“She cannot, she must not constrain my life this way!” He muttered, scribbling. “How will I hold my head up in the world? How will I have the presence of mind to write my poems, if every hour of every day is only shame and disgrace?”
And how will you maintain the apartment for my mother and me? I thought. Who will procure medicines and warm clothing for my maman? Must I return to the stage, and dodge Bourgoyne’s embraces, and hope that another gentleman sees fit to request an arrangement with me? And if that doesn’t work? I thought of the smelly, filthy docks of Nantes, the alleyways of Paris where the whores slunk about at night. My mother had managed to keep me from the sailors until I’d seen my first blood, but every time we didn’t eat, or Grandmama coughed the whole night and wept from her rheumatism, no money for medicines, I’d known I owed them a living for my life, for my miserable life. I cannot bear to whore any more. A gentleman is my only hope. Oh you gods, please let Charles’s family see reason. They cannot beggar us so!
“You tell them that you must be free to manage your own affairs,” I said to him firmly. “You have a lady and her mother to maintain, and a reputation. You make them understand how it must be.”
I need new walking shoes, Charles,” I said to him. I stepped over some trash in the Paris streets, lifting my hem clear. “The heels of these are worn down.” How could they not be? We only walked everywhere nowadays. Always my feet burned now like they used to after hours on the stage, prancing around in those pumps.
Charles, his arm linked in mine, pretended not to hear me. He was staring at a widow in her black weeds, kneeling and talking softly to her child. But I saw him press his lips together at my words. He knew that he wasn’t providing for me as he should.
A lady, out for a Sunday stroll with her gentleman, gaped at me, the pale negress, from behind her parasol. I clutched Charles’s arm tighter and pulled myself up tall, like I’d learned to do on the stage. Ethiope or not, I was as good as she.
That wretched man, that Ancelle who Charles’s family had set to manage his money; not even an advance he would give Charles. Not a sou.
But I wouldn’t complain. I would be sweet. Charles’s family, they were decent people. Good, solid bourgeois. His maman loved him. She would help, when she saw how he was suffering. “Charles,” I said. He scowled and hunched his shoulders together; expecting a scolding, likely. I said, “I’m going to go back to the theatre.”
Still he didn’t speak. We came to the shop where they sell those lovely sweet pastries. Almost I could taste one of them in my mouth, crumbly and buttery. But we just walked by, as we must. At the junction, we crossed the road, so as not to pass by the tailor’s shop. Charles had left his overcoat there for mending, and had not the money to pay the bill. Surely his maman must send money soon.
“Bourgoyne has a place for you in the theatre?” Charles asked me finally. His tone was sullen.
“Yes,” I said, breezily as I could. “A new comedy. A singing part, with a most delicious outfit! Pink. It suits me well. With white stripes.”
He laughed at that, and seemed to cheer a little. “You’ll be all in stripes, like a very strumpet. How daring!”
An urchin crouched in a doorway reached a grimy hand to us. Boy or girl, I couldn’t tell. Charles looked at the child. Bit his lips. Reached his hand into his pocket. A brace of laughing women swept by us, between us and the child. In their wake, Charles took his hand from his pocket and moved us along. He was right to, I warrant. Little bit from now, we might need that money. And him laughing at my acting. My small joy that I could still dance tasted sour in my mouth now. “Charles,” I hissed, softly, so the gentleman in his frock coat walking near us wouldn’t hear. “Don’t mock at me. I need to work for us both!”
He stopped walking. I stopped with him. He turned to face me. He looked sad, and sheepish. He tucked a lock of my hair back behind my ear. It never remained in place, my hair. Squirmed where it would, like snakes. “I’m sorry, Lemer,” he said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t make fun of you. I should keep you clothed in silk, take you to all the best plays. You should be in the audience, not on the stage.”
I hated to see him look so. I smiled. “You will do so once more,” I said. “I believe you will.”
He only looked at his boots. Then he took my arm again. “Come. Let us see if Nadar is at Cousinet’s. Perhaps he will accept our company for supper tonight.”
