Two Empresses

by Brandy Purdy

  I saw the light of torches and imposing walls of stone, bricks of various colors arranged in intricate patterns, then my eyes lighted upon the most horrible sight of all—a pyramid formed of several severed heads, eyes sightless, like gray marbles, stumps still weeping, sitting in a wide, shimmering pool of dark blood; I could see the light of the torches reflected in it. They must have only just been killed. Were they going to kill me too? I staggered. I thought someone struck me a fierce blow, but it was only my face hitting the paving stones as I fainted. I was dimly conscious of people shouting and swarming around me, hands lifting me, but I was already drifting far, far away, to a place where no one could touch me.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the moon, like a perfect opal set high in the midnight sky above me, through a dome of glass. As I slowly lowered my gaze I saw walls of deep orange, shimmering gold, and black patterned damask. For a moment I thought I had shrunk to the size of a pearl and someone had laid me in their jewelry box on a cushion of black satin. I looked around and saw windows with gold lattice-shaped bars, sconces shaped like golden fists clutching thick ivory candles, ornately carved and gilded chests, mirrors, tasseled and embroidered cushions on low-slung couches or tossed upon the carpeted floor in artful abandon, and delicate gilded tables. I was lying in the middle of it all on a soft mattress covered in black satin, my aching head resting on a pillow with long gold tassels that mingled with my hair. There was a strong scent of incense that made me think of Mass and a slightly acrid aroma that I was certain was strong black coffee. Though I had always preferred chocolate, I suddenly wanted a sip very badly. Papa and Mama had both loved coffee, the stronger and blacker the better.

  Suddenly a face appeared leaning over mine—a stern, unsmiling black man wearing a tall yellow turban shaped like a tulip sprouting tall peacock feathers clasped in a giant ruby brooch. I gasped and shrank back in fright.

  I heard a babble of voices, all foreign and incomprehensible, and turned to see the gilded arch of the doorway filled with dark, dusky, bronze and gold-skinned women in the strangest costumes I had ever seen: a rainbow of billowing satin caftans and robes, all embroidered in silver and gold; full, baggy-legged trousers cinched around their ankles; strange headdresses, some akin to tignons, others peculiar hybrids, trailing long gilt- or pearl-edged gauze veils; rich necklaces and weighty, clanking bangles; jeweled girdles; golden slippers with pointy upturned toes; and long dark hair, either flowing free or arranged in braids. They were all crowding and craning their necks to get a better look at me.

  The strange black man was still hovering over me. I looked him up and down. There was a curious soft quality to his face I noticed that made him appear almost feminine. He was quite tall, but round and soft bodied, rolls of fat jiggled on his chest whenever he moved, giving the appearance of breasts, and he had a great paunchy belly that almost made him look pregnant. He was resplendent in flowing robes of rich butter-yellow silk covered with a golden garden of embroidered tulips. His thick waist was girded in pearls and a long mantle layered in peacock feathers was tossed over his shoulders. He held out his hand to me. I shrank farther back and didn’t take it. He frowned and leaned down and seized hold of my hand and jerked me to my feet. I was wearing only a thin, grimy chemise that the servant woman on the ship had given me and I tried to cover myself, but he would not let me. His fingers bit hard into my wrist as he spoke to me. I couldn’t understand the words but the meaning was clear: I rule here and you will do as I say.

  How curious, I thought, to see a Negro so opulently clad and in a position of such obvious power. In Martinique, the only person of color I ever knew to hold any degree of power was the voodoo queen, Euphemia David; everyone, black and white, was afraid of her. All the other blacks I knew were poor and free or slaves working the fields and mills of the Grand Blancs’ plantations. But this man was clearly no one’s slave; he was treating me like one!

