How, though, could they pull off such a project without any resources? As a good Bohemian, he placed his last, meager reserves on the gaming table. Luck was with him, and he won. He left the gambling house gesticulating wildly and ran home. On seeing him arrive, Scipion thought he had gone mad and clasped his hands, chasing after him in the stairwell, where they crossed paths with some other lodgers, who they ended up knocking over.
Once they had reached their rooms, M Acquaire took a wad of bills from his pocket and showed them to his wife, hands trembling.
“Look – look what I’ve won! Oh, the Comédie is saved!”
His tic was twitching wildly.
His wife looked at him without saying a word, then burst into laughter, all the while giving Scipion mighty slaps on the back. That day, they all got drunk in their rooms and discussed the next play they would put up – which would be a sensation – well into the night.
Good fortune kept smiling on them. Mlle Noël, an actress in Cap-Français, came to Port-au-Prince on a little holiday. Acquaire saw her, was seduced by her youth and beauty, and offered her the lead role. She accepted. Magdeleine Brousse and the other actresses were offended and reproached M Acquaire for favoring an actress from Cap-Français at their expense. During a meeting among the theater stockholders, someone pronounced Minette’s name and noted that she was bound by a contract that had not yet expired and so had no right to quit the Comédie before that contract ran out.
“So we’re within our rights to sue her,” said one of the stockholders.
M Acquaire alluded to the fact that the rupture had not been entirely unprovoked.
“And what exactly was the provocation?” Mesplès himself had the nerve to ask.
“Your insults, Monsieur,” Goulard responded coldly.
The loan-shark pounded his fist on the table and argued that a White could never “insult” a person of color and that he had foreseen that kind of reaction from a freedwoman who had been too well treated and placed on equal footing with white actors.
“Her talent merited that kind of treatment,” noted Mme Acquaire, indignant.
“Why did you all let that girl think herself indispensable? We’re constantly getting new actors from France and the other towns here in the country…The public will forget her.”
M Acquaire introduced Mlle Noël. She was very young and had a pleasant voice.
“Here’s the thing that’ll make her come out of the shadows,” proclaimed Mesplès, smugly. “And this time I’ll lend you all some money without interest. Let us spare no expense and make this evening a success like nothing ever seen before. What we need is a director equal to the task. M Acquaire…”
M Acquaire wanted to show himself equal to the task. The sets were overhauled. The painter Jean Peyret and Julian the stage manager worked tirelessly for two weeks. The posters and placards announced “an unparalleled evening, equal in every way to those of the great theaters of the Metropolis.” Mlle Noël was touted roundly. Her name was their trump card. Curious, the public came out in force for the performance, and that night the curtains opened onto incomparable sets and staging. François Ribié had left his imprint and his imprint had once again triumphed: it was a total success.
Mlle Noël’s youth and beauty won hearts and her talent conquered minds. The audience threw flowers at her feet, she was raised shoulder high in triumph, and people cheered while crying out her name.
Minette, seated between Joseph and Jasmine, had followed the play with little visible emotion. Once the curtain had fallen, she had applauded along with the others, her face impassive and very dignified. She, too, had performed in that play. She, too, had sung those melodies, made those gestures, worn those costumes. That same public had cheered her, raised her up, and called her “Mademoiselle” – and recently, at that. They had forgotten her already – already replaced her, relegated her to the shadows out of which she had emerged only by unhoped-for luck. She finally understood: never again would she climb back up the hill, get back on that pedestal where the most random providence had placed her.
She went home with Jasmine and spent a sleepless night, her eyes filled with memories of the white actress who had eclipsed her. Her pride, her true love for art suffered immensely. To have broken in that way, all of a sudden, with a whole past of successes, unhoped-for honors – to pass by the Comédie as a stranger, never again to sing, never again to sing!…
She knew in her heart that her impulsive move had not been serious and that she had only wanted to prove to M Mesplès that sooner or later he would have to do some real scheming to get her back to the Comédie. She had not wanted anything more. But fortune had just turned abruptly against her. She was nothing, nothing more than a poor freedwoman among so many others – with no real status, with no other reason for being than to resign herself, to lower her head like the others, like all the others. The white man, the only real master, had gotten the better of her. He had beaten her at her own game. M Mesplès, M de Caradeux, M Saint-Ar – all of them, all the masters in the country had gotten the better of her. Why had she been born? Why had her mother not killed herself rather than sleep with that white man? She shuddered at that horrific thought and lay down flat on her stomach, her face hidden in the crook of her elbow. Little Jean slept on Lise’s bed. She raised herself onto one elbow and looked over at him. He, too, was a person of color. He was growing up only to resign himself later, just as all the others had resigned themselves. What would he be? Carpenter, tinsmith, manager of a dance hall, cartwright? Even if he turned out to be intelligent and educated, he would spend his life saying yes to the law and accepting like so much charity any crumbs that the Whites might be willing to offer him! She could only hope that he would not become a planter – a big planter who, whip in hand, would count his slaves to be always sure of the exact number. That thought made her shiver. Suddenly, she was back at the little house in Boucassin.
