The Salt Roads Page 27

  There stood the hut that held Makandal. No windows on it. Must be hot as the Christian Hell in there. Bolts on the door. But no chains could hold Makandal. Why he hadn’t escaped?

  I prayed to the Lady on Father’s altar. So many gods. Must ask them all for help.

  The Ginen from the great house stood a little way off, dressed in the master’s and mistress’s cast-off clothes. So fine, those clothes looked. Clean. There was Georgine, her little boy twisting in her arms, bored. Pierre stood with them.

  The men were finished putting up the pole. Two blans broke away from the rest, motioned to one of the other blans with a gun to follow them. They went to Makandal’s prison hut. They drew the bolts back and opened the door. All the Ginen drew as near as we dared. Did a goat run free from that cage, or a cat? Did a bird fly out of it?

  No. The three blans went in, and presently they came back out of them. Two of them had Makandal, bound, between them. Tipi gasped. Belle and Hector began to cry. Because Makandal had no right wrist to bear the shackles, they had shackled the left, then wound the chains completely around him, trapping his arms against his body. How many days he had stayed like that? How had he made water, said his prayers?

  Makandal stumbled. The blans held him up. He blinked in the sun. From the state of his britches, I could see that he had had to piss and shit right there where he lay, in his clothes. Like being on the ships again. I couldn’t bear seeing this, but I must watch. Makandal, come away from them!

  His face was bruised, one eye puffy. He looked about, peered into the crowd. “Marie-Claire?” he shouted, hoarse.

  “She lives, Makandal!” Patrice shouted to his friend. “She’s well!”

  Makandal nodded, smiled. Some of his teeth were broken.

  One of the backra men with the guns stepped up to Patrice, threatened him with the butt end of it. “Shut up,” he said.

  Patrice looked down. “Sorry, sir.” The man went back to his post.

  Makandal’s executioners, they led him to the pole in the ground. They stood him up against it. Someone brought more chain. They wouldn’t use rope, for rope might burn up and set him free. Chain they could recover from the flames and use again. They began to wind the chain around Makandal and the pole both. The pole we raise up when we worship, the poteau-mitan, is the ladder for the gods. This is not what the centre pole is for.

  Ogu, why don’t you free your son? Mother, why is this happening? You gods? Where are you?

  The blans finished tying Makandal to the pole. Their man kept his rifle trained on Makandal, though. They had him, but they feared him still. Now the book-keeper had the two Ginen men bring the firewood and pile it around Makandal’s feet. One of them murmured to Makandal, touched his shoulder. For that, the man got hit with the butt end of the rifle. He reeled away, went to get more firewood. Patrice made a small sound in his throat. Not even that I could do. Oh, let me not see this.

  The Ginen men finished piling up the wood and came back to join us. Tears ran down both their faces. And still Makandal didn’t make his move. What drama was he planning?

  “Ginen!” Makandal shouted. The man with the gun threatened him, but Makandal only looked upon him. “Let me speak,” he said. The words came mushy out of his broken mouth. The man lowered his gun.

  “Are you hearing me?” Makandal shouted again.

  “Yes, Makandal!” we said. Even me, I said it, though no sound came out. Let them shoot us all, all for speaking, but we replied to Makandal.

  “I will come back!” he said. “I won’t leave you!”

  He had a plan, then. Thank you, gods. Still we cried, sucking salt through our noses, but some of us were smiling now as we wept.

  One of the blan executioners took a tinder box from his pocket. He bent to the kindling and worked until a flame caught. The man stepped away, grinning. He pointed at the flames, at Makandal. “There’s your rebel now!” he shouted. Tipi reached a hand to me. Then Patrice did. I went and stood with them, holding their hands, but facing out from them so that I could see Makandal. I had to bear witness.

  Makandal looked down at the flames. They weren’t touching him yet. He tried to shift his feet away, but the chains held him too tight.

