by Kira Saito
I snuck a sideways glance at Emilie. Her full lips trembled and her almond-shaped blue eyes fought back tears.
Emilie lowered her head and without a word made her way back into the kitchen where she proceeded to bang together pots and pans in protest.
“Emilie! I swear, don’t make me use the whip on you. I’ve been way too lenient with you!” Maman screamed.
“Maman please,” I whispered. “Not tonight…”
She sighed loudly as if she were suddenly very tired. Dramatically, she brought her hand to her forehead as if she were fighting off a very strong headache. She examined me closely for a few seconds; her harsh frown vanished and was replaced by a soft smile. She reached out and grabbed a lock of my raven colored hair and lovingly twirled it around her thin finger. “You’re so beautiful, Cecile. You’ll never have to worry about poverty or oppression. You’ll always be taken care of. Your children will always be taken care of. Only the best for you. Now, go on and take a bath before supper. I can smell the absinthe and debauchery seeping from your pores. I hope you enjoyed your little escape, as it was your last.”
I smiled. At that moment I felt close to her, close enough to want to share the details of my day. For whatever reason I wanted her to care about how I felt. I wanted her to see the world through my eyes. “The spirits were so happy today. You should have been there. It was magical… All those people together. Dancing.”
She shook her head. “Eh bien, the spirits aren’t going to pay your bills, Cecile, or feed your children. You need to stop with these silly childish notions. Trust me, fine gentleman don’t want a heathen, they want a well-mannered lady. The only purpose the loa have in our lives is to make sure we land and keep a suitable protector, non? We need to protect our dignity and preserve what little freedom we have.”
“But Tante Celeste…”
“Tante Celeste needs to stop filling your head with that nonsense. You need to think logically like an adult. This is reality,” she said, indicating our lavish living room with its velvet curtains, heavy mahogany furniture, and Parisian candlesticks. “You’re not a child. I gave birth to you when I was sixteen, and look at you acting as if you’re still a bebe at your age. You’re not getting any younger.”
Determined not to start another argument, I forced a smile. I left her standing in her expensive living room with her tear-streaked face and thought, if this was all so real then why did it feel so fake?
Chapter Nine
It Doesn’t Feel Right…
The LaNuit Household, Rue de Rampart
New Orleans, October 1852
After supper, I lay in bed and listened to the sound of a violin as it played in the distance. Its haunting, bittersweet melody swam in the chilly night air and mingled with the scent of sultry jasmine, roses, and oncoming rain. I loved the smell of rain and the way it seemed to wash the entire world clean and covered the vile smell of death that permanently lingered over the city.
I could hear Emilie thumping around the kitchen while Maman played the piano. Tante Celeste’s sweet voice from a few houses down sang La Sonnambula in French. These smells and sounds were the ones that gave me comfort, and I wondered if my new home would be the same. How much say would I have in that?
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come, so I started to pace around my room as I always did on restless nights. Light wind prompted the curtains to dance in the cool night air, soft moonlight caressed my skin, and a beautiful white dove flew through my open window and landed on my shoulder. I knew had company. I wrapped my satin and lace robe around me tightly and lit a pink candle that rested on the small altar I kept for Erzulie in my bedroom. Maman allowed me to keep an altar dedicated to her only because she was the spirit of love and beauty. She figured that that the more sacrifices I made to Erzulie, the better my chances of landing a very wealthy protector.
“Hello,” I whispered. “I know you’re there. I need help. Please.” I got down on my knees and kneeled before the tiny altar where I always kept offerings of fresh jasmine, orange blossoms, rosewater, French perfume, thin silver necklaces, and a tiny silver dagger. “I know you’re there because Bobo is here,” I said, as I held the delicate white dove in my hands. “I need your help, please. I’m scared… Please, I have fresh jasmine for you and I can even offer some of my blood if you like. Look here.” I grabbed the dagger and slashed my palm and whispered.
Erzulie, strong and fierce! Make magic for me. I offer you these
Things to eat and drink, these beautiful objects for you.
Erzulie, strong and fierce! Make magic for me. I offer you these
Things to eat and drink, these beautiful objects for you.
I heard a delicate laugh. “That’s enough. I’ve had enough blood for tonight. What are you scared of, my child?” Erzulie kneeled beside me. Her pink satin gown was adorned with tiny diamonds, pearls and red rubies. Her hair hung long and loose like a thick veil and rings of thick kohl adorned her hazel eyes. She took Bobo out of my hands and gently placed him on her left shoulder.
I let out a giant sigh of relief. “I’m afraid that I’m going completely insane. I’ve been thinking and the thoughts are becoming stronger and clearer.”
She nodded in understanding. “Go on.”
I took a deep breath. I felt a little silly continuing because at that second I reminded myself of a paranoid old woman confessing her sins at St. Louis Cathedral on a Sunday morning after having spent too much time at a risqué drinking den the night before. “The thoughts tell me that what I see around me isn’t right because it doesn’t feel right. The only time anything feels right is on Sundays when I’m dancing in Congo Square and boundaries seem to disappear. Every other day it seems as if everyone around me is living in a dream within a dream, where life has no value. Life can’t be worth so little, can it? Yet I dare not speak these words.”
