Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  When her voice died out on the final note, she saw the young man turn and walk away, with his limping gait. For a moment, she remained silent, not hearing the cheers and cries of enthusiasm. Once he had disappeared, she turned her head and looked around for her mother, Joseph, and Lise. She ran up to them, saying she was ready to leave. Her admirers protested, so Joseph told them Minette was tired and not feeling well. She waved goodbye, then took Joseph’s arm and headed toward the exit.

  Once outside, she took deep breaths – the way one breathes when one is fifteen years old and feeling happy. Lise, now jealous of her sister, since no one had asked her to dance although she had so wanted to, was now calling the young men of the ball a bunch of “ugly cretins.”

  “They were all so ugly and so stupid looking, those men who asked you to dance,” she said to her sister.

  “It’s true,” Minette responded. “I thought they were really quite ugly and stupid.”

  And turning toward Joseph:

  “Did you see the man I asked to dance the first dance with me?”

  “The one who turned you down,” added Lise with a mocking tone.

  “He was…disabled, and I hadn’t realized.”

  Joseph barely held back a burst of laughter.

  “That guy, disabled? That’s a good one. One of Jean-Baptiste Lapointe’s better jokes.”

  “So that’s his name?” questioned Minette nervously.

  “A name that shouldn’t interest you much, believe me,” answered Joseph.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a man with a very bad reputation. He lives in Arcahaie, owns slaves, and has a vast fortune. He is said to live a debauched and flamboyant life.”

  “Doesn’t that describe all men?” objected Lise, intrigued, while a worried-looking Minette seemed to think this over.

  “No, not all men, Lise,” answered Joseph. “There are a few at least who manage to avoid such temptations…”

  “Yes, I know, you’re one of them. But you…you…you’re not a man like all the rest.”

  “How’s that, I’m not a man like all the rest?”

  “Lise just means that you have so many excellent qualities that it’s like you’re a different kind of being.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant, I guess,” added the young girl. “You aren’t the kind of man one would want to…dance with, and I don’t really see you kissing a girl.”

  “Lise!” exclaimed Jasmine.

  Minette was thinking. And so the young man she had sung for had been making fun of her? He had preferred pretending to limp and had no trouble saying he was disabled just to avoid dancing with her! A dull feeling of anger was making her heart pound. She, who had thought herself irresistible! She recalled the white-toothed smile that had brightened his young face and the eyes widened in false surprise. Now she understood what they were really expressing: mockery. Oh! She would get her revenge, she swore it. Someday, she would meet him again and make him regret that insult. Refusing to dance with her, Minette, who had just sung at the Comédie and been admired by the Whites. She would make him regret his behavior – even if it took ten years. What a shame he lived so far away! But once she had earned enough money, she would head to Arcahaie for a little vacation. She would see him that day and he would be sorry.

  “I hate him,” she sighed, tightening Joseph’s arm around her waist.

  “Who?” he asked, for he had already forgotten their conversation.

  “Him, Jean-Baptiste Lapointe!”

  “You’re still thinking about him?” questioned Lise teasingly.

  “Refusing to dance with me! Oh! I’ll have my revenge!”

  That night, Minette had trouble falling asleep. The love letters she had taken out of her bodice as she undressed were now strewn about on the table near the bed. She picked them up, careful not to wake Lise and her mother, and went out of the room to read them. She realized with surprise that one of them was signed by the Marquis de Chastenoye and was an invitation to come to his home to have champagne with him. He praised her beauty in the most flattering terms and called her a “young goddess.” She smiled, flattered, and found Lapointe’s behavior even more baffling, given these compliments from such an important person. Lapointe was young and very attractive but, after all, he was no more than a person of color like herself. He had refused her that dance but a Marquis had invited her to his home. She found him stupid, self-important, and completely impolite. She compared him to Claude Goulard, so attentive and sweet, and thought happily about his love-struck gaze. She went back to her bed and fell asleep at once flattered by the letters, delighted by Goulard’s affection, and furious about the trick Lapointe had pulled on her.

  IX

  LISE WENT TO Mme Acquaire’s house every day for her lesson. She had made such great progress that her teacher expected soon to launch her into an arena entirely different from Minette’s, though also very much in vogue at the time. The popular theater shows had reached new heights of success that year. In Cap-Français, in Saint-Marc, in Léogane, in Les Cayes, and even in Port-au-Prince, they were being applauded by a public more interested in a little distraction than in any particular genre – one that frequented the theater as much for the classics as for the latest local comedies. Thanks to the most recent performance they hosted, the Acquaires had managed to settle a few old debts, though they had incurred a few new ones, too. M Acquaire had been playing dice and his wife had refreshed her wardrobe a bit. The vicious circle had closed yet again and they had to come up with a new performance to satisfy their lenders. Lise was her latest find. They would soon have her singing and attracting people to the Comédie using some clever announcement where they would make clear that this new singer was the sister of the “young person.” They had not yet spoken of their plans to anyone. Saint-Martin had reminded them that the Governor, though he had accorded his protection to Minette, had asked that they not attempt to present any other people of color at the Comédie.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning when Minette, wearing a flowered skirt and silk madras scarf, left her house to meet up with Mme Acquaire to go to rehearsal. Scipion was there alone doing housework. He welcomed her with an admiring gaze, a gaze Minette already knew well and that tickled her every time to see in the eyes of the large black man. He related to her that his mistress had left very early for the Comédie, having been summoned there by M Saint-Martin. Thus did Minette arrive alone and stumble upon a meeting of the theater’s stockholders. Not wanting to interrupt their discussion, which she immediately understood to be particularly heated, she sat down behind a curtain and, opening her music book, went over the opera. The tone of the conversation distracted her from her study. She pulled back the curtain and observed the scene. There was a table around which sat M Saint-Martin, the Acquaires, Durand, Depoix, Favard, and some white men Minette did not recognize. One of them, about forty-five or fifty years old with a large belly and heavy, well-defined features, spoke in an imperious and harsh voice. Interrupting Saint-Martin, he struck the table and said:

  “But she should be grateful to us. We allowed her to perform onstage, which isn’t without risk.”

  Minette saw M Acquaire’s tic going wild, while Saint-Martin smiled and gave little reassuring taps on the man’s shoulder, as if to calm him down.

  “Come, come, Mesplès!” he said. “Her talent has brought us huge crowds lately, and with this new opera I’m preparing, she’ll guarantee its success.”

  “She’s made you go soft, my dear Saint-Martin,” answered Mesplès, “but I’m not one to be indignant about your taste for Mulattresses. I have the same weakness and…”

  He cut himself short to indulge a coarse, unpleasant laugh as Saint-Martin protested.

  “That young person has a certain talent, I’m not disagreeing, but what does that even matter for a person of color? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Without the Acquaires, she’d still be singing in front of her mother’s stand like any other street performer. Believe me, if you
have her sign a contract, she’ll take herself for a white woman. Next thing you know she’ll be arrogant, unbearable. I’m used to her kind.”

  Mme Acquaire looked at her husband, who winked at her without saying anything. It was Durand who, having spoken in low tones to Depoix and Favart, argued:

  “But really, she’s part of the company…”

  “She isn’t part of any company,” insisted Mesplès.

  “Ah, no! Excuse me,” interrupted Saint-Martin. “But we welcomed her and celebrated her just as we do all our new actors.”

  “That was imprudent,” said Mesplès.

  “Look,” answered M Acquaire, conciliatory, “let’s admit that she isn’t part of the company. But given that she’s asking for wages…”

  “Let’s offer her every now and again a performance where she takes home the profits – twenty percent – which we will promise to her without any contract, which will keep her from thinking she’s indispensable…”

  This was all expressed in a cynical, derisive tone that chilled Minette. She could not listen to any more. Rising without making a sound, she went down the little wooden staircase leading backstage and ran away.

  She walked very quickly, as if spurred on by some nervous energy that, in her inexperience, she took for anger. However, it was much more than that. Everything she knew about the prejudices held against those of her station had not been painful when they were not direct attacks on her person. She had felt the disadvantage when it was a question of her performing at the Comédie. If she had been worried, she had not suffered from it, finding perfectly normal the order of things as they had been accepted by everyone around her. Today, listening to François Mesplès, stockholder in the theater, she had experienced for the first time in her life the absolute and unsettling ill will of the white man toward free people of color. She was still too young to immediately become aware of this and to judge the milieu she lived in from the outside. Everything was still limited to her own experience. However, certain of Joseph Ogé’s words came back to her memory. She remembered the Black Code and its articles, as well as other confusing things she could not manage to disentangle from her impression of personal revolt. Ah! That man had said those things! Ah! That man had spoken about her in that despicable tone and had refused to accept the very principle of a contract linking her to the Comédie. Certain words came back to her: “What does talent matter for a person of color? Without the Acquaires, she’d still be singing in front of her mother’s stand like any other street performer.” She was overwhelmed by a desire to curse the blood and the race that was the source of all her misfortunes. Because she had a few drops of black blood in her veins she had to resign herself to being humiliated and insulted her whole life! Because she descended from a race that the colonists’ brutality relegated to enslavement, she would have to spend her life with her shoulders hunched in resignation!

  Oh! Why am I a colored girl – why, Lord? she was surprised to hear herself wonder.

  Ashamed, she hurried on. Without meaning to, she arrived at the seafront, where the daily crowd bustled about, joyfully oblivious. A few sailors, arrivals on the most recent ship, began fanning out into the streets, singing. Some of them, half drunk, shouted out couplets as they waved their berets about and leered at women. A slave-trader prodded forward a group of Blacks chained together, making them advance under the whip, like so many animals. The sun beat down on the ground and the trees with rays so hot that they seemed red like fire.

  Minette, who was walking straight ahead with her head down and her heart heavy, ran right into a sailor, who immediately took her in his arms and held her to him.

  “Hey there, my little chickadee, you walk like a blind woman!” She tried in vain to free herself.

