by Kira Saito
I was nervously waiting for Edmond to arrive. It was going to be our first night together as a couple and I had no idea what to expect, because it would be the first time I would be alone with him. It was unacceptable for a protector to be alone with his placée until he had presented her with a home and all of the contracts had been officially signed and notarized, so for the last month I had only spoken to him under the observance of Maman’s very strict eye. Even though he had been pleasant enough, I still wasn’t entirely comfortable around him, but I knew I would have to change that and fast- after all, this arrangement was a two-way street.
As per the contract and as racial custom dictated, he would be officially living with his real wife at their home; however, he could come and visit me as he pleased, which meant he could visit when he wanted and stay for how long he wanted. I guess I was fine with those arrangements. Given that they were the exact same ones Maman and Papa had and the same ones countless other placées had, I couldn’t complain.
Despite my uncertainty and unspoken anxiety I had made a firm resolution with myself that I was to make the most out of my situation and embrace it with positivity and hope that the match would be beneficial to both parties.
I gave myself another critical glance in the mirror when the room went dark and a wretched weeping so mournful and pitiful filled the air. My blood ran cold and I quickly grabbed the jar of honey and the brass bracelets I kept on the dresser. “Please stop. Please stop crying,” I begged. “Look, I have honey for you and a new brass necklace as well as some brass bracelets. I don’t want you to cry, please.”
“So much pain! It’s unbearable! Why? Please tell me? Why? Why must you humans do this to yourselves?”
I rolled my eyes, relight the candles and took a deep breath. My patience with Oshun was wearing thin. Ever since I had moved into my home and had dedicated an altar to her she had become a permanent and sometimes unwelcome fixture in my bedroom.
Oshun was the spirit of intimacy, attraction, creativity, wealth and dance. Even though she was a very generous spirit she was also very emotional, which meant she was prone to rapid mood swings that ranged from pure joy, relentless tears and vicious temper tantrums. She tended to cry a lot because of her deeply empathic streak and her knowledge that humans made life and the world around them a lot uglier than it was meant to be.
“Look, the honey’s delicious,” I said. I opened the jar, stuck my fingers in it and then into my mouth. Oshun loved honey but she was a little paranoid about accepting any offerings because supposedly one of her devotees had once poisoned her with it. “And this jewelry! Look how it sparkles. I bought it especially for you. There’s no reason to be sad,” I pleaded as I held the chain up in the air.
The wails stopped and Oshun reluctantly showed herself. She was strangely mute, beautiful, and utterly haunting as she manifested on my bed. Candlelight made her large black eyes and dark skin glow magnificently, but her expression was incredibly sad and tortured as she looked at me. She wore an extravagant dress made out of spun gold, while her long copper-colored hair hung loose and free around her oblong face. In her hand she held her legendary pumpkin-purse in which rested infinite blessings that she shared with those who sought her help.
I inched towards her cautiously, praying that she wouldn’t break out in tears and maybe she’d consider opening her pumpkin purse for me. “You’re so beautiful, Oshun. There’s nothing to be sad about. Look, I have offerings for you.” I held out the small jar of honey, along with the jewelry.
In deafening silence she extended her hand, took the offerings, and then pulled me close to her. I knelt down in front of her and waited for her to speak. “You don’t have my blessing,” she said in a thin, clear voice. She grabbed me by the wrist and dug her sharp nails into me. Spots of angry red blood sprung from my flesh. “You’ll never have my blessing as long as you stay here with him!”
I was taken aback by her blatant honesty, conviction, and the fierce anger that emanated from her. “But why?” I asked weakly.
She let out a tired, dramatic sigh, as if the worries and problems of the entire world rested on her shoulders. With a swift movement she clasped my cheeks between her hands. Fire danced in her eyes as they met mine and the corner of her lips curled. “He’s going to steal your spirit, because he doesn’t have any!” She roughly let go of my face, pulled me up off the ground and placed me in front of the mirror. “Look! Look! It’s already begun!” she exclaimed. Her voice trembled and I knew she was once again on the verge of tears.
