m giving him to you, Minette.”

  She looked at the child and smiled at Goulard.

  “This one is called François. I’ll make a great artist of him. Isn’t that right, François?”

  “Yes, godfather,” answered the child in his clear little voice.

  “We’ll have to work hard, Minette. Little kids don’t like to go hungry…A propos, have you gone to see Mesplès about your fees? You’re owed a pretty penny. Twenty-four thousand pounds isn’t nothing. You should try to get your pay.”

  Minette shrugged her shoulders.

  “With our privately made agreement, what proof do I have?”

  “You have justice and what’s right.”

  “You must be kidding, Claude. Or have you forgotten who I am?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything. You belong to the class of fighters. So fight, before accepting defeat. Mesplès already made amends by having you come back to perform. He’ll relent. As for Mademoiselle Dubuisson, having no idea of your talent, she’s preparing to boo you along with the rest of the audience…”

  He looked at her and saw that he’d gotten what he wanted. Minette’s cheeks had suddenly gotten back their color and her lips parted in a mocking smile.

  “We’ll see about that…”

  She leaned toward the child, who was playing with her earring, and gave him a kiss.

  “My word, he’s really my responsibility,” she concluded.

  Goulard went back to see Durand, who awaited him on the street corner, discussing with Jasmine and Lise.

  “It seems to be okay,” he told them.

  “So, has she promised to perform?”

  “Don’t you know her at all? She’ll never concede just because of a promise.”

  “Well then what did you ask of her?”

  “To humiliate Dubuisson and get her revenge on Mesplès.”

  “Those are pretty Machiavellian tactics.”

  “Actually, to her credit, I also had to use a third trick.”

  “What’s that.”

  “An appeal to her maternal instinct: I gave her the kid.”

  “Well, well!”

  Hearing this news, Lise let out a little cry of joy and rushed back into the house…

  The next day, Minette went out early to see the seamstress Durand had recommended. Their costumes having been completed, she took them home. She tried them on again for Lise and Jasmine, standing before the little mirror in the bedroom and humming Iphigenia’s duet. The costumes were certainly luxurious enough to make Mademoiselle Dubuisson drool with envy.

  In the morning, Joseph came by with a play by Racine and handed it to her. She sat down at the table and, without looking at him, began reading certain passages aloud. Then she stood up and went out to the very back of the courtyard, where she blew her nose and wiped away her tears. He who once had read so beautifully! He who once had spoken so beautifully! He who once had recited lines of poetry so beautifully! No, she would never be consoled. She was astonished to discover in herself, ever since Joseph’s torture, that same hatred she reproached Jean-Baptiste Lapointe for having inside him. If she had hated Whites before, it was only now that she grasped to what extent that feeling could be violent, bitter, and destructive. At night, she dreamed of sticking large knives into white necks while smiling calmly, as if executing a delightful task. Since then, how close she felt to her lover!

  Where was he? What was he doing? Why had he not come? No longer able to live without hearing from him, she wrote him a long letter, which she entrusted to the driver of a carriage who traveled every three days. Every three days, she ran to await the driver’s return, hoping for a response. After two weeks of waiting in vain, she wrote a second letter, which she sent to Marie-Rose, asking her to get it to Boucassin. She finally got an answer: it w
as from Marie-Rose herself.

  Dear Minette, it said, Jean-Baptiste Lapointe has disappeared. It seems he has killed a planter and is now hiding out in the Spanish part of the island, having made his way through the hills. He has been judged, hanged in effigy, and a bounty has been placed on his head. That’s all anyone’s talking about in Arcahaie. I’m so sorry to have to give you such sad news…

