Feast of All Saints (12 page)

Colette turned. Louisa merely stood with her back to the blinds, her hands clasped in front of her, her face dark.

Marcel was staring ahead of him. He was looking at the droplets from the sherry, and very slowly he moved his fingers toward them, and then his hand closed around the glass.

“We never let that baby out of our sight after that,” Colette said quietly. “Your Tante Louisa and me…And when Josette went upriver again to
Sans Souci
, she wanted to take your maman but that baby got under this table right here in this room, and clung to the leg of this table, she didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here with us. Strange, it was as if she turned on Josette, she wanted to stay here with us. ‘Well, that baby’s been through enough,’ Josette said. ‘If she wants to stay here in New Orleans with you, then she can stay.’ ”

They were quiet.

Marcel was looking at the glass of sherry, and then very slowly he lifted it to his lips. He drank it all down, and put the glass back very carefully, and putting his elbow on the table he rested his forehead in his hand.

“Go home, Marcel,” Louisa said. Her voice was thick and low. “Leave him alone,” Colette said.

“You go on home,” Louisa said. “And don’t you ever say a word to your maman, you hear me?”

It was late afternoon when he came home. A bundle of white lace lay on the dining table. And the long slanting rays of the sun found all the glass in the cottage.

It seemed at such times when it was hot and cloudless that the brilliance of light combined with the moving air to make the clutter of mahogany and shining what-nots shabby in the swirls of dust. Sun shone in a pool on the waxed floor, and rendered the gilt framed picture of
Sans Souci
a glaring mirror.

Marcel, sitting very still with his hands on his knees, merely looked at his own slender fingers, the few veins drawn on the backs of his hands. There was no sound except the buzzing of flies.

Then the tread of boots on the path and the sharp sound of his mother opening the latch.

He saw her silhouetted against the sun, a black hourglass of a woman, tiny wrists, fine fingers that delicately closed the parasol and set it by the door. She moved closer to him, brows knit, her eyes gleaming in her dark face, one hand neatly gathering the pleats of her green taffeta skirt. She wore a cameo at her throat on a band of black velvet, and the white lace beneath it lay in scallops over her breast. “Marcel?”

His impassive face gave no sign that he had heard. She seemed to him a timeless being as she stood poised there, someone who had not been born at all but had come into life full-blown when fashion reached some perfect peak that suited her, so that moving toward him she was like the bric-a-brac and petit-point that everywhere surrounded her, something solid, exquisite and unsubtractable from the whole.

A great gulf lay beyond her. As if the door of the Ste. Marie cottage swung open onto chaos, and rushing there on some pretext of normal errand, Marcel might find himself clinging to the knob above a chasm. History stirred in the awesome dark, the stench of burning fields, drums, the black faces of slaves.

He shuddered as he rose to his feet. It seemed the very walls were disintegrating, the baubles of the crystal candlesticks were on fire. Going out the front gate, he heard her for the first time calling his name.

R
AIN FLOODED
the streets. By midday it had overflowed the low brick banquettes, poured into the shops, lapped at the steps of the cottages and made of the narrow mud thoroughfares flat lakes spreading beneath the pelting drops from one side to the other. The fenced garden of the Ste. Marie cottage was a swamp.

But with the afternoon it had stopped; the sun poured down on the receding waters, and Jean Jacques, after sweeping out the shop and bringing down again the chairs he had hung on hooks around the walls, went back to work. In the past he had sent his fine pieces out to be gilded, but this year, whether out of boredom or simple fascination, he did not know, he was going to do it himself. He dipped his brush into the pot of glue he had softened on his stove and painted invisible wet curlicues along the oval frame of a mirror. And now, raising the gold leaf ever so carefully on the tip of a dry brush, he blew it in a fine spray so that those curlicues seemed to Marcel to come to life perfect and golden along the mirror’s polished border.

He would rest from time to time, light a cigar for a few puffs and continue to talk.

“…I don’t know that anyone would have taught me if I hadn’t shown the will to learn. It was more than will, to tell the truth, it was a passion, a passion…” The word was uncommon to him, he said it with emphasis. “I wouldn’t leave that old carpenter alone. Of course he didn’t want to bother with me. My mother had been nothing but a field hand, and me one of the barefoot bunch that played at the back door.”

