Read Online A Million Nightingales by Susan Straight - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Straight
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You mate with someone else. I can read Latin and Spanish, and it won't change my task.”
She opened the ledger and ran her finger down the words on a list. I tried to read quickly.
Two armoires—twenty-five piastres. Silver dessert spoons— eleven piastres. Preserve dishes—five piastres.
She turned the page. Another list, Msieu's writing, the letters slanted as if facing a strong wind.
Esclaves. The list of us.
Hera—Senegalese, 32. Aphrodite—Creole nègre, 15. Apollo— Creole nègre, 10. Janus—Creole nègre, 9. Romulus—Creole nègre, 7. (En famille—nine hundred fifty piastres.)
The newest purchases, written last.
Her finger moved past their names quickly. “An infant,” she said.
Michel—Creole nègre, 30—one thousand piastres. Eveline— griffe, 26—seven hundred piastres. Bat—sacatra, 10—three hundred piastres. Alphonse—sacatra, 8—three hundred piastres. Séraphine—sacatra, infant—fifty piastres.
“Look, there's a baby. Do you see? The moment your mammal breathes, it will be worth money.”
I was tired of lessons, of all the words—
sacatra, mammal, patella, dahlia.
I said, “And our tasks do not differ?” Then my face flushed with fear at my angry voice. If she told her father—
She closed the ledger before I could find my own name. Or my mother's.
“My task is to make money by marrying,” she said, looking out onto the gallery. “The moment I agree, my father makes money. But then I must lie down and receive the formation of a boy. Or everything will be lost. That's what they whisper in the hallway.”
She turned to face me. “When you put burning solutions on my face and head, I tell myself you are completing your tasks, and I am completing mine. I try not to hate you.”
We heard a boat passing on the river. I couldn't hate her. When she went with the husband, she might take me. How much was I worth? I opened the ledger again to the same page. Marie-Claire—Senegalese, 60—five piastres.
The woman who had stayed awake night after night with Grandmère Bordelon—until rats tasted her flesh.
Céphaline closed the book.
“I try not to hate you as well,” I said softly, then waited for her to strike me, but she was hardly listening. The words Tretite had told me measured the blood. Mulâtresse after my name. And anumber. My lessons. I said, “Your father's list will say the name of my mammal. Your father's Bible will say the name of your mammal.”
Céphaline looked past me. She said, “The cousin or nephew will say, Your eyes. Creoles don't have such eyes. That is what they all say. I want to say, They see. That is what I always say.”
I couldn't tell my mother the words and numbers. Marie-Claire spinning in front of her house all day, fingers shiny as polished wood. Five piastres. Less than spoons.
I couldn't see my mother at all. The house was full, with the Lemoynes from New Orleans, daughter and husband, three aunts and cousins, all worried about Petit Clair and the sugar mill.
Félonise's eyes moved like gray wood lice, hurrying over each table setting, but her hands moved slow like a hunting cat when she arranged things. Squab—twenty of them, laid out on serving platters, and then their bones ringing on the plates like a game.
Céphaline was silent, even when a Lemoyne aunt said sweetly, “I heard you are writing a book.”
Madame said quickly, “No, she is painting. Birds and flowers.”
But Céphaline said nothing, didn't eat her squab or ham. She touched the tail of the fish on the platter. Her hair was perfect, the blue ribbon around her forehead matched her eyes, and her skin, from a distance, was white. But the scabs made a map under the rice powder.
“So far south of the city,” Msieu Lemoyne's daughter said, holding her fork delicately. Her wrist bones moved like peach pits under the skin. “No opera, no schools. I prefer to stay in our other house. And the lawyer wants to inquire quickly about possible buyers.”
Her husband
She opened the ledger and ran her finger down the words on a list. I tried to read quickly.
Two armoires—twenty-five piastres. Silver dessert spoons— eleven piastres. Preserve dishes—five piastres.
She turned the page. Another list, Msieu's writing, the letters slanted as if facing a strong wind.
Esclaves. The list of us.
Hera—Senegalese, 32. Aphrodite—Creole nègre, 15. Apollo— Creole nègre, 10. Janus—Creole nègre, 9. Romulus—Creole nègre, 7. (En famille—nine hundred fifty piastres.)
The newest purchases, written last.
Her finger moved past their names quickly. “An infant,” she said.
Michel—Creole nègre, 30—one thousand piastres. Eveline— griffe, 26—seven hundred piastres. Bat—sacatra, 10—three hundred piastres. Alphonse—sacatra, 8—three hundred piastres. Séraphine—sacatra, infant—fifty piastres.
“Look, there's a baby. Do you see? The moment your mammal breathes, it will be worth money.”
I was tired of lessons, of all the words—
sacatra, mammal, patella, dahlia.
I said, “And our tasks do not differ?” Then my face flushed with fear at my angry voice. If she told her father—
She closed the ledger before I could find my own name. Or my mother's.
“My task is to make money by marrying,” she said, looking out onto the gallery. “The moment I agree, my father makes money. But then I must lie down and receive the formation of a boy. Or everything will be lost. That's what they whisper in the hallway.”
She turned to face me. “When you put burning solutions on my face and head, I tell myself you are completing your tasks, and I am completing mine. I try not to hate you.”
We heard a boat passing on the river. I couldn't hate her. When she went with the husband, she might take me. How much was I worth? I opened the ledger again to the same page. Marie-Claire—Senegalese, 60—five piastres.
The woman who had stayed awake night after night with Grandmère Bordelon—until rats tasted her flesh.
Céphaline closed the book.
“I try not to hate you as well,” I said softly, then waited for her to strike me, but she was hardly listening. The words Tretite had told me measured the blood. Mulâtresse after my name. And anumber. My lessons. I said, “Your father's list will say the name of my mammal. Your father's Bible will say the name of your mammal.”
Céphaline looked past me. She said, “The cousin or nephew will say, Your eyes. Creoles don't have such eyes. That is what they all say. I want to say, They see. That is what I always say.”
I couldn't tell my mother the words and numbers. Marie-Claire spinning in front of her house all day, fingers shiny as polished wood. Five piastres. Less than spoons.
I couldn't see my mother at all. The house was full, with the Lemoynes from New Orleans, daughter and husband, three aunts and cousins, all worried about Petit Clair and the sugar mill.
Félonise's eyes moved like gray wood lice, hurrying over each table setting, but her hands moved slow like a hunting cat when she arranged things. Squab—twenty of them, laid out on serving platters, and then their bones ringing on the plates like a game.
Céphaline was silent, even when a Lemoyne aunt said sweetly, “I heard you are writing a book.”
Madame said quickly, “No, she is painting. Birds and flowers.”
But Céphaline said nothing, didn't eat her squab or ham. She touched the tail of the fish on the platter. Her hair was perfect, the blue ribbon around her forehead matched her eyes, and her skin, from a distance, was white. But the scabs made a map under the rice powder.
“So far south of the city,” Msieu Lemoyne's daughter said, holding her fork delicately. Her wrist bones moved like peach pits under the skin. “No opera, no schools. I prefer to stay in our other house. And the lawyer wants to inquire quickly about possible buyers.”
Her husband
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