Once a week she docilely opened her door to the elementary school mistresses of her age and class who talked, laughed, and dressed alike. They were all fond of the same dark fabrics in reaction against the vulgar flowery dresses and straw-colored moleskin hats. All of them showered her with smiles to her face. All of them bad-mouthed her behind her back. In next to no time, she was already a character around whom swirled numerous stories, be they true or false.
She was constantly blamed for the same things, for being arrogant, irascible, and selfish. Taking sides with the Walbergs, somewhat suspiciously, people also called her ungrateful. And finally they accused her of being insensitive and heartless, taking as an example the way she treated her mother.
These ladies ate coconut sorbet in silver bowls and nibbled on madeleines. They pretended to scorn the slander and mainly talked about their classes. Admittedly they were a studious group. That’s how they edited Les Cahiers du Patrimoine, a series of booklets designed to teach natural science that cataloged local trees and plants together with their medicinal properties. For the time it was considered revolutionary. They were thus rivaling with the aristocracy of white Creoles and mulattoes who believed they had the monopoly on such charitable works. My mother began to demonstrate that generosity which together with her religious devotion soon became excessive, as if she was hiding something in her heart that she was constantly atoning for. At the end of her life she would hand out indiscriminately money and food to needy mothers who, fawning and insensitive to ridicule, called her Saint Jeanne of Arc.
The spitefulness that never left her in peace suggests that during these visits by her “friends” she forbade Victoire to appear, ordering her to stay in her room. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Like on the visits to the Grands Nègres, it was Jeanne who forced her to be present, to eat sorbet like the rest, and smile. She didn’t seem to realize that this was torture for her mother. Victoire had her explanation for this, which deep down I share with her. Jeanne was so keen to allay suspicion and convince everyone that she was not ashamed of her mother, whom she paradoxically loved more than anything in the world, that she became tyrannical and cruel.
In short, we might say that with every passing day Victoire was firmly convinced of her uselessness. Caring for the children could have consoled her. But they were being taught to sing “Frère Jacques” and “Savez-vous planter les choux?” Jeanne was intent on showing they had “good” manners. What was the use of this Creole-speaking, illiterate grandmother?
One Thursday, Jeanne managed to drag her to see Dr. Mélas, who got on well with her. But he was an obstetrician; in other words, he was capable of giving a wrong diagnosis in fields different from his own. As a consequence, Jeanne never forgave herself an act of thoughtlessness that as a woman of extremes she described as criminal. Because of this, she bore a grudge against the doctor and broke off all relations with him. After a perhaps superficial examination, he believed Victoire was suffering from a “pernicious anemia.” Her heart, liver, and kidneys were functioning normally, he assured her. Her blood pressure was a bit low. He therefore prescribed some iron in the form of tiny black pills, of which Victoire had to swallow twelve three times a day. With the iron, the affection of her daughter, and that of her grandchildren, everything would soon be back to normal, he concluded jovially.
This was not to be the case. Just the contrary. In the course of the following months, Victoire’s health deteriorated to such an extent that she had trouble climbing two stairs on the staircase. She lost weight and weighed eighty-eight pounds, no more than a child. Jeanne was now worried sick. She was prepared to follow the most ludicrous advice. Someone spoke highly of the beneficial effects of the sea, although thalassotherapy was not yet in vogue. Straightaway, she began looking for a rental at Bas-du-Fort or Le Gosier. Though she never missed a day of school, her idea, proof of how worried she was, was to take a leave without wages in order to look after her mother. But Victoire didn’t want to miss her daily rendezvous with Anne-Marie. Since an acquaintance had mentioned to her a masseuse who did miracles in Le Lamentin, Jeanne was prepared to drive Victoire there. But since the masseuse demanded half a dozen candles and a yard of white percale, Victoire objected that as a God-fearing person, she did not want any part in magic.
It was then that Dr. Combet arrived from Lille.
He was not a Grand Nègre. He was blond, almost red-haired, with blue eyes. His practice was located on the Grand’Rue in an elegant building not far from the house of Eugène Souques, the actual Saint-John Perse museum, and surprised the inhabitants of La Pointe by making his staff wear face masks. He himself wore a genuine astronaut’s outfit: boots, goggles, and a strange uniform covered in pockets. His wife came from Buenos Aires. In short, he seemed to embody the ostentation of the mulattoes. Nevertheless, Victoire’s health was reason enough to bend the rules and Jeanne quickly went for a consultation. Something unusual for the time and which added to his prestige, he did not risk a diagnosis before conducting a series of examinations and laboratory tests. For weeks, then, Victoire had to climb docilely up the hill to the hospital, accompanied by Jeanne. She filled vials of blood and urine. Spit into flasks. Gave stool samples. Let them X-ray her organs.
One morning Jeanne and Victoire returned to the Grand’Rue, where Dr. Combet told them in a hushed voice:
“It’s leukemia.”
What terrified Jeanne was the expression on this man of science’s face. Slumped in his chair, he stared at her in awful seriousness. Her intuition told her that very soon she was going to face that moment which terrifies every one of us: the death of one’s mother.
TWENTY
In those days they didn’t really know how to treat leukemia.
At the very most they gave Victoire regular blood transfusions. Surprising as that may seem, the treatment first of all appeared to work. She gained weight. The color came back to her cheeks. She sang for her beloved grandson:
Là ro dan bwa
Ti ni on joupa
Pèsonn pa savé ki sa ki adan
Sé on zombie kalenda
By the way, this preference for Auguste irritated Jeanne. She saw there evidence of her mother’s elusive character and her faculty, under her submissive and subordinate airs, to do just as she pleased. She wouldn’t admit it, but Jeanne was jealous of her own child. Had Victoire felt the same way about her?
When Victoire gained ten pounds, she found renewed hope. Once a week Victoire went to see Dr. Combet for tests, which he assured her were satisfactory, and she returned home in good spirits.
At the Dubouchage school, Thursday afternoons were reserved for the “open air.” Jeanne led her fifth-year pupils to Bas-du-Fort. All along the two-mile ramble, the mistress and her pupils aroused the admiration of bystanders. Jeanne for her elegance and bearing—“Such a handsome woman,” they whispered invariably — the children because they marched in rhythm to songs they shouted at the tops of their voices:
A kilometer on foot,
Wears out, wears out
A kilometer on foot
Wears out your shoes
Or else:
One more ki-ki
Ki-lo-lo