As he read the morning newspaper, he laughed in derision. The editor of Les Colonies stated that an unnamed “leading authority” on volcanoes had told the newspaper that the ash fallout was nothing more than a passing phase and the crater would soon become dormant. Rémy wondered who the leading authority was since no one on the scientific committee had any more specialized knowledge about volcanoes than the boy who polished his boots.
Setting aside the newspaper, he picked up a book on Pompeii that he had borrowed from the Schoelcher Library. Leafing through the pages, he stared at the pictures of toppled columns, ruined villas, writhing humans, skeletons embedded in ash, a once-beautiful town in utter ruin. He found some striking similarities between Pompeii and Saint-Pierre. It was almost uncanny. Both Pompeii and Saint-Pierre were resort towns built in the shadow of a volcano, both had a reputation for loose morals and a careless, pleasure-seeking approach to life, and both suffered from endless political backstabbing and bickering. Saint-Pierre even boasted Roman columns in the fort cathedral and a plethora of public fountains and baths, just like in Pompeii. Some of the expensive villas on the hillsides even resembled the villas of ancient Roman officials. And like the citizens of Pompeii, the Pierrotins seemed to be oblivious that they were living in the shadow of a smoldering volcano, as if they were living under a grand illusion about their own mortality.
He meditated on a certain passage:
The eruption begins after the lavas have risen within the crater up to what may be called high-lava mark. When the pressure from the vapors generated and confined below and from the hydrostatic pressure of the lava column is too great to be withstood by the containing mountain, the mountain consequently breaks; the conduit is rent open on one side or the other, and the lavas run out . . .
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Perhaps it was the suffocating humidity or a touch of malaria. Or maybe he was suffering from an unnamed tropical malady that was clouding his better judgment. Perhaps the situation wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe by tomorrow the volcano will settle down, and life will go on as normal. The air will be fresh, the streets will be clean, birds will stop falling from the sky, cattle will stop dying, and the tremors will stop. Or maybe he was losing his mind.
Rémy’s eyes wandered across the desk to the photograph of his mother. He picked it up and stared at her sad features, a lump forming in his throat. Had it really been a year since she died? Was a person’s life really so fleeting? With the earthquakes and ashfall, he had begun to think about his own mortality. Life in Martinique seemed very fragile, like a voodoo apparition that vanished in the night. His meager possessions gave little clue about his life: a fountain pen, a silver pocket watch, a few scattered books, and an African mask, a gift from the chief of the Bambara. Slung from a hatstand was his leather holster containing his service revolver, and on a shelf was his shaving kit. Aside from a bed and a chair, the rest of the room was bare. As bare and empty as the life he had lived up to now.
And then he remembered Emilie.
A cool breeze blew in from the bay, rustling the papers on his desk. Rémy sat in his shirtsleeves, wondering what happened to her since that horrible night when Lucien stormed into the Hôtel Intendance and took her away. She had started to invade his thoughts like a recurring dream. He was imagining all sorts of frightening scenarios when his thoughts were interrupted by a knock from Sergeant Aubert. He entered the room and stood at attention.
“You wished to see me, Lieutenant?”
Rémy looked up. “At ease, Sergeant. I have a few questions for you about a matter that I was hoping you could clarify.”
Aubert smirked. “If it’s about that tripe in the newspaper, I can assure you I wasn’t the leading authority they quoted. It’s a pile of rubbish.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’m glad I’m not the only person who found it comically absurd. It’s almost as if the editor, Marius Hurard, wrote it himself.”
“Knowing his skill with a pen, it’s a safe bet he did.”
Rémy looked at him with bewilderment. “Why would he do that?”
Aubert put his hands in his khaki trouser pockets and assumed a philosophical look. “Politics, pure and simple. He has a valid reason for calming everyone’s nerves. He’s a staunch supporter of the rich béké landowners, and he’ll do anything possible to make sure the election goes for Fernand Clerc. So in order to ensure the maximum number of votes, he has to keep the public calm, no matter what.”
