“What are they doing?”
“Flogging two slaves who have stolen something, or worse,” the ship’s owner explained, with a gesture of indifference. “The masters set the punishment and pay the soldiers to carry it out. Flogging in this heat is terrible. Poor slavers!”
All the white and mixed-blood residents of La Praia earned their living hunting, buying, and selling slaves. The slave trade was the only business of the Portuguese colony, where everything that Flora saw and heard, and all the people she met in the ten days it took to caulk the Mexicain’s hold, aroused pity, fright, rage, and horror in her. You would never forget the widow Watrin, a tall, portly matron the color of milky coffee, whose house was full of engravings of her hero Napoleon and the generals of the Empire. After offering you pastries and a cup of chocolate, she proudly showed you the most original object on display in her salon: two black fetuses, floating in fish bowls full of formaldehyde.
The principal landowner of the island, Monsieur Tappe, was a Frenchman from Bayonne, a former seminarian who, sent by his order to the African missions to win converts, had left the Church to devote himself to the less spiritual but more profitable work of selling slaves. He was a stout, red-faced man in his fifties, with a bull neck, prominent veins, and lewd eyes, which settled so brazenly on Flora’s breasts and neck that she nearly slapped him. She held back, though, listening in fascination as Monsieur Tappe railed against the cursed English, who with their foolish puritan prejudices against the slave trade were driving the slave traders to ruin. Tappe came to eat with them on the Mexicain, bringing jugs of wine and cans of preserved food as gifts. Flora felt sick to her stomach seeing how voraciously the slave driver gobbled mouthfuls of lamb and other roasted meat, between long swallows of wine that made him belch. He presently owned twenty-eight black men, twenty-eight black women, and thirty-seven black children, who “behaved themselves,” he said, thanks to “Monsieur Valentin,” the whip he kept coiled at his waist. When he was drunk, he confessed that out of fear that his servants would poison him, he had married one of his slaves (fathering three children upon her “who came out as black as coal”) and made his wife taste all his food and drink.
Another character who would be forever fixed in Flora’s memory was the toothless Captain Brandisco, a Venetian whose schooner was anchored in the bay of La Praia next to the Mexicain. He invited them to dine on his ship, and received them dressed like a comic opera player, in a hat topped with peacock feathers, the boots of a musketeer, tight red velvet trousers, and a shirt of shot silk studded with precious stones. He showed them a chest of glass beads that, he boasted, he bartered for blacks in the villages of Africa. His hatred of the English surpassed even that of the ex-seminarian Tappe. The English had surprised the Venetian at sea with a ship full of slaves, and confiscated his own vessel, his slaves, and everything he had on board, and sent him to prison for two years, where he had contracted the pyorrhea that made him lose his teeth. At dessert, Brandisco tried to sell Flora an alert-looking black boy to be her page. In order to convince her that the boy was healthy, he ordered him to remove his loincloth, and the adolescent immediately uncovered himself, smiling as he displayed his private parts.
Only three times did Flora leave the Mexicain to visit La Praia, and on each visit she saw soldiers from the colonial garrison flogging slaves by order of their masters in the scorchingly hot little square. The spectacle saddened and enraged her so much that she decided not to endure it anymore, and told Chabrié that she would remain on board ship until the day of their departure.
It was the first great lesson of your trip, Florita: the horrors of slavery, supreme injustice in this world of injustices that had to be remedied in order to make the world human. And yet, in Peregrinations of a Pariah—the book, published in 1838, in which you told the story of your journey to Peru—your account of your visit to La Praia included phrases like “the smell of the negro, which defies comparison, making one ill and lingering everywhere” for which you could never be sorry enough. The smell of the negro! How you later lamented that silly, stupid remark, the repetition of a commonplace among Parisian snobs. It wasn’t the “smell of the negro” that was repugnant on that island, but the smell of poverty and cruelty, the fate of those Africans whom the European merchants had turned into commodities. Despite everything you had learned about injustice, you were still ignorant when you wrote Peregrinations of a Pariah.