I glanced over at Erzulie, whose tears streamed down her face and onto her luxurious gown. “There’s nothing wrong with you, my child. It’s the world. The world has forgotten how to love, and what you see and what you feel is a direct consequence of this lack of love.”
“What can I do? I feel if I don’t do something I’m going to explode. There’s this feeling inside of me that’s becoming stronger and stronger.” I tried to find the words that would perfectly express how I felt but couldn’t seem to do so. I felt frustrated, angry and trapped, as if my life wasn’t really my own. “I don’t want a protector. I don’t want to be kept. I don’t want Emilie serving me... I want her to be happy. I’ve never seen her smile, not once. I want Maman to stop crying all the time.”
“Then resist,” she said simply. “Take the first step and resist against what you believe is wrong. Don’t go tomorrow.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “What choice do I have? I don’t have a choice, really.”
She held me tight. “You always have a choice. Remember that.”
I fought back tears. “That’s easy for a powerful spirit to say, but impossibly difficult for a mortal to do.”
“You have the spirits within you, my child. Everyone has the spirits within them, but most people refuse to acknowledge us. As long as you love and respect us we will love and respect you, and you’ll never run out of strength.”
With those words, Erzulie disappeared and I was once again alone with my neurotic thoughts. Did I really have a choice? I didn’t feel as if I had one.
I got up and started to pace again when I heard a familiar voice whisper, “Cecile.”
“Antoine?” I walked out onto my balcony. “What are you doing here? Maman’s going to kill the both of us.”
“I need to you speak with you.” His voice was determined, and when the moonlight hit his green eyes and kissed his brown skin he appeared angelic. “I’m coming up.”
“No. Don’t you dare!” I said even though I was ecstatic to see him.
He ignored me and climbed up onto the balcony.
“Romeo, oh Romeo, have you come to sav
e me? Or are you plain mad?” I gave him a big hug and noticed that his body was rigid and tense. “Why are you here? Is everything alright?” I searched his anxious face for an answer.
He took my hands into his and peered deep into my eyes. He took a deep breath. “I love you, Cecile.”
“I know. I love you too.”
He sighed. “Non, I love you as in, I love you more than air, water, my Maman’s corn calas and everything else that is under the sun. Marry me.”
I froze and placed my hand on his forehead. “Oh no! Don’t tell me you’ve come down with the Fever.”
He pulled me close to him and I willingly rested my head on his chest as I had done so many times in the past. “Marry me, Cecile. I’m serious.”
I looked up into his sincere eyes. “Antoine, you know I love you as a brother but I can’t marry you because you feel as if you have to save me. I’m going to be fine.” I swallowed the massive lump that seemed to be a permanent fixture in my throat.
He let out a low sigh. “I see you as more than a sister, Cecile. I always have.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel that way about you,” I said slowly. It was horribly painful to say that out loud. Antoine winced as if I had just slapped him.
“Why, Cecile! Why can’t you marry me? Is it because I don’t have noble blood coursing through my veins? Or is it because I’m a gen de couleur libre that offends your Maman so?”
“Antoine, you know none of those reasons are true. I am in the exact same position as you. We’re both trapped in a fragile world that rests between privilege and oppression, but that doesn’t mean we should cling to one another out of fear. If I agreed to marry you it would all be a lie. Plaçage is what it is. There are no deceptions with mariages de la main gauche.”
He looked up at the stars and took a deep breath. “I can’t bear the thought of you giving yourself over to some stranger for some so-called security, protection, the illusion that you’re somehow rising above your class and some shiny trinkets, just because it’s what your Maman wants.”
“And I can’t bear the thought of marrying you just because you can’t bear the thought of me giving myself over to a stranger. You deserve someone who loves you entirely and completely,” I said as I freed myself from him and stepped back.
“And you?” His nostrils flared and I immediately knew that he was annoyed. “What do you deserve? A married man who sees you as no more than a fashion statement? A pretty mistress who only further strokes his ego and caters to his lust for extravagance and domination? He’ll see you no more than a very beautiful possession! And you, Cecile, are much more than a pretty bird. You’ll never be content being locked up in a cage, regardless of how luxurious and comforting it may be.”
I shrugged and looked at my bare feet. “Not all of them are married or get married… And there are long-term promises, commitments, property and security,” I reasoned, avoiding his rather difficult question. “Who knows, I may even fall in love…”
“Tell me, what you deserve?” he asked again, as he tilted my head up from its low position.
“Please, Antoine.” I turned my head to the side in order to avoid his hard gaze. “I need your support, not your judgment. This situation is difficult enough. I don’t want to lose my best friend.” I forced myself to look at him.
“Cecile, I will always be your friend but I cannot and will not approve of what you’re about to do.”
I felt a surge of anger course through my veins. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do! Tell me, my dear friend, what you would do? Marry you? Will that make all of my problems magically vanish? Go on, tell me what I’m supposed to do? I’m not blind, I see what goes on in this city and under my own roof, but what can I do about it? Nothing! You know as well as I do that in this fine city we are both slaves no matter how free they tell us we are.” I never thought I would say the horrifying truth out loud, but there it was.
