Hottentot Venus

by Barbara Chase-Riboud

  —Disgusting!

  —She’s drunk!

  There were whistles and shouts.

  —Call the police.

  —She’s out of control!

  —Get this chattering baboon off the chandelier!

  —Back to the zoo!

  —Look! She’s weeping . . .

  —Poor creature . . .

  —Pitiful child . . .

  —Outrageous bitch!

  —Scandalous whore!

  —Foolish coon . . .

  My mask fell off. Out of the corner of my drunken eye, I spied again the black-clad police-inspector-doctor Baron Cuvier, who watched me from the corner of the room, an ugly dark pillar wedged between two mirrors. He had returned, still stealthily stalking me like a hunter, intent on his prey and without mercy, when all I craved from him was mercy. Mercy. I was one colored woman against a thousand dead white men.

  How come I here? How come I here? I asked myself. Wherever I looked, I was not there. Could the baron see me when I couldn’t see myself? The whites below swarmed in circles, which broke into colored patterns and then arranged themselves into still other shapes. I was tired. Perhaps I could come down. I looked straight up into the precious crystal teardrops and flickering points of light of the chandelier poised above me, coming closer and closer, crashing down. Of course. The sky was falling in chunks of glass and light, piece by piece. My head wobbled. I loosened my grip and fell, my backside smashed onto the banquet table. The dark pillar was there to break my fall, his gray eyes turgid like troubled water. I shook him off, annoyed, and attempted to rise, afraid I would cry. He took my hand and helped me down. He covered my nakedness with his frock coat and told the duke to look the other way. He told the audience to circulate, that there was nothing more to see. The show was over.

  —May I sit down? I asked.

  —In the cloakroom, he said.

  In the cloakroom, which was small and dark and hot with only torches burning, the baron-doctor-inspector was vague and uncertain, as if he were a simpleton who couldn’t read or write. He was still in his shirtsleeves.

  —You were the one who stole my birds!

  —I didn’t steal them, I freed them.

  —To free property is theft.

  —Property is theft.

  —Not the property of the state.

  —Birds don’t belong to the state, birds are free . . .

  —I love you, Sarah.

  —Then leave me alone, I whispered, astounded.

  —Men don’t leave what they love alone.

  —Honorable men do.

  —I . . . have the medal of the Legion of Honor, see? I am a grand officer!

  —Yes, I see, you’re wearing it on a ribbon around your neck.

  —Sarah . . .

  —And what hope is there that your honor will make a difference?

  —None for your race, Venus.

  —That, I believe.

  —You bloody better believe it!

  In three strides, he was upon me. In one blink, the angry, hungry will of a long frustration—not sex but the tyranny of disgust, incomprehension, mystery and lies, all collided in a moment’s incandescent ejaculation.

  —Sarah!

  I stared at the baron’s erection, defenseless, and knew I was going to die here in this lion’s den as the Baron crouched there, his eyes gleaming, his wild red mane rising, ready to rape. A savage beast poised to pounce on me, his lamb. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him flip his tail like a panther or grow horns like a rhinoceros. This was the jungle.

  Fear made me finger !Naeheta Magahâs’s lores, which always hung around my neck. For the first time I repeated the rainmaker’s curse, softly at first, then louder and louder in Khoe, adding the clicks and inhalations, the expulsions and the sound of a cork popping, ending in a whistle of pure terror as the power of the incantation escaped my lips.

  If you advance towards me with malice or violence as my enemy, your eyes shall go blind, your penis shrivel and your testicles fall off. Plague, flood, famine and exile will befall your children and their children to the last generation and their final extermination.

  The baron stopped dead in his tracks as if a bridle held him back. He reared like a stallion being reined in and crashed down hard on his high-heeled red shoes. He discovered he was speechless, paralyzed and unable to move. He broke out in a cold sweat, his forehead shone, his bright pale eyes popped out of their sockets as he clutched first his heart, then his erection. It was gone. I slipped by him and fled. Flee, Hottentot.

