Victoire (2 page)

In the hamlet of La Treille on the island of Marie-Galante, not far from the town of Grand Bourg, the name of Quidal is as common as grains of sand on the beach. This is their domain. Rumor has it that they are descendants of the property belonging to Master Antoine de Gehan-Quidal, owner of a sugar plantation. Ruined after the abolition of slavery, he returned to France and left behind a hundred or so “new citizens” in his slave cabins. The branch I come from had nothing to distinguish it from the others. Just as black. Just as famished. My great-grandparents were a strange bunch. Oraison, the third son of Dominus, who, like his father and grandfather before him, cast and hauled up his fishing nets deep in the ocean, had married, or rather lived with, his cousin Caldonia Jovial. They had engendered a dozen children, five of whom still remained on this earth. Their cabin was no different from the others. Built of pine-wood and protected by sheets of zinc siding. No veranda. No cement floor. Cooking and washing was done in the yard where a group of male papaya trees grew. Oraison, a petroleum blue Negro, as long as a day without bread, had a stock of tales that any qualified research specialist would describe as “erotic.” Fish were compared to the male member, thick and sticky; seawater to the liquid that soaks women
down there. He also sang in a pleasant high-pitched voice. Although he was no professional, his singing talents were often called upon at wake ceremonies. As for Caldonia, she interpreted dreams. People came from far and wide to unlock their dreams.

“Caldonia?
Ka sa yé sa?
”

And she would coast confidently from one answer to the next: “Fish means mortality. A lost tooth, death. Pregnancy, good luck. A wound, bad luck. Blood on yourself, grief. Blood on others, victory.”

One night, a dream bid her to take a closer look at the belly of her eldest daughter. Eliette, who was not yet fourteen, was pregnant. But Caldonia was quite pleased. Girls are meant to give birth. Better earlier than later. Eliette, however, made a great secret of it. She refused to reveal the name of her accomplice, so resolutely that Oraison ended up whipping her with his leather belt. She bore the lashes like a martyr, but still didn’t open her mouth and kept mum. Her brothers and sisters described her sobbing at night and how at eleven o’clock every morning she would run to waylay the postman. Was she hoping for a letter, she who couldn’t even read?

On Sunday, August 15, Caldonia was slipping on her best dress to attend mass when Elie came to warn her that his twin sister had lost her waters. The birth was not looking good. Her pelvis was too narrow. Seeing Eliette’s blood gradually seep over the straw mattress, Martha Quidal, the midwife, had no choice but to send for Father Lebris, who at one thirty in the afternoon recited the prayer for the dead.

More than the sudden death of Eliette was the appearance of the newborn that shocked the family. A full head of thick black silky hair. Eyes the color of clear water. A skin tinted pink. For heaven’s sake! Where did Eliette cross paths with a white man? There were no whites in La Treille. The only exceptions were the pallid priests barricaded against malaria, locked in their presbyteries. As for the plantation owners, most of them had deserted the sugar plantations for lack of profit. At one point there had been the soldiers of the fourth regiment garrisoned at Grand Bourg. Once they had expe
rienced marching under the tropical sun, one-two, one-two, with knapsacks on their backs, they had gone back to France. Perhaps these were the ones who had wreaked havoc among the fair sex in their youthful ardor. Was that where we should be looking for the father?

For the time being, indifferent to these conjectures of the baby’s paternity, all Oraison could think of was how they were going to get rid of this fateful object. The pond close to the rum factory or the cliff known as devil’s leap? The latter was the perfect setting for creatures of this type. But the child raised its eyelids and stared at Caldonia. The science of motherhood had not yet been invented, but never mind, Caldonia was deeply moved by this silent exchange. Everything was decided in that one brief instant. A bond was tied that was only to become undone fourteen years later when Caldonia died from having eaten a banana in the heat of the midday sun. The little girl stole the heart of her grandmother, who had seldom experienced such feelings. Caldonia was God-fearing, but her soul did not exactly pine for Him. Her husband irritated her. Her children left her indifferent. From one day to the next, all that changed. She became devoted, possessive, demanding, and anxious. No egg was fresh enough, no breast of chicken white enough, and no flour light enough for the baby’s stomach. To prevent diarrhea she mixed the baby’s cereal with Hépar spring water. Quite unheard of! In a place like La Treille, where the children ran naked, with swollen bellies, reddish hair, and two slimes of mucus oozing out of their nostrils, this type of love seemed incredible. You had to respect it, though. They are still talking about it today.

