The Salt Roads Read online

  “What is it, Georgine?”

  “It’s about when I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She looked down, muttered, “Sometimes I can’t go, matant. Can’t make kaka.”

  “Oh. An easy thing to fix, my dear. You must eat more fresh fruit and greens. Raw, mind. Grow some spinach in that garden of yours.”

  “I just eat the leaves? Raw, just so?”

  “Yes. With something else you like, until you get used to the taste. You like fish?”

  “Yes, matant.”

  “Eat the raw spinach with cooked fish then. And get your Pierre to beg fruit from Master’s trees.”

  She sucked her lips together, looked doubtful. “Yes, matant. Only . . .”

  “What, girl? I have to fetch water for dinner for me and Ti-Bois.”

  “I should eat the leaves from the fruit, too? Raw?”

  I laughed. “No, Georgine. Eat the sweet parts of the fruit. And come to me later. I’ll give you some senna pods to ease you tonight.”

  “Yes, matant.” She looked happier now. “I’m going now. My husband’s waiting.” She put her calabash on her head. Yes. There, on the underside of her arm; a blue bruise. The thumbprint to match the finger marks.

  “He doesn’t like you to keep him waiting for his dinner.”

  A big smile she gave me, with a scaredy giggle. “No. So impatient, he. He works hard in the day, and comes home hungry. I must go.”

  She swayed off towards the hut she shared with Pierre. Eh. Wives need to learn their duties. That backra Pierre was being a good husband to Georgine. He wouldn’t beat a wife who was diligent. Maybe she’s being slack. But those bruises looked so bad against her coloured girl pale skin. “Georgine!” I called.

  She turned back. “Yes, matant?”

  “Tell Pierre I said that if he wants another child from you, he must stop handling you so rough. He could hurt your insides.”

  “Yes, matant. Thank you, matant.”

  That’s better. Her voice sounded light and happy now. I went to dip my calabash beside Ti-Bois’s.

  Alexandria, Egypt, 345 C.E.

  I leaned back against the warm tile of the bath chair and let the attendant pour the hot water over me. “Shit, that’s good, Drineh,” I told her. I closed my eyes.

  “Hmm,” was all she said.

  I heard her going back to the pool to dip more hot water. I settled further into the chair and spread my arms and legs, anticipating a flood of warm water. The pat-pat sound of bare feet on wet stone came back towards me. I barely had time to register that I was hearing more than two feet, when a bucketful of cold water splashed all over me. I leapt to my feet, howling, “Damn, Little Doe!”

  Little Doe dropped the bucket and she and Drineh ran, giggling, to the destrictarium. Drineh held her hand over her mouth, and she and Doe draped their arms over each other’s shoulders and laughed till they fell to their knees. The bitches. Eleni watched us all, shaking her head. “Oh,” I said to Neferkare the Little Doe, “I’m gonna get you now.”

  I was already running towards them; before Doe could dart out of the way, I was on her.

  “No!” she yelled, her face merry. She held out her hands to block me, and she danced and twitched away, but I tweaked her nipples and slapped her rump twice, hard. Her breasts and thighs jiggled as she tried to escape my hands.

  Drineh got in on the game too; grabbed Doe’s hands and helped me tumble her to the floor of the destrictarium. I straddled her waist. “See, even your friend’s betrayed you!” I said. And I began to tickle.

  It always worked. Doe wriggled and kicked like any fish, but Drineh held her legs, and I dug my fingers into her belly and tickled and tickled. She tried to pull my hands away, but I wouldn’t let her. Pretty soon she was shrieking, squirming so hard that she nearly threw us both off. “No-o-o,” she wailed, tears of laughter in her eyes. “Gods, Meri; stop now.”

  “What’s my real name?” I asked her. I tickled harder.

  “Agh! No! I’m going to piss myself!”

  “Not on me, you don’t. My name?” I could hear Eleni chuckling. I ran my fingertips along the bottom of Doe’s belly. She shrieked again. “Fuck! All right! It’s Thais! You’re Thais!”

  “And will you interrupt my bath again?” More tickling and tweaking.

  “No! Get off, you young demon!”

