Windward Heights
Page 15
We would get up before first light and go to bed in the dark. We would carry water from the gully, stumbling along the paths that wound along the sides of the mountain. We would go looking for cowpats and spread them over the soil. In the evening our bodies were so kraze we collapsed on our beds without a thought of making love. But after a few months, what rewards for all our trouble! We were able to supply the table of every Linsseuil, from Basse-Terre to Grande-Terre, and there was even enough left over to sell in the market at Saint-Claude. Three times a week I went down, carrying my produce on my head, only too happy to show everybody that we were not like those good-for-nothing Indians who roam the roads, fill the jails and whom everyone wants to send back to where they came from. I had many customers who came for my looks and I took pleasure in their praises: “Fanm Zindien bel tou bònnman!”
At the end of the day I would climb back up with my empty basket and in my pockets a little tobacco for Apu, some sweets for the children and a yard of madras cloth for myself.
Alas, this happiness did not last!
We had been in Papaye for about four years when one day our good fortune turned like the wind. All my boys died. First Eugene, the eldest at fourteen, my favorite, the handsomest, the whitest; then Ernest and Etienne, all three within a few days of each other. My eyes had no sooner dried than salt water came and soaked them again. That year, the year 19-, Guadeloupe suffered a terrible calamity. Typhoid fever landed off the boats with the oxen from Puerto Rico, those colossal animals driven to the slaughterhouse, whose quarters, blackened by flies, can be seen hanging by the feet in the meat booths in the market. In three months the typhoid fever laid out 3,265 people. Five hundred survived with nothing but skin on their bones; the rest went to fill the places reserved for them in the cemeteries. Very quickly, the general hospital in La Pointe and the Camp Jacob hospital in Saint-Claude became too small to handle all the sick, and the governor had to erect tarpaulins on the Place de la Victoire and the Champ d’Arbaud. Military doctors in khaki uniforms arrived from Guyana, where they had been hard at work on leprosy, yaws and all the diseases of that country. In the churches unending novenas were said, and the priests from their pulpits begged the blacks and the mulattos to repent. Why were they persecuting the white Creoles? Why did they steal their cattle and set fire to their cane fields? For this reason the Good Lord was no longer good, and His wrath was burning the island. My sons were dead. All three of them. One after the other. I saw their stomachs release a stinking excrement. I saw the blood spurt from their nostrils, flared like animals, and their whole bodies become as hard as rocks. Why was it happening to me? Was it because I had turned my back on the gods of India, the real country we come from, and was worshipping the god of the white Creoles? In my fear I tore up the pictures of the Good Shepherd, the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Holy Mother pasted on the walls of my bedroom and replaced them with images of Kali, Vmayagar, the elephant-head god, and Hanuman, the monkey god. Then these idols disgusted me. I was even more frightened and hurriedly took them down. Even today I have no answer to my questions, and sometimes I think I am going mad. The only child I have left is Etiennise, the youngest. A daughter is of very little value. My mother told me that in India they are killed at birth and thrown out at the crossroads where they are trampled on by our sacred cows. In spite of everything, that child has become the apple of my eye, but I don’t show it for fear fate takes her from me.
Etiennise was all I had. And work. Nothing was ever the same again. Both Apu and I lost the joy of harvesting the fruits of the earth, and everything could have gone to seed or rotted for all we cared.
It was then that Apu started to become one of the regulars down at the rum shop. That’s another of the heavy crosses I have to bear.
One morning, Etiennise had just left for school, Apu was snoring off his rum in the bedroom, I was drinking my coffee in the early morning light, when Madame Marguerite arrived, saddled on Penelope. The mare was all in a sweat. She had whipped her along a winding, mountainous path from her plantation at Plaisir. In the family they called Madame Marguerite the Grand Creole, because she is tall, carved like a man, and with a voice that booms for miles around. She frightens her children’s children when she goes to kiss them.
