“Now,” Antonio said, “I have tobacco for my pipe and a spoon to eat my soup with, but I have no money to buy what I need to make the soup. It is only fair that Castor give me the pretty little footstool he has been working on, so I can sell it in the market and buy a little piece of beef. Isn’t that right, Toukal? Bonhomme; Cambeba; don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Cambeba, it’s only fair!” shouted Toukal, Bonhomme, and Cambeba.
And Antonio, half genial and half threatening, seized from Castor’s hands the stool to which the latter had just attached the very last peg of bamboo.
“Now,” Antonio said, “I am already tired from singing for you, and I will be even more tired after I tell you a story. I must regain my strength by eating something. Right, Toukal? Right, Bonhomme? Right, Castor?”
“Yes!” the three men affirmed.
A terrible thought occurred just then to Cambeba.
“But,” said Antonio, showing a double row of glimmering white teeth like a wolf ’s, “I have nothing to put in my mouth.”
Cambeba felt his hair stand on end, and he instinctively reached his hand toward the hearth.
“It is only right,” continued Antonio, “that Cambeba give me a bit of his banana. Don’t you all think it would be fair?”
“Yes, yes, it is only fair!” Toukal, Bonhomme, and Castor cried with one voice. “Yes! It’s only right! Banana, Cambeba! Banana, Cambeba!”
All the other voices picked up the cry. “Banana, Cambeba! Banana, Cambeba!”
Poor Cambeba cast a panicked glance around the room, then launched himself at the hearth to rescue his banana—but Antonio stopped him halfway, grabbing him with surprising strength. He passed one end of the rope used for hoisting sacks of corn to the barn’s loft through Cambeba’s belt and motioned Toukal to pull on the other end; the unfortunate Cambeba was ten feet in the air before he knew what was happening. The crowd hooted with laughter as he dangled helplessly, his hands still scrabbling toward the hearth.
“Bravo, Antonio!” the audience cheered, roaring with mirth. Antonio now strode to the hearth, where he plucked the smoking banana out of the ashes.
“My banana, my banana!” howled Cambeba in tones of deep despair.
“Yes, here it is!” Antonio said nonchalantly, waving it at his victim.
“I can’ reach him,” Cambeba whined.
“What? You don’t want it?” said Antonio, feigning confusion.
“I up too high; can’ reach him!” said Cambeba again, pitifully.
“Well, then,” Antonio said, imitating Cambeba’s accent, “I eat him myself, so he not go to waste.” He began to peel the banana, exaggerating his movements so that the watching blacks erupted in fresh gales of laughter.
“Banana not for me, Antonio,” pleaded Cambeba. “He for my wife; she sick, can’ eat nothing else. I steal banana for her because I need him so much; please give him back!”
Antonio sighed theatrically. “Crime does not pay.”
“Poor Narina, my poor Narina; she have nothing to eat, she be so hungry,” Cambeba moaned.
“Have pity on this man.” It was Nazim, the handsome young black from Anjouan, who had remained silent during Cambeba’s ordeal, his face troubled.
“Keep quiet,” Antonio shot back.
“Lower him,” Nazim said with dignity that would have impressed a king. Toukal, who still held the end of the rope from which Cambeba was suspended, looked uncertainly from Nazim to Antonio, who ignored him.
“I said to keep quiet,” Antonio repeated, glaring at Nazim, “but you keep talking.”
“I do not take orders from dogs,” Nazim said, his voice dripping with scorn.
“Watch yourself, Nazim,” Antonio growled. “Laïza isn’t here, and you can’t do much without your brother.”
“I said you are a dog, Antonio,” Nazim repeated, rising to his feet.
The watching blacks broke into groups on either side of Nazim and Antonio, so that the handsome Negro from Anjouan and the grotesque Malay were directly facing each other, not ten steps apart. Antonio bared his teeth angrily. “You keep a safe distance when you say such things, Nazim.”
“I’ll say it again now, and nearer!” cried Nazim. With one great stride, he shortened the distance between them to two paces. “You are a dog,” he repeated, his nostrils flaring and his gaze boring into the Malay’s.