  He turned and motioned a woman to come forward. He called her a name that sounded like Kiya. She was short and fat with a face and figure as round as the moon, youthful still, but not young. She was dressed in the same curious fashion as the other women. A long robe lavishly embroidered in silver hung open to reveal satin trousers and a pearl-spangled bodice, all in a pale, milky-blue hue. Her heavy black hair hung down almost to her knees in a pair of fat braids plaited with ropes of seed pearls. Her headdress resembled a satin tignon entwined with a long veil edged in silver braid dripping pearl and crystal tears that fell down her back almost to her heels. Her eyes were lined thickly with black paint and the lids smeared with silver, and her lips and cheeks were rouged a deep cherry red. Strange designs, almost like lace, were painted in dark red ink upon her caramel-colored hands and the tops of her feet above golden slippers with toes that curled up and in upon themselves.

  She smiled reassuringly at me—here at last was some sign of kindness!—as she reached out and took both my hands. She began to speak, the tone of her voice was gentle and very kind, but I felt so frustrated that I could not understand a single word that tears began to pour from my eyes. Desperately, I tried to speak to her in French, but she just shook her head apologetically and tugged gently at my hands. She began moving slowly backward, toward the door, her voice and hands coaxing me to follow her, treating me like a frightened animal she was trying to gentle. There was nothing else for me to do, so I gave in and let her lead me from the room. The other women followed, chattering amongst themselves and pointing at me, some even presuming to reach out and poke or stroke me.

  As we continued down a long corridor I noticed that there were other black men in silken robes and turbans with womanish faces and soft, round figures. They seemed to act as guards, or guardians, of the women. Some of them spoke together, quite amicably, like dear old friends, in their, to me, unintelligible babble, whilst others were like stern schoolmasters scolding their pupils. I saw one take off his curly-toed red slipper and strike a woman on the face with the thin sole of it in what I would later learn was a common act of punishment. Discipline was meted out carefully here; where beauty was so highly prized it would not do to cause unsightly marks or, even worse, scars.

  I was taken to a vast bathing chamber that was like nothing I had ever seen before. The walls were covered in beautiful tiles of every shade of blue and green. Lining the walls, white marble columns supported a series of arches, creating alcoves in which couches, cushions, and tables were set. Women, all unabashedly naked, lounged within, gossiping over gilded cups and trays of confections, combing and braiding each other’s long dark hair, or applying cosmetics, while others lay upon their stomachs having their bodies massaged with perfumed oils, or reclined on their backs smoking long ornately jeweled and gilded pipes. Each alcove had a fountain set into the wall where water flowed in a constant stream from out of a gilded spout into a deep blue marble basin and there were shelves cluttered with various vials, bottles, jars, and stacks of embroidered linen towels.

  At the center of the room was a large, round, shallow pool, paved in blue tiles, with a white marble fountain rising out of its midst, and high above was a domed glass ceiling to let in the light of sun or moon. Yet more women sat around, or in, the pool, laughing and splashing one another, talking, or just going about the business of bathing, alone or with assistance that was sometimes given in a very affectionate manner. It was rather unnerving to see how they openly kissed, caressed, and fondled each other. I had never seen so many naked women in my life, and all of them completely at ease in their own skin, utterly unconcerned about who might gaze upon them. It was certainly a far cry from baths in the convent! It almost made me wish Mother Angélique were standing beside me just so I could see the look on her face.

  There were several women clad in red loincloths with red tignons over their hair. They must be the bath’s attendants. They were everywhere, helping wherever they were needed, scrubbing backs and washing or braiding long hair, serving refreshments, applying perfumes and lotions, wie
lding pumice stones over rough heels or elbows, or giving massages.

  As I passed through a swirl of sulfurous vapors I started at the unexpected heat beneath my feet. The blue marble floor was so hot I wanted to turn back, but my escort smiled reassuringly and put out her hands to stop me. One of the bath attendants hurried forward and knelt and quickly eased my feet into a pair of wooden shoes beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl that had high, raised soles, so I could no longer feel the heat beneath my feet. She then reached for the hem of my filthy chemise and started to draw it up over my hips. My first instinct was to fight, to shove her hands away, but I suppressed it; I knew that it would do no good. I was helpless and woefully outnumbered. Any resistance would be futile and only make things worse for me, so I stood still and let her undress me.