  “Let me go, just let me go…”

  “Not before you tell me where you live.”

  He staggered a bit as he clutched her to him. Minette’s madras scarf fell off, and her hair spilled over her shoulders. He began to grope her shamelessly, as she kicked at him and tried to bite him, insulting him all the while.

  “Let me go, let me go, you drunk, you white trash, you beast!”

  Just as he was trying to kiss her and a crowd of curious revelers began gathering around them, a man on horseback galloped by, then stopped so suddenly that his horse reared up before approaching. Minette continued to cry as she struggled, while the sailor laughed and held her even more firmly. No one knew where the blow came from, but the man, his back pierced by a knife, suddenly fell backward. Some women began screaming immediately, and others started running as the circle tightened around Minette and the wounded sailor. Completely distraught, Minette raised her head and looked around. Stopped at a distance away from the drama, the horse pranced about, as if trying to get her attention. She recognized its rider and a shiver traversed her body. Jean-Baptiste Lapointe, his face framed by a wide straw hat, was looking at her with an expression so odd that for a moment she forgot all about the sailor, the crowd, and the drama. He had turned his horse around and taken off in a furious gallop. As the police arrived, someone cried:

  “Every man for himself!”

  All the people of color, the poor whites, and the children scattered frantically. A carriage came to a stop, and a very well-dressed older gentleman emerged, walking forward while demanding an explanation. Several were offered noisily. He noticed Minette, standing next to the injured sailor and said, surprised:

  “Well, if it isn’t the ‘young person.’ What’s she doing here?”

  Minette immediately saw that this imposing character could be her savior. She ran to him with her hands clasped:

  “Monsieur, I don’t know what happened. The sailor was drunk and was trying to make me kiss him. I was struggling, and then someone struck him…”

  “It’s true,” someone else insisted while moving toward the man from the carriage. “I’m a white Creole and a jeweler on Bonne-Foi Street. My name is Bascave. This young lady was in the sailor’s arms when someone struck him from behind.”

  The police, who had been bent over the sailor, stood up and announced:

  “He’s dead!”

  Horrified, Minette hid her face in her hands.

  “What were you doing here, in…in the arms of…of…the sailor,” asked a policeman, with a stutter.

  Everybody laughed; then someone responded:

  “What’s a woman usually doing in the arms of a man?”

  The jeweler from Bonne-Foi Street again attested to Minette’s innocence, recounting how she had been brutalized by the sailor, who refused to let her go despite her protestations.

  “This ‘young person’ simply cannot be responsible for what happened. The knife was thrown from a great distance and with extraordinary force,” said the man from the carriage.

  It was noted that the blade had penetrated all the way through the body. The policemen spoke in low tones with the man from the carriage who, taking Minette’s arm, said to her:

  “You’re clearly upset, my child. Step into my coach. I’ll take you home.”

  As the police had begun arbitrarily arresting people of color, a massive effort to flee had begun, during which several people were knocked over, trampled, and hurt. Minette, abruptly separated by the crowd from her savior with the carriage, looked around for him for a moment before starting to run herself, overcome by panic. When she stopped to rest, completely out of breath, she noticed that she was leaning against the door of a little house right on the edge of the road. To her great surprise, the door opened slowly and a hand pulled her inside. When she turned around, half unconscious with fear and fatigue, she found herself facing four black people: an elderly couple, a young woman in her thirties, and a thirty-five-year-old man with a burning look in his eye, and who seemed – when he stood – to be taller than any man she had ever seen before. Even Scipion can’t be as tall as he is, she thought to herself as he looked at her.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said to Minette, in a voice as har
sh and trenchant as an axe.

  “Let her rest, Jean-Pierre,” said one of the old people in Creole, a hunched-over woman whose dull and frightened expression reminded her of her mother. “Indeed, the poor thing truly seems worn out!”

  And then, pointing to a chair: “Sit down, my child,” she added.

  During the brief moment that the old woman’s intervention had lasted, Minette had been able to look more closely at the four people gathered in the room. Aside from the elderly couple and the tall young man named Jean-Pierre, there was also a young woman at the end of the table. Truly beautiful, her gaze and her face had something tragic to them that made one almost ill at ease.

  “You’ve lost your madras,” she said in a quiet, almost muffled voice.

  Minette brought her hand to her hair.

  “Yes, it fell off as I was struggling.”

  “Struggling, young lady – against whom?” asked the old man, who had not yet spoken.

  She turned toward him to respond and was struck by the resemblance between his eyes and those of the two young people. Their three sets of eyes were identical in both their shape and their expression, and completely different from those of the old woman. For as timid and fearful as were the latter’s, those of the others flashed proudly with a terrible expression of defiance. Minette sustained the gaze of the old man without flinching, though she saw what seemed like burning sparks glowing in his eyes.

  “Yes, I struggled with a white sailor who wanted to kiss me.”

  “And it’s because he wanted to kiss you that you were running like you were afraid?”

  “The sailor was killed,” said Minette.

  “Killed! And by whom?” asked the young man, so anxiously that he seemed out of breath.