Windward Heights

by Maryse Conde

  2

  Return to the Belles-Feuilles Plantation

  For three years Aymeric de Linsseuil had suffered from a duodenal ulcer. Doctor Bellisle diagnosed the ulcer as psychosomatic. Aymeric first noticed it when his financial troubles began. The Dargent factory was losing money. It had become a money pit. Expert at sniffing which way the wind blew, the Savilor company had very quickly withdrawn, while Aymeric bought up their shares in a blind borrowing spree. Because of the unending sugar crisis and the ever higher taxes, he had been forced to ask his workers to make the heavy sacrifice of a cut in wages. They had not understood, and this had been the start of the strikes, kindled by the Socialists and that henchman of theirs. But the wage cut had not been enough, and with a heavy heart he had had to sell bit by bit his rich sugarcane fields at Calvaire, Blanchelande and L’Espérance to the colonial Crédit Fonder. The estate was now amputated, reduced to a third of its original size. He was virtually stripped of his liquid assets and he would wake in the middle of the night, dreaming that he had been expropriated by the banks.

  Yet on the surface nothing had changed at the Belles-Feuilles plantation, where the family had just moved in for the Easter holidays: the green of the foliage against the fierce blue sky, the yellow splashes of the matalpa trees, the flame of the flamboyants and bougainvillaea. It was the same harmony, the same serenity, whereas all around things were falling apart. Soon the former owners of the sugar plantations would wander over their land like lost souls, while their former slaves would lay down the law. After all, it was only right. He himself had wished for such a time; now that it loomed large, why did he feel so much anger and bitterness? And against whom?

  With a feeling of remorse, Aymeric watched his daughter Cathy dunk her cassava cake into her bowl of chocolate. What future was he building for her? In two or three years he would have to marry her off. What dowry could he offer to her suitor? Cathy was a serious girl for her fifteen years and a half, sombre even, subject to fits of exuberance that made everyone dizzy. The nuns at the Saint Joseph de Cluny boarding school wrote in red ink on her quarterly reports: “Capricious.” In appearance she seemed to have expelled all the whiteness of the Linsseuils and her mother in favor of her distant black heritage. In the dry season, when the sun roasts creatures and objects alike, she became as dark and juicy as a capresse with her black braid coiled like a snake down her back. You couldn’t help envying the man who would one day relish undressing her. On Sundays when they saw her walk up to the altar with her papa and brothers—all three pink, blond and white—the white Creoles jumped in their pews. Since when was it fashionable to bring one’s illegitimate children into the house of the Good Lord? Then they remembered that sad story of passion, denial and, to end it all, premature death. Malicious tongues started to wag. They well recalled the first Cathy de Linsseuil, née Cathy Gagneur, whom everyone called derisively Mam Razyé—may she rest in peace. She would have set a baptism font on fire. She alone knew what had been brewing in her belly, and nobody would have been surprised if Razyé hadn’t slipped in a drop of his semen.

  Aymeric had never let such thoughts cross his mind. He did his best to keep his faith in Cathy, his Cathy. As the years passed he even began to revere her and forgot her caprices, her sulking fits, her tears brought on for the slightest reason, and considered her relationship with Razyé as an error of youth for which she had sincerely repented. When he described her to Marie, the wife he had been obliged to take to keep his house and bring up his children, she was pure perfection. The only picture he wanted to keep of her was that last portrait, when she lay like a saint on a bed strewn with flowers, her hands joined together, all dressed in white. As for the color of their daughter, he put it down to the mysteries of hybridization.

  Cathy finished eating her hard-boiled egg and laid her spoon down on the edge of her saucer. Then she stared at her papa.

  “Why did you invite him?”

  Aymeric hesitated. How could she understand, at her age? Seeing his sister so old and devastated, a remorse as violent as a squall had swept away the painful memories, the hatred of Razyé and any other consideration. Moreover, poor Justin-Marie was sick, Irmine had confided. Aymeric did not want to confess that his heart had missed a beat on seeing the boy who looked like another version of the first Cathy.