  Minette could not finish reading the letter. Her hand was trembling so violently that she stared at it for a moment, perplexed. He had killed a planter. He had run away. So it was over between the two of them. She would never see him again. She fell into a chair and re-read the letter slowly, as if hoping she had misunderstood. One after the next, she said to herself. One tragedy after the next. Where was that divine mercy – where was that God, so well hidden, who seemed to laugh as he multiplied people’s suffering? Who could she call on – pray to? “My God,” she murmured, falling into the habit all the same. Oh! It was bound to happen, it was bound to end like that. There was too much unhappiness, too much hatred inside him. That hatred was just looking for the right target and it had landed on some planter. Who was he, anyway – that planter? Some impertinent youth, stiff with haughtiness, or some potbellied fat man, bloodthirsty and ferocious? So he had killed again! Big deal! How could she blame him? He had dared to do what thousands of others dreamed of doing. He had killed a white man – a planter – after laying his hands on a bunch of drunken sailors. Was he a criminal? “My God, help me,” pleaded Minette. She wanted to see more clearly, judge the facts impartially and come to some conclusion – either accuse or forgive Lapointe. He had been forced to do it. Everything had forced him to do it, she concluded. The unhappiness, the humiliations, the injustice, the suffering, and the hatred. Plenty of excuses!

  She heard the voice of Saint-Martin’s son calling for her. She responded, crying out his name:

  “Jean, Jean!”

  He ran to her and she held him close to her. Who knows, perhaps tomorrow he would suffer, hate, kill. It could not be expected that all men would have Joseph’s sweetness and generosity. Was she, Minette, anything like Céliane de Caradeux? There are some people in whom goodness disappears once they discover the spirit of revolt. That was her type. The Lamberts’ type, Jean-Baptiste Lapointe’s type, and she had no regrets about it. She had come to admire kindness in others without envying them it. She was keeping her despair to herself, just as she had kept her love story a secret. Without admitting she was ashamed, perhaps, to have feelings for Lapointe, she did not even tell Joseph, for whom her affection had doubled, so great was her desire to love.

  Joseph was, for that matter, being well taken care of. As soon as they saw him enter Jasmine’s house, everyone in the neighborhood sent over fruit juices and Bavarian creams, which he managed to swallow more easily without too greatly irritating his mutilated tongue. He drank with his eyes closed, and his forehead immediately broke into a heavy sweat, which he quickly wiped away so as not to scare Lise and Minette. Jasmine had agreed to let Lise leave for Léogane. She did not even need to be begged. Their precarious existence and the privations it brought had helped to make up her mind: some days, they had been very hungry, and that was not something that could be easily forgotten.

  All the actors from the Comédie, in fact, had lived through similar experiences since Saint-Martin’s death. The sale of the Negro chef and the furniture had been just enough to pay half of the theater’s debts to the Saint-Marc Company and the French actresses. To buy new sets and pay for the costumes, Depoix and Favart had been obliged to go to François Mesplès, who had agreed to advance them a certain sum, with forty percent interest. Depoix had protested, indignant.

  “Take it or leave it, my friend,” Mesplès had responded. “I’m helping you out and you’re the angry one? Seems the roles have gotten mixed up.”

  Minette, who had gone with them in the hopes of being paid, found herself being shouted at rudely.

  “And what is it you want, girl?”

  “My money, Monsieur.”

  “What money?”

  “The twenty-four thousand pounds Monsieur Saint-Martin asked you to pay me in his letter. My sister was there, Monsieur.”

  “I never got any letter.”

  “But, Monsieur…”

  “Are you questioning my word? Do you want me to have you thrown into prison for grave insult toward a white man? Go on, get the hell out of here.”

  “You’ll make her lose heart, Monsieur,” Depoix once again protested. “She might make up her mind not to sing. In that case, we’ll go bankrupt, no question.”

  The usurer grumbled something under his breath, opened a drawer, and took out a bill, which he threw on the desk.

  “Here’s five thousand pounds, and not another word about it. I never got any letter from Saint-Martin and I will not have my word questioned.”

  Favart took the bill, folded it, and handed it to Minette.

  “Well, we’ll have gotten something out of this at least,” he said to her, smiling sweetly.

  And then, turning toward Mesplès:

  “I have fifty-something theater subscriptions here, purchased by high-level people – unpaid subscriptions, of course. At what rate will you take them?”

  “Still forty percent.”

  “Monsieur!…”

  “You’re wasting your breath and your time. I said forty percent.”