And pay for the pleasure too, I thought. We must give him his money’s worth, then; Charles should be witty, I should be beautiful. Always I am an entertainer.
Sing
Come on in, now. Good morning, Hector. Good morning, Tipingee. Come in and hear the word of our Lord.” Father León stood at the door of his new nigger church, beaming at the curious few of us who wandered in on this wet Sunday morning. “Good morning, Auntie Mer,” he said to me, all smiles. I nodded to him, didn’t smile back.
We all shuffled in and stood just inside the doorway, unsure what to do next. Father bustled in after us. “This way,” he said. “Come and sit before the altar.”
We followed him, and sat on the brick floor. Cold, that floor. Could give us aches in our kidneys. I must tell people to bring something to sit on when they come to Father’s church.
This new church of ours; it was the hollowed-out inside of the old curing house, the one our master had abandoned when the men had built him a bigger one. It was nearly empty, save for that table, that altar at one end with a statue on it. There was a white cloth on the table, embroidered with bright silks. The statue was a lady, robed in white and blue. Her eyes inclined to the skies. Begging, she was. As if imploring the gods, her family. I wondered what her pain was.
It stank sweet like death, this church. Old sugar had sweated into the very brick. Rainflies, their wings fallen off when the rain had come, had crawled inside the church to remain dry. The little brown lizards were running everywhere; feasting, fattening on rainflies. They warned each other off from their hunting grounds, bobbing their heads and puffing their throats out. A roach, fat as an almond fruit, ran over my leg. In the shadows I could see others, crawling up and down the walls. Must not be too happy to have their home disturbed. I must tell the Ginen in this church today to bathe in the sea or the river afterwards. Unclean, roaches were.
Father stood facing us, his back to his altar. He looked us over, and his smile froze. “Where are the rest of you? There are hundreds of you on this plantation, but there are scarce twenty here.”
His voice echoed empty in the large, high room. No one answered him.
“Where are they, I say?”
“Slacking.” This from old Cuba. So pleased with herself she looked. “Too lazy to obey Master’s orders to come here, Father,” she said to the priest. “I tried to roust plenty of them out, but they’re lazy. Still in bed. I will name all their names to the overseer. A whipping will make them hop smart to church next week.”
I didn’t even look at her, just at the ground. Said, slowly, but loud: “Plenty people up and about already, working hard. Tending to their gardens. It’s the only good food we have to eat, and our only day free from Master’s work to see that our food grows well.”
Then I stared full into her face, into the eyes I had saved when boiling sugar exploded into them five years ago. She met my gaze for a little bit, then had to look away. She kissed her teeth in disgust. “Lazy,” she said. But it sounded weak now.
Father looked vexed. He sighed. “Of course, of course, you must see to your pumpkins and cassava. I didn’t think of that.”
“Have your church service later in the day, Father,” I said.
“Yes,” old Cuba butted in, trying to make herself look big in Father’s eyes. “Have it evening time, after the sun goes down.”
“No,” I said. “Have it late morning, just before the midday meal.” The Ginen had their own worship, late Saturday evenings. In the dark, in the depths of the plantation, where no backra would see. Some of them were still sleeping th
is early on Sunday morning, tired from their visit with our gods. If Father made the service a little later in the day, more might come. But not Sunday evening. That was when we spent time doing what we wished. Our only time.
Father just looked back and forth between the two of us, his face still sour. “Sit down, everyone,” he said. We did. He regarded us all, then sighed. “God has given you a good thought, old Mer,” he told me. He spoke to all the Ginen gathered: “Everyone hear that? From now on, I’ll ring the bell late morning. Understand? You’ll come to me after you’ve tended to your gardens.”
And finished serving our own gods. “Yes, Father,” we told him.
Rip
Paris, June 30, 1845
Jeanne, will you deliver a letter for me?” asked Charles. He had dropped by my apartment to see me and Maman for the first time in near a fortnight.
