The Salt Roads Page 16

  The waiter glared at him and set each plate down.

  “Have you brought the Laguiole for my steak, man?” Charles asked. Oh, how he was vexing us this evening!

  “Of course, Monsieur,” the waiter murmured. But Charles picked up the knife to inspect it.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Ingenious workmanship, these knives, eh, Jeanne?”

  I shrugged.

  “A good point on it,” he said. “Sharp as a demon’s tooth. And a keen edge, eh? And see how well the bolster fits the hand. Yes, this will do very nicely.” Before the waiter could reply, Charles waved him away. I bent to my meal again, hoping we could have it finished before he did anything else outrageous. I kept my eye on him.

  For his part, he only tasted a morsel here or there, chewed listlessly, put his fork down again. He gazed out the window. “A lovely night, isn’t it?”

  “Dark,” said Maman, chewing. “It’s night.”

  “Lovely,” he replied, with a catch in his voice. He picked up the knife again, stared at it with a mournful look on his face. He turned that sorrowful gaze on me, whispered, “Goodbye, Jeanne,” turned the knife and plunged it into his side.

  Every moment was clear as though I saw it through glass. Maman flung her arm across my body, as though to protect me. I leapt to my feet, screaming, my eyes only for Charles and the horror of the knife sticking out of his side. He clutched at the tablecloth. The plates, the food, the jug of water, all slid into his lap and crashed to the floor. Charles made no sound, only gave a terrible grimace, and reached trembling hands to the knife handle as though to pull it out. But he never touched it. Lips pulled back from his teeth, he collapsed onto his chair, and thence to the floor. Other patrons of the restaurant were screaming by now. I heard chairs scraping back, and the voices of men shouting for calm, for someone to call the gendarmes, a doctor. “He’s mad!” screamed a woman’s voice.

  The waiter was back at our table, his face white as cheese. He bent over Charles, who was curled up tight in the food that had fallen, his lips moving over and over with words I could not hear. The waiter touched Charles’s side, and then did my paramour scream in pain. The waiter brought his hand away red, looked at it aghast, and wiped it on his apron. “A doctor,” he murmured. “I’ll fetch one.” He threw himself to his feet and ran out the door.

  Maman had her arms around me, was clasping me tight to her. She sobbed, so quiet. When last had I seen her cry? “The fool,” she whispered.

  I put her arms from around me, went to kneel by Charles. He took my hand, squeezed it. He was trembling, all the colour gone from his face. His head was pillowed on a slice of bread. A plate lay broken under his hip, a slab of steak amongst the shards. A ruby patch of wet glistened through Charles’s jacket. It stained the handle of the knife that stuck out from him, shaking a little with each of his breaths. “Lemer,” he said, “it hurts. It hurts.”

  Don’t fret so, Georgine,” said Pierre irritably. Softly he was speaking, but his voice carried in the still twilight air.

  “It’s curfew time,” Georgine said, quietly. Her little boy wrapped his fists in her skirt. So big and strong he was, at fourteen months. It was good to see a child fat with health. “The book-keeper might catch me not in our hut.”

  “I am here,” Pierre told her. “You need not mind Thomas if you have a white man with you.” He swiped his hat off his head, then squatted himself down on the ground outside my hut. “Ask Mer your question, and then let us be off.” His little boy ran to him. Pierre smiled and gave the child his hat to play with.

  “I . . .” Georgine was only wringing her hands over and over in her apron. Fine linen, that apron. And there she stood, dumb as any cow.

  “Speak up, girl. I must go and make my supper before it’s time to be in bed.”

  “Yes, matant. I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

  And the addled child dipped me a curtsey! Eh. Like I was some white lady. It vexed me, and it pleased me, too. “No matter, child,” I said. “Just tell me what you have to tell me.”

  She threw a nervous look Pierre’s way. But he and the boy were chuckling, playing catch with the hat. The boy held out his two hands, too far apart, as children will, then laughed like bells when the hat fell through them. Curls he had on his head. Light brown curls. What a thing.

  They had no mind for her, Pierre and her child. She turned back to me. “Matant, I . . . you . . . would you let me plait your hair for you sometimes?”