“Sanjita,” she ordered. “You’re to open up the house and make everything clean. My nephew Aymeric is coming to stay. I’m counting on you and Apu to make sure he has everything he needs.”
She looked worried.
“From his letter I didn’t quite understand who is sick. I hope it’s not one of his children, with all the misfortune he’s having at the moment.”
“What misfortune?” I asked.
“Goodness,” she sighed. “You haven’t heard what’s happened to him? All his cane fields went up in smoke like cigarette paper. He had delayed harvesting, and for him it’s a complete disaster. It seems he can’t even pay his workers. This time he’ll have to take out a mortgage on the factory, which is already in debt. It’s not only the end for Aymeric, it’s the end for all of us. Sometimes, Sanjita, I wonder whether it was the Good Lord who created the niggers. He can’t have, because they’re a heathen race. Yet in the old days they weren’t like they are now. Do you remember Adelia, that black woman, who took care of Mathilde when I weaned her? She worshipped the child, just worshipped her. Even now, whenever she sees me she asks after Mathilde and kisses my hands. But they won’t get off lightly—their day of judgment will come.”
Without waiting for an answer, Madame Marguerite turned her back and I could hear the hoofs of her horse clatter over the stones in the drive. She was returning as fast as she could to Plaisir. I toiled all that day. I opened the windows, I scrubbed, I scoured and I swept. Then I went down to the gully, where the giant heliconias bloom, and brought back a fine bunch. Two days later, toward the end of the afternoon, I heard a carriage bell. I ran out and saw a closed carriage drawn by four horses that looked like a hearse. Monsieur Aymeric climbed out first, then tenderly helped out a pale-faced person with untidy hair. I say person because boy or girl, it was anybody’s guess. The person, wrapped in a cloak that trailed on the ground, looked like a package. Monsieur Aymeric greeted me with his usual kindness. He asked after my health, Apu’s and Etiennise’s, whom he had known since she was little, but I could see he had other things on his mind. Then he turned to the person.
“Look how lovely it is here, Justin-Marie. Breathe in the good air. In a few weeks’ time you’ll be trotting and leaping around like a foal.”
Justin-Marie . . . It was on hearing the name that I realized the person was a boy. He cast a glance around him and in an angry whine like a small child, he said somewhat unpleasantly: “I hope to God you’re telling the truth.”
I took the luggage and preceded them into the house. I was proud of myself for the flowers looked splendid in their vases, the plants in their jars, and everything was in order. Yet nobody paid me any compliments. While Monsieur Aymeric was making himself comfortable in Madame Marguerite’s room, the one we call “the cornflower room” because of its wallpaper, I led Justin-Marie into the room next door that looked directly out onto the coffee plantations. At that time of the year they are veiled in white, sweet-smelling flowers. Anybody who has occupied this room has never failed to utter cries of admiration. Justin-Marie never even took the trouble to look at the view and sat down on the bed, worn out by the short walk he had just undertaken. I was studying him with an air of compassion, when he shouted brutally: “What are you doing standing there, looking at me with the eyes of a sacred cow? Help me get undressed!”
I quickly did what I was told. As I gradually took his clothes off, my heart took pity on his skinny body. I don’t know why, it was as if I was seeing the twisted bodies of my poor children again, my Eugene. His thighs were as spindly as his arms. His shirt opened onto a double row of ribs that seemed about to pierce his skin. His neck measured no more than a child’s hand, was no
bigger than a chicken’s and just as flabby. It was especially sad since he had a handsome face that was not the slightest bit ravaged. Yet it gave you the shivers with its staring eyes, gleaming with fever, its cheeks flushed with red and its thick African mouth. You could see full well that death was hovering over him, eager to carry off what was left of his life. What relation was he to Monsieur Aymeric? Was he his illegitimate son? I didn’t know he had one. But you never know with men!
My close attention annoyed him and once again he shouted: “What are you waiting for? Get out!”