  Outside, the waiting carriage loomed, shiny and dark. Sieur Réaux opened the door and unfolded the steps. Safely inside, I cowered against the cushions as the baron raced to the carriage. Breathless and panting, he pulled the door of the landau open.

  —These exhibitions should never be repeated, Réaux. She’s become quite dangerous. Possibly demented. Watch her carefully. You’ll have to be vigilant from now on . . . of this unhappy monsteress . . .

  —It will be in all the papers tomorrow, said Master Réaux.

  —She won’t remember anything.

  —It’s bad for business, he said, handing the baron back his coat.

  —And for the Museum of Natural History as well . . .

  The baron reached inside the carriage and grasped my hand and kissed it. Then he lowered his forehead against it a moment and disappeared.

  —It seems, said Alice, waving the Journal des Dames et des Modes, that you reverted to your savage state last night. You jumped on the duke’s banquet table, stomped on the food, beat your naked chest with your fists and hooted in your vile language. You climbed the marble pillars of the duke’s dining room and hung by the chandelier . . . It was only the superior intelligence and sangfroid of the illustrious naturalist Baron Cuvier that saved the day, taming you like a lion trainer without the aid of baton, whip or net. Not to mention firearms. His august presence not only calmed the wild woman, who recognized in him a superior will, and who, taking his hand, followed him meekly out of the hôtel, but reassured the duke’s numerous guests that they were in no danger from the savage.

  —I don’t remember anything, I lied.

  —Of course you don’t. You were drunk, that’s why.

  —All I remember is that all at once nothing resembled what it should have. The duke’s ballroom looked like a jungle of wild animals. I smelled them. And the world was either upside down or backwards.

  —Oh, Sarah! You’ve got to stop drinking. You’ve got to stop the morphine. It’s killing you.

  —All I remember is a horde of screaming white monkeys dressed like white people who tried to attack me. I was only trying to escape . . . to explain who I was! What did I do?

  —Read it for yourself, Sarah! Alice threw the newspaper towards me. You can read, she said sharply. And while you’re at it, read a few pages from the Good Book as well! It will do you no harm! She slammed down the Bible on the table next to my bed.

  —And think about it! Remember what you told me in Manchester: that you had gained a name—Sarah Baartman. And that you had gained a country—Christendom.

  —You’re angry.

  —I’m not angry, I want you to behave yourself.

  —I’m incapable of behaving myself because of the natural imbecility of Hottentots!

  —Save me your wit.

  —What else do I have to believe in?

  —Believe in Jesus Christ our Lord. He was a simple shepherd like you, it’s so sad . . .

  —He was a white man, I said in a voice that was sadder by far.

  —Réaux wants you locked up at night. He’s afraid you want to escape. He’s given me all these keys to lock every door behind you.

  —I’m too sick and too weak to flee.

  —You can get well, Sarah. And once you’re well, you can escape—back to England. You have friends who could help you—the Reverend Wedderburn . . .

  —I’m not a slave. I’m not charity.

  —You are if you do
n’t leave Réaux.

  —What about the contract, the promise? Master Dunlop’s contract?

  —Your contract is with the devil. Your contract is a lie and a farce! Dunlop is a lie and a farce. How can you still love him? He deserted you. He’s a liar. He’s a bigamist. Why do you still honor him? Why do you honor the contract? The contract he lost to Réaux says that you are a freak, an animal to be bought and sold! They rent you out, Sarah, like Adolph— like a dancing bear or a two-headed gorilla. And Dunlop, your Dunlop, is responsible for everything! For all your unhappiness. He’s a thief, a liar, a confidence man and a racketeer. You were never anything more to him than an indentured servant!

  —No! It’s not true! Never. I’m free. Free! Leave me alone!

  —I won’t leave you alone. I’ve left you alone too long as it is. For two years I’ve left you alone!