“That is why we cannot and should not give up! Ever! We need to fight until we are truly free!”
“Not all of us are as strong as you, mon ami.”
His expression softened. “I wish you could see what I see.”
“And what do you see?” I whispered, letting my anger melt.
He smiled and the corner of his eyes crinkled. “I see a beautiful heathen who doesn’t understand how much power and potential she actually has.”
I let out a small laugh. “Heathen? I thought you despised heathens.”
“No.” He extended his hand and I took it, allowing him to draw me close again. “I despise the fact that heathens are taught to believe that they don’t deserve to have rights.”
I sighed, buried my head into his chest and held him as if it were the last time I’d ever see him. “My snobby Antoine, how I love you so.”
Chapter Ten
Bal de Cordon Bleu
Salle Washington, Rue St. Philippe
New Orleans, 1852
I stood in a large, richly painted, oblong-shaped room. Its walls were painted in gold and fitted with alcoves and mirrors. Finely detailed blue and gold ornaments hung from the ceiling along with five fully lit chandeliers that bathed everyone in a joyous glow. To one side, on an elevated gallery, stood an orchestra that played Vivaldi, while on another side a floor-length window opened onto a balcony overlooking the south side of the city.
I was surrounded by a sea of top hats, silk, satin, dazzling jewels, laughter, the clink of champagne glasses, and whispers of promises, vows of protection, love, security, and wealth. Hundreds of beautiful, educated, and sophisticated girls of mixed-race dressed in expensive ball gowns waltzed with elegant white gentlemen of means.
Night after night wealthy plantation owners, merchants, Dukes and Princes flocked to extravagant New Orleans ballrooms in hopes of securing the best possible mistress or placée. The Les Sirenes of New Orleans were legendary for their incomparable beauty, mystique and lure. All of the girls at the ball, like me, were various mixtures of African, French, Spanish and Indian blood. And even though I didn’t consider myself especially alluring or a legendary Les Sirene, I had to admit the variety and sheer diversity of beauty I saw around me was breathtaking. Some girls had blonde hair that was tightly curled, while others had thick straight hair that was so black that it appeared blue. Some girls had ivory-colored skin coupled with distinctly African features while others had dark brown skin with features that were strictly European.
These particular balls, like many other social customs in the city, were exclusive affairs and were carried out according to a very specific set of rules and strict regulations. Some balls were restricted to only white men and women while others such as these were restricted to extremely wealthy, blue-blooded white men and refined free women of color and were by invitation only. Each single girl was accompanied by a guardian; in most cases this duty fell into the hands of her Maman or Tante. Once an acceptable match was found it was the man’s responsibility to barter the girl’s worth with her guardian.
In addition to an initial deposit the man had to buy his placée a house, and promise to financially take care of her and any children that came from the match. Once an agreement was reached the girl was officially spoken for and her status was that of a respected common-law wife or placée and her immediate financial future and reputation was secured. What made these arrangements unique was that it was perfectly acceptable for the man to be already legally married or get legally married to a white woman after entering into an arrangement. Of course, some men stayed faithful to their placées and never legally married, while others had a real wife and several mistresses on the side.
The balls and arrangements were unique to New Orleans and were the only way the upper classes could overcome the oppressive laws that banned mixed-race marriages. The arrangements were particularly advantageous to free women of color because they placed wealth and property into their hands. To an outsider the custom might have appeared odd but I knew that to most women it was a means of survival.
The sad fact was that elite free women of color greatly outnumbered elite free men of color, so there weren’t many eligible men we could legally marry. Antoine’s Maman was from an elite family and she had been lucky enough to fall in love and marry another prosperous gen de couleur libre, but not all of us were that fortunate. Most of the girls at the ball were like me. They had been raised to be placées since birth by their Mamans and Tantes.
I smiled sweetly, batted my eyelashes, and tried to ignore the weight of my updo. It had taken Emilie exactly four hours to weave the pearls and tiny diamonds through my raven-colored hair and while it looked stunning it was impossibly heavy. I felt like a stiff china doll with too much rouge and lipstick. I could barely breathe because Maman had insisted on lacing up my corset extra tightly in an attempt to cover that inch I had gained due to my recent praline binge. Even though I pretended to be all refined and elegant, I felt exposed because the décolleté on my red and gold silk ball gown was rather low. The strands of pearls around my neck were new and shone brilliantly under the glow of the chandeliers but at that very second they felt like an impossibly heavy noose.
Beside me, Maman stood proudly, dressed in a stunning satin royal blue Charles Frederick Worth ballgown straight from the Parisian showrooms. Strands of shiny new pearls hung around her neck and her dark brown hair was elegantly parted in the middle and swept up in a loose bun. Her brown eyes were intently fixed on the crowd as if she were a vulture scouring for the fittest prey.
I glanced at her and realized I had never asked her how she had felt when she met Papa at one of these balls. “How was it?” I asked out of nowhere.
She turned to look at me. “How was what?”
“When you met Papa for the first time?”