  I stopped my tormenting and looked down at her. Her face was red and her short black hair stood out everywhere, but she grinned up at me with no remorse at all. “You gonna let me up?” she said. “People will think you’re having your wicked way with me.”

  I chuckled and stood up off her. “Only in your dreams.”

  “In my dreams,” she told me, “you’re named Meritet, not that stuck-up Greek name.” She rolled to her feet.

  “Yeah, yeah. You and your ancient Egyptians. My parents gave me a decent name.”

  A woman nearby had stopped scraping her own body clean to stare disapprovingly at us. We ignored her. Nosy housewife, with her sagging tits and slack belly, staring at the whores. Old mare. I bet she was almost thirty. I sneered at her.

  “Drineh,” I said, “can I have a real bath now, please?”

  “Yes,” said quiet Drineh. She stood up and rearranged her tunic. We walked back to the bath chairs. Drineh picked up the bucket on the way. I sat back in the chair again, but I kept my eyes on Neferkare this time. She plumped herself down on a bench and cocked one leg up. Eleni started covering the leg with sugar paste.

  Drineh was on her way back with a full bucket balanced on her head. “Hey, Drineh,” I said, “you go to the Theatre yesterday?”

  She made a face. “No. Saalim kept the baths open even during the games. I had to work.” She dumped hot water over my head.

  I blew water out of my mouth and sat up straight. “Oh, Drineh; you should have seen him!”

  Her face went lovely with longing. “Felix?”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied. “Who else?”

  She forgot to be so quiet then. “You saw him?” she squealed, jumping up and down. “Oh, Gods, Thais!”

  “Judah and his boyfriend snuck me in, right to the middle rows! I could see everything. Oh, Felix was so beautiful. All blond, and strong. That bull never stood a chance. By the end of the fight, he was chasing it.”

  “What style does he fight?”

  “Secutor. You know, with the round helmet. Didyma—Cups, you know?—she bet me two drachmas that he’d fight in Thraex armour. Ha. She owes me.”

  Propping

  Paris, Spring 1844

  I knelt in Charles’s favourite work chair, rested my chin on my hands clasped on the back of the chair, and regarded him with satisfaction. He was bent helplessly over his own table, the one with the odd kidney-shaped indentation so perfect for my intentions; secured by his wrists with my tightly knotted shawl, the paisley. That boring old frock-coat was thrown up over his head and his trousers were down around his ankles. His ass pale as moons shone against the dark wood of the desk. “Are you comfortable, Charles?” I asked him.

  “You devil, you angel. What are you going to do?”

  His voice came out as a moan, muffled by the wool covering his head. I climbed down from my perch and walked towards him. He twisted his head under the frock-coat, trying to follow my movements. “Today,” I said, “I think I’ll show you what it feels like to be a woman.”

  “I shall show you,” he said.

  I smacked his rear firmly, with my open hand. He jumped. “You,” I told him, “are scarce in any position at this moment”—I smacked again, harder—“to be schooling my talk.”

  “My speech,” the brute said, his voice thick with desire. I knelt and bit on one of his cheeks, not so hard as to bruise. He cried out and rubbed himself against the smooth wood of the desk.

  “Speech. I’ll lesson you in speech. You’ll sing for me far better than any of your poet friends could.” I stood, kicked his feet as far apart as the pants around his ankles would allow. I s
lapped his ass again, a stinging blow. He called out, arched his back to bring his nethers closer to me. “Yes,” I said. “Do so.” And with my index finger, I pressed hard against the tight opening of his rear. It opened just a little to me, then he stiffened.

  “Ai! Jeanne, it hurts!”

  I pressed forward no further, but left my finger where it was. “I warrant it does.” I pushed in a little more. He whimpered. The sinews at the backs of his thighs sprang forth.

  “Jeanne, please.”

  “Ah, you’re beginning to hum the tune now, my pretty. Do you feel how you are?” I pressed a little. “How dry?” Hissing, he tried to move away from my finger, but I had him right up against the desk. “How tight? How unwilling?”

  “What . . . what do you wish from me?” He was trying to close even tighter against my finger, to push me out. I did not allow it.

  “Has a woman ever felt like this when you’ve entered her?”

  “Ah, um, yes. But . . .”