The memory of Lapointe overwhelmed her as it did every time she let those shadows loose from her heart. Breathless, her heart beating wildly, her eyes rolling back, for a moment she relived those delicious hours in which she had first known love…
The next day, to escape her own thoughts, she offered to help Jasmine in the kitchen, which the latter accepted enthusiastically. For a moment, she had the feeling of getting her little girl back, and so, to prove that her authority had remained intact, she babbled senselessly, criticizing her daughters’ negligence, pointing out the spider webs and dust as proof:
“You leave me alone here, but I can’t take care of everything myself. A young lady should know how to keep house. I’m tired…”
She did, in fact, seem tired. Her wrinkles were apparent. Minette, looking at her with a sidelong glance, realized that for six years she had practically abandoned her mother. Yes, she had been entirely absorbed by her singing – by singing and by her love for Lapointe. Pour Jasmine! How lonely she must have felt!
Minette’s eyes fell on the large chest, as if by chance. That was where she kept her treasures.
She waited until her mother had left the bedroom to open it. She then took out a little bag with a few bills in it, which she counted. Everything she had been able to save over the months following Saint-Martin’s death. She put them back, alongside the makandal good luck charm, Pitchoun’s ring, and Lapointe’s red roses.
Then, after putting on an Indian-style skirt and matching madras scarf, she went to the market for Jasmine. She found herself immediately caught up in the daily throng. One particularly strident voice dominated the others. A man standing atop a table shouted out his wares at the top of his lungs.
“For sale,” cried the voice, “a young Negro violinist, able to read and write. Come forward, ladies and gentlemen. Negro violinist for sale, Negro violinist for sale…”
Suddenly, a violin melody rose up over the tumult and Minette turned around. The violinist was playing a well-known tune. Where had she already heard it played like that? She slipped between the p
assersby to approach the place where the white man on the table was addressing the crowd, trying to get people’s attention. She recognized the Saint-Ars’ young slave, Simon. Standing next to the table, he was playing, his eyes lowered. Next to him stood M Saint-Ar, immobile, observing him nervously.
Someone raised his hand and proposed eight hundred pounds.
M Saint-Ar let out an exclamation to protest that derisory sum.
“One thousand pounds,” said someone else.
“One thousand five hundred.”
M Saint-Ar kept his eyes fixed on Simon’s hands, as if he wanted to keep them forcibly attached to the violin. The slave began to turn gray; sweat covered his forehead. He raised pleading eyes to his master. His left hand was cramping, he began missing notes, and then he stopped.
“Why has he stopped playing?” asked the first bidder.
“He seems tired,” said the second. “He’s a wreck – one thousand five hundred. He isn’t worth any more than that.”
“One thousand five hundred,” shouted the auctioneer, standing on tiptoes. “One thousand five hundred.”
“One thousand six hundred,” someone stated with a harsh, cutting voice.
Minette turned around. She saw Céliane de Caradeux’s uncle. Upon noticing him, Simon shivered and he begged M Saint-Ar with his eyes.
“One thousand six hundred,” shouted the auctioneer once again. “One thousand six for a Negro violinist.”
At that moment, Minette jostled her neighbors and ran up to M Saint-Ar to identify herself.
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“Oh! What’s this – you here!”
M de Caradeux, who was inspecting Simon, turned around.
“Ah, there you are. Do you still have white lovers who fight duels over you? Lower those eyes, lower those eyes, you little wench.”
Everyone laughed, and the auctioneer himself, forgetting his merchandise, began observing the scene. M Saint-Ar called him back to order with a brief nod of the head.
“A violin-playing Negro,” shouted the auctioneer, “one thousand six hundred. Anyone offering more than one thousand six hundred?”
M Saint-Ar looked at Simon without animosity but with cold indifference.
“Play,” he muttered to him.
This time, he played a tune from The Beautiful Arsène.
For a moment, Minette was transported and forgot everything. Eyes closed, she once again saw the Saint-Ar’s home, the masquerade ball, the yellow Harlequin…
“Simon,” she whispered to the slave, “how is Marie-Rose?”
“Mademoiselle Marie-Rose! She died two years ago…”
“How did she die, Simon?”
He hesitated a moment then, lowering his head, said:
“She killed herself, Miss.”
Saint-Ar had taken M de Caradeux’s arm.
“Well then, my friend,” said the latter, “we’re selling violin-playing Negroes now?”
“I’m not a selfish man, dear Monsieur de Caradeux. I’ve trained another one and I’m selling this one.”
“Might the other one be even better?”
“No, he’s merely younger.”
“And less tired.”
M Saint-Ar turned away abruptly and looked at Simon. The latter was so pale Saint-Ar feared he would faint right there in front of the buyers.