“I suppose Hurard thinks Pelée will comply with his demand and behave like an obedient voter,” said Rémy with a wry face.
“I think you’re starting to get the picture,” said Aubert. “By the way, that’s a nice bump you’ve got there.” He motioned toward his head.
Rémy smiled wanly. “A mosquito bit me.”
“Must have been a very large mosquito. Did you lose at cards again?”
“No, I—”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess . . .” Aubert fell silent for a moment. “Does this concern that spirited béké girl with a penchant for wearing breeches? If so, Lieutenant, take my advice and stay away from those békés. They’re a closed society and rarely admit outsiders. Most of them are bourgeois royalists, Legitimists, anti-Republican, and downright snobbish.”
Rémy raised an eyebrow. “And they think we’re atheists, Republicans, Freemasons, thieves, mischiefs, and Jacobins who suffer from poor table manners.”
“Who would have thought the brave explorer of West Africa is nothing more than a mischievous Jacobin with poor table manners?” said Aubert with a smirk.
Rémy twitched his moustache. “I appreciate your dry sense of humor, but that’s not why I called you here today. I need some information about local customs. What can you tell me about these quimboiseurs?”
“That’s a strange question. I’m not an expert on voodoo.”
Rémy looked thoughtful for a moment. “My question is more of a general nature. It’s my understanding that these quimboiseurs exert a lot of influence over the local population. The young lady mentioned something about meeting one of these characters. I found her exiting a shop on rue Longchamps that she claims belongs to an herbalist by the name of M. Gaston Faustin Jacquet, who is some kind of notorious voodoo witch doctor known as the Grand Zamy. Later she confessed she had gone to see him to find a way to break off her engagement to a sugar planter with an aggressive left hook. I have to admit, there was something disturbing about the guy. I went back and surveilled him for a few days. I didn’t like him one bit.”
“The sugar planter or the herbalist?”
“Both, actually,” said Rémy, rubbing the bump on his head. “But there was something especially sinister about that quimboiseur.”
Aubert rubbed his chin pensively. “I find it odd that someone of her class would dabble in voodoo. Although I’ve heard that on rare occasions these obeah men are employed by whites, this is the first time I’ve had firsthand knowledge of such a case. Usually these quimboiseurs are people of considerable cunning and craftiness. They hold the bulk of the native population in fear on account of their mysterious powers, which are rooted in knowledge of plants and herbs more than black magic. By dabbling in herbal medicine, they commit all sorts of crimes, including murder. Very few people would be willing to testify against one of these charlatans lest they become their next victim.”
“Why do the quimboiseurs thrive if everyone is so afraid of them?”
“Everyone has enemies,” said Aubert. “People use voodoo to rid themselves of a bad neighbor, a business competitor, or even a romantic rival. Oftentimes their enemies end up dead or missing, and since the authorities rarely perform autopsies or exhume dead bodies for inquests in the West Indies, they get away with it scot-free. It’s almost too easy for these obeah men to furnish a customer with poison if he wants to rid himself of a rival. In some cases, the quimboiseur doesn’t even have to actually poison the victim. All he has to do is deliver some kind of sign, like a tiny black coffin
filled with graveyard dirt or a note bearing occult phrases and symbols, or even just give his victim a strange look and that’s enough to give the poor fellow a heart attack.”
“So they’re in the business of scaring people to death,” said Rémy, narrowing his eyes.
“So to speak,” said Aubert. “But their most effective weapon is poison. You’ve heard about zombies, haven’t you?”
“I always assumed they were fairy tales,” said Rémy.
Aubert shook his head. “It’s rooted in scientific fact. If a quimboiseur chooses to turn a person into a zombie, he feeds him a concoction that renders the poor soul comatose, after which he is pronounced dead and buried. Hours later, the quimboiseur goes to the cemetery, digs him up, and revives him with a revitalizing cocktail, and then uses the poor bloke to commit all sorts of crimes. By that point the victim has lost all will and all memory; they become almost like slaves to the quimboiseurs. I’ve even heard these quimboiseurs carry vials of snake venom, which they administer to their victims by placing it under a sharpened fingernail and then puncturing their victim’s flesh. These men are dangerous criminals, and they mostly get away with their crimes because no one in his right mind will testify against them. It’s a hopeless case.”