  So many black people I had seen die in pain, quickly or slowly, since I came to this place. But oh, you gods; burning takes a long time. The burning one screams until he has no more voice, but still he tries to scream. His skin, his flesh, sizzles and blackens. It smells like pork roasting. He tries and tries to pull free of the fire. His clothes, his hair, go up in flames and finally hide his ruined face. All this we watched, the Ginen. Even some of the blans watching—Simenon’s wife, the other women, and some of the men—were weeping by the time it was done, by the time the column of fire that had been Makandal gave one last, terrible shout. The pole holding him snapped right in half. So horrible a noise it made. The burning thing that had been a man collapsed into the embers. When it fell, a wail went up amongst the Ginen. Then Fleur shouted, “Look! There he goes!” She pointed into the air, her face alive with joy. “See? A manmzèl!”

  We rushed forward. Some of them could see it, see the manmzèl buzzing in the air, heading for the sky. They laughed and held each other, they danced. I could not see it. I did see one thing, though. I saw the door to Makandal’s prison creak open as the wind blew by it. I saw inside. I saw the pan on the floor, that he had had to eat from with his arms bound, crouching on the ground like a dog. Some food was still in that pan. A length of salted pig tail, curled pink around itself, and a flat, ashy chunk of dried salt fish. Nothing else looked like that. They hadn’t even cooked it, had just given him the pickled meat to eat. All this time, they had been feeding him salt, subduing the djinn part of him. Without the djinn, he couldn’t change.

  Did he eat the food? Or did he starve himself and fly free one last time? Mama, what just happened here?

  Belle was leaping and prancing, shouting Makandal’s name over and over. Ti-Bois just stood and shook, snot bubbling from his nose. His mother was kneeling beside him. “It’s all right, petit,” she was saying. “He felt some pain, but he’s all right now. He is.” Ti-Bois didn’t look so sure. I wasn’t sure either. The smell of burnt flesh was still in my nose. In my head, I could still hear him screaming in agony. I wanted to believe that Makandal flew away, but my wishes can’t fly freely so. They’re rooted to the ground like me, who eats salt.

  It was the knocking at the door that woke me next morning. The fireplace was cold, full of grey ash. I could see metal clasps lying in it, and scorched buttons. In the air I could taste the reek of burnt cloth; the dyes, the sizing. I sat up. Tati licked my face. Her breath was foul. It hurt to move.

  The knocking came, louder. Charles? Come to save me? I clambered to my feet, fell onto the lame knee, got up again. Charles? I stumbled towards the front room. “I’m coming! Wait just a little!” The knocking stopped, and I feared he’d gone away again. “Charles?”

  I heard the door open before I got there. He came in. Oh, God; reprieve from this horror. I felt the tears of joy start to come. Tati flew ahead of me, barking. Then I heard the little whimpers she gave when she was happy and being stroked by a friend she hadn’t seen in a long time. Charles, bless you for coming for us. I stepped into the front room.

  There in my home stood Moustique, the gambler. Joël’s friend. He straightened up from patting my dog. He was smiling, the blackguard.

  “What, come for the rest of my things to hock?” I shouted. I flew at him as best I might, and struck him in the chest with my fist. His look of dismay pleased me. But my weak arm betrayed me; it was only a glancing blow. “Get out! Get out! You and Joël! Damn you both!”

  I beat at him with both hands. Tati leapt around us, barking for joy at the game. I got Moustique across his cheek with my nails. Ah, there! A line of red sprang up on his face. I reached to give him another, but he took my wrists in his. Small as he was, it took him a little fight to get control of me.

  “Lemer,
stand off!” he said, holding my wrists away from him. “I’m not here with Joël!”

  Come by himself to rob me, had he? I kicked his shins. With the good foot, unfortunately. The weak one wouldn’t hold me, and I toppled. I knotted my hands in his lapels, so Moustique tumbled with me. I landed hard on him, heard the air get knocked out of him. Good. Bastard. I commenced to slapping him again. Tati joyfully took a corner of my frock in her teeth, started growling and pulling at it.

  “Lemer, please!” Moustique tried to fasten my hands again, but I pulled away from him.

  “You are the blackest type of African!” I shouted. “Preying on a poor, sick woman! You and my brother!”