  —You won’t leave me.

  —No, Sarah. Never. You saved my life and now I must save yours—or die trying.

  —I’m so lonely.

  —I know.

  —It’s like the fog that came over me the other night, I screamed. I couldn’t see through it, yet I kept walking and walking as if I were walking back to the Cape, walking back to Africa, but blindly, without my eyes, without a map, without knowing whether I’d ever get there . . . and there were no birds, no cattle, not a living soul . . .

  —Here, drink this.

  —This isn’t gin, it’s the medicine the doctor prescribed!

  —Yes, and now you’ll have your bath and I’ll go out and try to find some food for both of us—something you can swallow.

  Alice kissed me. Obediently I drank the medicine. I allowed her to undress me and to fill the tub to the brim. She lit all the candles. The monsters all emerged from the shadows. The freak show monsters. The Cour des Fontaines monsters. The Jardin des Plantes monsters. The Duc de Berry’s ball monsters.

  I was never the same after that. The episode at the duke’s ball was written into vaudeville, a new caricature circulated in the gazettes and newspapers, memorializing that night as well as a pornographic chanson of a dozen stanzas. I was so famous, Master Réaux claimed he was afraid I’d be stolen or kidnapped. But I knew the true reason. He began to lock me in. Sometimes he handcuffed me. But all through the Paris autumn I got sicker and sicker. I was determined to stay well enough to work. I continued to play the Hottentot Venus in her cage, rain or shine, six days a week. The cold November rain seeped into my bones. Receipts began to fall, but I was sure that by the following spring, when Dunlop’s contract had finally expired, I would have enough for Alice and me to return home.

  Melancholy often overtook me as winter deepened. I bought Alice two new front teeth. I spent the rest of my allowance on gin, into which I dissolved morphine, opium or laudanum and sometimes all three. I wore a mask to hide the circles under my eyes and gloves to protect my delicate hands. It did my lungs no good that the winter of 1815 was the coldest in memory. Alice spent all her time tending the scorching hot stove that burned day and night without ever keeping me completely warm. Alice repeated over and over again that I would die if I didn’t stop drinking. But Alice also knew that I would die if I did stop drinking.

  Nothing like the duke’s ball ever happened again, although my hideous visions of the world upside down never ceased and seemed to come more and more frequently. Often I would be taken back to Magahâs’s cave in dreams and nightmares. Often when the same painted bulls stampeded across my bedroom floor, I simply turned over or pulled the covers up over my head. This made me afraid to sleep lying down, so I slept sitting up, a decanter by my side. French food began to make me violently ill. There was nothing I could digest anymore and I began to nourish myself with flower bulbs, roots, milk and honey. This sent Alice scurrying around Les Halles to find me berries, dried apples and fruits. For amusement, I chewed tobacco, played dominoes and mah-jongg with Saw, the Chinese dwarf, and fucked men for money. When Master Réaux found out I received men willing to pay to touch the Hottentot Venus, he was furious. Then he did an about-face and began to bring the men himself, pocketing the money they gave me. I was too sick to protest. Too drugged even to care. I had my plan. It was just a matter of putting it into practice.

  Only the things-that-should-never-have-been-born remained steadfastly loyal and human. The freaks rallied around, cheering me up, insisting that they had all gone through periods of melancholy and survived. It would pass, they said, and pass it did. In the dead of December, I rose from my bed and ventured outside. I walked along the Seine, past the Louvre, clinging to Alice, who seemed to grow stronger as I grew weaker.

  —If you stay in Paris in this weather, Sarah, you will die. I know the doctors say you have pleurisy, but you’ve got TB, girl, tuberculosis, she said, I’ve seen it dozens of times in the clay pits . . .

  —I feel better. I feel light.

  —You must leave Paris. You must return to Africa, like the doctors say . . .

  —My contract . . .