  “All of us children,” she went on, “we’re very surprised that you’ve invited the child of this Razyé who is doing you so much harm.”

  Aymeric thought he had misheard. He had never revealed to her anything about the past. What did she know exactly?

  Seeing his amazement she said scornfully: “You think we don’t read the newspapers? We know you had to sell all your land because of him and that you’re now virtually penniless.”

  To a certain degree, Aymeric felt reassured. She only knew of the present.

  “You mustn’t exaggerate!” he joked. “I’m not finished yet. The man who’ll tailor my shroud is not yet out of his mother’s womb.”

  The joke did not make her laugh.

  “I read that our workers have agreed to stop the strike?” she resumed with a frown.

  Yes, Monsieur Légitimus had a new slogan. He claimed to be in favor of an agreement between capital and labor. What lay hidden behind his words? Wasn’t it a stratagem to win the local council for himself? All the planters had almost convinced Aymeric to run for the next local elections.

  “Justin-Marie,” he said, rather severely, “is not responsible for the evil deeds of his papa. Besides, Razyé is not his real papa!”

  “Tell me about Maman,” Cathy asked suddenly. “Don’t tell me all those silly things I’ve already heard: that she was as lovely as an angel, gentle and as good as gold. I want to know the truth.”

  Terrified, Aymeric stammered: “The truth about what?”

  “About everything,” Cathy gesticulated. “What she liked. What she didn’t like. What she said. What she did. What she wanted. What she thought. Whether I look like her, even just a little bit . . . blacker, of course!”

  She uttered the last words in a tiny little voice, because there were any number of people, including members of her own family, who were quick to remark on her color. The nuns at the boarding school, who could not afford to lose Aymeric’s generous donations, treated it as a trial the Good Lord had sent Cathy in His mysterious way. She herself did not quite know what to make of it. Mabo Sandrine would tell her over and over again, while showering her with kisses, that it did not prevent her from being the loveliest of little fairy-tale princesses. And Aymeric confirmed it. Yet she had doubts.

  Aymeric looked at the features of the pretty face turned toward him. A low, rounded forehead. Black eyes slit like an almond. Full-bodied lips. Dark brown complexion. What Bambara ancestress did she hail from?

  “No,” he said with regret. “You don’t take after her.”

  At that moment a rumble of wheels on the gravel in the drive interrupted them and a ramshackle carriage could be seen drawing up to the front steps. Its coachman was badly dressed. The horse was foaming at the mouth and seemed about to give up the ghost. A young man in a threadbare jacket climbed out, then shuffled up the steps rather awkwardly, probably out of bashfulness. Aymeric jumped up then dashed down the steps, exclaiming: “Justin-Marie! How wonderful to see you!”

  Indeed it was a long time since he had appeared so happy and had bounded like a young man. Justin-Marie looked around him and remarked: “This is a beautiful place!”

  He said it in a tone of reproach, as if he were comparing this splendor to the poverty of the villages and hamlets he had just passed through. For the road from La Pointe was a sorry sight, except for Nature’s background. Cabins made of corrugated iron or patched up with wood. Children with bloated bellies capped with a tumbler of flesh, wallowing in filth. Women giving their dried-up breasts to infants as skinny as themselves.

  Aymeric seemed oblivious to everyt
hing.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. People usually prefer the Basse-Terre side of the island because of the parasols of its tree-ferns, the tall trees and cooler climate. But for me nothing beats our Grande-Terre.”

  He took him by the arm and led him toward the house where, alerted by the sound of the carriage, the servants had surged out in a crowd. Cathy remained alone and forgotten at the breakfast table. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “He’s the very image of a girl!” she scorned.

  She went up to her room and sat down in a seat near the window where she liked to sulk and dream. Through the muslin curtains dotted with tiny flowers she could see a part of the balcony and below, a great expanse of the terrace whitened by the glare of the sun. Despite her affection for her family, she felt separated from them by an invisible wall that prevented her from partaking in their games and their company. When she heard her favorite uncle curse the blacks and advocate the return of slavery it was as though he had her in mind. When her father talked about “my niggers,” she felt like reprimanding him, even though his voice was filled with affection. Sometimes she dreamed of living in a country where neither class nor color existed.