  He was holding his hand to his injured face, watching me to see if I would fly at him again. “I sent him to jail for you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I have just sent my friend to jail for thieving from you. He wouldn’t bring the things back. I told him I would do this if he didn’t. It was wrong of him to treat you so. I told him. He laughed. I had to keep my word.” His eyes glistened wet.

  “You . . . I . . .” I fell silent.

  He sat up. “I came to tell you. The officers are returning all your furniture. Today. It will be years before Joël is free. He’ll come out hating me, if he survives. I’m very sorry for all of it. I am sorry, Lemer.”

  And then he did cry, this grown man. For the thing he’d done. For his friend betrayed. For me. Just quiet tears, rolling down. Tati went and licked his face. “Phew,” Moustique said; “you smell like carrion, dog. Here.” He pulled something out of his pocket, wrapped in bloodstained newspaper. He unwrapped it. A meaty neckbone, raw. “Lamb,” he said to me. He put it on the floor and Tati leapt upon it. My stomach gurgled with hunger. With the back of his hand, Moustique wiped his tears away. He stood and then reached out to help me up. I got to my feet, and finally beheld him well. His coat was thrown on over his chef’s whites. He was wearing an apron under the coat. The apron was all stained, dark red, down the front. I pointed to the stain. “What happened? Did you kill the lamb yourself, then?”

  He looked down at himself and smiled. “Oh. I spilt wine, making a beef Bourguignon. I heard you were coming home from the hospital. Didn’t want you to arrive and see this.” He waved about the empty room with his hand. “I rushed to get here to tell you that you would have your things back. Forgot to change. It’s nothing.”

  Oh, you gods. Not nothing. Not nothing at all. My mind threw me back to another place. A bed, and me and Lise in it. And a vision in a pot of piss. A man in a red-stained apron, standing in an empty room, twisting his hat in his hands. Just so Moustique had been doing when I saw him standing in my apartment just now. And a woman’s arm, coming at him. And her in a pink-striped gown. I looked down at the extra gown I’d pulled on for warmth, its gaudy silk stripes spilling off my shoulder to show the drab dress underneath. “Heaven strike me dead,” I murmured. “It was you Lise and I saw.”

  Moustique took a step to me, took my hand in his; gently this time. “Jeanne? Are you all right?”

  I just looked at him. Hadn’t been able to make out his features well that night he appeared in our piss pot. “What will you do now?” I asked.

  “Me? What will you do, you mean. You are ill, Lemer.”

  “True enough. Been ill before.” I didn’t know what I would do. My features were too ravaged, my body too broken to dance any more.

  “You can’t stay here, with no one to look out for you. Your poet man says he can’t help you any more. He’s beggared. I’m working in Paris now, Jeanne. The pay is good, and they give me an apartment. Come and stay with me. Or in another apartment, if you prefer. Only come. Will you?”

  Sometimes my grandmother would divine with cowrie shells. She would throw them to the ground. Sometimes she would look how they’d fallen, some open side up, some down, and she’d smile at the pattern they made. In my mind, I heard cowrie shells fall into a pleasing pattern. “Yes, Moustique. I will come.”

  His smile lit the day. “Good,” was all he said on the matter, though. “And will you come with me right now for breakfast?”

  You’re dancing well, my Jeanne. Dancing in the groove I’ve laid for you, dancing a new story to your life. And if you can still dance, how dare I stop?

  Moustique—Achille—was doing better than well in Paris. Has his own restaurant now. So long as he stays in the kitchen and cooks, the rich folk who come there to eat never know that the place is run by a black man’s hands. Or a mulatresse’s. They think I am but a maid, some white man’s byblow given a position out of guilt.

  I read much better now. I have had lots of practice, keeping the books for Chez Achille. And we eat well, Achille and I. Tatiana, too. She is fat and her coat is glossy. My health is sometimes fragile, but when I must take to my bed, Achille cares me well, whispers stories to me in the evenings. My hair has thinned, and sometimes for days, I am weak, weak. But Charlotte says that many people with the clap in their blood live long. Pray the gods I may be one of those. She says I cannot pass it to Achille, that it has taken root these many years in my body and wants no other host. I cried when she told me that. I could embrace my love and not fear to make him ill.