“We shouldn’t allow them to run loose,” said Rémy, feeling a surge of anxiety. “They can be dragged into court on trumped-up charges of disorderly conduct or practicing medicine without a license.”
“If that were the case, then we’d have to arrest every traditional healer on the island, and there could be hundreds of them. It’s a complicated, messy situation. These sorcerers are powerful criminals who hold the people in their grip. And they always tell their victims the same thing: ‘Tonight the devil is coming to get you,’ which is usually enough to scare the poor devils half to death. The government has had little success in uprooting these primitive beliefs from the people.”
Rémy let out a sigh. He knew Aubert was right. He knew he shouldn’t get involved in the béké girl’s life and her problems. It went against his better judgment. It went against his instincts for self-preservation and survival. But it was already too late. He was in love with her. It bothered him to no end that she would soon be trapped in marriage to that vile, philandering sugar planter. He didn’t think she would survive long in a marriage like that. Cynicism or the bottle would eventually get to her. All that innocence and virtue would be used up and discarded like a crab shell. Lucien could never love her; he was too arrogant and narcissistic to love anyone but himself. The thought of it crushed Rémy inside. Thinking about Emilie made it difficult to concentrate on his work. Everywhere he went, he saw her face, heard her voice, smelled her perfume. Yes, it was already too late. He was in love with her. Somehow he had to help her.
“There’s one thing I can’t believe,” said Rémy at last. “And that is that Emilie Dujon would try to kill her fiancé. She’s too good for that. She has no malice inside of her. She’s a pure soul, absolutely innocent in every way. I’m sure she only did it as a last resort. I believe the quimboiseur exploited her vulnerability. He looked like a shrewd operator. Someone has to protect that girl.”
Aubert locked eyes with him. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, I think you should stay out of it. Keep away from that béké girl and the quimboiseur. They’ll bring you nothing but trouble. Mark my words.”
Rémy got up and went to stare out the window. “Life has a way of pushing you to the edge of reason. People get desperate; they attempt to change their fate by using anything at their disposal, even if it involves black magic and voodoo. Perhaps it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy . . . a voodoo of the mind. I heard of stranger things while I was in Africa. They have their own version of voodoo and witch doctors. People believe in black magic because they want to believe in the impossible. They want a feeling of control . . .” He turned around abruptly. “But their black magic is not powerful enough to overturn our French system of justice. If I have to, I’ll charge that maniac with extortion and assault and bring him in for trial.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Aubert, shaking his head. “You’ll never get a living soul to testify against him. These devils are cunning, devious, and able to exert a powerful influence on their ignorant countrymen. Your best bet is to forget the young lady and carry on as if nothing happened.”
“I can’t do that,” said Rémy. “Sometimes in life you have to do what’s right, regardless of the consequences. You have to listen to your gut, and right now my gut is telling me that if she ends up with that sugar planter, she’ll die a slow, miserable death. I can’t let that happen . . .”
He was interrupted by a young corporal who rapped on the door.
“Yes?” said Rémy, looking up.
“Lieutenant, the colonel is requesting your presence, sir.”
“Where?”
“At the Hôtel Intendance. The governor arrived this morning from Fort-de-France and called another meeting about Pelée.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” said Rémy, grabbing his jacket and pith helmet. “Carry on, Aubert. I think it’s time I gave the governor a piece of my mind about the volcano.”
Chapter 30
Saturday, May 3
As Rémy strode up to the Hôtel Intendance, a crowd had gathered in the courtyard, eager to hear the latest news of the scientific committee’s findings. Pushing his way to the entrance, he hurried through the lobby to the dining room, where he found the meeting in progress.