“What?” I stuck my head out of Maman’s bedroom door, still rubbing flour and cornmeal dough between my palms.
My mother, chopping turnips on the dresser, muttered, “So you’re his errand-boy now.”
Charles said nothing to her. He had sat himself to table in the living room. He smiled sweetly at me, said, “I need someone I can trust. Will you take a letter to Ancelle for me?” He held the sealed envelope. He wrinkled his nose. “What is that vile smell?”
Poxy man. I returned to Maman’s room, began dropping flour dumplings into the pot. Over my shoulder, I called, “If the odour of salted pig tail offends your gentleman’s nostrils so, perhaps you can find someone else to fetch and carry for you.” We were filling the pot with the makings for soup. But we had no money for wood for the fire. So Maman had made friends with a small restaurant nearby, run by gypsies. I would take them the pot, and they would fill it with water and boil it for us until it was soup.
I heard the chair scrape. He came into the bedroom, grinning. “I was in error, my dear,” he said. “If the pig’s tail has passed through your hands, then the essence wafting from it must be the purest fragrance of life.” He took Maman’s hand away from her knife, kissed her wrist gallantly. She tried to look indignant, but she gave up and giggled. Just a few minutes ago, she’d been complaining to me for the hundredth time that she’d been better off when she lived in a whorehouse in Nantes that had a kitchen.
“Please, Jeanne,” Charles said. “I will take you and Maman to dinner afterwards.”
We had been eating salt pork and flour dumpling soup for two weeks now, me and Maman. My mouth watered at the thought of crêpes with cream sauce, of crisp asparagus in butter. I looked at him. Had his mother sent him money, then? “How can you . . . ?” It would be too coarse to finish the sentence, to ask about money.
He laughed and took a surprised Maman on a brief waltz through the small room. “Don’t fret, lovely Lemer; I can, especially after you deliver my letter to that devil Ancelle.”
Had he found a way to get his inheritance released to him, then? “Will things be better now, Charles?”
“So much better.” He ceased twirling Maman, who twittered like a very girl and delivered a weak slap to his shoulder. He came and took my shoulders and gravely said, “After today, Jeanne, you and Maman shall want for nothing.”
I was uneasy. His smile looked like the ones I painted onto my face to dance in the theatre. “And this miracle will come about if I deliver the letter?”
“Oh, yes.” He broke from me restlessly. “Come, where shall we dine tonight? Maman, whose establishment would you like to grace with your beauty?”
Maman looked at the pot of chopped-up food, and at me. “Cousinet’s,” she said. Not the gypsies’ restaurant for us tonight, then. “Deliver the letter, Jeanne,” she told me. “Dress for dinner first.”
Charles laughed, a surprising sound. He had laughed little these past few months. “I’ll go on ahead and make reservations. Here’s some money, Jeanne. Take a carriage.”
I made Monsieur Ancelle nervous, I knew it. I didn’t like to, for we depended on him so, but did I merely raise my kerchief to my face, he would start like the hen seeing the fox. He blushed and stammered in my presence, and dropped his pen, and spilled the ink. I lowered my eyes and stood still, trying to keep my shoulders from shaking with laughter. “I shall not keep you, Monsieur,” I told him.
He leapt to his feet, stubbing his knee on the leg of his desk as he did so. “Will you not rest awhile? I have an urgent matter to attend to, but afterwards, I can read what Monsieur Baudelaire has written.”
I smiled at him, and his pink wrinkled face went red as beets. “I regret I cannot wait that long,” I said. “The carriage is waiting. Charles and Maman are expecting me for dinner.” I could hear my own belly grumbling. Would the accursed man never let me leave?
One thing about this Ancelle, though; it didn’t matter if my French wasn’t just so. He was trying so hard not to stare at my bosom that he scarce noticed. I wondered if he was one of those men who dreamt in the night of brown skin moving against his. It made me feel quite tender towards him. I smiled at him. Desire makes us all babies again. “A pleasure to see you, Monsieur.” I gave him my hand, and you would think an angel had of a sudden placed his fondest wish into his open palm. He blanched, then the tips of his ears went pink as the salted pork I’d just been chopping up with that same hand. He regarded it—my hand, I mean—for some seconds, then slowly bent and planted a most respectful buss in the air just above my wrist. How sweet. I squeezed his hand a little in return, and took my leave of him. A vision of asparagus in cream sauce drew me on. Almost I could smell it.