  —Bugger your contract! This is your life you are playing with! Run.

  —Will you come with me?

  —What would I do in Africa?

  —Make a new life. White women are scarce there.

  —What’s a new life?

  —No whoring around.

  —And you?

  —Me too.

  —It’s money, Alice continued. We are prisoners because we are poor.

  —I know where the cashbox is, I said.

  —You won’t break your contract because of a promise, but you’d steal the cashbox!

  —It’s money that’s owed me. It’s my money.

  —And would you kill Réaux if he caught you?

  —If he tried to send me to prison.

  —Wouldn’t you kill him anyway?

  —What are you up to, Alice?

  —Well, would you?

  —I’d kill the baron. I’d kill Baron Cuvier . . .

  —Why do you hate him so?

  —Because he has no respect for living things. He prefers everything dead.

  —In a few weeks it will be your birthday. Why don’t we plan it for then?

  —The robbery or the murder?

  —Both, said Alice Louise Unicorn as we walked along the Quai des Orfèvres, past the Préfecture de Police.

  Baron Cuvier continued following me. He had recommenced after the ball and he now followed me everywhere. His pale face had plagued me now since August. When I went to the Marché Neuf for flowers or Les Halles for food, he was there, perhaps just having come from the Paris morgue or the Hôpital de la Pitié. I pretended not to notice him and he would do the same if I surprised him, yet the same afternoon, I would spy him in the crowd at the circus, staring, staring and waiting. His tall, solitary figure haunted me. He never said a word. But he always returned. He was within my perimeter even now, I thought. He was watching me. I stopped short as his figure flickered behind me in the doorway of the Church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois. He followed us to the Place des Deux-Ecus. Then he disappeared. It took all my strength to climb the stairs at 7 Cour des Fontaines. I, who used to run down a bull, trot alongside a yearling, trek twenty miles, did not have enough breath to climb three flights of stairs.

  Today, there was no freak show because it was New Year’s Day and it was my birthday. I had been feeling poorly for several days now, enough to alarm Alice into sending for the doctor. He explained once more that I had to return home or I would die. I knew this. I had already planned our escape for tomorrow even as Alice had left the door unlocked. I had stolen the cashbox but I hadn’t told her yet. I wanted to be sure that I had the strength to flee. By this time tomorrow, I thought, we would be on the mail sloop of His Majesty’s navy on our way to London.

  I slid down further in my bath. I lifted my pipe to my lips, preparing to float away on a cloud of dagga. I wanted to forget the filthy walls, the things-that-should-never-have-been-born, the specter of Baron Cuvier’s pale face, my illness, my lost dreams. B
ut before I could draw the smoke into my sick lungs, I was seized by a spasm of coughing that triggered a pain in my chest which grew like a cactus, raking my chest until it burst into a terrible gurgling sound. A thick warm liquid filled my throat. It took me a moment to taste blood and realize it was not the small spots I sometimes saw on my handkerchief, but a full-scale hemorrhage. Disbelief more than fright roused me from the rose-tinted water. I rose from the bath, shedding bloodied water which flowed downwards in rivulets over my thighs. Speechless, I hid my apron with my right hand, surprised that I had no thoughts about leaving. How could I imagine that death would not end my life? That I, monster that I was, had procured for myself a posthumous life that would last for centuries? A life far more monstrous than this one.

  Outside, the ice on the Seine slid back and forth, snow fell on the dancing skaters and drifted against the houses like ocean foam, a carriage passed by, its wheels muffled by the cold white sheet that lay everywhere and on my soul. The hooves of the snorting, smoking horses pocked the virgin snow as their heads stretched downwards against their harnesses.

  I heard my mother singing my birthday song, punctuated with her soft clicks and coos. My name song. Ssehura. With a flick of her tongue, my mother posed a riddle. Reaching out blindly for her, I cried for help in Khoe. I knew only that I was twenty-seven years old and I wanted to live.