I returned to the kitchen. Apu had lit the lamp and was filling the firewood box with branches he had just cut. Without looking at me, for we no longer look at each other now, him being lost in his rum, and me in the memory of my boys, he said: “Be careful, he’s got tuberculosis. He’s already spitting blood. He won’t last six months. Madame Marie didn’t want to keep him at home, so Monsieur Aymeric brought him here.”
“How do you know all that?” I asked, stupefied.
He poured a little water into a basin to wash his hands and went on explaining: “It was Joseph, the coachman, who told me. I had a drink with him before he set off back.”
From then on my heart took pity on him. Eugene was almost the same age as Justin-Marie when the Good Lord took him from me. I understood now why he was so disagreeable. Inside himself he was in revolt. To die when he was merely an adolescent! When he wasn’t even twenty! Some people are here stacking up month upon month, year upon year, dragging out their lives on this earth, frail, toothless bags of bones, gnarled with pain, and a burden for the family; others don’t even have time to taste what’s good in life! Had a woman had time to teach him about love? Poor wretch! Like my Eugene he was going to die knowing nothing. I made up my mind. For the remainder of his time I was going to surround him with love as if he were my child. I would lovingly cook the best stews, the best casseroles, the best broths, mash vegetables into puree and pick the choicest fruit—sapodillas, Otaheite apples and canary-yellow bananas.
In order to amuse him, I wasn’t going to tell him the same old boring stories of silly Zamba and trickster Rabbit. Oh no! I would make him dream with the wonderful adventures of Rama and Sita. Shashi, my father, did not even know the letters of the alphabet and yet he told us these tales without changing a word as if he was reading from an invisible book open in front of him.
My beloved, my devoted Sita! Daughter of royal lineage,
We must now part, for now is the time when I must
begin my wandering through the thick woods.
Before leaving you, my beloved, give me a final proof of your love.
Serve the king, my brother, with all the devotion you
owe to me.2
The following day I put my resolutions into practice. I filled my basket with pink-shelled lichees that only come every seven years. I added Bourbon oranges, white guavas, strawberries and peaches picked in Monsieur Alphonse’s orchard, as we still like to call it.
I arranged the fruit in the prettiest saucers I could find and placed them on a tray covered with an embroidered cloth. Then I hurried to take them to Justin-Marie. I thought he must still be asleep, for it was still very early and it would be a nice surprise. Once he had eaten I would help him wash and dress. I already had some water simmering. I knocked gently on the door and went in without waiting for an answer. Once inside, I froze, swinging back and forth like a gourd. I did not know whether I should go forward or step back. Whatever the case, I was nailed to the spot.
Monsieur Aymeric was sitting at the head of the bed in a rocking chair. In one hand he was holding a book from which he was reading out loud.
“Fig trees were growing around the kitchen; a grove of sycamore trees extended as far as a tangle of green where pomegranates glowed among the white tufts of the cotton plants; vines, loaded with bunches of grapes, climbed among the branches of the pine trees; a field of roses bloomed under . . .”3
With the other he was caressing the hand of Justin-Marie who, with a bored look, floated on the huge bed as in a boat at sea. Around them, the darkened room with shutters closed and louvres lowered looked like a jail. Justin-Marie was the first to see me. He propped himself up against the pile of pillows and cried out: “Is that you? What do you want now?”
Hearing him, Monsieur Aymeric stopped and leapt up. In a fury he walked over to me. I thought he was going to hit me or throw me to the ground. Then he pulled himself together and thanking me, took the tray from my hands.
2 Taken from The Ramayana.
3 G. Flaubert, Salammbo.
5
Etiennise, Sanjita’s Daughter’s Tale
It’s Thursday and there’s no school today. Maman advised me not to disturb Monsieur Aymeric. As for his nephew, I mustn’t go near him on any pretext. Doctor Sacripant says that if I breathe the air that comes out of his mouth, I’ll catch his illness and die.
