Dance on the Volcano

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  Lapointe had clapped his hand. Instantly, the door to the second room had opened and two young câpresses appeared, barefoot and wearing gingham dresses. They had long, wiry hair that fanned out over their shoulders in waves, and skin the color of sapodilla. Their faces bore no expression, as they kept their eyes lowered.

  “Here are your bodyguards,” said Lapointe to Minette. “For your safety, they’ll lie at your feet. You, Fleurette, take care of Mistress’s bath,” he said to the slave with a little beauty mark over her upper lip, “and you, Roseline, take that bag and accompany Mistress to the blue room. You are not to leave her unless she requests it.”

  “Yes, Master,” they responded.

  Minette followed them. It was actually quite amusing to be served like an important lady. So this is how wealthy free women live, mused the young girl. Slaves who call them Mistress, little companions as attentive as lapdogs – who follow them around and anticipate their every desire, men and women they purchase and over whom they have the power of life and death. What luxury! “We’ll receive you like a queen.” Lapointe had certainly kept his promise about that: he was introducing her to the high life.

  The two slaves brought Minette to a room decorated with blue curtains, a bed made of white wood, and a table topped by a beveled mirror. A few books were placed on the shelves. A plant with pink flowers bloomed in a crystal vase, set on a small table.

  “Lie down, Mistress,” said Fleurette, taking off Minette’s madras headscarf.

  “I’ll go heat the bath water,” said Roseline, removing Minette’s shoes.

  She took away the mud-encrusted shoes for cleaning.

  Minette felt uncomfortable. Being served like this without wanting to protest, without trying to do for oneself the things being done by a slave kneeling at your feet, without offering a word or a look of thanks must take a great deal of getting used to. Abandoning herself to Fleurette’s eager hands, she had let herself be undressed somewhat despite herself. She found it daunting to be nude. She tried to tell herself that Fleurette was merely a slave, bought by Lapointe and placed in her service for a couple of days, but she could not help but feel uncomfortable in front of this stranger who was going through her suitcase and removing her blouse. When Roseline came to get her for the bath, she was unpleasantly surprised to see her enter carrying a bathrobe, in which she wrapped Minette and then removed skillfully before guiding her into the bath. Minette let herself relax into the wide, tin-plate bath filled with warm water, into which fresh leaves, smelling of marjoram, had been crumbled. Then, the two slave girls rubbed her back, her arms, and her legs while softly humming a Creole song to themselves. Not the slightest indiscreet glance. Nothing but great assiduousness in their gestures and an expression that made plain their desire to please and to do a good job.

  Minette stepped out of the bath, refreshed and perfumed.

  When she went back into the bedroom, Fleurette had already laid out one of her outfits, with matching madras scarf and shawl on the bed. As Roseline hurried to dress her in a clean shirt, Minette stopped her and took her hands.

  “That’s enough now, my dears,” she said to them in her abrupt manner. “You may leave me now.”

  Fleurette chewed on her upper lip, with its beauty mark just above it, and Roseline lowered her head guiltily.

  “Mistress was not satisfied?”

  Seeing their chagrined faces, Minette felt a twinge of remorse, which she quickly stifled, for she found the presence of the two girls discomfiting. Would she be obliged during the length of her stay there (for she would certainly stay, she knew that now) – would she be obliged to have these two over-eager attendants hanging around her constantly, encroaching on her solitude? They were very young – they seemed to be between fourteen and sixteen years old. They were cheerful, healthy, and dull. Never would she agree to such company.

  “Would you like us to scratch your head, Mistress?”

  “To tickle the soles of your feet?

  “To massage your hands?”

  “Your back?”

  Minette smiled. That was the way of the Creole slave: hypocritical, flattering, perverse. Poor little things! she then said to herself. It isn’t their fault. Jasmine must have had to do the same things. They were the product of their circumstances, and from their earliest childhood they had learned to honor their master’s slightest whim. How could they possibly resign themselves to that? I would die – or I’d maroon, thought Minette. They had begun to roll on the floor, weeping.

  “The master will punish us,” whimpered Roseline, kissing her feet. “Please let us stay, Mistress, let us stay.”

  This could not be true. Lapointe allowed his slaves to be beaten? She could not believe it. The girls must be exaggerating to get a reaction from me, she said to herself again.

  “Why are you lying?” she shouted at them. “You’ve never been beaten.”

  They looked at one another slyly for a moment and took on a closed and hypocritical expression.

  Without looking at them again, Minette put on a green skirt and white blouse. She then tied a flowered shawl around her chest and added the brooch she had bought with Magdeleine Brousse at Miss Monnot’s shop. She did not put on her madras headscarf but gathered her hair into two thick braids, which she tied with a green ribbon. Then she took the slaves by the hand and went out onto the gallery with them.

  Jean-Baptiste Lapointe was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs between two saddled and bridled horses. Seeing her so beautiful, he trembled as he walked to meet her.

  “We meet again,” he said in a low voice.

  “That’s a man for you – can’t stand even a minute of dissatisfaction.”