  When mabo Sandrine came looking for her, she found her slumped in a rocking chair. What was she doing there, when they were looking all over for her to go for a swim at Saint-François?

  Cathy did not move.

  “Have you seen the new cousin?” she asked.

  Mabo Sandrine’s mouth curled up in contempt.

  “A great nincompoop, if you want my opinion, who hasn’t even got a bathing suit to wear. Monsieur is too good to invite little rascals of that kind into his house.”

  “Mabo Sandrine,” Cathy begged. “You knew Maman, didn’t you?”

  Did she know Cathy de Linsseuil, née Cathy Gagneur, whom everyone called Mam Razyé behind her back? On Sundays Madame used to accompany her husband to the plantation chapel and after the Ite, missa est, with eyes lowered, she would hand out coins. You would have taken her for the Good Lord in person, whereas in fact she was a shameless hussy. But can you say such things to a child?

  “Hurry up now,” Mabo Sandrine said softly. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Doctor Vercors, who had been the family doctor since Doctor Louisor retired, was wearing his face for sad occasions.

  “Our climate doesn’t suit him at all,” he explained. “With his sickness, he needs some mountain air. Saint-Claude, Matouba . . .”

  Taking stock of the situation, Aymeric kept his spirits up and began to make arrangements. His cousin, Marguerite de Linsseuil, owned a coffee plantation in Papaye. Since coffee was no longer a going concern, the place had been practically abandoned. She herself no longer set foot there and had entrusted the upkeep to Sanjita and Apu, a pair of Indian servants whose parents had been in the family service. She would be only too willing to lend it to him. They would drive Justin-Marie there as soon as possible and the Good Lord would see to it that he recovered his good health. If Irmine had Justin-Marie’s health at heart, she would not object to the arrangement and would manage to persuade her husband.

  He let the doctor see himself out down the stairs and returned to Justin-Marie’s room. The boy was lying in a sweat—despite the coolness of the room—as white as the linen of the canopied bed but with cheeks oddly splashed in red. He looked at Aymeric, terrified, as he tried to catch his breath.

  “What is the matter with me?”

  Aymeric did not have the heart to answer his question directly.

  “We’re going to take you to Papaye,” he said firmly.

  Weak as he was, Justin-Marie sat up abruptly, propping his hollow torso against the pillows.

  “Papaye? But I have to go back to school!” he protested. Aymeric sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand that lay palm up on the sheet, like a dead fish drifting on water.

  “Forget about school.”

  It was blunt. But that’s how he was: ever since he was little, he had hated lying. He was incapable of covering up or, in the face of tragedy, inventing those insipid yet encouraging words that soothe away worries and anguish. Justin-Marie fell back under the shock and panicked.

  “I’m as sick as that?”

  In his crumpled cotton nightshirt he looked so much like Cathy when her illness had started to set in, before it destroyed her beauty, that Aymeric felt he was reliving the past, as if she had been given a second chance at life for an extra dose of suffering. He clasped Justin-Marie to him, and quite naturally his lips found the damp spot at the nape of his neck that cherished the memory of kisses long ago. Justin-Marie let himself be kissed without realizing. He was too preoccupied. He was watching his life shrivel and fall away under his feet like a mountain path that suddenly comes up against a precipice. Was that all he was destined to be? An anonymous adolescent poorly raised in a cheerless home? A mere name on the class register at school for the morning roll call: “Gagneur, Justin-Marie?”—“Present”?

  He felt bitter toward those who had been unable to protect him against fate: his teachers, Irmine, Razyé, especially Razyé. He had admired him. He had believed in him. He had listened to his diatribes against injustice, and here he was leaving him to the worst injustice of all—death at sixteen! The man who spoke of defending and protecting the workers of the island could not even defend and protect the boy he called his son! He was nothing but a monument to weakness and hypocrisy. He clutched Aymeric as if he were going to drown and whispered in his ear, begging: “You’ll cure me, won’t you, uncle?”