Her last day in Lyon was the busiest of the four. She woke up with severe pains in her stomach, but to Eléonore, who advised her to stay in bed, she replied, “People like me aren’t allowed to be sick.” Half dragging herself, she went to the meeting that the Workers’ Union committee had organized for her in a workshop with thirty tailors and cutters. They were all Icarian communists, and their bible (although many only knew it from hearing it discussed, since they were illiterate) was Travels in Icaria, Étienne Cabet’s last book, published in 1840. In it, the old Carbonarist, under the guise of relating the adventures of a fictional English aristocrat, Lord Carisdall, in a fabulous, egalitarian country with no bars, cafés, prostitutes, or beggars—but with public toilets!—illustrated his conception of a future society in which economic equality would be achieved, money and business abolished, and collective property established through progressive taxation of income and inheritance. The tailors and cutters of Lyon were prepared to travel to Africa or America, like Robert Owen, to found Étienne Cabet’s perfect society, and were saving to purchase land in the New World. They showed little enthusiasm for the project of a worldwide Workers’ Union, which seemed a mediocre alternative when compared to their Icarian paradise, where there would be no poor, no social classes, no idlers, no servants, no private property; where all belongings would be held in common, and the State, “the sovereign Icar,” would feed, clothe, educate, and entertain all citizens. By way of farewell, Flora resorted to sarcasm: it was selfish to turn one’s back on the rest of the world to flee to a private Eden, and utterly naive to believe word for word what was written in Travels in Icaria, a book that was neither science nor philosophy—no more than a literary fantasy! Who, with the least bit of sense in his head, would take a novel as a book of doctrine and a guide to revolution? And what kind of revolution was it that held the family sacred and preserved the institution of marriage—the buying and selling of women to their husbands?
The bad feeling that she was left with by the tailors was erased at the farewell dinner organized for her by the Workers’ Union committee at a weavers’ meeting hall. The vast room was filled to overflowing with three hundred workers, who, over the course of the evening, gave Flora several ovations and sang “The Workers’ Marseillaise,” composed by a cobbler. The speakers said that Le Censeur’s slander had served only to strengthen Flora Tristán’s cause, and to expose the envy that she awakened in those who had failed. She was so moved by this tribute that, she told them, it was worth being insulted by the Rittiezes of the world if the reward was such a night. This packed hall proved that the Workers’ Union was unstoppable.
Eléonore and the rest of the committee members saw her off at the wharf at three in the morning. The twelve hours in the little boat on the Rhône—watching the mountains loom behind the riverbanks and seeing the sun rise over the cypress-covered peaks as they slipped toward Avignon—brought back memories of the crossing from Cape Verde to the coasts of South America in the Mexicain. For four months she never set foot on solid ground, seeing only the sea and the sky and her nineteen companions, convulsed by seasickness day after day in that floating prison. Worst was the crossing of the equator, in torrential rain that buffeted the ship and made it creak and groan as if it were about to come to pieces. Sailors and passengers had to be shackled to the bars and rings on deck so the waves wouldn’t sweep them away.
Had the nineteen men on the Mexicain fallen in love with you, Florita? Probably. In any case, it was clear that all of them desired you, and that, in their forced captivity, they were agitated and torment
ed by being so near a woman with big black eyes, long Andalusian hair, a tiny waist, and gracious ways. You were sure that not only the adolescent cabin boy but also some of the sailors thought of you as they pleasured themselves in private, employing the same filthy methods you had discovered Ismaelillo, the Holy Eunuch, using in Bordeaux. The close quarters and forced deprivation heightened your charms, and they did all desire you, but none was ever disrespectful, and only Captain Zacharie Chabrié formally declared his love for you.