From where I am, I can see him. He is lying rigid on a chaise-longue out on the paved yard. He is wrapped in a blanket that makes a bump where his knees are. I wonder whether he’s asleep or just pretending so that his uncle won’t come and fill his head with his book reading. From the expression on his face, I can see that these readings are as dull as dishwater. As dull as the books at school, where we never do anything interesting. He’s moving now, flings off his blanket and almost sits up. He coughs. He spits into his handkerchief. He looks carefully at what he’s spat out. I wonder if it’s blood. Doctor Sacripant says that people with a chest condition spit out all the blood in their body. That’s how they drain themselves and die.
I move out a little from my hiding place so that he can see me. Yesterday we managed to whisper a few words while Monsieur Aymeric was writing letters in his study and Maman had gone down to market.
He looks around and sees me with my back against the white rose hedge. I wonder if he’s older than I am. Not much, in any case. One or two years, no more. Finally he quickly motions to me to come over. I weigh up the situation. The windows of the kitchen where Maman is clattering her pans do not look out onto the yard. I take the risk. Close up, he almost scares me. How thin he is! He may be as white as a sheet, but he’s no white Creole. You can see that straightway: his mouth is too big and there’s something in the shape of his cheekbones.
“What’s your name?” he asks, inspecting me from head to toe.
“Satyavati,” I answer.
That’s the name I call myself for I hate Etiennise, my real name.
“Are you the daughter of the housekeeper?” he asks. “Your maman frightens me. She looks like a vampire.”
He can say all he wants, I don’t at all feel like discussing my parents. I don’t answer.
“What class are you in at school?” he continues.
I turn my back.
“Well, if that’s all you have to say to me, I’m going.”
He half gets up from his chaise longue, almost falls, catches my skirt and begs me:
“Don’t go! I’m so bored . . .”
I turn back and he asks me, sulkily: “What do you want me to tell you?”
I lean over. Under his lavender scent, he has a sick baby smell, like sour milk. It’s slightly nauseating.
“They’re saying a lot of things about you. In fact they say you’re Monsieur Aymeric’s illegitimate son. Since you have a bad sickness, he can’t keep you at home. He has to hide you here . . .”
He angrily interrupts me.
“Rubbish! He’s not my papa. He’s taking care of me, he’s going to cure me, that’s all. Do you know who my real papa is? . . . Razyé!”
I’d never heard that name before and I tell him so. He looks disappointed, shocked, as if standing in front of the Archangel Michael or Christ on the cross, I was asking who they were.
“You don’t know who Razyé is?” he exclaims.
“If you don’t like white folks, what are you doing here?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders.
“I’m convalescing, I tell you . . .”
He begins to cough. I think he’ll never stop. A red froth appears at the corner of his lips. It’s awful. He manages to get his breath back and sighs: “It’s funny, my uncle used to impress me at first. His great house was so magnificent. Rugs on the floor, tapestries on the walls, mahogany furniture and portraits hanging everywhere. I bet you’ve never been in a house like that. At table we ate things I had never eaten. Breast of chicken, vols-au-vent stuffed with mushrooms, and strawberries. In the evenings we listened to music. Not any old sort of music. Violin, piano. He played records on his gramophone: The Magic Flute and the Brandenburg Concertos. And then one day, I don’t know why, it all began to get on my nerves. My uncle as well. Especially my uncle. Now I can’t stand him. If I wasn’t sick, I’d have left a long time ago.”
I don’t like him speaking this way. Monsieur Aymeric is kind. Every time I meet him, he bids me good day, and digs into his waistcoat pocket to find a coin. He’s not like the other white Creoles, who order you around all the time and treat you as if you were at their service. I tell him what I think and he shrugs his shoulders.
“Yes, but he’s too kind. It gets on my nerves. It’s not natural. He’s not a true person. He’s not . . . he’s not real.” Now it’s my turn to shrug my shoulders and scoff: “What do you mean by a ‘true person’? What do you mean by ‘real’? People who speak gutter Creole, swear, drink rum and are at odds with everyone? Come and spend some time with my papa.”