“One thousand six hundred – who’ll go higher than one thousand six hundred? A good violin-playing Negro…”
It looked as if M de Caradeux would be Simon’s new master. The slave followed him with his head lowered, after Saint-Ar, by way of consolation, clapped him on the shoulder and said:
“Go on now, my boy, you’ve changed masters.”
Simon looked at his hands…
Ah! His hands – those blasted hands were the reason for all of this. The cramps had become more and more frequent. Despite his efforts, after a few minutes of playing his left hand would inevitably cramp up, stiffening his wrist and then the whole length of his arm. And he felt as if his heart, tight in his chest, and somehow also stiff, would simply stop beating. Ah, such suffering! To leave the home where he had been born, where he was called “my boy,” where he was clapped on the shoulder! To go with some new and unknown master. Who was this man who sought to buy him? Where would he bring him? What would he do with him? For the first time in his life, Simon was afraid. He turned back, looked at Minette.
“Mademoiselle,” he wept, “buy me…buy me in memory of Marie-Rose, buy me…”
Minette raised her eyes and looked all around, panic-stricken. A man smiled at her. It was a young, high-ranking officer who had been following the sale from the beginning, all the while observing Minette from the corner of his eye. As she often did, she made a quick decision and went over to him, hiding her actions from M de Caradeux.
“Buy him, Monsieur,” she said to him, looking him straight in the eyes.
“For you?” he asked, with a sly smile. “Is he your lover?”
“Buy him, Monsieur.”
Their eyes locked for a moment. The officer smiled again.
“One thousand seven hundred,” he shouted.
M de Caradeux, who considered it a done deal, turned around sharply.
“One thousand eight hundred,” he shot back.
The officer looked at Minette.
“My word, you’re well worth it,” he whispered to her.
“One thousand nine hundred.”
“One thousand nine hundred,” repeated the auctioneer in a booming voice. M de Caradeux went pale.
“Two thousand,” he said, furious.
“Two thousand one hundred.”
Minette kept her eyes fixed on those of the officer. It seemed to her for a moment as if her gaze was her secret charm and that if she lowered it, she would break the spell.
“Two thousand one hundred,” screamed the auctioneer, out of breath, hands raised above his head. “Two thousand one hundred. Anyone ready to go above two thousand one hundred?”
M de Caradeux shrugged his shoulders and, looking the officer up and down, said roguishly:
“I surrender.”
Minette trembled. As long as the auction had been going on, she had been able to forget that she, too, would have to pay afterward. Simon rushed toward her, seized her hand, and kissed it. She raised her eyes to the officer. He looked at her smilingly. He was young and handsome and his eyes were not at all brutish.
A woman of color brushed against M de Caradeux as she passed by.
“It’s high time,” he said disgustedly to M Saint-Ar, “that we designate special areas of the market for those people.”
Since that law had not yet been promulgated, the diverse crowd rubbed shoulders shamelessly and shopped at the same stands, bargaining and jostling one another. Minette opened her mouth to speak and the young officer stopped her with a gesture.
“I don’t ask anything in exchange,” he said. “I love the violin and I needed a slave.”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
“My name is Captain Desroches.”
She smiled at him.
“Do you know this slave?” he asked her again.
She followed him with Simon, to whom M Saint-Ar had just said:
“Get along, my boy, you’ve got a new master now.”
Minette raised her eyes to the officer and, pointing to Simon, admitted in a gentle voice:
“I was ready to do anything to save him. I heard him play at his master’s house. You’ve made a bad deal, Captain – he suffers from hand cramps.”
He turned toward her sharply:
“Well, now, you certainly have some nerve!” he observed flatly.
People looked at them with curiosity. The white women and, especially, the women of color who knew Minette were surprised to see her parading around with a white man at her side.
“Anything’s possible,” Kiss-Me-Lips shouted at her, laughing. “Look at you, stepping out…and with quite a handsome officer.”
And with that she shook her beautiful head, adorned with a bright madras scarf.
A white Creole, wearing a flowing and transparent pink silk gaule, brushed so closely against the officer that he turned to stare at her smilingly.
“I’m new in this country,” he confessed, with a sidelong glance at Minette.
“That’s quite obvious, Captain.”
Two young slaves were being sold and wept bitterly. They were likely siblings and were going to be sold separately. They threw themselves in one another’s arms, begging to be sold together. Brutally torn apart, the vendor threatened them with thirty lashes unless they kept quiet.
Young Negresses, seated on flat rocks, offered fruits for sale to passersby. Amiably gossiping market-women watched over their stands or their baskets while dangling samples of their wares on their arms. All those black, brown, and yellow heads, decked out in multicolored madras scarves, along with all those long brightly colored skirts gave a touch of originality to the scene, which the officer was observing with great pleasure.
“I think,” he said to Minette, “that all these costumes produce a particularly lovely effect against the backdrop of these trees!”
Dance on the Volcano Page 32