  The moon-faced woman in blue watched me intently, studying my figure in a manner that made me very uncomfortable. When she saw the pearl cross and snake charm I wore about my neck she pointed adamantly and spoke rather sharply. The attendant hurried to obey, stepping behind me and lifting the heavy, greasy unwashed weight of my hair over my shoulder so she could get at the fastenings. Vainly, I cried out in protest and cupped my hand tight around these treasures, trying to hold on to them, but they were taken from me just the same. Now I truly had nothing but my memories to remind me of home.

  Blinded by tears, I let the bath attendant lead me into the pool. She gestured for me to kneel and began ladling hot water over my shoulders. My skin instantly turned pink from the heat of it. She then began scrubbing me vigorously with a large, rough sponge. She treated me like a child, pushing my hands away and shaking her head when I tried to take the sponge from her. I tried desperately to find some way to tell her that I was quite capable of bathing myself, but she wouldn’t let me and continued diligently scrubbing until every part of me was so pink I felt raw. When she gave her full attention to washing the most intimate part of me, between my legs, her fingers provoked strange stirrings of not quite pleasure that bubbled up through my embarrassment. I tried to make her stop, but she would not surrender the sponge to me. I averted my eyes and stared down at the blue tiles shimmering beneath the water, trying to will my soul away, to rise above this terrible indignity, but their color only reminded me of the turquoise sea of home and brought fresh tears to my eyes.

  While I was being bathed, several women gathered around to watch. As the grime was washed away they gasped as the bright gold of my hair was fully revealed and reached out to touch it. Another, rather impertinent, dark hand painfully tweaked one of my nipples, its owner babbling in her strange, guttural tongue presumably about its rosy color, so different from their dark and tawny teats. Another hand tilted up my chin so that dark eyes could gaze amazed into my blue ones. Others pointed and jabbed and plucked at the golden down growing on my arms and legs and frowned and made little sounds of disgust. I noticed then that their bodies were entirely smooth and hairless.

  My attendant guided me from the pool and gestured for me to sit down upon a slab of blue marble; then she knelt before me and began to spread a thick layer of a peculiar burning paste all over my arms and legs. She raised my arms so she could get at the hair underneath and even pushed my legs wide apart to reach the thicket of golden curls growing there, carefully dabbing at the paste with a linen napkin when it threatened the tender pink skin underneath.

  Tears of pain and humiliation overflowed my eyes. I was afraid that awful stinging paste was going to burn my skin off. It made me wonder which was worse, this paste or the poisonous, ravenous ants on Martinique that could strip a man or beast down to bare bones in a matter of moments. Some of the women made sympathetic noises and patted my shoulders and stroked my hair, but that only made me feel worse. I hated being on display like this! A person should be allowed to bathe in private! The Catholic schoolgirl in me wondered if this was some kind of punishment in reverse for my rebellious attitude against the excessive, obsessive modesty of the convent.

  Several minutes passed; then the attendant began carefully scraping the paste away with what looked like a small, blunt sickle. Every hair came away with it, and my skin, though raw pink-red and smarting terribly, was now smooth as silk. I was led back to the pool again for rinsing and another vigorous scrubbing. Just when I thought it was over, she produced a pumice stone and went to work on me with that. It felt like she was trying to scrub all my skin off and wouldn’t be satisfied until I was reduced to my skeleton, and even then I feared she would start polishing my bones until they shone like perfect white pearls.

  After what seemed like hours of steaming and scrubbing, my hip-length hair was twisted up loosely in a towel of embroidered white muslin and I was taken from the pool again and led into an alcove. The attendant gestured for me to sit upon the couch. I was tired and overcome and courage, at last, deserted me and I began to weep piteously. Everything was so strange here and even though I was surrounded by dozens of naked women I felt all alone. There was no one I could trust or call friend here. No one could understand my language, and I hated being stared at like some poor naked freak in a fair and being touched and handled in such an intimate fashion, and by strangers.

