Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? (16 page)

In the meantime, Amarante stared at the dark curtain of trees beyond the illuminated podium. Darkness had locked the palace in its grip and would not let go for some time. Not until throngs of seabirds, messengers of dawn, had begun to flock across the sky. Darling little Celanire, darling little Celanire. That evening she had been revealed to her, and her beauty struck her like the flash of a frigate bird. Svelte yet strong. Good-humored but serene. Knowing what she wanted in life and determined to get it. The glow in her eyes betrayed the passion burning deep down. Was it so that they could meet that fate had brought Celanire back to Guadeloupe?

Three months after her arrival Celanire opened an academy of music, Au Gai Rossignol, in an old building in the Carmel district. Polite society began by disapproving. In fact, besides the violin, piano, and recorder, students were taught the seven rhythms of the
ka
drum; besides the “Hallelujah Chorus” in Handel's
Messiah
or the barcarolle from
The Tales of Hoffmann,
students were trained to sing Creole melodies such as “Doudou, Ban Mwen Lanmou.” Then snobbery got the upper hand. In next to no time the bourgeoisie elbowed their way in under the low entrance to enroll their offspring. After a few weeks Celanire was on first-name terms with a good many of these bourgeois
mamans
who compensate for the absence and cheating ways of their husbands by fussing inordinately over their progeny. It wasn't long, we have to say, before these ladies had other things to think about besides their kids. They rediscovered their youth and began to get a life for themselves. Off they went again to dances, cotillions, and banquets. At carnival time they organized a procession of floats. They formed an association under the recent law of 1901 and named it Lucioles. Henceforth, in addition to the picnics, excursions to the sea, the river, and other amusements, there was a whirl of cultural afternoons, evenings, and retreats. They read short stories, they recited poetry, they performed short plays. Members of the Lucioles association even went so far as to create a publishing house. Unfortunately, to our knowledge, it never published anything more than some illustrated calendars and
Fulgurances,
a collection of poems by Elissa de Kerdoré, now out of print. Today there is every indication that Celanire opened Au Gai Rossignol solely as a means to draw closer to Amarante, whom she had noticed during the reception at the Governor's Palace.

Amarante was not an easy conquest. Her Wayana education had made her virtuous, preoccupied with the concerns of her fellow men. In the Redoute neighborhood where she had lived since her marriage, there was no counting the number of poor children who called her Godmother and on New Year's Day lined up on her doorstep for their present. Noon and night her maid would take food to the bedridden, abandoned by their families. Amarante never forgot she descended from a dynasty of feisty women. Her ancestor, Sankofa, leading a battalion of Maroons hiding out on the slopes of Les Mamelles, had pelted the French soldiers climbing up for the attack with a rain of flaming branches. She also wore herself out every day walking to a one-class school for Indian children at Monplaisir. Celanire sent her one of those flowery letters she was so good at and offered her an exorbitant wage so that she could devote herself to her favorite pastimes of music and singing. Up till then Amarante had tenderly cherished her papa, her
maman,
her brothers and sisters, and respected the husband they had chosen for her.

Suddenly, she discovered passion, turmoil, desire, and the burning need for another person. In her distress, she read the letter out to Matthieu. She was counting on his nose to sense something suspicious in this offer, to prevent her from accepting it and thus save her from herself. Unfortunately, Matthieu saw here an opportunity to get closer to the mysterious Celanire and begged Amarante not to refuse. Some people make their own bed of misfortune.

So Amarante left her little Indians and the school at Monplaisir. From that day on her life was transformed. Accustomed to a husband preoccupied with himself, she now spent her days with an attentive, considerate, and thoughtful person. Celanire's company was a delight not only because of her good-heartedness and intelligence but also because of her good humor and vivacity. At the Gai Rossignol the hours flew by like minutes. No sooner had classes begun than the bell for recreation would ring. Celanire communicated to Amarante her love for classical music, especially Vivaldi, and in their mezzo-soprano voices they sang together the
Lauda Jerusalem
. When they didn't have classes, they strolled together in the governor's gardens and lunched têteà-tête on the veranda before retiring for a siesta and savoring even greater moments of delight. The only blot on this idyll, Amarante noticed, was that Celanire did not miss Ofusan, her adopted mother. Not only was there no treasured memory of Ofusan kissing her or leaning over her cradle, but Celanire seemed to harbor a grudge against her. Amarante decided she would right matters. But every time she broached the name of the deceased, Celanire would hurriedly change the subject. If she insisted, she sensed her companion's irritation. What could have opposed mother and child during their short life together? It was unfair; only “darling little Papa” got Celanire's attention. She embellished him with all sorts of virtues, and it was hard to believe that this highly educated, highly trained doctor, noble crusader against drugs, and nationalist politician, had taken advantage of her like the first uncouth
nèg kann
to come along.