The choice of first names was Father Lebris’ decision. Victoire! Because in fact her birth was a victory. Poor Eliette had gone to join the dwelling place of the dead before she had lived her life, whereas her daughter testified to the glory of the Eternal in all His ways. Elodie! Because it was Saint Elodie on the calendar. Malicious gossip implied that Victoire’s papa was in fact Father Lebris. Nothing was farther from the truth. God had given this Breton a calling when
he was only eight years old. God was his rock and his fortress. As a seminarian he wrote psalms that his superiors deemed sins of pride. Did he think he was David? That’s why as soon as he was ordained, they shipped him off to the Negroes on a godforsaken island in the very middle of the Caribbean.

On his arrival in Marie-Galante in 1870, barely twenty-two years after the abolition of slavery, he fell in love with this galette of an island that the sun cooked over and over again in its oven. The condition of his flock broke his heart. Freedom is an abstract concept, a dream of the affluent. As slaves, these men and women were less destitute. In their servitude, a master provided them with a roof over their heads and enough not to starve to death. As free men, what did they own except their poverty? If Father Lebris had lived, he would probably have been a mentor to Victoire, and perhaps her destiny would have been different. Unfortunately, she was not yet one year old when malaria triumphed. Like Eliette, he was laid to rest under the casuarina trees in the graveyard on the outskirts of Grand Bourg. For the second time, Victoire was abandoned. She remained in the hands of a woman who worshipped her, but who was illiterate and basically incapable of educating a child.

Around 1880, the migration from Marie-Galante began. The economists teach us that the emerging production of beet sugar in Europe began to destabilize the Caribbean market. From Saint-Louis, Capesterre, and Grand Bourg the inhabitants streamed toward the “continent” Guadeloupe, as they call it without a trace of irony. Their region of choice was Petit Bourg, where employment was to be had thanks to a factory and two rum distilleries. The sea too was bountiful: amberjack, sea bream, tuna, and snapper. You could fish with traps or dragnets. The newcomers pitched their cabins outside the town, in places today known as Pointe à Bacchus, Sarcelles, Bergette, Juston, and as far up in the hills as La Lézarde and Montebello. Elie had just set up house with Anastasie Roustain, known as Bobette, who had given him two sons. In order to feed his family, he decided to leave Marie-Galante and proposed taking with him
his twin sister’s daughter, whom he considered his own despite her unfortunate color.

Only Elie knew for certain who was Victoire’s father. He had bad-mouthed her and flown into enough tempers in his jealousy! What did she hope to get from this white man? A soldier into the bargain. A soldier’s like a sailor: instead of a woman in every port there’s one in every garrison.

Caldonia refused categorically to let the apple of her eye go. What would her life be without the girl she idolized? Victoire was five or six years old. The sound of her voice was seldom heard. Nor was there hardly a smile, a ripple of laughter, or one of those cabriole dances that make childhood so delightful. It was as if her joie de vivre had been buried with her maman. Her hair was so straight and smooth that any braids became undone in minutes and flopped over her face, covering it with a silky curtain of mourning. In order to soothe her nightmares, Caldonia put her to sleep in her bed. Night and day, huddled against her grandmother, she acquired the bitter smell of her old clothes. The smell of sweat, dirt, and arnica.

At this time, the very poorest were preoccupied with an education. Free schooling for all had been one of Monsieur Schoelcher’s promises, which they planned on keeping. The Brothers of the Christian Doctrine of Ploërmel had opened a school in Les Basses, where the airport now stands. Apparently, Caldonia didn’t think for one moment of enrolling Victoire. No more than she did her younger children. As a result, my grandmother never learned to read or write. She never learned to speak French correctly, and so as not to shock her daughter’s acquaintances, she kept a stubborn silence under all circumstances.

The only schooling she received—but can we really call it schooling?—was religious. Aurora Quidal taught catechism in her wattle cabin. Sitting in a circle, the children would chant, oddly alternating phrases in Creole and in French.

Ka sa yé sa: lanfé?

One God in three distinct persons.

Ki jan nou pé vinn pli bon.

Eat and drink. This is my body.

Throughout her life, Victoire, even though she never spoke of it, remembered her childhood as a paradise lost. It appears, however, that it was mostly dull, hardly entertaining, and darkened by poverty, which was the lot of the laboring classes.