  Several women came and clustered about me, trying their best to comfort and soothe me. They stroked my head and shoulders, patted my thighs and knees, and held and caressed and kissed my hands. They pressed strange little jellied cubes coated in powdery white sugar into my hands and gestured for me to eat them. I was starving and gobbled down four, one right after the other. They were like no sweets I had ever had before. The first one tasted oddly of rosewater, and the others were flavored with lemon, cinnamon, and honey, and all had nuts chopped very finely within.

  I was handed a gilded cup filled with a cool, sweet, delicious drink that had an odd perfumey flavor, a medley of fruit and flowers, an intricate, sophisticated blend that my weary head could not decipher. “Sherbet,” the woman said, pointing at the cup from which I had just drunk. She smiled broadly and nodded encouragingly when I repeated the unfamiliar word back to her. She then took one of the sweets I had just sampled and identified it as rahat lokum.

  The round-as-the-moon woman in blue returned again and spoke in an urgent tone and clapped her hands sharply. The other women quickly withdrew, to resume their own couches and diversions, as my attendant unwound the wet towel from my hair and began combing the tangles out with an ivory comb while I sat and nervously sipped the sweet sherbet.

  There was a rustle of heavy fabric and feathers and an almost overpowering odor of attar of roses as the black man in yellow and peacock feathers, with the enormous tulip-shaped turban balanced atop his head, swept into the alcove and came to stand before my couch. I thrust the cup of sherbet from me and pulled my hair over my shoulders trying to shield my nakedness with its golden length.

  I saw annoyance flit across his face as he reached out and jerked me to my feet again. He began to slowly circle me, my downcast eyes watching the sweep of gold-embroidered yellow silk and peacock feathers going round and round, like exotic ingredients in a mixing bowl, as I stood there helplessly, wishing vainly that I could just disappear. He then began to touch me in a way that, though I had never experienced it, I had seen many times, when female slaves mounted the auction block in Martinique. He forced my chin up and my jaw down so he could examine my teeth. He lifted the wet, golden weight of my hair and searched beneath to make sure it hid no moles, birthmarks, or scars. His fingertips trailed over the curves of my shoulders down to the tips of my own fingers. I flinched and snapped, “Don’t do that!” when he felt my breasts, squeezing them like little melons, but he ignored me, exchanging comments, back and forth, with the woman in blue. His hands traveled down over the curves of my waist and hips and he circled me again, traced the length of my spine, and poked, prodded, and squeezed my buttocks.

  Tears of shame seeped from my eyes. For the first time in my life I truly understood what it meant to be a slave, to have no rights, and for no one to care about me or h
ow I felt. My being a Grand Blanc meant nothing in this strange land ruled by this regally robed Negro.

  He pointed to the couch, and the bath attendant, anticipating his orders, grasped my shoulders and pulled me back to sit and then, at a motion of his hand, to lie down. The woman in blue moved to stand behind the black man, to get a better look, as he examined each of my legs in turn; even my toes and the soles of my feet were subjected to the same exacting scrutiny. It was excruciatingly frustrating not to be able to understand a word that they were saying. Was he planning to buy me? Or had he already bought me? He paused, deliberating over my big toe, noticing that the nail had grown unevenly, and the bath attendant, her tone conveying an apology, hastened forward with a file. When she was done he smiled and nodded his approval and the woman in blue did the same.

  When he started to part my legs, I could stand no more of this demeaning inspection. I lashed out and fought to pull free, but the woman in blue and the bath attendant restrained me. I felt his fingers intrude where no man had ever touched before, where even my own fingers had never gone, right into the secret depths of me. I gasped at the unexpected pain. Then it was over; his fingers withdrew. A smile lit up his face and he began conversing excitedly with the woman in blue. They were both smiling, their voices happy and eager as they began to walk away, without giving another glance to me.

  The bath attendant began to slather me with a slick pink rose-scented lotion, but I defiantly pushed her away. I ran to the nearest group of women, reclining on couches and cushions resting upon the floor, eating sweets, gossiping, and doing each other’s hair.

  “Please,” I implored, “does not at least one of you understand French?”

  They stared back at me blankly, shaking their heads, as the bath attendant came and led me back to the couch where I had no choice but to submit to her ministrations.