Victoire by Maryse Condé Read Free Book Online Page A

stems of the hibiscus. Victoire arrived at Les Basses soaked in sweat. For once, Dernier was at home. He had taken off his frock coat and, shirt wide-open on his hairy chest, he was fanning himself with a newspaper. She greeted him shyly in a muffled, slightly hoarse voice.
    “Ben l’bonjou, misié!”
    He inspected the tray, tasted the food, made a face, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed in Creole:
    “What bunch of heartless individuals sent you out in this heat?”
    Victoire remained expressionless. Did she share his opinion? He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a towel that he threw at her.
    “Go and wash your face in the washroom,” he ordered.
    “Washroom” was a fancy word for it. A trellis fence marked out a space behind the cabin where a half-empty water jar and toiletry utensils could be found. Victoire obeyed and went outside. He came out onto the doorstep to stare at her with his arrogant eyes. Out of modesty she hesitated to undo her headtie in front of him. When she finally made up her mind, her black hair immediately tumbled down to her shoulders.
    “What’s your name?” he shouted.
    “Victwa, misié!”
    “Where’re you from?”
    “La Treille, yes!”
    She filled a basin, washed her face and neck, dried herself, then went back inside. He had settled back in the rocking chair and looked up to stare at her with sustained attention, caressing her breasts with his eyes. Under this fiery gaze, she picked up the dishes from the day before and got ready to take her leave.
    It was then that he stood up and walked over to her.
    “You’re in too much of a hurry!”
    He took her by the arm.
    Did they make love that day? It’s unlikely.
    I believe on the contrary that she was frightened; frightened by his touch, by this male smell that was filling her nostrils for the first time. She wriggled free, secured the tray on her head, and made a bee line for the town. People who saw her shoot past strained their necks. What was this crazy girl running after? Sunstroke, that’s all she could hope to get.
    Danila’s suspicions were aroused from the very first day. Monstrous suspicions. Amid the ensuing misfortune, she grouched that her heart had warned her before everyone else.
    She was putting the final touches to a sea urchin stew when Victoire came charging in, red and sweating. She was coming back from Les Basses, Danila remembered. What was she running away from? No use asking her, she wouldn’t answer. Danila noticed her hands trembling as she clumsily put away the plates she had brought back, even more awkwardly than usual. She almost fell flat on her face while crossing the yard. In charge of seasoning the salad, she mixed up the salt and pepper servers. While clearing the table, she crossed the knives and forks under Gaëtane’s very eyes and earned a sharp reprimand to which visibly she paid no attention.
    Then she left untouched her more modest meal (no hors d’oeuvres or dessert), which she took with Danila in the kitchen. She sat daydreaming, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, before tackling the washing-up and breaking two ramekins in one go.
    O NE MORNING, SHE who was generally mute as a blowfish, started humming a song while putting the wash to bleach. An old wake ceremony song that Oraison used to sing at La Treille, each timeaccompanied by bursts of laughter that flew from all sides. An old melody that Caldonia liked:
    Zanfan si ou vouè

Papa mò

Téré li an ba tono la

Sé pou tout gout

Ki dégouté

Y tombé an goj a papa
    In her amazement, Danila, who was busy kneading the batter for vegetable marinades, grated her left middle finger, mistaking it for a chunk of pumpkin.
    I F PEOPLE HAD eyes to see—but people are blind, that’s a fact, and can’t see farther than the end of their noses—they would have noticed one thing: that Victoire’s beauty, up till then questionable, argued over, even contested, burst into the open.
    Here she was suddenly less sickly,