A white man, in such a situation, would have flung himself at his enemy with no further delay. Instead Antonio retreated a few steps, crouched like a reptile about to attack its prey, and drew a knife from his pocket, snapping it open. Nazim saw this and knew immediately what the Malay meant to do, but he showed no flicker of fear. He stood, erect and silent as a Nubian god, waiting for Antonio to make his move. The Malay glared venomously. “Laïza isn’t here,” he said again, and lunged. “Woe to you, Nazim!”
“Laïza is here,” contradicted a deep and sonorous voice.
The man who had spoken these words had done so in a neutral tone; he had not gestured or made a signal of any kind. Nonetheless Antonio froze; the knife, a scant two inches from Nazim’s breast, fell to the ground. Welcoming shouts of “Laïza!” rose from the crowd of Negroes; they turned as one to the newcomer, immediately assuming an air of obedience.
Laïza, whose mere presence inspired such respect, was a man of medium height with impressively muscular limbs. He stood straight and motionless, arms folded across his chest and glittering eyes half closed, resembling nothing so much as a lion at rest. To see so many blacks waiting in respectful silence for his slightest word or gesture, one might have thought he was a king about to decree war or peace to an African horde; yet he was, as they were, merely a slave.
After a few moments of sculpture-like immobility, Laïza raised one arm and pointed at Cambeba, who was still helplessly suspended ten feet in the air, silent like the others, watching the scene below him. Toukal hastily let the end of the rope drop, and Cambeba—to his great satisfaction—found his feet on the ground once more. His first action was, naturally, to look around for his banana; unfortunately, it had disappeared during the commotion just past.
Laïza, meanwhile, stepped out of the barn and returned a moment later with a wild hog slung across his shoulders. “Here, children,” he said, letting the animal fall to the hearth. “You see, I have thought of you. Take care you divide it fairly.” The blacks, their hearts and stomachs touched by such generosity, gathered admiringly around the carcass.
“We have good supper tonight,” said a Malabar happily.
“He as black as a man from Mozambique,” said a Malgache.
“He as fat as a Malgache,” said a man from Mozambique.
It will not surprise the reader that admiration soon gave way to hunger among the spectators. In the blink of an eye the hog was butchered. A portion was reserved for the next day; the rest sliced thinly for immediate cooking or cut into joints for roasting. The blacks sat down again, smiling in anticipation of the meal to come. Only Cambeba remained standing, leaning dejectedly against the wall in a corner of the barn. “What is the matter, Cambeba?” Laïza asked, noticing him. “What are you doing over there?”
“Nothing, Papa Laïza.” Papa is a title of honor and affection among Negroes, and the slaves of the Malmédie plantation, young and old, had unanimously agreed to bestow it upon Laïza.
“Are you in pain from being hung by the waist for so long?”
“No, Papa! I not so soft as that!”
“Well, then, are you unhappy?” Cambeba nodded. “Why?” Laïza prodded.
“Antonio take my banana, and I have nothing for my poor sick wife to eat,” said Cambeba mournfully.
“You can take some of this good meat to her.”
“No, Papa, she too sick to eat meat.”
“Holà!” Laïza exclaimed to the crowd. “Who among you will give me a banana?” As if by magic, a dozen bananas were snatched from the hearth and proffered to Laïza. Selecting the most tempting of them, he gave it to Cambeba,
who took it and dashed from the barn without even thanking his benefactor. Laïza turned to Bonhomme, the banana’s previous owner. “Don’t worry, Bonhomme; you have lost nothing. In return for your banana, you shall have Antonio’s share of the meat.”
“What will I eat, then?” Antonio demanded.
“You can eat the banana you stole from Cambeba,” said Laïza.
“But—it is lost!” whined Antonio.
Laïza shrugged. “That is no concern of mine,” he said, turning away.
“Bravo!” cheered the crowd. “Crime does not pay!”
The Malay got to his feet, glaring at the taunting, jeering faces of those who, moments before, had applauded his torment of poor Cambeba. He left the barn without another word.