It had happened at La Praia, on one of those afternoons when everyone went ashore except for Flora, who didn’t want to see the slaves being flogged. Chabrié stayed behind to keep her company. It was pleasant to talk to the polite Breton in the ship’s prow, watching the sun set in a blaze of colors far off on the horizon. The sweltering heat had eased, a cool breeze blew, and the sky was phosphorescent. The frustrated tenor, not yet forty, was slightly stout, but he was so perfectly groomed and exquisitely courteous that at moments he seemed almost handsome. Despite your horror of sex, you couldn’t help flirting with him, amused by the emotions you stirred in him when you threw your head back and laughed, or made a witty retort, fluttering your eyelashes, exaggerating the graceful motion of your hands, or extending a leg under your skirt to reveal a glimpse of your slender ankle. Chabrié would flush happily and sometimes, to entertain you, he would intone a ballad or an aria by Rossini, or a Viennese waltz in a strong, melodious voice. But that afternoon, perhaps emboldened by the forgiving dusk, or because you were being more charming than usual, the gentlemanly Breton couldn’t restrain himself and, gently taking one of your hands between his, he lifted it to his lips, murmuring, “Forgive my boldness, mademoiselle. But I can wait no longer. I must tell you: I love you.”
His long, tremulous declaration of love exuded sincerity and decency, courtesy, good breeding. You listened, taken aback. Did such men exist, then? Gallant, sensitive, considerate men, convinced that women should be treated with kid gloves, as they were in romance novels? The seaman was trembling, so mortified by his forwardness that you took pity on him and, though you did not formally accept his love, allowed him to hope. A serious mistake, Florita. You were impressed by his integrity and the purity of his intentions, and you told him that you would always love him as the best of friends. In an impulse that would bring you trouble later, you took Chabrié’s blushing face in your hands and kissed him on the forehead. Crossing himself, the captain of the Mexicain thanked God for making him the happiest man on earth at that moment.
Over the next eleven years, Florita, did you ever regret having toyed with the affections of the good Zacharie Chabrié on that voyage? She asked herself this as the little ship on the Rhône approached Avignon. The answer was no, as it had been before. You didn’t regret the games, flirtations, and lies that kept Chabrié on tenterhooks all the way to Valparaíso, believing that he was making progress, that at any moment Mademoiselle Flora Tristán would give him the definitive yes. You manipulated him shamelessly, tantalizing him with your ambiguous responses and those calculated moments of abandon when you permitted him to kiss your hands while he was visiting you in your cabin when the sea was calm for a moment; or when, all at once, in a rush of emotion, you allowed him to rest his head on your knees and stroked his thinning hair, encouraging him to keep telling you his life story: his travels, his dreams of being an opera singer as a young man in Lorient, the disappointment he suffered with the only woman he loved in his life before meeting you. More than once, you even let Chabrié’s lips brush yours. Weren’t you sorry? No.
The Breton had firmly believed that Flora was an unwed mother ever since she explained the silence she asked him to keep before the day she came aboard ship in Bordeaux. Since he was a committed Catholic, she thought that he would be scandalized to hear that she had had a child out of wedlock. But on the contrary, learning of her “disgrace” prompted Chabrié to propose marriage to her. He would adopt the girl, and they would go and live far from France, where no one could remind Florita of the despicable man who had besmirched her youth: Lima, California, Mexico, even India if she preferred. Although you never loved him, the truth was—wasn’t it, Florita?—that sometimes you were tempted by the idea of accepting his offer. They would marry, and settle in a remote and exotic spot where no one knew you or could accuse you of bigamy. There you would lead a quiet, bourgeois life, without fear or hunger, under the protection of an impeccable gentleman. Could you have stood it, Andalusa? Absolutely not.
The Avignon wharf was before them. There would be no more probing of the past. Back to the present. To work! There was no time to waste, Florita. The salvation of mankind permitted no delays.
It wasn’t easy to save the workers of Avignon, with whom she could barely communicate, since most of them spoke the regional tongue and hardly any French at all. In Paris, Agricol Perdiguier, that beloved veteran of the workers’ associations, had given her some letters of introduction to people in his native city—he was called the Good Man of Avignon—despite being in disagreement with her Workers’ Union theories. Thanks to his letters, Flora was able to hold meetings with the textile workers and the laborers on the Avignon-Marseille railroad, who were the best paid in the region (at two francs a day). But the meetings were not very successful because the men were so astoundingly ignorant. Despite being cruelly exploited, they never reflected on their situation but instead sat idle, resigned to their fate. At the meeting with workers from the textile factories, she sold just four copies of The Workers’ Union, and at the gathering of railroad workers, ten. The people of Avignon had little desire to wage revolution.