Marcel studied his profile against the fiery light outside. A sheet of water still lay at the corner of the Rue Bourbon and the Rue Ste. Anne, and a hack turning fast in the softened ruts below sent a flashing spray toward the shop. Children squealed with laughter.

“But I wouldn’t leave his tools alone. ‘Don’t you touch my tools,’ he would say, but I wouldn’t pay him any mind. I’d stay right there, planted by his side asking him over and over, ‘what are you going to do with that, what are those pegs for…’ ’Course he didn’t make furniture like this furniture. He fixed things, fixed the porch railings and the wooden blinds, and he’d make simple chairs, rocking chairs and tables and benches for the kitchens and sometimes for the other slaves.”

“But how did you learn, then, to make fine furniture?” Marcel asked.

Jean Jacques was thinking. “I learned simple things first, then I went on to those things I really wanted to make. You see, I have the belief,
mon fils
, that if a man can learn any one thing well, then he can learn most anything else that he puts his mind to.”

He glanced at Marcel. Marcel sat on the high stool by the stove as always. The fire for the melting of the glue had long gone out and a clean breeze blew through the front doors and out those open to the yard in back. He seemed hardly wilted by the day’s heat or the day’s damp. On such days as this he had learned to move slowly, to walk slowly, and his clothing retained its crispness, though the high polish of his new boots had not survived the mud of the streets. Jean Jacques smiled at him almost wistfully and the change of expression took Marcel by surprise. But then Jean Jacques went on.

“There were field hands on my master’s land, men who came over from Africa who made things in the evening after all the work was done, objects…” his hand opened, palm up and fingers somewhat rounded as if he were trying to grasp the thing of which he spoke…“pieces of art,” he said as if he had found the proper word. “They made these things with a simple knife, out of the hardest mahogany. Heads is what they were, African-looking heads with lips that were bigger than any Negro’s really, and eyes that were no more than slits, and the hair would be made into braids on the tops of these long heads, braids that were coiled round and round and came down sometimes to loop around the ears. To look at it, what would you think, that
it was a savage thing, a…a…an
African
thing,” he said. “Yet I tell you the workmanship on that head was as fine as any I’ve ever seen. I mean the way that those braids of hair were carved, the way that the ear on one side of that face was perfectly balanced with the other…why, I can remember the smoothness of those faces when they were polished, and the way that they would appear in the firelight in the corners of those small cabins. Well, I tell you, if a man can make that object so perfect, that piece of art…because art is what it was…then he could make anything with his hands that he wanted to make. He could make this little
secrétaire
here, or that
fauteuil
. If he wanted to do it! If he wanted to.”

“But how did you learn to read, Monsieur? And write?” Marcel had done it at last—he had found the moment for that question.

“The way a hundred men have learned,” Jean Jacques laughed. “I got a book.…It was an old Bible that the master gave to me, in fact, its cover had come off, and I wanted to have it, and he said well, you can have that if you want it. And I took that Bible and sat down by the front steps. I was older then, and I helped around the house. There were lots of times when no one needed me, why there were whole days when all I did was to go from one room to another to find the master’s pipe for him, or run upstairs to get his tobacco. So I found this place in the honeysuckle by the gallery, and every time I had a chance to ask the master to tell me the meaning of one word, I would do it. Of course I had to ask him the same words more than once, but by the end of month I could read three lines of that Bible by myself, and I knew those words wherever else in that book that they would ever appear. By the end of the year I could read four pages. Don’t look so surprised,
mon fils
, many men have learned that way. And then there came this special afternoon. It was nothing special to anyone but me, but my master was on his long couch on the gallery and looking up from under his hat, he said. ‘Jean Jacques, you’re always reading that Bible, why don’t you read it to me?’ I came up on the porch beside him and read him those four pages, clearly, and the few lines I’d learned besides. ‘Jean Jacques,’ he said, ‘when you can read any page in that Bible to me, any page from the beginning to the end…I’ll set you free.’ ” Jean Jacques laughed softly, “Well, there was no stopping me then.”

Marcel could not conceal the exquisite pleasure this moment in the story had given him.

“ ‘What do you want to be, Jean Jacques?’ he asked me when the time came…”

“When you could read any page!”

“Mon fils,”
Jean Jacques leaned forward nodding and winking his eyes, “I read him St. John’s Apocalypse!”