  “Yes what?” I pushed slowly past the first knuckle. Oh, but the noises he made were exquisite!

  “God, God; what must I do?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes! Anything! Only cease!”

  I jerked my finger out of him, causing him to cry out high and sharp. “Poor dear,” I said. I laid my hands on his rump again. He twitched. “I will show you how to prepare a woman—nay, even a man, should you come to that—so that they are eager and ready for your embrace.”

  “You won’t hurt me any more?”

  “No, no more. Only pleasure now. You have my word on it.” I caressed and stroked the poor ass I’d just been tormenting. Presently, he relaxed and began sighing again for my touch. I squeezed and tapped, and sometimes gently bit. I extended my caresses up his back and down his legs. Soon he was rolling his hips and moaning. “Oh,” I said to him, “how fetching you are!” I reached between his spread legs, tickled his balls. I took firm hold of his pecker. He ground it against my hand, against the desk.

  “Ah, Jeanne. Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

  I ran a finger up the cleft of his bottom. He strove to open wider to me. “Yes,” I told him. “Do you see what I mean? Do you feel more willing?”

  “Oh, God, yes.”

  “But there is one more thing needed.” I tapped his bunghole, very gently. “You’re still dry.”

  “How . . . ?”

  “There are remedies for that.” I reached over his head to where he kept the effects on his desk for styling his hair. He liked it shiny, did Charles. I opened the large bottle of macassar oil he kept, and sunk two of my fingers into it. When I greased his crack good with that oil, he near collapsed onto the desk, his legs trembling from the effort of holding them open despite the confining trousers. “I think you are ready, my dear,” I told him.

  “Jeanne. Please.”

  “Yes, that is the opening verse to the song I want you to sing.” And with two fingers, deliciously slow, I entered him. By the first knuckle, he was sighing. By the second, he was moaning and pushing back against me. By the third, all he could say was, “Ah! Ah! Ah!” as he wrung his hips in circles. When I began to pump my fingers in and out, he made a growling noise. I felt the insides of him clenching and releasing on my fingers, beseechingly. Sweat had started forth on his back. For purchase, I placed one hand on his spine, above his bum, and commenced to fuck him for all I was worth. And oh, he sang so sweet. “Yes,” I said to him. “This is my lesson. You must take some time with us, make us willing. Then it is pleasure for man and woman.”

  All he replied was “Fuck me,” over and over, howling it till he spent.

  “Jeanne, where are my cufflinks?”

  Our rough games this afternoon had still left us time to dress for the evening. “Which ones?” I answered over my shoulder, never moving from the windowseat where I had moved the damask drapes aside that I might sit. I loved the warmth of these rooms of Charles’s. The Hôtel Pimodan was a fine place, très soigné.

  “You know well enough which ones, Lemer,” he replied irritably. “The ruby, the new ones I was wearing this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes. I put them down on your bed.”

  The red paper on the walls and ceiling with its black foliage made the room seem even warmer. Too many years in drafty single rooms shared with my mother and grandmother and scores of horrid rats. Charles had given us our own rooms elsewhere, me and Maman. Me, with my own apartments in the middle of the river Seine, on the Isle of Saint-Louis! A quaint little street called “La Femme Sans Tête.” Maman had grumbled, “What kind of man is he? Respectable women shouldn’t be installed on a street called the Headless Woman.” But I noticed how her face softened when she ran her hands over the elegant furniture, and how proudly she held herself now when she went out into the streets in her new gowns. The Paris shopkeepers smirked at her dockside Nantes French, but they took her money quickly enough.

  Charles was talking of having the window-glass in his own rooms frosted. Said the clouds rushing by distracted him from penning his verses. Better enjoy the view through the window while I could.

  Paris was raining this spring evening. The muffled sounds and damp dripping for some reason soothed me. Being near water always had, though I loathed to be in it.

  This night, Jeanne, the ginger-coloured woman, is entertaining with her lover in his apartment. Charles has just purchased thirteen lithographs of Delacroix’s for an astonishing sum of money (I know what money is now, and I had been correct in my first apprehension; in some ways, it is food).

  “Jeanne, is there enough wine? The Rhenish?”

