A few days later, a French boat in our harbor supplied our merchants: glassware, lingerie, wines, liqueurs, clothes, jewelry graced the display windows, and my mother, spending our last reserves on my father’s advice, bought some linen and a new piece of crystal she was planning to exhibit at her next party. Three linen blouses embroidered with lace and ribbons were added to my trousseau, and the night before the party my mother spread on my bed a frilly white silk dress, black leather slippers and a beaded velvet purse. We had sent out many invitations and my father, who was to leave for Port-au-Prince on the French boat in three days, invited the officers on board that he knew. Dora’s twenty-year-old cousin Georges, a pianist and a talented poet, was to play contredanses and waltzes.
The coffee harvest was at hand. My father paid a quick visit to the farmers and came back happy to report that there would soon be sacks full of coffee and then of money.
“I rule like a lion king over my land,” he said laughing. “The peasants are afraid of my ‘voodoo spells’ and they never steal from me.”
Was he a good enough actor to play at voodoo to keep his naive farmers in check? I couldn’t answer that question.
It was July 3, 1915. A choking heat fell on the town. There was no breeze that morning to dry the sweat off the brows of our “little soldiers” pacing up and down the streets with rifles on their shoulders. Political discussions were rife and the news that arrived with students who disembarked from the French boat alarmed the patriots. According to them, representatives from the State Department had cornered President Sam and were negotiating a contract that would give them control over customs.
“If President Sam agrees to this contract with the United States, then all is lost,” Dr. Audier prophesied. “France and Germany will demand an equal share. Clamont is right, they will have the skin off our backs. It’s time he be put in charge.”
My father, despite his many disappointments, sacrificed two more bags of money in vain. A rumor went round that he was conspiring against the government, and one evening Augustine came to tell him that a man was asking to see him.
“What’s his name?” my father asked.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Is he well dressed?”
“No, sir.”
“Is he a beggar?”
“No, sir, but he is dark-skinned.”
Leaving Dr. Audier, M. Camuse, Laurent and my friends’ fathers in the living room, my father went down. He opened the door to the dining room and found himself in the presence of a black man of great physical stature, neatly dressed, with a straw hat that he quickly took off his head.
“I am Horelle Jean-Francois,” the man said to him in French. “Your oldest daughter knew my Elina at the school of the Holy Sisters.”
“I had no idea,” my father replied.
“Monsieur Clamont, be careful,” the man continued. “You have been denounced as a conspirator and the district commandant is keeping an eye on you. I came to warn you because I am also a supporter of yours.”
“Thank you, Jean-Francois,” my father answered. “I will take precautions.”
“I will bring you many followers. We must stand up against American interference in the nation’s private affairs.”
Elina was standing behind her father. I saw him reach out and grope for her.
“I am blind,” he explained.
“Ah,” my father grunted. “Would you like a chair?”
“No, Monsieur Clamont, thank you, I have to go. I’ll come back another time.”
“Jean-Francois,” my father then said, “if it’s all right, I would like to meet with you and your friends at Lion Mountain.”
“That’s fine, Monsieur Clamont, then I will come back here without them. Only my daughter will come with me.”
“No, no, don’t trouble yourself, I know your house, I will come to you myself.”
“That’s fine, Monsieur.”
He closed the door and then, noticing me:
“You, I always find you on my heels,” he said to me, as if he were ashamed of himself. “Is it true you knew this girl at the Sisters’?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Did she finish school?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Very well, very well, go inside and help your mother. There’s a lot to do today. Our guests will be here at eight.”
Indeed at that time the ship’s officers arrived in dress uniform. The table was adorned with food and wine, taking on the elaborate and well-appointed look of a Roman feast. The new glassware spread out on the ecru lace tablecloth began to fill with champagne and wine. Georges Soubiran sat at the piano and launched into a waltz by Chopin, and couples began to dance. Frilly dresses whirling in the lamplight! Hairdos embellished with pearls and diamonds! Bare necks almost as white as the pearls arrayed on them. Busts delicately pressing against taffeta ribbons that fell in butterfly wings down the back! Black pants, frock coats and audaciously twisted mustaches! Masculine hair, blond and black, gleaming with fragrant pomade! Elegant movements of the hands and feet! Clever cunning glances! Arched waists and elegant bows! And the flowing champagne helped me and my friends overcome our shyness. The trembling fingers we rested delicately on the arms of our dancing partners betrayed us, and I remember my teeth chattering in front of the handsome French officer who bowed before me.
“You are very original, Mademoiselle,” he said, taking me in his arms.
I lowered my head and didn’t respond.
“Could it be because the atmosphere of this Haitian salon this evening reminds me of Paris that I find you so alluring? Only you possess that warm color that island people have. You must believe me when I say that, for us, you are like a black goddess come down from her throne to welcome us lowly mortals.”
The compliment, too nicely turned, rang false in my ears.
I thought he was making fun of me. I let go of his hand and ran away.
At the beginning of the ball, I had already noticed myself in the mirror, in my white dress, standing between Dora, Eugenie and Jane, and felt I looked like a fly in a bowl of milk. I was surrounded by respect and flattery owing only to my social position. Who would dare shun the daughter of a white-mulatto like Henri Clamont, owner of the best house on Grand-rue and six hundred acres of coffee, as though she were no better than Elina Jean-Francois or Alcine Joseph? I felt out of place among the French crewmen, our European store owners and the handpicked mulattoes. My mother found me in bed in my ball gown, weeping, head buried in my pillow.
“What now, Claire?”
“I feel sick, Mama.”
“In that case, get undressed. I’ll tell the guests you had to be excused.”
A quarter of an hour later I was in my nightgown and had slipped under the sheets when I saw Dora come in.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing, I just don’t feel well.”
“That handsome officer is asking for you. He told your father that you were the prettiest black girl he had ever seen. You know, Claire, these foreigners are stupid. If your skin is a little tanned, they think you’re black.”
“Leave me alone. I’m tired.”
“Frantz Camuse just arrived. He returned by boat. Try to get up.”
“No, leave me alone, Dora, I’m begging you.”
“Madame Camuse told me: ‘Go get Claire, she is no more sick than I am, and Frantz will be disappointed not to see her.’”
“No, I really am sick. Go tell Madame Camuse and let me be.”
When she left, I quietly jumped off my bed and cracked open the door. They seemed to have forgotten about