  “What?” Insolent girl.

  She looked chagrined. “I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just . . . I’m feeling so much better now since you gave me the medicine, and I see that Tipingee’s not plaiting your hair any more, and I know that you like it nice.”

  I scowled and busied myself, picking up trash that had blown into my garden.

  Distress was creasing Georgine’s forehead. She pulled at the fingers of one hand with the other, to make the knuckles pop. “Don’t be angry, matant. It’s the only way I can think of to thank you.” She darted a look at Pierre. He saw it, smiled encouragement at her. Threw the hat for his healthy boy child to catch.

  I sighed, straightened. “You’re right, Georgine. I would like someone to comb it and plait it for me.” I remained staring away from her so my face wouldn’t give itself away.

  Georgine’s son shrieked with laughter just then, and ran into Pierre’s arms. Pierre laughed and held him close. It was full dark now. I couldn’t tell the little sand-coloured boy any different from his blan father. My belly was griping for hunger. I worked my throat, then said, “Can you come on Sunday? After church?” So hard to be the one asking for aid instead of giving it.

  “Yes, matant,” she whispered. She smiled for the first time since she’d come. She reached her hand out to her boy.

  “Maman!” he carolled, and ran happily to her.

  “I would like that.” I turned my back and bent to my fire again. But I could hear them quite well as they walked away; her and her son and her man, chattering and talking of the day they had passed.

  And oh, what a gift she brought me when she returned that Sunday! Georgine can write! Her carpenter man has some of his letters, and he’s been teaching them to his boy. Georgine looks on and pretends she doesn’t understand, then she practises in secret, afterwards, writing the letters in the dirt and wiping them out immediately afterwards. She is teaching me this thing on Sundays, while her spry fingers twist my hair into spiralled cane rows on my head. Sometimes I hear myself laughing out loud for the pleasure of it. On Sundays, Georgine makes me beautiful, and we write together.

  Paris, August 1848

  Mademoiselle Duval.” Nadar bent over my hand to kiss it.

  I dipped my head to him, smiled. “Monsieur Tournachon.” He’s the only one who would talk to me of this high-born salon crowd. The rest of that thought I wasn’t refined enough for them. They could all go hang.

  He sat beside me. “Is he better now?” He jerked his chin over to the bar, where Charles stood, spinning his stories for a crowd of Paris’s finest.

  I patted Nadar’s hand back and smiled at him. “You’re his friend. Has he not told you?”

  He shrugged. “He’s Baudelaire. He tells me what he wishes. Swears he is as fit as a horse and ready to scale mountains.”

  “He is better,” I said, my tone careful. The letter to Ancelle had been a suicide note, deeding all his family’s fortune to me.

  “But is he well?”

  When Ancelle read the letter, he had rushed to Charles’s hotel, fearful for Charles’s health. Not finding him there, he had come to the restaurant, only to discover that Charles had been taken to the hospital. He got in his carriage and met us there. I asked him how he knew where to look, and he told me that he knew it was Charles’s favourite restaurant, since Charles had so many receipts from there. Ancelle didn’t seem such a devil to me.

  I said to Nadar, “The wound in Charles’s side is almost healed. It hurts only a little any more. And what a to-do
from his mother and stepfather when he left their house and came to me and Maman!” I laughed. “He said he would not stay another moment in their care, being lectured to. Wouldn’t stay long with us, neither. He’s back in apartments of his own now.”

  Nadar laughed a little, shook his head. “Yes, that doesn’t surprise me. But how is his spirit? Is that healed?”

  I sighed, leaned back against the couch. “Truly, Monsieur? His mind is as troubled as ever. These fits he has, this melancholy. It plagues him mightily. I know a lady would make him a drink that would strengthen his spirit, put iron in his back. But he says I’m too superstitious. He won’t have it.”

  “You are good to him. And you? How are you, my dear Jeanne?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça.”

  “Only so-so?” And Mr. Nadar, the photographer celebrated all over Paris, looked deep into my eyes, concern on his face. Over at the bar, Charles had just cadged a brandy from some other gentleman and was telling another merry story. They all laughed to hear him. He knew how to sing for his supper, my Charles.

