THE DAYS PASSED. While Minette studied nonstop with Mme Acquaire, M Acquaire began preparing the public by announcing widely that there would be an extraordinary surprise that Christmas season.
What they were planning to do, without the permission of either the shareholders in the theater or its director, was extremely dangerous, for the atmosphere in that moment was especially tense. The colonists had lost a number of slaves to the ever-growing bands of maroons in the hills – and they had overtly accused the freedmen of helping them flee. For many weeks, not a day passed where one did not read at least one announcement in the local paper concerning one or several slaves who had fled their workhouse. Hanging from the trees, along the roads, the police had nailed signs that read:
FREEDMEN ARE STRICTLY PROHIBITED FROM GIVING SHELTER TO MAROONS. ANY PERSON FOUND GUILTY OF SUCH AN INFRACTION WILL LOSE HIS LIBERTY, AS WILL ALL MEMBERS OF HIS FAMILY RESIDING WITH HIM.
The town criers, who circulated the placards announcing the next Christmas spectacle at the theater, had no idea, as they stood beneath the trees bearing the official signs, that they themselves were drumming up publicity for a colored girl who would be performing the lead role in the comic opera Isabelle and Gertrude.
M Acquaire was not unconcerned about the welcome his protégée would receive. He shared his anxieties with Mme Acquaire who, either totally unaware of the politics of the moment or blindly optimistic, assured him that the evening would be a success. They would make a good profit and Mme Acquaire, who had managed to keep their creditors at bay until Christmas day, chased away any thoughts that could undermine her certainty.
“I have every confidence, you understand,” she said to her husband whenever he seemed too nervous, “every confidence in both the talent and the charm of this girl.”
“Talent and charm don’t undo the fact that she’s colored and that we’re breaking the law.”
“She has so little color to her that the law will be forgiving.”
M Acquaire’s tic started twitching nervously as he replied: “There’s something about her that gives it away.”
Mme Acquaire smiled mysteriously and responded: “That’s precisely the thing I’m counting on to seduce the audience. And though the women may boo her, the men will cheer.”
As the rehearsals were taking place secretly on Traversière Street, M Acquaire had been playing the role of the young actor, Claude Goulard, with whom Minette would sing the duet during the performance.
To familiarize her with the stage, they improvised one in the middle of the room. A large sheet served as curtain. As for the other actors, M Acquaire simply made use of the furniture.
“Look, this chair is Magdeleine Brousse. She sings the melody – you’ll sing back to her. This portrait is the group of actors playing in the final scene. I’m Claude Goulard and Madame Acquaire is Madame Tessyre. Have you got that?”
Scipion played the role of stage manager and struck the partition with a stone three times, wherein the sheet was lowered and Minette walked onstage. She was perfectly natural, betraying not the slightest emotion, and was surprised at the idea that anyone could suffer from stage fright.
“How easy this is!” she exclaimed happily.
She sang back to the chair that was meant to be Magdeleine Brousse and to the painting that was standing in for the group of actors with the same self-assurance, and the Acquaires – well satisfied – pronounced her both astonishing and perfect.
“This is working beautifully,” M Acquaire said finally, though still worried. He felt it would have been more honest to call a meeting of the shareholders in the theater to discuss Minette. But a refusal could ruin his high hopes and so he decided it would be best to confront the shareholders and the director with the done deal. The very intuitive Mme Acquaire knew in advance that she had nothing to fear from the liberal François Saint-Martin, director of the Comédie, and that he would be as taken by Minette as he was by all the beautiful mulatto girls in the country. As for François Mesplès, this was her way of getting revenge, she told herself. This vengeance, it was true, might end up hurting the two of them, but it would very certainly hurt him, Mesplès, and that made it well worth the risk.
Joseph Ogé, aware of what was being planned, hesitated to praise the plan and questioned Minette in a way that filled Jasmine with worry.
“Madame Acquaire wants to have you sing at the Whites-only Comédie. That’s very courageous of her. But there’s a mysteriousness to her preparations that doesn’t sit right with me. Has she introduced you to the director?”
“No.”
“Have you signed a contract?”
“No.”
“Have you been to the Comédie?”
“The Acquaires…”
“The Acquaires, the Acquaires – but they’re only actors! The Theater doesn’t belong to them.”
He was right to be concerned. Added to the colonists’ rage at the escape of their best slaves was a wave of fear brought on by a number of poisoning deaths. Slaves committed suicide after having poisoned the masters and their cattle and, on Bonne-Foi Street, a certain Pradel had lost his freedom for having hidden two runaway slaves in his home. He had been hanged right on Main Street as an example, and for two days there was a line to go look at his contorted mouth, from which his thick purple tongue protruded. Desperate for new entertainment, the women went to the spectacle hoping to bring on a fainting spell, whereas the children thoughtlessly threw stones at the victim.
As a precautionary measure, the slaves were subsequently banned from their last remaining solace – they were forbidden to gather either at church or even outside, where they would listen to the “prairie preachers” who taught them that Jesus is the father of all men, independent of color, and that the slave must accept the yoke and serve his master with respect and devotion. These sermons were not always so innocent, and the colonists knew it well. They closed down the churches as soon as night fell. It was a grave mistake, for, deprived of this spiritual relief, those poor souls who believed naively everything religion taught them returned with renewed fervor to their old beliefs, and this time they held on intractably. Among them, a few enlightened ones, contemporaries of Makandal, strengthened their faith by establishing comparisons between the white man’s God, who loved the Whites, and the African gods, who loved the Blacks. Vodou became powerful in the hands of the maroon leaders, who had found in that religion the necessary passion to awaken the most resigned slave.