  His eyes brimming with tears, Aymeric swore he would.

  Thereupon he got up and quickly left the room. Without wasting any more time, he would send a letter to Irmine. Marie, his second wife, was waiting for him on the landing. She was entering her eighth month of pregnancy and he wondered in surprise who was sowing all these children in her womb.

  “It’s serious isn’t it?” she asked anxiously.

  Two days after he arrived at the Belles-Feuilles plantation, right in the middle of lunch on the veranda, a coughing fit had made Justin-Marie double over, terrifying everyone present, especially Elodie and Clémentine, the twins from the second marriage. Two days later he had fainted when coming back from the sea. Several times he had had to excuse himself, leave the guests and lean on the arm of one of the servants to climb up to his room. Marie de Linsseuil, who was a member of the Bon-Pasteur association, knew all the faces of sickness and had persuaded Aymeric to call the doctor.

  At a nod from him, she stammered: “But we can’t keep him here.”

  And since he neither seemed to hear her nor notice her she insisted: “The contagion. With all the children in the house . . .”

  He swept her objection aside with the sweep of a hand and went and locked himself up in his study.

  For Marie, these ten years at the Belles-Feuilles plantation had not been pleasant. She had begun by struggling with the ghost of a dead wife to make room for herself in the house during the day and in the conjugal bed at night. Finally she had given up and reached a state of resignation. She would never be anyone but the woman who carried the keys to the pantry and handed out the wages to the household servants on Saturdays. Her three children would never be anything but illegitimate children, with none of the rights to affection of the legitimate heirs. The arrival of Justin-Marie had brought her a new load of worries. All the children, one after the other, except for Cathy, who was always so cold to her had come crying on her shoulder that their papa preferred an intruder, a stranger, not even a white boy, who had nothing to his name. She herself could see full well that Aymeric, who was a good papa and a doting papa, had neither eyes nor time for anyone else. In the early hours of the morning he would saddle Justin-Marie between his knees and ride off over the plantation. With the excuse that the boy had never seen how rum was made, he galloped with him as far as l’Arjenac, an
old sugar plantation converted into a distillery, or to the platine, where they made cassava cakes. The servants came and told her how shocked the workers were. The master would put a wooden rake in Justin-Marie’s hands, and amidst the heat of the burning charcoal, the boy would jump for joy like a small child as he stirred the paste on the cast-iron slabs. And then there were the presents of books and clothes. It’s true the boy had nothing to wear. He had arrived at the house with a cardboard case full of rags. On wash days the servant doubled up with laughter as she held up his clothes. Now he was dressed in a worsted suit and patent-leather shoes. Aymeric let him work the gramophone he had ordered at great expense from metropolitan France that nobody else had the right to touch. Having supposedly discovered in him an ear for music, he had him take classes from the twins’ music teacher. All this would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so pathetic. It would have been acceptable if Justin-Marie had been a fascinating individual. Far from it! He was nothing but a sly, arrogant little person who always had to be the centre of attention. He was all sugary words and smiles with his uncle and Cathy, who, moreover, did not fall for all this sweetness. But he treated the servants like dirt, declaring they were “unworthy of their freedom.” One day she heard him threaten Isidore and Déodat.

  “Soon the white Creoles will be penniless on this island. And us mulattos we’ll have everything. Together with the blacks.”

  What’s more, he had no manners. He belched noisily and yawned with his mouth wide open on his thirty-two teeth.

  Marie descended the stairs heavily, avoiding the gaze of the Linsseuils, crucified one after the other against the wall, prisoners of their over-elaborate frames. At that moment it seemed she despised this family, from the first of the line who had settled in Guadeloupe to the last, her own son, Eugéne, aged two. If she had had a say in the matter, if her place in the house meant anything to anybody, she would have wasted no time shoving Justin-Marie and his wellstocked suitcase into a carriage in the direction of La Pointe.