Love, Anger, Madness

That was all she said, and rising, she took the child and forced his thumb in his mouth.

“Suck, suck,” she said gently, “suck.”

The woman’s young face seemed hewn from stone. I got the feeling that neither joy nor pain could affect it. I was bombarded by a thousand thoughts I was unable to sort out at that moment. My father appeared at the door of the hut with Alcius and the old man. His neck was adorned with multicolored necklaces and his head was bound in a red kerchief. My heart skipped a beat. He called me, and addressing the old man:

“There she is, Papa Cousineau,” he said.

The old man contemplated me for a full minute without saying a word, and then held out his hand to me:

“She looks you straight in the eye, Agronomist,” he said, addressing my father. “That’s a sign that she has a strong head.”

“I raised her like a man,” my father answered, “and now she is old enough to keep my promises.”

“Since you are alive, keep your own promises to the loas. Lion Mountain will not survive if you abandon it. Your daughter will only succeed you upon your death, only upon your death,” the old man firmly stated.

“Then she will have white hair.” My father burst out laughing and thumped his chest. “The lion is still strong, Papa Cousineau, solid as a rock. But don’t forget I am often absent. I will be campaigning soon and my chances of becoming president are good. I have given up on sending her to France, I have taught her to ride horses, I have taught her math only so that she can manage the land. She too must serve the loas”

I looked him straight in the eye.

“I only have one religion, Papa,” I slowly articulated, “and I will never serve the loas”

“Then you will lose Lion Mountain.”

“Don’t rush her, Agronomist,” the old man cautioned. “The Catholic priests and nuns have stuffed her head and talked of voodoo as if it were damnation. Give her time to grow up and she will come to it on her own like every good black woman.”

“I will never serve the loas” I repeated.

And I ran to my horse, which I mounted full of rage.

Under my whip, Bon Ami galloped down the trails, nostrils quivering. I soon heard the hoofbeats of my father’s horse, reined in but champing at the bit. Guava branches stuck to my skirt, smacking me in the face and snatching my riding hat as their trophy. I arrived a few minutes before he did at the entrance to town. It was a Sunday. I found my mother at home all dressed up and, noticing me, she asked where my father was.

“He’s coming,” I answered.

“You barely have time to change and accompany me to vespers,” she told me.

Augustine, her head bristling with nappy little braids, was following Felicia like a dog.

I listened, panting, for my father’s steps. He opened the door, walked up to me and slapped me so hard that I almost fell to the ground.

“What has she done?” my mother asked him.

“Stubborn as a mule! Stubborn as a mule!” my father yelled. “You will obey me, you hear, and I will break you, even if I have to do it with a whip.”

My mother lowered her head and sniffled. I went up to change and accompany her to vespers.

“What have you done to your father this time?” she asked me on the way to church.

“He does voodoo, Mama. I saw him at Papa Cousineau’s, dressed like a disciple.”

“Alas!” my mother answered, “he was rash enough to accept the legacy of his black grandmother and he’s afraid not to keep his promises.”

“I won’t keep them for him,” I screamed with tears in my eyes.

Hush!” my mother said, rolling frightened eyes. “God forbid someone hears you and makes a scandal.”

I didn’t sleep that night. I was so agitated with shock and distaste that I was feverish. Voodoo, which until now I had considered a shameful religion practiced only by the poor, suddenly took shape before my eyes and engaged me in a struggle I had very little chance of winning: I feared my father and dreaded standing up to him.

“Resist, my child,” advised Father Paul, in whom I had confided out of sheer desperation. “Resist with all your might. In such a case as this, disobedience is permitted.”

I resisted and was whipped for it. Time went by. My father was not elected. He reproached me for bringing him bad luck and swore he would break me.

“I made a promise, you understand, I promised that you as the eldest would continue the legacy. But that was before your birth. How could I predict you would be a girl?…”

Although my studies were rather intense, up to now I had read only ancient history and the fables of La Fontaine. My father declared all books unwholesome and my mother, on his orders, cleaned my room herself in order to better rummage through my things at her leisure. My girlfriends’ fates were no happier; I resigned myself to mine, awaiting the marriage that would set me free. As I got older, I put together a life for myself. A very full and secret life to which no one else had access. Not even my friends. Solitude and idleness were my accomplices. To protect myself from prying eyes, I learned the importance of hypocrisy. With my parents I played the part of a perfect young lady. Once their backs were turned, I would undergo a revolution. Quickly changing my attitude, I arched my waist before my mirror, posing languidly, waltzing around and humming in a low voice.

Around that time I saw Frantz Camuse again. He was returning from France, where he had been studying for several years. Our mothers had been friends and were seeing each other again for the first time in six years. He would visit us on Sundays with his mother, who would stroke my hair and who kept saying that I was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She repeated this so often that I began to doubt her sincerity. My parents welcomed them warmly and went through a great deal of trouble to host them. Frantz was handsome and I began to think about him. I whispered his name in bed at night, my heart full of a delicious feeling, but I remained petrified in his presence.

“The Camuse boy seems interested in our daughter,” my father said one evening to my mother. “Let’s give her a good dowry to encourage him. I am not able to get anything out of this stubborn mule, might as well marry her off. The Camuses are nearly ruined, they will be happy to dust off their coat of arms for us.”

“They think they’ve sprung from the loins of Jupiter,” was my mother’s response.

“I have money enough to make them stuff their prejudices, and after all, I haven’t given up my candidacy.”

“Henri!” my mother implored with a look of despair.

“This marriage will happen,” my father continued. “My money will help them forget certain things.”

“Alas,” my mother sighed, stealing a worried glance at me.

Felicia innocently took my hand.

“Why is Claire black, Mama?” she asked.

“But she is not black,” my mother answered, lowering her eyes.

I abruptly pulled my hand away.

“The sun burned her a little,” my mother added. “It’s a pretty brown.”

“No, she’s black and we’re white.”

“Enough, Felicia,” my father yelled.

Felicia cried and my mother took her in her arms as I ran up to my room. I spent a long time alone there looking at myself in the mirror of my dressing table.

“Why? Why? Why?” I sobbed while banging my fists on the mirror.

And I began to loathe the forebear whose black blood had slyly flowed into my veins after so many generations.

The days that followed were torture. Long family discussions that included Mme Baviere and Mme Soubiran had given me such a complex that I no longer dared look into the blond pink face of Frantz Camuse. I obeyed my mother and wore the new dresses she had made me try on while raving about their “flattering” color. I played the Chopin waltzes that my piano teacher Mlle Verdure had taught me, served drinks and cake to our friends, but my heart was heavy. “Never will he love me, never,” I kept saying to myself. I could see Dora and Eugenie circling around Frantz, clucking like turkeys. I felt the weight of his gaze upon me. But I was too young to realize the sincere interest I had aroused in him.

One evening, he came around without his mother and asked me to walk him to the gate.