Thus it was that in the hills and in the slave workhouses the drums and the lambi horns continued to communicate mysterious messages, especially during the night…
However, Jasmine, who was not unaware of any of this, interrupted when Joseph tried to question Minette again. She had made the decision to take her chances – and now that this decision had been made, she would not tolerate being discouraged by anyone.
Hope had made her heart soar. She said to herself, One never knows or She sings so well! and, to reassure herself, concluded that Mme Acquaire knew better than anyone what she was doing, and that she could be trusted.
Despite her ignorance, her maternal love had provided her with an uncommon psychological astuteness. This, coupled with her instinct, gave her antennae. The opportunity being offered to her daughter was unique; she knew that. The sad and miserable routine of her life was being rerouted by the Acquaire’s project. Now when she thought about it, the future seemed to have been brightened by a luminous point that attracted her irresistibly.
“Let her have this chance, Joseph!” she said to the young man. “No matter what the risk, let her try…”
Joseph Ogé lowered his head, convinced that, in the end, it was better to close his eyes, put his head in the sand, and leave things in the Acquaires’ hands. They were the darlings of the theater – maybe they would be able to fight for Minette. With no small effort, he chased away his bothersome fears and called the girls over for some reading aloud.
At around noon, as he was preparing to leave, the door opened suddenly and a woman from the neighborhood rushed toward Jasmine.
“They’ve just arrested a runaway slave,” she burst out, trembling. “Apparently he had been hiding out on this street. Do you think they’ll suspect us? My Lord! Here come the police!…”
Without answering, Jasmine went to the door, accompanied by Joseph and her daughters.
The slave was a very young man, about Joseph’s age. Underneath the tanga barely covering his thighs, his supple and powerful muscles stood out like thick ropes. The guards had put a chain around his neck and while two of them held him on a leash, two others followed behind, muskets at the ready.
The people gathered in the street were trampling all over the vendors’ wares to the great indignation of the latter, who yelled for them to clear off. Upper-class people dressed in hastily thrown-on transparent gaules geared up for the spectacle. Domestic slaves, crowded on doorsteps, craned their necks with curiosity, while the youngest among them cried out in Creole:
“They got him, they got him…”
Someone alerted the crowd:
“There’s his master.”
An older white man made a path through the frenzied crowd. He wore a three-piece linen suit, mud-covered gaiters, and a large straw hat. Standing before the slave, he unfurled a long leather strap and said:
“So you wanted to run away, too, huh?”
The slave said nothing. He simply raised his head, which had been lowered, and closed his eyes so as to avoid being blinded by his sweat.
“You’re going to regret that little getaway!” continued the planter. “Now walk!”
Passing in front of Jasmine’s door, the slave turned his head and looked at Joseph. He tensed his muscles as if to break his chains. The white man saw what he meant to do; his strap whistled through the air and landed with a single strike on the Negro’s cheek. Minette let out a cry that was lost in the tumult of the crowd and the noise of the chains. The slave looked at her. She had grabbed on to Joseph and was weeping nervously: for she had just noticed fresh scars on his back and saw that his sweat carried with it bits of clotted blood as it ran down his torso. That must have been what her mother’s back had been like just a few years earlier. Never had such a scene so overwhelmed her. Like all children in the country, from a very young age she had seen slaves beaten. That was their lot in life and not hers. But now that she knew that this had also been her mother’s life, now that she understood that this very easily might have been her fate as well, Minette’s conception of slavery had changed.
She had not cried out of pity, no. Something altogether different had suddenly gripped her, overwhelmed her, possessed her. Pity would not have tied her stomach in knots like that, it would not have tensed up her nerves to such a degree, it would not have made her nauseous or made her want to run up to that white man and strike him, bite him, curse him. All of this was provoked by the bloodied back she saw before her and that seemed as if it had come there expressly for her to see, if ever she had forgotten, what a slave’s back could be when made to suffer the punishment of the whip. Her mama, her mama had suffered such things! Oh, the evil of the white man, oh! What swine! Galley slaves and white trash! Every Creole swearword she could think of passed her lips. On seeing her daughter cry, Jasmine lowered her head and sighed. Such spectacles were unbearable for her, too, for she hated anything that reminded her of her vile past. She brought Joseph and the girls inside and closed the door behind her. Minette sat down in a corner of the room and, with her hand covering her mouth, tried vainly to stop her sobs.
“It’s her nerves,” said Jasmine to Joseph. “She’s at a difficult age. But it will pass.”
Lise, taken aback, watched her sister crying. “But what’s the matter with her today?” she seemed to be asking. Joseph went to get a glass of water and had her drink it, assuring her that it would calm her down.
“I hate him,” said Minette with a painful hiccup.
“Who?”
“That white colonist. I could kill him…”
“Hush!” said Jasmine, terrified. She opened the door quietly and looked outside. A long scream of pain immediately rushed into the little room.
“Close the door, mama – I beg you,” whimpered Minette.
“But what’s the matter with you,” asked Lise. “Is this the first time you’ve seen a slave get beaten?”
There was another scream, smothered this time. At that moment, Nicolette entered. Following the example of Kiss-Me-Lips, she was wearing silk madras scarves adorned with fake jewels and a transparent batiste blouse. She was often accompanied by white men, both young and old. She would emerge from their carriages arrogant and proud, disheveled and smug.
She gave Joseph a seductive sidelong glance and ran to preen before the little living room mirror.
“That slave is going to get what’s coming to him,” she stated in Creole, powdering the tip of her nose.
Not getting any response, she turned toward Minette. “Well, what’s the matter with you? Why are you crying?”
“It’s because of that slave they’re beating,” answered Lise.
“Because of a slave!…”
Minette stood up without a word, fists clenched. She passed in front of Nicolette, went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her with such force that the little house shook.