“Be careful, my brother,” Nazim said to Laïza. “I know Antonio. He will try to get revenge on you.”
“I think it’s you who had better take care,” Laïza returned, “for he would never dare attack me.”
“We will watch out for each other,” said Nazim. “But we can speak of that another time. We have something else to discuss, you and I.”
“Yes—but not here.”
“Let us leave, then,” said Nazim.
Laïza shook his head. “Not now. Wait until the others are busy with supper.” With that, the two men raised their voices and chatted about inconsequential trifles until the meal was ready. Then, with the crowd’s attention thus pleasantly occupied, they slipped out of the barn unobserved.
VIII
THE TOILETTE OF THE RUNAWAY SLAVE
It was now almost ten o’clock. The sky, though moonless, sparkled with stars; it was beautiful as only a late-summer night in the tropics can be. The constellations we have all known since childhood—the Little Bear, the Archer, Orion, and the Pleiades—were clearly visible in the heavens, but in positions so different from the ones we are used to seeing that a European might have had trouble recognizing them. In the midst of the familiar constellations was an unfamiliar one, the Southern Cross, which is never seen in our boreal hemisphere. The night was utterly quiet except for the noise of the tenrecs that throng the banks of the rivière Noire and the songs of blue jays and fondijalas, the nightingales of Madagascar, and the soft crunch of drying grass beneath the brothers’ feet. They walked in silence, casting occasional, anxious glances around and pausing often to make sure they were alone. Finally they reached a dense, secluded grove of bamboo trees and sat down together on the ground, each gazing at the other and waiting for him to speak. Without doubt this latest investigation had proven more reassuring than those before it, for they looked at each other with expressions that implied they felt safe, and leaned back against the trunk of a wild banana tree whose large leaves drooped over them like a magnificent canopy in the middle of the withered rose leaves surrounding it.
“Well, my brother?” Nazim said, with the same touch of impatience he had shown earlier in the barn, when Laïza had cautioned him not to ask any questions in front of the other blacks.
Laïza sighed. “You’re still determined, eh?”
“More than ever. It would kill me to stay here, don’t you see? I’ve worked long enough. We are the sons of a chief! This wretched life is not for me. If I don’t return to Anjouan soon, I will die.”
“It is a long way from here.”
“So?”
“It is the stormy season.”
Nazim shrugged. “The wind will only carry us faster.”
“And if our boat sinks?” Laïza pressed.
“Then we will swim as long as we’re able, and when we tire we’ll look one last time at the heavens, where the Great Spirit awaits us, and sink beneath the waves.”
“Alas!” murmured Laïza.
“I prefer death to slavery,” Nazim said stoutly.
“You’ve made up your mind, then, to leave île de France?”
“I have.”
“Even if it means risking your life?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve only got perhaps one chance in ten of making it to Anjouan,” warned Laïza.
“At least I have a chance.”
Laïza sighed again. “As you wish, my brother. Just be sure that you have thought it through.”
“I have been thinking it through for two years,” Nazim said. “I’ve been sure of it ever since I was captured in battle by the chief of the Mongallos and sold into slavery, like you before me. When they chained me, I tried to strangle myself with the chains. When they tied me down in the hold, I tried to dash my brains out against the wall. I tried to starve myself, but they forced me to eat and drink. They sold me quickly at half price, because I was so willful, so obviously determined to kill myself as soon as I found a way—and I would have, my brother, if I had not been so unexpectedly reunited with you. When I heard your voice again, when I felt my heart and my lips against yours, I was so happy I thought I could live again. Your love reignited the spark of life in me for a year, but then—forgive me—even that was not enough. I cannot forget our island, or our father and Zirna. It has become too heavy a load for me to bear. It became more humiliating by the day, until finally it was impossible. It was then that I told you of my desire to flee, to return to Anjouan; to see Zirna again, and my father, and our island. You said to me, ‘Rest, Nazim. You are weak, and I will do your share of the work, because I am strong.’ So you have gone out every night for the past four days, and done my work while I rested. Haven’t you, Laïza?”