When she learned that the workday in the five textile factories belonging to the richest industrialist of Avignon was twenty hours long, three or four hours longer than usual, she wanted to meet the man responsible. Monsieur Thomas was perfectly happy to see her. He lived in the ancient palace of the Dukes of Crillon, on the rue de la Masse, where he arranged to meet her very early in the morning. Inside the gorgeous building was a jumble of furniture and paintings of different eras and styles, and the office of Monsieur Thomas—a bony man, bristling with nervous energy—was old and dirty, with unpainted walls and stacks of papers, boxes, and files on the floor, among which she could barely move.
“I demand no more of my workers than I demand of myself,” he barked at Flora, when she, after explaining her mission, reproached him for giving the workers only four hours to sleep. “I work from dawn until midnight, personally overseeing the operation of my factories. A franc a day is a fortune for those worthless wretches. Don’t be fooled by appearances, madame. They live like beasts because they don’t know how to save. They spend what they make on alcohol. I, for your information, never touch a drop.”
He explained to Flora that he didn’t force them to accept his schedule. Anyone who didn’t like the system could look for work elsewhere. For him it was no problem; when labor was lacking in Avignon, he imported it from Switzerland. He never had any difficulties with those brutes from the Alps: they worked quietly and gratefully on the wages he paid them. Slow-witted though they were, the Swiss did know how to save.
Without even considering it for an instant, he told Flora that he didn’t intend to give her a cent for her Workers’ Union project, because although he didn’t know much about her ideas, there was something about them that struck him as anarchistic and subversive. For the same reason, he wouldn’t buy a single book from her.
“I appreciate your frankness, Monsieur Thomas,” said Flora, getting to her feet. “Since we’ll never see each other again, allow me to tell you that you are neither a Christian nor a civilized being but a cannibal, a devourer of human flesh. If someday your workers hang you, you will have earned it.”
The industrialist burst into laughter, as if Flora had paid him a compliment.
“I like women of character,” he said, gleefully. “If I weren’t so busy, I’d invite you to spend a weekend at my country estate in the Vaucluse. You and I would get alon
g famously, my lady.”
Not all the businessmen of Avignon were so crude. Monsieur Isnard received her courteously, listened to her, pledged twenty-five francs to the Workers’ Union, and ordered twenty books to distribute among his “most intelligent” workers. She realized that unlike Lyon, which was a modern city in every sense, Avignon was politically prehistoric. The workers were apathetic, and the ruling classes were either monarchists or supporters of Napoleon, essentially the same thing in different guises. It didn’t augur well for her crusade to eliminate injustice, but she still hoped for success.
Flora refused to let herself be demoralized by bad omens, or by the pains in her lower abdomen that tormented her remorselessly all ten days in Avignon. At night at her boardinghouse, The Bear, since it was hot and she couldn’t sleep, she opened the window to feel the breeze and see the Provence sky clotted with stars. They were as numerous and brilliant as the stars you watched from the Mexicain on calm nights after the ship crossed the equator, at those dinners on deck at which Captain Chabrié provided the entertainment, singing Tyrolese songs and arias by Rossini, his favorite composer. Alfred David, the ship’s owner, drew on his knowledge of astronomy to tell Flora the names of the stars and constellations, with the patience of a good schoolteacher. Captain Chabrié turned pale from jealousy. The Peruvian passengers who diligently helped you practice your Spanish must have made him jealous too; Fermín Miota from Cuzco, his cousin Don Fernando, and the old soldier Don José and his nephew Cesáreo competed to teach you verbs, correct your syntax, and demonstrate for you the phonetic variations of Peruvian Spanish. But although all the attentions the others lavished on you must have bothered Chabrié, he never said so. He was too proper and polite to make scenes. Since you had told him that you would give him your final answer when you arrived in Valparaíso, he was waiting, doubtless praying every night that you would say yes.
The Way to Paradise Page 16