I looked at myself in the mirror and for the first time saw the toll the past month had taken on me. My honey-colored skin was sallow, almost to the point where I resembled a fever victim. My usually eager brown eyes had lost some of their excitement and light and my already horrific posture had gotten worse, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t openly admit that I was uncertain about my situation.
My meetings with Edmond had been taxing, mostly because I always felt I had to say and do the right things, otherwise I would lose his protection and disappoint Maman. On top of all of that I missed Antoine dearly and wished with all of my heart things could go back to the way they used to be. But I knew that my life was never going to be the same and I would have to accept that fact. “No,” I said as I turned to face her. I smiled so widely that the corners of my mouth started to hurt and I felt as if I were one of those marionettes they sold in the French Market. “Can’t you see I’m happy?”
She simply stared at me while tears of pity streamed down her soft cheeks.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” I whispered.
She tossed her head back and laughed and cried all at once. “Can’t you see where you belong?” She asked through tears.
I shook my head.
“Listen,” she said. The sound of drums filled the air and the scent of honey became stronger. My feet started to move and soon I found myself spinning round and round like a little girl like I had done so many times in Congo Square. Oshun took her hand into mine and I lost of sense of time and reason and gave myself over to the beat of the drums completely. Tiny beads of sweat started to trickle down my forehead but I didn’t care. I felt alive and once again the world was full of possibilities and hope. Oshun and I danced with reckless abandon and I laughed and laughed as if I were insane. The pins fell out of my hair and I shook my head from side to side like a wild, unrefined banshee.
“Ms. Cecile!” shrieked Justine. “Ms. Cecile! What are you doing?” She stood with her hands firmly planted on her slender hips and an expression of horror plastered on her kind, wrinkled face. Like other house slaves, she wore a simple brown cotton dress and her hair was tied up in an old-fashioned brown tignon.
It had been days, I still couldn’t bring myself to look my slave Justine directly in the eyes. I had protested that I wouldn’t keep a slave; Maman had insisted that all proper ladies had one and Edmond had been forced to purchase one for me. I wasn’t exactly sure how to run a household and Justine knew that. However, instead of taking advantage of my naivety, she took it upon herself to keep the rest of the house staff in check. She yelled at the cook when he put too much cayenne pepper in the gumbo- which was all the time, scolded the messenger boy when he was late, and shook her head disapprovingly whenever the seamstress unintentionally poked me with a pin. Needless to say, I would have been lost without her; yet I was ashamed at myself for depending on her. She didn’t have to be so nice and accommodating, but she was.
“Monsieur is here and you look like a heathen!” She grabbed a cloth from the armoire and quickly started to wipe away the thin layer of sweat that had accumulated on my face. “Your hair!”
“Justine, it’s alright,” I said, as I picked up the pins from the ground and haphazardly arranged my hair in a loose bun.
She grabbed some sweet perfume from the dresser and sprayed me with it. “Smile! Monsieur doesn’t want to have dinner with someone who looks so miserable!” Justine straightened out my gown. “All th
e other girls envy you! Monsieur Edmond is so handsome!”
“I guess.” I shrugged and reminded myself how lucky I was.
“You guess!” She clicked her tongue and made a disapproving sound.
I smiled. “Of course he’s handsome.”
“Go on, he’s waiting!” She pushed me out my bedroom door, and even though my stomach was twisted into an infinite number of knots I still held my smile.
Chapter Twelve
Once the Man and Twice the Child
Cecile LaNuit’s Home, Rue de Rampart
New Orleans, 1852
I sat across from Edmond, who with his cold, hard gaze, perfect posture, luxurious blue velvet coat, and impeccable hair appeared to be the epitome of refinement and class. I found it difficult to be at ease around him, but I reminded myself to relax and took in the comforting sight and rich buttery scent of the glorious candlelit feast that had been laid out for us. Escargots a la Bourguignonne, Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce, raw oysters, seafood gumbo and freshly baked bread were arranged on heavy white china, while crystal flutes were filled to the brim with Champagne Charlie.
