Victoire Read Online Free PDF Page B

Château Margaux, while in champagne he had a particular liking for Ruinart. As for Gaëtane, her confessor allowed her just one glass of curaçao from Holland. Danila and Victoire would fly from the kitchen to the dining room, trays loaded with black pudding, whelks, stuffed clams, crab pâtés, conch
vols-au-vent,
and avocado salads. Not forgetting the entrées:
bébélé, colombo, calalou,
fish court bouillon, and other delights of Creole cuisine.
    The banquet on Sunday, January 1, 1889, reached unheard-of heights. They made it into a feast fit for a king, as the saying goes.
    The prodigal daughter, Thérèse Jovial, had finished her piano studies at last, and after six years in Cuba had returned home to live with her parents.
    Let us sketch a portrait of Thérèse Jovial. Supple and sweet as a sugar cane stalk, she was extremely well proportioned, with a wasp waist that her father likened to a Tanagra figurine. She had an impish nose, a pair of languid eyes, and cheeks covered in elegant freckles. There was but one dark side to this engaging portrait. Her color. Yes, her color. Thick black. Tar black. Irremediable. She inherited it, this blackness, from Fulgence, since Gaëtane was very light skinned. As a result, those who were jealous of her nicknamed her Kongo. Or even more vulgarly,
bonda à chodiè
. This feature might explain why at the age of twenty-six she was still unmarried. Of course, the skeptics will retort that in those days black skin guaranteed legitimacy and, consequently, success with the masses. But politics is not aesthetics. For the young girl her color constituted a handicap. In Havana, the guitarist Eduardo Sandoval would have loved to play a duet with her for the rest of his life. Alas, he belonged to a bunch of mulattoes and his family put a holà to it.
    The spoiled ways of an only child were tempered by an extreme grace. Thérèse spoke French with a lisp, which had a certain charm to it. Her Spanish was faultless. Like her Creole. Imitating her father, she wasn’t ashamed to speak it or at times make it rhyme. In short, once again it was a shame no suitor came to claim this treasure.
    Thérèse had stepped off the sailboat in Grand Bourg shortly after Christmas Day with three trunks of Spanish leather stuffed as usual with presents: an embroidered shawl for her mother, a Panama hat for her father, and a pair of lovely red pumps for Victoire. Victoire had never worn shoes in her life. Up till then, she had walked barefoot along the stony paths. Her soles were rough and cracked. Her nails gray and sharp like clam filings. Her toes pointing like theeyes of a crab. Nevertheless, she managed to slip on her red pumps.
Maché kochi. Maché kan memn
. Thérèse, who was enamored of harmony, was saddened by Victoire’s wardrobe, two smocks made of jute. She had tailored for her two maid’s aprons, made of black serge and edged in white, three loose-fitting
golle
dresses, as well as a Creole matador costume in dark green and mauve satin with an apple-colored headtie for high mass. Nobody could understand why Thérèse showered these acts of kindness on Victoire, who became no more affable with time. What a contrast! One slender and dressed in the latest fashion with a moleskin hat. The other looking no more than thirteen at the age of sixteen; a sloppily tied madras headscarf cut low across her forehead level with her pale eyes. She never smiled and walked woodenly, like a carnival
bwa bwa
.
    Apart from these sartorial modifications, Thérèse’s arrival changed little with regard to Victoire’s condition at the Jovials. Each of them kept to the place assigned by destiny. There was no familiarity between godmother and godchild. Under her frigid appearance, Victoire must have been devoted to Thérèse as if she were the Blessed Sacrament herself. And Thérèse let herself be worshipped with a smug indifference. I have no knowledge of any conversation or exchange of words between them on any subject