That particular year, the month of September was midwife to a number of hurricanes. Thank goodness, they spared Guadeloupe and spread their desolation elsewhere. One of them, however, wreaked havoc on Montserrat. Sometimes heaven is unrelenting: a few months earlier the tiny island had been two-thirds destroyed by the eruption of its volcano, Chances Peak. The population, terrified by this second blow fate had dealt them and thinking themselves cursed, took to the sea in makeshift boats. Those who did not sink to the bottom of the ocean were washed up along the windward shore of Guadeloupe. The distress of these poor wretches was such that the governor, Thomas de Brabant, ordered the military to erect tents along the seafront and urged every Guadeloupean who could to help these brothers in their misfortune. Regretfully, however, although the seafront became a popular stroll for the bourgeois, who noised their sorrow in front of the tents, gifts in kind like cash were rare—so rare that Celanire decided on her own initiative to organize a collection and sail to Montserrat with the booty: barrels of fresh water, sacks of rice and French flour, and cases of saltfish and smoked herring. At that time it was quite an expedition getting to an English island. So Thomas chartered an old schooner called (don't laugh) the
Intrépide
for his wife, Amarante, and the domestics accompanying them. For three days the
Intrépide,
with timbers cracking, pitched and heaved and rolled with the swell of the waves. With the exception of Celanire, standing bolt upright in the prow, breathing in the air, all the other passengers were as sick as dogs. Finally, one morning, the island loomed up over the horizon, and presented a harrowing sight. The flames from the volcano had first of all scorched the earth, then the pouring rain had loosened the crater, burying hundreds of individuals. For days the moans of the dying had cast a pall over the island. Human arms and legs, corpses of rotting animals, patches of tin roofs, and uprooted trees emerged from tar-colored ponds and craters of mud. Packs of mangy dogs, herds of hogs, and worse still an army of rats driven frantic by the flood following the hurricane, roamed all over the place. In Plymouth, the capital, every shack had been blown away, and only the ruins of Fort Barrington remained.

About a hundred ragged victims of the disaster, all that remained of a population of over a thousand, were assembled on the shore and hurled themselves onto the victuals. It required the firm hand of Celanire to restore law and order. Then the newcomers settled into the few remaining houses in the village of Sotheby. Celanire was welcomed by a certain Melody, whose roof had miraculously survived these natural calamities. Melody greeted her enthusiastically like a beloved long-lost friend and served up a callaloo soup thick with spinach and ham bones. Amarante, exhausted by the journey, withdrew to the bedroom, got into bed, and fell fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

When she awoke, she was still alone in bed. The moon was smiling through the louvered shutters as if to say she had nothing to do with the evil forces of the elements. Gilded clouds gamboled around her. The cool night air was fragrant with the scent of gardenia. Where could Celanire be? Amarante got up and took a few steps in the dark. The hovel was divided in two by a printed calico curtain. In what served as a dining room, around the glow of a hurricane lamp, Celanire was still conversing with Melody. Amarante had been too tired to take a good look at Melody on arrival and was only now getting her first glimpse. As black as the bottom of a calabash blackened from the cooking fire. Cross-eyed. A mole embossed on her cheek as big as a birthmark. Teeth as pointed as a warthog's. She was gazing at Celanire in adoration, clutching her hands, and smiling at her in raptures with those formidable teeth. As for Celanire, she never stopped talking, as usual. Finally the two women stood up. Melody grabbed the lamp, and preceding Celanire, stepped out into the night.