Marcel laughed in spite of himself, hunching his shoulders and thrusting his clasped hands down between his legs.

“Well, ‘I want to be a carpenter,’ is what I said to him. ‘Our Lord Jesus Christ was a carpenter, and that’s good enough for me.’ But you know, I think when I look back on it I just wanted to spite that old man, that mean old slave carpenter who would never show me how to use those tools. I wanted to show him I could be as good as he was. And later on, my master sent me into Cap François to really learn the trade. I became a builder of stairways, I learned to build the finest stairways in the houses of the richest in the town. And the furniture, I came to make it in the time that I could call my own.” He paused; he appeared to be studying Marcel. Marcel was picturing with a special pleasure all the lovely stairways he had seen. There was in particular that long stairway in the Lermontant house that curved so gracefully at the small landing to double back above itself to the second floor. “But the best furniture making, that was done here in New Orleans after I came,” Jean Jacques said. “I made it from the furniture I saw in peoples’ houses when I went to make their staircases or to repair them, and I made it from the pictures I saw in books. I made a stairway once for your Tante Josette,” he paused again, watching Marcel’s face. “She came down here one summer from the Cane River and said, ‘Jean Jacques I want you to come up and make me a good staircase, a fine staircase at
Sans Souci.’ ”

Marcel thought of the times she had invited them all to visit her, of Cecile’s excuses and his own passion for his day-to-day city life. He had thought the country would be so dull. But he would go there, he would see this staircase, walk upon it and feel its newel posts, he would study how it was made.

“We came on the same ship here,” Jean Jacques said. “Your Tante Josette and me, did you know that? And I remember thirteen years later when she went back to Saint-Domingue determined to find her sisters, and she brought them here and brought your maman here too.”

A shadow passed over Marcel’s face.

“What is it?” asked the old man.

Marcel shrugged quickly, “But tell me, Monsieur, with writing, how did you learn to write?”

“You ask the strangest questions,” Jean Jacques said. Marcel was looking at the open diary. He himself had tried a diary and had written such empty foolish things as “Rose, breakfasted at seven, walked to school.”

“How do you think I learned?” Jean Jacques laughed. “By copying the words I read on pages other people had written and in the pages of books.”

A silence passed between them as often it did. It seemed Jean
Jacques had the tissue of thin gold leaf poised on the tip of his dry brush again. A bit of the leaf clung to his fingertips. He looked at the oval mirror before him.

“You have heavy thoughts,
mon fils.”

“Will you tell me…explain to me…about the battles in Saint-Domingue?”

Jean Jacques paused. Then he shook his head. His hand, however, did not move. The gold leaf on the tips of the bristles did not move.

“Can’t do that anymore,
mon fils
, maybe I should have never done it before…” His expression was brooding, unpleasant.

“But why?” Marcel asked.

“It’s not my decision,
mon fils,”
he said. “I can’t decide when you’re to learn those things. But remember, when I die, I leave all my books to you.”

“Don’t talk about death, Monsieur…” Marcel couldn’t contain himself.

“And why not?” Jean Jacques asked simply. “I’ve lived too long as it is. Seen too much. I guess I remember too much of those old times.” He went on with his work.

“But it’s better now, isn’t it?” Marcel asked. “I mean those wars, those battles, they’re past. It’s peaceful now, and we can talk about it, can’t we?”

“Peaceful now? You misunderstand me,
mon fils
. The memories don’t hurt my soul.” He had carefully replaced the little leaf of gold as though he despaired now with this conversation of getting anything done. And setting down the brush, he took a rag from the bench beside him and carefully wiped his hands. “In some way, those times were better than these. There were battles all right, there was bloodshed, and I don’t want to think of the number of men who died on all sides. But in a way those times were better than these.” He narrowed his eyes as if peering into his history, “because for all the roughness and cruelty of that land, men’s ideas weren’t so fixed. They tortured their slaves, they murdered them on that island in ways no planter would ever try to use here; and when those slaves rose they gave that cruelty back in kind. But men’s ideas were not so fixed. There was hope that the
gens de couleur
, that the whites…that even a hardworking slave getting his freedom might…” he stopped. He shook his head. “I’ve lived too long,” he said. “Just too damned long.”