The day would begin with the white light of dawn seeping through the commissures of the cabin’s only window. Oraison and Elie, up in the dark since three in the morning, prepared a billy can of food, then went to join Oraison’s brother before setting off to sea in the boat christened
Ezékiel
. One hour later Caldonia ventured out of doors. She emptied the
toma
of the night’s urine, rinsed out her mouth, and said her prayers: a dozen Hail Marys and two Our Fathers. She lit the fire in the hearth, three rocks arranged in a triangle, and while the water was boiling, she would shake Lourdes, the youngest, to take Théodora the cow to the pond, and then woke Félix and Chrysostome.

Breakfast, if we dare call it that, was quickly expedited. Mother and children dipped their stale slice of
kassav
in some weak
tchòlòlò
coffee. Depending on the time of year, Félix and Chrysostome would go down to the cane fields or hoe the family’s Creole vegetable garden while Lourdes, in charge of the household chores, would sweep the yard with a palm broom. Finally, Caldonia would enter the room where Victoire was sleeping. Then followed a long cuddling session that would have surprised a good many people. Where did Caldonia get this rosary of sweet talk from? These loving caresses? This fondling? She would carry Victoire to the water barrel. The water was cold. The little girl would whimper while her grandmother rubbed her dry and slipped on cotton panties that couldn’t hide her protruding belly button. Then she did her hair. Victoire only found consolation once she had been given her cereal flavored with cinnamon and sweetened with wild honey. Then Caldonia would gather up the bundles of dirty washing collected from the town during the week. Ever since the time of the great plantation houses, the women in
her family had been washerwomen, and they were proud of this skill that placed them above the common lot. Finally, she set off for the washhouse.

This washhouse, the one at La Croix, no longer exists today. It was built over a spring, now dried up, but once bubbling and joyful, called Espiritu. A dozen washerwomen would be up to their thighs in the water. There would be a babble of creole, laughter and cries amid the slap and beating of clothes mingled with the smell of
savon de Marseille
and the Sainte-Croix
eau de Javel
. For Caldonia, Victoire was the most adorable little girl in the world, a gift from the Good Lord who had been meager in His generosity. A photo that no longer exists today or perhaps never existed, but that I can re-create, does not allow us to throw further light on the matter.

It wasn’t every day you had your portrait taken at La Treille. The photographer came from La Pointe with his magic box, his plates and black cloth. Oraison was dressed in his best suit. Black striped serge trousers. Jacket. Even a waistcoat. Bare headed. His badly combed mop of hair gives the final touch to his rustic look. Standing beside him, Caldonia is wearing her best Creole costume. Her madras headtie seems to me to be tied somewhat curiously. Its diagonal pleats are tight-fitting like a bonnet. The children are lined up in a row in front of the couple. In the center Victoire stands out like a chick among a brood of ducklings.

For most people Victoire was scary, with her skin too white and her eyes too light. A superstition coming from Nan-Guinnin claims that the souls of the dead, if they are lucky, manage to escape from the jars where they are held captive and slip into the bodies of children. Consequently, they reacquire the joy of living. This must have been the case for Victoire. She was one of the walking dead, a zombie. Sometimes she would grab a handful of guinea grass and chew on it. Most of the time her hands lay palms-up on her lap while she stared straight in front of her.

Others were convinced she was no less than Ti-Sapoti: that so-called orphan who haunts the roadside at night, dragging the
passerby, who has the misfortune to stop and show compassion, into unknown regions.
An ba la tè?
No one knows where.

“Ka ou ka fé là, ti-doudou an mwwen?”

“What am I doing here?” Ti-Sapoti, dries his tears and becomes a predator.

When Caldonia had finished her washing, she crammed a
bakoua
hat onto Victoire and returned to La Treille. Lourdes had already put the root vegetables to boil and thrown in a hot pepper and a pig’s tail. They would always eat in silence. After lunch, Caldonia pounded her starch, carefully grinding the lumps. Then she would starch her washing and hang it out to dry. After that, usually flanked by Victoire, she would go down to the shore and wait for Oraison’s return. If she didn’t immediately take charge of the proceeds from the fish he had caught, he would distribute three-quarters of the money to his string of girlfriends and drink the remainder with his
banélo
of buddies. Each time, this return to land was a ritual. Oraison’s boat came into view on the horizon, made straight for the beach, then seemed to change its mind and head out for the open sea. Making a final skillful sweep, it would turn back toward the shore. It was then that the fishermen would jump into the waves and drag the boat behind them like a reluctant, untamed animal.