  “I love you,” he said to her, again without hesitation.

  “Oh, no! Not in front of witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?”

  “Those two, over there.”

  She gestured toward the two girls.

  “Them! But they’re slaves.”

  He said this with a horribly disdainful tone.

  Minette was petrified with surprise. And so it was true. He was a slave-driver like any other. He was one of those vicious planters who considered the poor souls he bought as little more than animals! Without suspecting what was going on inside Minette, Lapointe signaled for the slave girls to leave them. He then clasped Minette’s hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Oh, leave me be!” she shouted at him.

  “I love you,” he repeated.

  “Yes, but I cannot love a man of my race who calls his slaves ‘slaves’ with the same voice as a white planter.”

  His expression changed suddenly. Any trace of tenderness disappeared from his face. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I was speaking to you of love,” he spat out harshly.

  “What’s love, if one doesn’t admire the person one wants to love.”

  He pretended not to understand her.

  “But I adore you.”

  “I don’t feel the same.”

  “Do you have reason not to?”

  “I hate planters.”

  “And I hate them just as much as I hate slaves.”

  “Yet, the latter have made you rich.”

  He began to walk. An expression of dreadful rancor hardened his face; a wrinkle appeared between his brows, just in the middle of his forehead.

  “They remind me of my own circumstances in this society. Oh! You’ll never understand me…”

  Despite that observation, he went on, as if pushed by some terrible force:

  “My whole life I’ve suffered being who I am. My whole life, I’ve been insulted, ridiculed, and humiliated. I studied – is there any book I haven’t read? Those that preach resignation as well as those calling for revolt. And when you read them, what do you find – hot air, nothing but hot air. You cross your arms and say to yourself, ‘Well now, I know a lot of things, but what does it all get me?’ ”

  He broke a branch off a bush while walkin
g, and sharply whipped the side of his pants.

  “This – this is life…”

  He opened his arms wide as if to embrace a great expanse.

  “Yes, this – taking, earning as much as possible, accumulating, imposing yourself through money, countering all the insults as much as possible, killing, beating, taking revenge, and viciously biting into all the little joys life offers.”

  She looked at him. Despite his violent attitude, there was something charming – both infantile and cruel – emanating from him. In pronouncing those last words, he had bitten his lip and his beautiful teeth were like a white stain on his dark mouth.

  “I hate the Whites as much as the Blacks. The former despise me and the latter debase me. I hate the female slave that was my mother – her race is cursed.”

  “Your mother isn’t responsible for anything. You know that perfectly well,” protested Minette.

  “Oh! All that’s nothing but words. Female slaves sleep with any master and we suffer the consequences. I didn’t ask to be born. What do I have running through my veins? The bastard blood of a Mulatto – and that of an ignorant and superstitious African. I hate them both.”

  He burst out into hollow and desperate laughter.

  “How could you have imagined for even one second that I lived in some stupid sort of cozy little freedman’s family?”

  “You wrote to me…”

  “You misunderstood the tone of my letter. The ‘we,’ though perhaps ambivalent, meant the slaves and me. I have nothing to be sorry for. In any case, be clear on one thing: I have never violated a woman in my life – my pride would never allow it.”

  She felt she needed to say something to him.

  “I trust you,” she murmured.

  Yes, she knew he would never be content with doing such things. He would do worse perhaps: his eyes, his gestures, his words – they all suggested as much. He would do worse, there was no question – for nothing in him sought to deceive. His gaze had the force of steel; his body was built for battle. He gave the impression of an immovable rock, and his strength seemed prodigious.

  “Those are just words,” he spat. “Usually, people detest me, and that’s normal.”

  That admission revealed such great suffering to Minette that she turned toward him. He had stopped walking, out of breath, his eyes aflame, and his shaking hands breaking the branch into the tiniest pieces.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she said, overwhelmed.

  “I always answer questions.”

  “Why did you kill that white sailor?”

  “Which one? I’ve killed many. I’d kill a thousand Whites every day for pure sport. I hate them.”

  “Do you realize that you’ve just called yourself a murderer?”

  “But there are nothing but assassins all around me. What do you call the Whites who maim their slaves and torture them to death?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Minette.

  Finding nothing to respond, she threw herself onto the wet grass of the garden and began to weep. He knelt down beside her and said: “No, no, don’t cry,” and then stayed quiet for a long moment, until she finally raised her head.

  And then, as if inspired by painful memories he could not wait to share with her, he went on.

  “I didn’t want to hate, believe me. No, I don’t think I was born for that…There was once a time, oh! I was very young, and interested in science. I hoped someday to become a great doctor…I was made to understand that such a profession was forbidden to us…”

  He was quiet for a moment then continued:

  “A few months ago, I boarded a ship heading for Cap-Français. I met a young white lady on board who had come from France, and she found me charming. That evening, she joined me on the bridge reserved for people of color. When we disembarked, I found myself mixed up among the white passengers. The young lady had taken my arm. On seeing us, several people couldn’t hide their shock. Knowing what was going to happen, I was looking for a way to get away from the young lady and escape when two planters came up to me and threatened to strike me if I didn’t leave immediately.