The governor was in a state of nervous agitation. He was surrounded by various officials whom Rémy recognized, including the mayor of Saint-Pierre, Rodolphe Fouché; Colonel Fournier of the garrison; Fernand Clerc; Marius Hurard of Les Colonies; Capt. Matthieu Alexandre of the gendarmerie; Joseph Ferdinand, chief engineer in charge of roads and bridges; and finally, Prof. Gaston Landes and M. Mirville, the latter looking none too happy.
Removing his helmet, Rémy took his place beside Landes while the men were in the midst of a heated discussion. Cigarette smoke swirled. The men shouted over each other, waving their arms and pounding the table. Rémy shifted in his seat. It looked as if they had reached another roadblock. It was the usual case of clashing wills. No one on this island could reach a decision about anything. It was always one political party against the other, and now there was a worrisome new announcement. In addition to the fright caused by the tremors, a new disaster appeared on the horizon: an outbreak of smallpox.
Mouttet rubbed the space between his eyes, looking like he would rather be anywhere but at the center of this conflict. “Gentlemen, why wasn’t this brought to my attention sooner? How many cases do we have right now?”
“Three,” said M. Mirville. “For the time being, they are being kept under strict quarantine in the military hospital and are being given the standard treatment, namely, wound care and infection control. But the only way to stop an outbreak in its tracks is to immunize every man, woman, and child on the island, and of course, every traveler who steps foot on our shores. This means we’ll need to post health officers at every landing site. And we must do it urgently. We can’t sit on something like this.”
“Won’t that create a panic?” said the governor, his brow furrowing. Rémy could see tension etched into his forehead by the laxity of the health officials.
“We have no other alternative,” said Mirville. “Our standard protocol is to go from village to village according to the census data. But to do this, we have to order a fresh supply of vaccines from France, which could take weeks. We have to stop the smallpox from spreading. And believe me, it can spread quickly.”
Mouttet rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “But going from village to village is sure to alarm the civilians, which is precisely what I’m trying to avoid at this time. I just came from Prêcheur, where the people are desperate to get out. It was all I could do to calm them down. The church is filled with people crowding around the altar praying for salvation. If they hear of an outbreak, we’ll
have a mass panic on our hands. We have to keep this quiet until after the election.”
“I’m afraid we can’t afford to do that,” said Professor Landes. “During the last outbreak, whole areas of the native population were decimated by the virus. If we don’t take prompt action, we could have a potential disaster on our hands. At the very least, we should evacuate the schoolchildren down to Fort-de-France.”
Mouttet shook his head. “Gentlemen, you’re not listening to me. The election is only a week away. With the added pressure of the volcano, it won’t help matters by riling up the public. There has to be a better way of handling the situation. I shall refer the matter to Decrais at the Colonial Office.”
A grim-faced Mayor Fouché was the next to speak. “Governor, the situation is quite desperate. We need medical assistance urgently. At the very least, we should summon help from Dominica or Saint Lucia, both of which have extensive medical facilities. On our own, we won’t be able to handle the situation. And if law and order starts to break down, we’ll need reinforcements from the garrison to patrol the town.”
“Certainly,” said Mouttet, writing in his notebook. “But in my experience, the best way to ensure public safety is to keep everyone calm and in their homes. The last thing we need is rioting, looting, or mass panic. With the influx of refugees from the north, we’re running out of food and lodging, and hospital beds will be in short supply as well. I’ve received reports that a third of all fruit and vegetable shops have shut down because they have nothing to sell. And there’s only one bakery still functioning. Can anyone give me some suggestions on how to quell the shortage?”
“We can ship food in from Fort-de-France,” said Mayor Fouché. “That is the quickest method.”
“I second that motion,” said Joseph Ferdinand, the chief engineer. “Right now the roads are blocked with all the refugees heading in and out of the city. We can’t handle large transports over the roads and bridges. There is too much pressure on them with the tremors as it is. I agree that we should try to bring everything in by steamer. I also recommend that you barricade some of the roads to keep traffic at a minimum.”
Island on Fire Page 21