out at passersby. Itwas a pleasure to rediscover in
Eloges
Saint-John Perse’s same fascination for these brutal scenes:
“ . . . and Negroes, porters of skinned animals, kneel at the tile counters of the Model Butcher Shops, discharging a burden of bones and groans,
And in the center of the market of bronze, high exasperated abode where fishes hang and that can be heard singing in its sheet of tin, a hairless man in yellow cotton cloth gives a shout: I am God! And other voices: he is mad!” *
In the kitchen, Danila assigned Victoire only the thankless jobs, such as beating the conch meat, extracting the crabmeat, scaling the fish with a pointed knife, plucking the fowl, skimming the soup, cutting and chopping chives and shallots, pressing the lemons, and, at a pinch, cooking the Creole rice. But by dint of spying on Danila, like a slave who, scared of being punished, learns to read in hiding, Victoire learned her first lessons, perfecting herself in secret.
T HREE
Caldonia received no warning of her death in one of those dreams she professed to know the key to.
The day she passed away was marked by none of those signs, none of those omens people recall emotionally much later. Nobody could say:
“That morning the wind blew so hard the zinc sheeting on the roof flew off. Soared right over the trees!”
Or else:
“At five in the afternoon the sun turned into a ball of fire and set the dead stump of the guava tree ablaze. Whoosh!”
No, it was a Thursday like any other. Cool, because we were in Advent, on the eve of Christmas. The flame trees had bartered their scarlet blossom for a robe of rustling maroon pods.
At the age of fifty-five, Caldonia was fit as a fiddle. Not a thread of white in her picky hair. Merely a hint of stiffness in her right knee, an early sign of arthritis that plagues our family. As usual, she got up at four in the morning and became engrossed in interpreting her dreams. Nothing serious could be noted and she went about waking up the family, leaving Victoire for last as usual. Victoire no longer dreaded the cold water and washed herself onher own, voluptuously baring her delicate, white adolescent body, so different from the mannish build of the other women in her tribe. Her breasts were scarcely visible. A thick tuft, lighter than her hair, barred her pubis. Caldonia did her hair, endeavoring with grips, barrettes, and pins to get control of this great mass dripping with oil. While raking her hair with the comb, Caldonia warned her against men. She talked a lot about them, these men, ever since Victoire had seen her blood a year earlier. She told her about their unfathomable wickedness. Their irrepressible treachery. Their fundamental irresponsibility. What she didn’t have to put up with, with Oraison! At the age of sixty, hadn’t he just given a belly to a young girl from Buckingham who thumbed her nose at her, right in the middle of church?
Victoire walked down to the town, did her tour of the jetty, and set off for work. Then on Danila’s orders she went to the market, where she bought four pounds of pork. Shortly before lunch, while the sweet-smelling ragout was simmering on its bed of chives and bayrum leaves, Chrysostome rushed into the Jovials. He was stammering that Caldonia had dropped the banana she had been eating and collapsed. By the time he had dragged her onto her bed and looked for her
poban
of asafetida at the bottom of the chest of drawers where she kept her remedies, her heart had stopped beating.
The last straw for the inhabitants of La Treille, who were already ill-disposed toward Victoire, was her behavior regarding this unspeakable tragedy. In our islands death is a spectacle. Grief is not supposed to be mute. It must be accompanied by a ruckus of tears, cries, wails, reproaches, and imprecations against the Good Lord. Some people roll on the ground in despair. Others threaten to commit an irreparable deed. Every eye is swollen and red.
La Treille was
Eloges
Saint-John Perse’s same fascination for these brutal scenes:
“ . . . and Negroes, porters of skinned animals, kneel at the tile counters of the Model Butcher Shops, discharging a burden of bones and groans,
And in the center of the market of bronze, high exasperated abode where fishes hang and that can be heard singing in its sheet of tin, a hairless man in yellow cotton cloth gives a shout: I am God! And other voices: he is mad!” *
In the kitchen, Danila assigned Victoire only the thankless jobs, such as beating the conch meat, extracting the crabmeat, scaling the fish with a pointed knife, plucking the fowl, skimming the soup, cutting and chopping chives and shallots, pressing the lemons, and, at a pinch, cooking the Creole rice. But by dint of spying on Danila, like a slave who, scared of being punished, learns to read in hiding, Victoire learned her first lessons, perfecting herself in secret.
T HREE
Caldonia received no warning of her death in one of those dreams she professed to know the key to.
The day she passed away was marked by none of those signs, none of those omens people recall emotionally much later. Nobody could say:
“That morning the wind blew so hard the zinc sheeting on the roof flew off. Soared right over the trees!”
Or else:
“At five in the afternoon the sun turned into a ball of fire and set the dead stump of the guava tree ablaze. Whoosh!”
No, it was a Thursday like any other. Cool, because we were in Advent, on the eve of Christmas. The flame trees had bartered their scarlet blossom for a robe of rustling maroon pods.
At the age of fifty-five, Caldonia was fit as a fiddle. Not a thread of white in her picky hair. Merely a hint of stiffness in her right knee, an early sign of arthritis that plagues our family. As usual, she got up at four in the morning and became engrossed in interpreting her dreams. Nothing serious could be noted and she went about waking up the family, leaving Victoire for last as usual. Victoire no longer dreaded the cold water and washed herself onher own, voluptuously baring her delicate, white adolescent body, so different from the mannish build of the other women in her tribe. Her breasts were scarcely visible. A thick tuft, lighter than her hair, barred her pubis. Caldonia did her hair, endeavoring with grips, barrettes, and pins to get control of this great mass dripping with oil. While raking her hair with the comb, Caldonia warned her against men. She talked a lot about them, these men, ever since Victoire had seen her blood a year earlier. She told her about their unfathomable wickedness. Their irrepressible treachery. Their fundamental irresponsibility. What she didn’t have to put up with, with Oraison! At the age of sixty, hadn’t he just given a belly to a young girl from Buckingham who thumbed her nose at her, right in the middle of church?
Victoire walked down to the town, did her tour of the jetty, and set off for work. Then on Danila’s orders she went to the market, where she bought four pounds of pork. Shortly before lunch, while the sweet-smelling ragout was simmering on its bed of chives and bayrum leaves, Chrysostome rushed into the Jovials. He was stammering that Caldonia had dropped the banana she had been eating and collapsed. By the time he had dragged her onto her bed and looked for her
poban
of asafetida at the bottom of the chest of drawers where she kept her remedies, her heart had stopped beating.
The last straw for the inhabitants of La Treille, who were already ill-disposed toward Victoire, was her behavior regarding this unspeakable tragedy. In our islands death is a spectacle. Grief is not supposed to be mute. It must be accompanied by a ruckus of tears, cries, wails, reproaches, and imprecations against the Good Lord. Some people roll on the ground in despair. Others threaten to commit an irreparable deed. Every eye is swollen and red.
La Treille was
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