I was ridiculously hungry and my stomach was growling like an angry wolf, but nerves wouldn’t let me touch any of the mouthwatering food because I was certain I would spill some on my new gown. Little did I know that even delicious food couldn’t make up for horrible company.
“Dickens!” Edmond scoffed and looked at me as if I had just murdered his first-born son. “You enjoy Dickens! He’s the essence of mediocrity; that’s why he’s so popular with the unwashed masses. You shouldn’t be reading Dickens, he’s an atrocity, just like this entire city! He’s representative of everything that is wrong with so-called modern literature. Horribly unrefined garbage!”
“I can relate to Oliver in some strange, inexplicable way. I find him quite charming and simply adore him. And don’t get me started on A Christmas Carol! It’s as if he captured the very essence and mystery of the spirits themselves…” I said, as I tried to defend my taste in literature.
Edmond continued to scoff and rant obnoxiously while he sipped his champagne and even though I felt like strangling him I continued to smile.
“Charles Dezobry and Stendhal- now those are real writers!” He exclaimed, interrupting me. “They write real literature.”
I nodded. “I agree, but while they are great they don’t speak to the common man or woman like Dickens.”
Edmond ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and shook his head as if he were trying to reason with a very small, very incompetent and difficult child who refused to shut up and see things his way. “Cecile, the common man or woman doesn’t know how to read; that is why literature and art should be left to people like me and not the commoners. If we were all meant to be equal we would be, but that is clearly not the case, is it?”
At that exact second he reminded me of a classmate I had while I was studying in Paris. Poor Giselle would venomously boo and even make horse-like meh noises every time anyone disagreed with her taste in fine art. We had all found it amusing and even entertaining until we discovered that she was suffering from a severe disease that rendered her incapable of listening to other people’s point of view. I wondered if Edmond was suffering from that same dreadful affliction. I nodded and quickly chugged down the rest of my champagne. “Perhaps,” I said quietly, not wanting to argue anymore. “Or maybe we’re…”
“We’re what?” He leaned forward and arched an eyebrow.
“We’re doing it all wrong,” I said wistfully.
His chest heaved with unrestrained laughter, which further annoyed me. “Are you suggesting the average person should be given the same opportunities as someone like me?”
I smiled stiffly and bit my index finger hard to make sure I wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.
“Don’t pout, it’s not an attractive quality,” he said condescendingly.
I bit my finger even harder and then gave him a large smile.
He tasted the Escargots a la Bourguignonne. “Horrible! That cook needs to be fired! Where did your Maman find him?”
I gulped down some more champagne. “He’s one of the best cooks in the Vieux Carré, Monsieur. He’s studied in one of the finest Parisian schools. We’re lucky to have him.”
“This is unacceptable!” He pushed aside his dish. “He needs to be fired immediately.”
I let out a quiet sigh of frustration and smiled. “I’ll speak to her about it first thing in the morning.”
He smiled. “Why are you wearing black, Cecile? It’s such an unhappy color.”
“There is no such thing as an unhappy color, Monsieur, only unhappy people.”
“I prefer that you don’t wear black while you’re under my protection. It makes you look as if you’re grieving.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” I bit my lower lip.
“And your hair. You were expecting me tonight, weren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Then you should have put more effort into your hair.”
I numbly nodded again. “Oui, Monsieur.”
The night went on and on.
He seemed to scoff at everything. He scoffed at the food, the china, the gold silverware I had chosen, and the black gown I wore. Nothing seemed to agree with him, and I felt my energy quickly draining trying to say something that would somehow make him smile or please him. I was beginning to think that the only thing that made him happy was being miserable. I was also beginning to suspect that his wife probably encouraged him to keep a mistress so she could get some peace and quiet from time to time. That’s what I would have done.