Amarante went back to bed, unable to fall asleep. Where were Celanire and Melody going at this hour of the night? From where did they know each other? The darkness and strangeness of the place made her feel even more frightened. She recalled what the Wayanas used to whisper. Celanire was the child of evil spirits and spread misfortune to those around her. She was worse than a
soukouyan,
an old hag in league with the devil who preys on victims until the light of day and gorges herself on fresh blood. The hours passed. Gradually insects and buffalo frogs grew silent. The sky turned white. The roosters began to crow. The dogs began to bark. The commotion of the day, so different from that of the night, started up again. Despite the warm air, Amarante shivered under her sheets. Finally, around six in the morning, the door creaked open, and Celanire came and slipped into bed. As soon as she felt her beloved up against her, all her imaginings seemed unworthy of a person endowed with common sense. Celanire had an answer for everything. Melody? She had been her nursemaid when she was a child, and you couldn't wish for anyone more affectionate and warmhearted, despite her looks. She hadn't seen her since she was ten, although she knew she lived on Montserrat. What a joy to embrace her at last! They had gone out intending to conceal the victuals from thieving hands. What a mortifying sight had met their eyes! There were signs of a cholera outbreak. Some of the storm survivors had taken refuge in trees, others in the mangrove. The latter had survived by drinking brackish water and swallowing oysters buried deep beneath the roots of the mangrove trees. The adults had made it through, but they had had to bury the children, and the mothers' despair was unbearable. There were miracles, though. They had discovered a ten-month-old baby playing quite contentedly in a puddle. He had no doubt been dragged for miles by the mud from the volcano. Nobody knew where his parents were, and for him, the tragedy had turned into a game. Ah, sometimes the Good Lord doesn't know what He's doing. How were they going to treat the diarrhea, the cholera, and malaria?

On waking Melody had prepared a breakfast that contrasted shamefully with the surrounding misery: soft-boiled eggs, creamy vanilla chocolate, fruit, and toasted
dannikits
. Celanire's appetite always seemed phenomenal to Amarante. That particular morning, she excelled herself and devoured enough to feed an entire family. The looks Melody gave Amarante as she fussed around Celanire made her feel so uncomfortable, she choked. Finally Celanire began organizing the rescue operation. For almost a week they had to climb up and down dizzying cliff faces under a scorching sun, cross arid savannas, and stumble along the edge of gaping precipices. Everywhere lay rotting corpses in various states of decomposition for which they had to dig graves.

The day of departure arrived, and the
Intrépide
returned the way it had come. They passed boats of fishermen casting their nets, oblivious to the perils of the ocean. The old schooner increased its speed over the quietened waters, and at the end of the second day the shacks of Guadeloupe came into sight, some of them clinging to the green blanket of the volcano like children clutching their mother's apron strings. As they neared the wharf, they saw a crowd had gathered: Thomas de Brabant, the governor, the mayor of Basse-Terre with his tricolor sash, His Grace, Bishop Chabot of Guadeloupe, in his purple robe, a group of schoolchildren dressed in white, including Ludivine, supervisors done up to the nines, and the members of the Lucioles association in their silks and jewelry. They couldn't help but notice the flowing mane of curls of Elissa de Kerdoré. Everyone applauded when Celanire set foot on dry land as fresh in her blue polka-dot dress and matching kerchief around her neck as if she had just come back from a picnic. There were speeches and more speeches. A little girl presented Celanire with a bouquet of canna lilies, roses, and anthuriums. Then Thomas pinned to his wife's breast the medal of the Ordre National du Mérite Social. While he hugged her to him, applause broke out once again.

For Ludivine, all this seemed nothing more than a masquerade. She did not know why her stepmother had risked her life going to sea. But she had no doubt whatsoever that Celanire couldn't care less about the trials and tribulations of the population on Montserrat. Going from the expression on her face, the gleam in her eyes, and the trembling on her lips, she guessed that Celanire was getting enormous fun out of all these ceremonies in her honor. Ludivine knew her father was blind regarding anything to do with his wife. Were the rest as blind? Every single one of them? What was the point of having eyes if they couldn't see? Ludivine was convinced Celanire was responsible for her mother's death, but she did not believe in African superstitions. She had her own logical explanation. Not content with being Thomas's mistress, Celanire dreamed of marrying him. So she had bribed the houseboys to mix into Charlotte's favorite drinks, from her morning fruit juice to her evening cup of chocolate, those herbs that slowly but surely secrete a mind-debilitating substance. And one day the poor woman, completely off her head, left her home far, far behind, lost in a flesh-eating forest like Tom Thumb without a pebble or a bread crumb to find her way home. Ludivine almost burst into tears in front of everybody, just thinking of her poor
maman.
The older she got, the more her love for her mother and the desire to avenge her grew. But she was crushed by a feeling of helplessness. She swallowed back her tears as best she could. The ceremony was over, and turning their backs to the sea, the pupils set off back to town.