  Achille kisses my balding scalp. Tells me he loves me. I have taken to wearing bright scarves on my head. I tie them in the tignon styles that my grandmother wore, and I hold my aching head high when I walk in the streets. Sometimes I have flour on my chin instead of powdered chalk. Sometimes I have ink on my hands instead of gloves, but I am a woman of property, and I am loved.

  I think of Charles sometimes. The thought no longer makes my heart curdle in my chest. I hope that he is well.

  “Daydreaming again, Jeanne?” Moustique sat on the bed beside me. He leaned over and nibbled my bare shoulder. The heat from his naked body warmed me. I nuzzled my face into his neck, smelling him. Sometimes I think that I take my lovers in through the nose. Lise had smelled warm and salty, like hot soup on a cold day. Charles had had a faint fragrance of fresh jism about him, except when he was in the depths of malaise. Then he smelt a little sour, like an ill baby, and you’d want to dandle him and feed him sugar water to soothe him. And Moustique? He smelled of clean sweat. Always made me want to make him sweat more. Today his scent was mixed with that of bread, fresh from the oven. He had been making pastries. The odour of vanilla and rosewater rose off his dark skin.

  “You smell like a girl, all cheap perfume,” I joked, saying the words carefully with my half-numb mouth.

  He laughed and lay back on the bed. “And what would my lady like to do with her maidservant?” he asked.

  I eyed the lean, hairless length of him. I smiled. My smile is only half of one these years past, but it doesn’t frighten Achille. I reached for my dress that was lying on the bed; pulled it to me with my withered hand, then tossed it to him with my good one. “Put it on.”

  The tip of his prick jumped. A friendly delight came over his face. “Put it on you, or on me, chérie?” he asked, his voice gone rough.

  Ah, we both know what we want from this game. “You’re the one being girlish, wearing scent. Put it on you.”

  He leapt eagerly from the bed, his excitement evident. No one seeing the bulge he made in my frock would think him a girl. But we had found a solution for that, he and I. Sometimes we would bind that poking flesh up against his belly, then put my pantaloons on him. He could still feel me stroke him through the cloth. Sometimes he loved it better so, to pull up the dress he was wearing, to see the frilly underclothes beneath it.

  He had the dress on now. He stood before me, posing for me, his chest out, his waist drawn in. “You are beautiful,” I said. “Such a beautiful girl.” My cunny was getting warm. “But so dusky, that skin. Bring me the face paint,” I ordered my lovely rude maid. “We will make you even more comely.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, and walked, hips swaying, to the dressing table. I sat and watched him, feeling like the happy old rouée I had beco
me.

  Riff

  Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite,

  Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound;

  And rise to heaven suns once again made bright

  After being plunged in deep seas and profound?

  Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite!

  —From “The Balcony,” by Charles Baudelaire

  So, he is dead.” We had finished serving the noon meal at Chez Achille, and it was quiet now, only a few customers.

  “Yes,” Lise said. “I saw it in the paper this morning. In his mother’s house, they say.”

  “She took him in when he got too sick, then? Huh. At least the old bitch did right by him in the end.”

  “Will you go to the funeral?” asked Lise. She sipped the coffee I had just poured for her. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, perfect. Just bitter enough. Where does Moustique find this nectar?”

  “Joël sends the beans specially, from his plantation in Haiti. Up in the mountains.” That had been Achille’s gift to Joël once Joël was out of prison; the money to set himself up wherever he wished. Joël had picked Haiti, and his letters to Moustique were friendly, if cool.

  “Will you go? To the funeral, I mean?”

  I considered. “It would make a lovely scandal, wouldn’t it? The poet’s cast-off black mistress, weeping aged crocodile tears at his graveside.”

  Lise grinned. “It would.”

  “But we are busy here that evening. A large family celebration.”