  Favart took out a wad of subscriptions from a leather suitcase and handed them to the usurer, who counted them after moistening his fingers. Then, looking at the signatures:

  “My word, the King’s Bursar and Monsieur de Caradeux himself are bad debtees.”

  “The theater is solid, Monsieur.”

  “Or the actors are.”

  He handed them a paper:

  “Sign here, will you?”

  With this money, the new directors were able to face the numerous expenses demanded by the new piece and to pay the painter Peyret and the stagehand Julian, both very upset at having worked for nothing.

  Minette’s five thousand pounds bought Jasmine a fully stocked, brand-new stand. But her cashbox remained completely empty.

  It remained empty up until the night of the performance. The billboards and the gazette had announced the return of the “young person” – her reappearance in the duet of Iphigenia alongside Durand, ward of the King, as well as a grand ball followed by a masked ball. The theater was full to bursting as of six that evening. Outside, those who had not managed to secure a seat complained loudly. As subscriptions had been suspended by Mesplès as a means of obliging the debtors to pay, several carriages drove away with enraged planters badmouthing the irresponsible new directors.

  The evening was a veritable triumph. That night, the soldiers of the regiment, among whom the young horseman who had trampled Jasmine’s stand, called to Minette and bestowed her with a new name. The trend was initiated by that blue-eyed officer she had met one day in the company of Magdeleine Brousse. In his enthusiasm, he climbed up on his bench and shouted:

  “Long live ‘Mademoiselle’ Minette!”

  Hundreds of delirious voices repeated the words right after him. Minette was no longer the “young person.” Her talent had just earned her the enviable title of “demoiselle” – a title to which no woman of color could aspire. Someone threw a crown of flowers at her. Folded notes fell at her feet. High up in the upper mezzanine, Jasmine wept as she clasped Joseph. Her daughter, she could feel it, had been utterly sublime.

  Nevertheless, despite the great shows of enthusiasm from the public and the grateful emotion of the new directors, she was refused entry to the ball. That said, she did nothing to try to be admitted. She would have been more than unhappy in that high-society atmosphere. Not that she did not like balls, she enjoyed shining too much not to enjoy them, but her spirit was still convalescing, such that joy could not seduce her but only made her suffer. She was perfectly satisfied. She had enjoyed seeing Mlle Dubuisson’s looks of displeasure, aston
ishment, and fury; she had enjoyed the blissful admiration of the Whites in the audience; she had enjoyed her victory. She left the Comédie triumphantly, on Joseph’s arm, amidst the applause of a host of admirers who each promised – with countless compliments – to escort her safely home.

  Goulard was among them. He was following her without being noticed, when suddenly two young Whites bet one another that they could give Minette a kiss before she made it to her house.

  “What’re the stakes?”

  “Three thousand pounds.”

  “Where are the witnesses?”

  They chose at random among a group of impudent Whites.

  “We’ll run up to her together and the first to kiss her is the winner.”

  “You’re on.”

  The first to arrive, pushing aside Joseph and Lise, who were walking arm in arm with Minette, pulled her to him and shouted:

  “Here goes that kiss – and on the lips, at that!”

  He pressed his lips to her mouth and ran away. Goulard grabbed him by the collar. Swords were called for and brought. They chose a deserted spot near the church and headed there, followed by the nervous and excited crowd. Joseph dragged away Minette, who was trembling for Goulard. Escorted by the laughing crowd of freedmen, Minette arrived home, where she found little Jean sleeping under the watchful eye of Zulma, an elderly Negress from the neighborhood. She was curled up at the foot of the bed in her filthy rags. Jasmine woke her and, placing some coins in her hand, sent her home saying they would have need of her services again soon.

  The child was sleeping on the beds they had joined together to make room for him. His curls spilled across the pillow. Minette and Lise got undressed and lay down, one on each side of the two little beds. Jasmine lay down on hers.

  “When are you leaving?” Minette asked her sister.

  “As soon as possible. I can’t wait to travel.”

  “Make sure you get paid.”

  “I have no intention of performing for nothing. I hear the director is a quadroon named Labbé.”

  “A quadroon – that would surprise me…Will you write to us?”