“Yes, my brother,” said Laïza. “But listen to me! Only wait a little longer. It will be worth it, I promise you. We are slaves today, but in a month—in three months—in a year—we might be the masters!”
“Yes, yes, Laïza,” Nazim nodded. “I know you are planning, hoping.”
“Yes, and you must imagine how it will be when the whites are humiliated in their turn!” Laïza’s voice filled with intensity. “They will work for us, ten or twelve hours every day—and if they are lazy, we will punish them with their own whips, beat them with their own clubs! There are eighty thousand of us, and only twelve thousand of them. It’s only a matter of time.”
“As you said to me, there is only one chance in ten of success—if that.”
“And as you said to me, there is still a chance. Please, stay.”
Nazim shook his head. “I cannot wait any longer, Laïza. I cannot. My mother’s spirit has come to me and told me to return home.”
Laïza looked astonished. “You have seen her?”
“Every night for two weeks I have been visited by the same nightingale that used to sing at her tomb in Anjouan. It has crossed the ocean on its little wings and found me here. I recognize its song. Look; here it is now.”
Indeed, at that very moment a Madagascar nightingale, perched on the highest branch of the tree under which the brothers sat, broke into melodious song. As they listened in pensive silence, the bird stopped singing to fly a short distance in the direction of their homeland, then began warbling again. Once, twice, it repeated this action until the two exiles could no longer catch the distant echoes of its plaintive song, which reminded them so painfully of home.
“It has returned to Anjouan,” said Nazim. “It will come back, again and again, until I return home.”
“Then you must go,” said Laïza softly.
Nazim looked at his brother. “Now?”
Laïza nodded. “Everything is ready. I have hollowed the trunk of the largest tree I could find into a canoe, but I feared that someone would notice the stump, so instead of chopping it down I merely sawed above and beneath it, so that one good push will topple it. I made a set of oars out of branches, as well. Go and find it, alongside the rivière Noire, and you can leave this very night. The current is strong; it should carry you swiftly downstream.”
“You will not come with me?”
“No. I am staying.”
Nazim looked dismayed. “What keeps you here? What can possibly prevent you from returning with me to the home of our fathers?”
“I told you: We have been planning for more than a year to revolt. We are nearly ready now, and I have been chosen to lead the insurrection. I would be betraying everyone if I left now.”
Nazim shook his head. “No—there is something else; I know it.”
“What do you think is holding me back, then?”
Nazim looked his brother squarely in the eye. “The Rose of the rivière Noire.”
Laïza started, and for a moment he could not speak. “It is true,” he said at length. “I love her.”
“My poor brother!” murmured Nazim. “What will you do?”
“Nothing. I must be content to gaze at her from afar, as I did yesterday and today, and as I will do tomorrow.”
“Does she even know you exist?”
“I doubt it.”
“Has she ever spoken to you?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, why not think of our homeland instead?” Nazim urged.
Laïza shook his head. “I’ve forgotten it.”
“And what of Nessali?”
“I’ve forgotten her as well.”
“And our father?” pressed Nazim.
Laïza heaved a great sigh and buried his face in his hands. “Listen,” he said finally, looking up at his brother. “You cannot convince me to leave, any more than I can convince you to stay. I must be near her, don’t you understand? I must breathe the same air she does. She is everything for me—family as well as country. I must see her if I am to live. Each of us must follow our destiny, Nazim. You will return to Anjouan, and I will remain here.”
“What will I say to our father, when he asks me why you haven’t returned?”
“Tell him…” Laïza’s voice was strangled. “Tell him I am dead.”
“He will never believe me,” Nazim said, aghast.
“Why not?”
“‘I have not been visited by his spirit,’ he will say.”
“Then you must tell him I have fallen in love with a white woman,” said Laïza roughly. “Then he will curse me, no doubt. But I cannot leave île de France as long as she is here.”
Nazim rose to his feet, defeated. “I must trust that the Great Spirit knows what is best. Lead me to the canoe, my brother.”
Georges Page 10