The waiter fairly threw the dish of soup in front of Maman. A green tongue of it washed over the lip and back into the bowl. He’d been sneering ever since Charles entered with the black lady and her blacker mother on his arm. Maman ignored him, used to such as him. She was as starved as I for good food. She snatched up her spoon and began eating as quickly as manners would allow.
Charles hadn’t noticed. His colour was high and he seemed merry, agitated. He hadn’t yet tasted his own soup. “Did Ancelle open the letter, Jeanne?” he asked me.
“He had some other matter. He said that he would see to yours presently.”
“You didn’t read it on the way there?”
He never would completely trust me. I met his eyes. “It was sealed, Charles. You said it was for Ancelle’s eyes.” I likely wouldn’t have been able to make it all out, anyway. Such big words Charles always used.
He favoured me with a sudden, strange smile. “Yes, that’s quite true. Good, then. Good.” He drummed his spoon on the table, loud. A fat burgher and a fat burgher’s wife at the table beside us stopped their meal to stare at Charles. I don’t believe he even saw them. He said, “I was in the garden of the Tuileries three nights ago.”
I put my spoon down. “You were? But there was some excitement there, wasn’t there?”
He laughed. “Oh, yes. Excitement. There were more than fifty men, the papers say,” he told us.
“Huh,” was all Maman would reply.
“The gendarmes beat them out of the bushes in the gardens of the Tuileries palace, and before they could take them into custody, the mob set upon them. Stones, caning, blows. The gendarmes had to run for their lives. I saw it from where I was sitting, on a bench by the water. I had gone to watch them, those men. I sought them out in the dark, to see their bodies as they came together, to . . .”
People were staring at us. “Charles!”
He looked right through me. His eyes glistened with excitement. He shifted in his chair, fidgeted.
“And the men?” I asked. “What became of them?” The soup was delicious. I took my time to inhale it, then sip it, to let it linger on my tongue.
Charles shrugged. “Some broken limbs, I’ll warrant. I saw two of them helping one of their fellows away. He was bleeding from the scalp. They’ll all be more careful where they play buggeranto next time.”
Maman laughed heartily at that. Charles fell to eating his soup for a time, then grinne
d up at us. “Next morning I was walking by the gardens, and I saw a pair of breeches hanging from the gate. A prize claimed by one of the righteous mob, no doubt. Waiter, more wine here.”
It was all sport to him. He strolled through the Paris streets, always looking, looking. Eating up what he saw. We were all just food for his eyes, for his pen. Fodder for making stories with.
So strange he was this evening! His cheeks were flaming as though they’d been rouged, and he couldn’t seem to sit still for an instant. He put his spoon down again, and stared so deeply into my eyes that I became uncomfortable. His own were wet with tears. “You are beautiful, Jeanne,” he said. “I will tell you that you are beautiful so long as I’m here to do it.”
Chagrined, I broke his gaze, but he reached across the table and took my chin in his, so that I was forced to look at him. “And when I am no longer here,” he told me, “I want you still to remember how you pleased my senses.”
“Charles!” I hissed. “You embarrass me!”
He held my gaze. “You will not want. I have seen to it.”
“Huh,” said Maman quietly, shaking her head. She could pile more scorn into one “huh” than any sailor could cram into an hour of cursing.
Mortified at his public demonstration, I could only keep still, hoping that no one else in the restaurant had noticed, and look into his wild eyes. Finally he moved his hand away, but still he stared. The waiter bustled up, three plates balanced on his arms. “Ah!” exclaimed Charles, too loud. “You are saved, Jeanne; here is our main course at last!”
The Salt Roads Page 15