6

EUPHEMIA TOOK ME AND MANETTE to the beach most afternoons, when it was not raining. We would go for a long swim and then lie in the shade of the palm trees, drowsing and napping. I loved these long lazy afternoons, the swim in the warm clear water, watching the yellow and blue and green fish dart and hover around and under me, the sun dazzle on the water, like a splash of gold across its aquamarine surface, the heat of the fine soft white sand between my toes, and the delicious tiredness that came over me and made my eyelids droop.

The first time I saw the boy at the beach I was startled. Euphemia and Manette were in their hammocks, asleep, and I was lying on a blanket under a palm tree. There was no one else on the beach. Euphemia was snoring gently and Manette did not stir. I awoke suddenly, and saw the boy walking purposefully toward the gentle surf. Ignoring me, he was nearly at the water’s edge when he flung off his clothes and jumped onto a rock. He stood there, in his slim nakedness, as if poised to dive in.

I had seen naked slaves before, but never a naked white man—or boy my own age. He was beautiful, I thought, as he stood there, his muscles taut, his shoulders well molded, his stomach flat and his penis and scrotum like those I had seen on the copies of Greek statues my uncle Robert had in his gardens in Fort-Royal.

He let me admire him for several minutes before plunging into the bay and swimming to one of the islands, where he disappeared, not to be seen again for the rest of the afternoon. With the image of his body strongly in my mind I napped once again. Yet the image lingered, and came back to me in dreams over the next several days.

Just then many things preoccupied my family’s attention and kept our household in a stir. The fighting between our fleet and the British, the news from Scipion (who was wounded in a skirmish off St. Lucia at about this time), his urgent messages to me and occasional visits, plus my father’s absence with the militia all kept us in a state of uncertainty. More letters arrived from Aunt Edmee saying how eager Alexandre was for our marriage to take place and how vital it was that father and I come to Paris on the next available ship.

I answered my aunt’s letters as best I could, explaining that we could not sail as long as the fighting continued and that our island might be captured by the British. I realized as I wrote this that Alexandre might decide to give up on me and choose another bride. My chance to go to Paris might well be slipping away—and with it, my father’s chance to salvage his finances and keep Les Trois-Ilets.

Restless in mind about these things, I thought of attempting to return to the Sacred Crossroads to consult Orgulon. But the days passed, and I did not climb Morne Gantheaume. Instead I went to the beach with Euphemia and Manette, and forgot my worries as I swam and rested and napped—and watched for the boy.

One warm afternoon, as I lay napping, I was awakened by the soft touch of his lips on mine. I felt no fear, my body yielded to his and our kiss became an embrace. I wore only a light shift and could feel his strong, muscular flesh close to mine. I lost myself in his arms, forgetting the others, forgetting everything but the feel of him beside me, on top of me, surrounding me. His mouth tasted of fermented cane beer and spices and he smelled of salt water and sweat.

When he took me he was gentle, without roughness or force. Our bodies merged naturally, as if made for this moment of union. All that I had ever heard about the coupling of man and woman passed into oblivion then, replaced by the pleasures of his touch and the ease with which we changed from strangers to lovers.

We lay thus under the hot sun, with no sound other than our own breathing and the lapping of the waves against the sand, until Euphemia turned in her hammock and the boy raised his head to listen. Then, abruptly and without a word, he got to his feet and was gone. He did not lookback. I was alone. I began to shiver. Eventually I slept.

Later, I heard Euphemia and Manette stirring and talking to each other. I sat up, feeling dizzy, and wrapped a light quilt around my shoulders as I customarily did when returning home from the beach. Euphemia, who was gathering her hammock, looked over at me.

“Some rats made a nest in your hair while you were asleep, Yeyette.” I did my best to smooth my long dark hair back from my face and comb out the worst tangles with my fingers. Did I look different, I wondered? Had I changed? My mouth was swollen from kissing and my muscles ached from the strain of lovemaking. I would never be the same inside, no matter what my outer appearance might be.

For what I discovered, on that long-ago afternoon, was that I was made for love. I thirsted to be caressed, kissed, touched. To be loved physically as well as emotionally. I loved Scipion with all my heart, but I had loved this boy, this stranger, with my body. And of the two kinds of love, this love of the body was far stronger and richer and more desirable. I knew then that I would always yield to it, no matter how hard I might try to resist.