  “ ‘But why?’ asked the lady.

  “ ‘He’s colored,’ answered one of the Whites.

  “ ‘Colored?’ exclaimed the lady uncomprehending.

  “ ‘Yes, the son of a slave. He has to respect the law, which forbids him to mingle with us.’ ”

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes as if to hold back tears.

  “And it’s always been like that, for all of us…”

  “Hush,” protested Minette. “You’re getting upset.”

  “Upset,” he responded. “I’m used to it by now.”

  Then, cutting himself off, he ran his hand over his eyes, shivered as if just waking from a bad dream, and became distant again.

  “Excuse me for bothering you with all of this.”

  He turned his head toward the house.

  “The horses are ready. Do you want me to accompany you back to town?”

  “I came to stay.”

  “You will, then?”

  Immediately, his face became youthful again and so tender that Minette’s heart melted with sweetness. Oh! To love him – to love him despite it all. To close my eyes and just say, “Oh, well.” To accept him as he is, or to transform him through love.

  “You will, then? Oh! I’ve been so thrilled to welcome you here. With each passing day I said to myself, ‘She’s going to come, she’s going to come,’ and now you’re here.”

  “And now I’m here,” responded Minette.

  He was suddenly a completely different man.

  “I refused to dance with you,” he said, chewing on a blade of grass. “Ask me why.”

  “I refuse.”

  “Go ahead, you prideful one, you – ask me why. Fine, you refuse. Well then, I’m still going to tell you, so there’ll be no misunderstandings between us. You were dressed like a white woman. I detested you.”

  “And when did you begin to love me?”

  “I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  His voice had become serious again. He turned toward her.

  “Minette, people close to me call me Jean.”

  “Jean,” she said.

  He took her in his arms and crushed her into him.

  She had tipped her head back and her lips were parted in a smile. He took her mouth so greedily that she moaned. He growled with desire and, without pulling away from her, stood up and carried her to the door of the salon, which two slaves had opened for him.

  When Minette was standing again, he held her with such violence that she resisted.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!”

  He stepped back for a moment and went to lean against the windowsill. Minette went to join him. From the distance, the sound of an old Creole song reached their ears. Hundreds of voices chanted a sweet, sad melody to the rhythm of drums.

  “Listen,” said Lapointe to her. “The slaves are singing!”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes. The workhouse is just a few yards from here. I’ll take you there tomorrow if you’d like.”

  The sound of the conch suddenly pierced the silence. The two dogs barked at full throttle and the slaves stopped singing as if cocking their ears.

  “The conch!” cried Minette.

  “The maroons’ conch,” added Lapointe. “My Negroes have stopped singing – they’re interpreting the message. They’ll be nervous tomorrow. It’s a pity, but I’ll send orders to the overseer to watch them closely. The work mustn’t suffer because of this. I’ve got more than fifty sacks of sugar to send out next month.”

  The spell was broken. Minette, a faraway look in her eyes, saw in her mind the immense workhouse, the sordid huts, the backs hunched over under the arid sun, the overseer’s whip, the punishments, the tortures…

  She turned toward him. He was looking out the window again at the neighboring hills, upright like gigantic dark masses under the suddenly bright sky. He po
inted a finger in the direction of one corner of the sky.

  “Hauts Pitons Mountain!” he said. “They’re all running toward that hill but they’ll leave it someday.”

  “Please, don’t talk about all of that,” begged Minette. “It’s one thing I just can’t understand about you.”

  He took her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her to him.

  “Do you at least understand the rest of me?”

  He searched her face and it was as if his black eyes were shooting flames into her.

  “Oh!” sighed Minette, “What a misfortune it is to love you!”

  He silenced her with a kiss.

  “To love without bounds would be true happiness.”

  She resisted briefly and extracted herself from his grasp.

  “But why, why? Oh! There are so many questions I want to ask you…To know, to understand who you are. It’s no easy task. You’re impenetrable.”

  Despite it all, she remembered his attitude, his expressions, the other side of his personality that had made his hands tremble and had contorted his young face while he told her about himself. What did he mean when he said, “I hate the Whites as much as I hate the Negroes.” He had suffered – she had the proof in those revelations he had made, and now he was taking his revenge as an anarchist who took neither one nor the other side and was content with selfish satisfactions. But he could be forgiven, thought Minette.

  “But still, you work with Lambert,” she said suddenly, without realizing that she was betraying a secret.

  He jumped as if he had just been struck by a whip on the nape of his neck.

  “Lambert!” he exclaimed. “How do you know about that?”

  He burst into laughter and continued:

  “Oh, I see – you’re one of Zoé’s recruits!”

  “And you?”

  “Me, I’m an individualist who fanatics like de Beauvais and Lambert take for a destroyer of Whites. And besides, their cause interests me in one way: I swore that before my death I’d enjoy the privileges laid out in the Black Code. I will claim our civil and political rights, along with all the others.”