Edmond picked up on my angst. He sighed loudly and rose from his place. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up from my chair and close to him. “You shouldn’t worry about things like literature, anyhow. You should focus on playing the harp. It’s such a noble hobby.”
“Ah, yes, how I adore the harp,” I lied. “You’re right, Edmond. You’re so right.” Lies, all lies. At that very second it became painfully clear that my entire future would be constructed on a huge pile of lies.
“How lovely. You’re so lovely, Cecile. I couldn’t have asked for a better placée,” he whispered sincerely, and softly caressed my cheek with the tips of his fingers.
I smiled shyly. “Thank you. You really are too kind, Monsieur.” Another lie.
He smiled that arrogant smile of his, took my hand and guided me towards the bedroom.
I quietly followed him and tried to fight off the dull champagne headache and sense of despair that was slowly starting to take ahold of me. I had been dreading this particular part of the evening, but at this point I wanted to get it over with. I didn’t even care that it would be my first time. I had never expected my first time to be with someone I loved. I had never really thought that much of it at all until I had become a placée.
“What in God’s name is this?!” Shock and outrage flooded Edmond’s face once we reached the bedroom. Horror filled his blue eyes as they rested on my various altars and offerings. I had to admit I had gone a little overboard on the number of altars I kept in my bedroom. I loved all of the spirits and found it impossible to play favorites, aside from Erzulie, of course.
“For the spirits. They need to be respected and fed,” I said weakly. My voice was low, soft and held a quiet desperation.
His mouth was agape and his expression became cold and devoid of any emotion, as if he were unsure of how to react. I glanced at my dresser and for the first time saw it as he may have. Perhaps the sight of multi-colored candies, candles, Voodoo dolls, beads, jars of honey, random roots and herbs was a tiny bit odd, but nothing to freak out about. I found it comforting that the spirits were always with us.
“What is that slave’s name?” he demanded.
“Justine. Why?”
Justine! Justine! Get in here, now!” He yelled in a blind rage, completely ignoring my question.
“Monsieur? Is there a problem?” Justine entered the ro
om and nervously examined my tense expression.
“This! This is the problem!” Edmond lifted his left brow, let out several rapid, hysterical breaths, and held up the offerings up to Justine’s very confused face. “How dare you! How dare you keep these under my roof and out of all places Cecile’s bedroom! You heathen! You don’t have the right! You don’t have the right!”
“Those…” I tried to interrupt him.
Poor Justine. She was a strict Catholic who religiously attended Mass on Sunday mornings at Louis Cathedral and always judged me for messing with the spirits.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur.” Justine’s lips trembled and her hands shook furiously as she took the offerings from Edmond’s hands.
“But…”I tried to interrupt again but Edmond kept on ranting like an enraged lunatic.
“If I ever see this blasphemy under this roof again I will sell you on back into the market and won’t think twice about it. Do you hear? Do you want to go back to the pen? Do you?” His pale skin was now a vivid shade of red and the tiny vein that rested on his left temple was bulging and throbbing wildly.
“I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” Justine repeated over and over again as she lowered her head. “It will never happen again. Never again.”
Even if she wanted to defend herself she couldn’t. And as much as I wanted to defend her I knew I couldn’t and that fact maddened me and enraged me to no end. Regardless of how liberal certain aspects of life were in New Orleans it was still illegal for a slave or free person of color to defend themselves or speak out against a white person.
I thought back to several months ago when stunning Ines had worn a shiny new diamond ring to the French market. That small act, for whatever reason, had annoyed Madame Dumont to no end and she had claimed that Ines had offended her so she had her publicly whipped. That incident had sent fear and outrage throughout our community, but no matter how angry we got it hadn’t changed a thing, because we would always be in the wrong.
“Take all of it!” Edmond thrust the rest of my offerings into Justine’s already crowded hands.