  “Lemer,” said Nadar, “tell me. What is wrong?”

  I had forgotten Nadar for the moment. “I am sorry, Monsieur. My mind was elsewhere.”

  His smile made friendly creases in his face. “Still daydreaming. You haven’t changed, Jeanne. Are you happy?”

  Happy? I didn’t know what to answer. “It’s just that Maman has the grippe again. I’m worried about her.” I didn’t say it aloud, but Charles didn’t always have the money to pay for her medicine.

  “Ah,” replied Nadar. He understood. He knew how his friend Charles’s life stood. “Will you allow me to call on your lovely maman?”

  “Monsieur Nadar, thank you.” Maman would have more medicine.

  I took Nadar’s hand, held it fast. I would have kissed it, but that was not seemly.

  He stood, and touched my shoulder briefly. “I will come by tomorrow. But now I must go and speak to Châteaubourg, and berate him for having brought his terrified nephew to our salon of degenerates.”

  He nodded over by the bar. A sombre young man stood there, practically under Monsieur Châteaubourg’s armpit. Loud and laughing, there too was my Charles, telling about his trip to Mauritius: “The ship’s biscuits went right through me, Dumas. It was quite scandalous. I had to relieve myself two and three times every hour. My poor nether parts were so sore, I would lie on the deck with my arse to the sun to air it.”

  “You never did!” exclaimed younger Dumas. His father rolled his eyes in alarm and swigged his brandy.

  “Oh, I did. The sailors eyed my bare white bum as though it were Turkish Delight!”

  Dumas father and son laughed at this, but Châteaubourg’s nephew opened his mouth in shock. Nadar shook his head and took his leave of me.

  Sometimes I wondered about my choice to throw Nadar over for Charles all those years ago. But Nadar, he had barely noticed. Just continued cheerful and handed me over like a book he had read already and was giving to a friend. Too easy. Charles, he took note of me. Difficult as it was with him, when he looked at me, he saw me.

  I was sweating under my petticoats. So hot, this summer was. Perhaps we wouldn’t stay long. At home I could remove the confining clothing. I took my fan from my reticule, snapped it open, and waved it at my face. The movement caught the eye of that woman—what was her name? “Poppet,” I think she called herself when she was at the salons. Over there whispering in the corner with her stuck-up friend with the gaudy hair. That one had taken “Cat” as a salon name. They looked at me, then looked away again. Not them to talk to a black-skinned woman. I fanned harder, put my chin in the air.

  “Sst!”

  Just the quietest hissing noise. I grinned. I knew who that was. Looked to my left, and sure enough, there was Lise, just come in on the arm of her newest beau. So adoringly he looked at her, he seemed to see no one else. Lise winked at me behind her fan, jerked her head in the direction of Poppet and Cat. Then I saw the sign her other hand was making, almost hidden in her skirts: the rude fig, thumb thrust amongst the four fingers. I almost laughed out loud. Yes, I thought; they are cunts, those women. Fuck them. That’s what cunts are good for. I blew Lisette a kiss on my fan. Poppet and Cat smirked and turned their backs on us. Lise blushed, took her gentleman’s arm again, and they breezed on into the café, where a waiter seated them at a table.

  I wanted a drink. Charles had provided for himself, but I was thirsty. I gathered my skirts around me, stood, and walked over to him. He was talking to Monsieur Châteaubourg’s shy young nephew: “Poe is astonishing,” Charles said, “a visionary. You must read ‘Mesmeric Revelation.’”

  The young man replied, “I confess I don’t read English. I tried to learn it at the Lycée, but I fear I was too dull.” He blushed girlishly.

  “No need!” Charles told him. “I have just last month published a translation of it! Here; you must have a copy!” And out from his pocket he took a copy of the translation and offered it to the gentleman.

  “Why, no; I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “You can and you shall,” Charles blustered at him. “After all, you’re a writer, yes? Plays, I think you told me?”

  “Just small conceits, yes. He’s good then, this Poe?”

  “Charles,” I interrupted, “my throat is parched. May I have a drink?”