  I don’t live here, yet he still treats me as his chatelaine. “You told me last week that you’d had the man bring some round. If you’ve not drunk it all, it’s still there.”

  His peevish sigh reached my ears even a room away. “Would you look please, dear Jeanne, and be sure?”

  “Must I do everything?” I snapped back at him, but up I got from the windowseat and went to the cupboard with his wine and his precious books. My stays made me lazy to move. Puffing with shortness of breath, I peered up into the cupboard. Five tall flagons of the Rhenish, the unusual rosé kind that he prefers. Charles likes his pleasures odd. And if the drunkards ran through all the wine, we could go to the café. I smoothed down the beautiful crisp silks of my dress and took as full a breath as my costume would allow.

  Charles has just bought Jeanne a new gown, with slippers and jewels to match. They were delivered today. He’s asked her to dress in them all, will invite her to sit under the new lithographs. He will hand her into the chair with a soft, white, sweet-smelling hand, make sure to place her under the picture of Hamlet berating his mother Gertrude for her second marriage: “In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, stewed in corruption . . .” Charles fancies corruption, and women in it. Tonight, he wants to show off all his possessions, to make his friend Nadar jealous for the prize he lost when he gave Jeanne up.

  I found myself back to the windowseat. Tonight the whores in Nantes and Paris would have much custom. Rain made the men long for the comfort of warm arms. They would go to the taverns. Not the ones with the fancy flickering gas flames; the old-fashioned ones lit with reeking tallow. The women they found there—the ones with the wide, empty smiles and the garish dresses—they’d buy those women lots of cheap wine. So it used to be with my maman, not too long ago. After many glasses of some man’s wine, she’d be as cheerful as he wanted. Would wake the next day with a devil of a headache and a man she didn’t recognise in the bed beside her, not sure if she’d made him pay or not. And my ill grandmother would rebuke her from her bed, in her broken French that still carried the taint of Africa, after all these years. I miss Grandmaman.

  The rain dripped like tears. The poor souls who couldn’t afford carriages hunched and bustled through the muddy streets. So many dresses I had ruined in Paris mud. But tonight I was warm inside, watching soft rain fall beyond the window. In my dreams, water had a mu
ch more fearful aspect than the light grey drizzle outside.

  I batter at Jeanne continually now, trying to get out of her head, to get to the place where my sight is whole, in the round. No use. I am still trapped. Poor Jeanne dreams almost nightly of my watery, salty birth in drowning water, chained. Four it took to call me forth: three women calling out for their gods, and a dead child whose blood would never run warm in its veins.

  Jeanne wakes at night fighting at her bonds, choking. What is strange is that she used to have these dreams as a child, too. I catch her memories of them. Once, a sailor who had a few days at Nantes and was spending his pay playing shake the tart with her mother had told them both of his last trip from Africa, how the vessel had begun to ship water belowdecks. Their cargo had been hundreds of souls taken from Africa, bound for slavery in the islands. “Before we could mend the leak,” he said, “fully two-thirds of the poor brutes had drowned.” He called them brutes; black men, children, and women who had been teachers patient or testy, ironsmiths careful or lazy, dyers, rulers good and bad, priests, guardians for their younger siblings, joyful dancers, fierce or timid lovers. Yet he did not think of himself as a brute, that man. I wonder why not.

  The sailor told of how their sea-swollen bodies had carried the imprints of their fellows’ heels on their shoulders and heads, as they had climbed upon each other in order to reach precious air as the belowdecks flooded. Little Jeanne had woken up that night screaming. She’d been dreaming of monkeys, little black monkeys being nailed into toy boats by laughing, pink-cheeked lads in sailor suits, and being drowned.

  Adult Jeanne never goes near the water of oceans, streams, or rivers. She doesn’t know it, but it was that nightmare that drove her until she had found a way to make a living as an entertainer. She had been drowning in the port of Nantes, in the whorehouse that is her mother’s occupation and her grandmother’s. A similar nightmare is driving me. I feel myself sometimes twisting in a foul swamp, its smell clotted and rank. I fight to break free of the slime. It catches in my hair and pulls me down deeper. I need to be free of this woman and her blind life. I need to learn the world that is my birthright, to go from baby steps to sure ones, to fly.