  Charles waved a hand in the air at me. “Not just yet, Lemer; can’t you see that I’m talking?”

  Oh, that man! I subsided for the moment.

  “Take the translation, Monsieur . . . Verne, was it?”

  “Yes. Jules Verne.” The young man took the book. He thrust it into his own coat pocket, not even looking at it. “I’m indebted to you.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “But . . .”

  “If you feel that you must make it up to me, perhaps a glass of wine for the beautiful Jeanne here?”

  Monsieur Verne glanced briefly at me, then went even redder. Was my powder running? Was my rouge still on? “Oh,” he said. “Why yes, I suppose I could.”

  Despite the heat of the day, my body went even warmer. He didn’t forget me, my Charles didn’t. He never did. Not a sou to his name, but he’d bought me wine with the last of his copies of the translation.

  “To whom do I owe the pleasure, Madame?” asked Monsieur Verne. A green one, he is. That’s not a thing to ask a lady you meet at the salons.

  Charles took my arm. “Before you stands Jeanne Duval, the most beautiful actress in the world. My mistress.”

  I thought that Monsieur Verne would perish right there. I laughed and tapped Charles with the fan. “Don’t embarrass my saviour, Charles! At least, not before he brings me wine.”

  Monsieur Verne fairly stumbled in his eagerness to get away from us. He spoke with the waiter, and presently a glass of fine Merlot came my way. I took it from the tray, and looked to see where Monsieur Verne was so that I could tip my glass in thanks to him. But he and Châteaubourg had claimed their hats and were already leaving. Monsieur Verne had the Poe translation in his hand. So proud Charles was of that book. I wondered if Verne would even open it.

  It happens more often now. While Jeanne sleeps at night or dozes in the day, I sometimes drift too. That bleary-eyed little cur that she has sometimes naps with her, furry legs twitching, in her lap. Always I am tethered in her consciousness like that cur, or a lurching toddler whose mother has tight hold of its hand, but I can sometimes get a little distance from her before I am leashed in again. I don’t wish to be a child any longer. The aether world streams. Many flows, combining, separating, all stories of African people.

  Did you bring the ginger?” I asked Ti-Bois.

  “Yes, matant.” He held out the sand-coloured twist of root to me.

  “Eh. And you even washed it, I see.”

  “Yes, matant. And the flour bag strips, too.”

  “Clever boy. Hang the cloth out the window to dry for me.”

  Ti-Bois went to the window of the slave hospi
tal and carefully draped the torn strips of coarse crocus bag cloth on the window ledge. Over beside one of the other beds, old Cuba was doing her Sunday good deed; praying quietly with the woman who lay there with her baby. Lockjaw, the baby had. Probably wouldn’t live past tomorrow.

  The new man acted like he didn’t hear or see any of us, only lay chained where he was on his palette on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The book-keeper had told me about him. Had sent me here to see to him. Mathieu, his name was.

  Ti-Bois came and crouched beside the man, inspecting him. So curious this little boy always was. The man never returned his gaze. I moved the calabash of cornmeal mush aside, took my mortar and pestle from my bag and set it on the ground beside the calabash. I ground the ginger root up in the mortar. Ginger smell pricked my nose with its clean, sharp scent. “Bring the crocus bag now, Ti-Bois.”

  “Yes, matant.” Back he came dancing with the strips, waving them in the air like flags. I smiled at him.

  “Not too much noise, petit. People are sick here.”

  “Maman says they are just lazy.”

  A woman with a whip-torn back raised her head from her palette and just looked at him. She said a word in a language I didn’t know. Her face told me it was a curse. She spat, then let her head sink to the pillow again.

  “Ti-Bois, give me the cloth. Go and fan the flies from that auntie’s back.”

  “But I want to see what you’re doing!”

  “You can look from over there. Go and give her some ease.”

  And the little devil kissed his teeth at me as he went to do what I told him! “Ti-Bois,” I said, “come here.”

  He slunk back, not looking at me. “Yes, matant?” he mumbled.

  “What is that noise you just made?”

  He looked at the packed earth of the slave hospital floor. “Nothing, matant.”

  “Do children make rude noises to their elders?”