Pitre, and Montroux drift
toward the headland at Jarry. At that time, one side of the Place de la Victoire, devoid of wharfs, came to rest on a quiet beach while the other three sides were lined by the trees of liberty, the sandbox trees planted by M. Victor Hughes. In the neighboring streets, cases and bundles of merchandise were piled up in front of the stores amid heaps of packing straw and canvas. True to their habits, a crowd of loudmouthed and ragged dockers stared at the young girls. Lourdes was offended by the catcalls and lewd invitations, whereas Victoire kept walking, head lowered, hugging her child to her heart.
Once again they didn’t have enough money to pay for the coach that traveled from La Pointe to Goyave in two hours and forty-five minutes. They had to make do with one of the sailboats that linked up with Petit Bourg by way of the Petit Cul-de-Sac. Since they were to set sail at dawn, they had to sleep at the house of a certain Sigismonde Quidal on the road to Les Abymes, who asked next to nothing for the room and pig-foot soup.
They left at four in the morning, the baby muffled up to her eyes, the adults shivering in the cool of the predawn. They had been kept awake by the chimes of the church of Saint-Pierre and Saint-Paul. They had just dropped off when the din of the night soil carts and the smell of their contents abundantly spread over the sidewalks once again interrupted their sleep. At La Pointe, the town’s sanitation services resembled Rio de Janeiro’s, a city that didn’t have cesspools either. Excrement was poured into barrels, the contents of which were then thrown into the sea.
On the other side of the bay, nestled up against the mountains, the busy streets of Petit Bourg hinted at the crowded town it is today. Lourdes and Victoire did not linger and set off for Goyave, carrying the baby in turns as they walked the six or seven kilometers. Victoire was frightened by the roar of the rivers and gullies that wound under the rope bridges, as well as by the stifling thickness of the vigorous vegetation ready to swallow her up: all types of trees whose armpits were eaten away by wild pineapples, creepers, orchids, tree ferns, and shrubs. This landscape was so different from the flat cane fields of Marie-Galante, dotted here and there by windmills. At times they were forced into the ditch to avoid the oxcarts, trundling along amid the cracking of whips, the swearing of the drivers, and the creaking of the axles.
The town of Goyave was nothing more than a hamlet. A few cabins scattered along the seashore. But it took them hours to find Elie’s. Fortunately, at the church that had been totally destroyed by the 1843 earthquake and rebuilt in stone, the asthmatic priest was kind enough to give them directions. They had to walk along the railroad tracks, used for transporting the cane to the Marquisat factory in Capesterre, until they reached the entrance to the beach at Sainte-Claire. Dusk was falling when they finally knocked on the right door.
Alas! Bobette was giving birth to her twelfth child.
You would have expected it to be a mere formality, to go off without a hitch, as the saying goes. Far from it. The poor woman was losing pints of blood and screaming like an animal in agony. Some matronly neighbors were busy carrying scarlet-stained sheets and calabashes of water. The following morning Elie was a widower, father of Eliacin, the fifth son, a pale crybaby of a boy who never got over the death of his mother. Elie suffered a lot. In his own reserved way, he had adored his Bobette. It’s true she was no longer very lovely. It’s true she had become fat, enormous even, from giving birth, and from eating breadfruit,
dombwé
dumplings, and thick soup. Even so, she had meant a lot to him.
The next morning, they were getting ready for the wake ceremony when a tilbury jolted into the sunken lane. A young woman got out. Blonde, perfumed, dressed like a princess out of a fairy tale, it was
toward the headland at Jarry. At that time, one side of the Place de la Victoire, devoid of wharfs, came to rest on a quiet beach while the other three sides were lined by the trees of liberty, the sandbox trees planted by M. Victor Hughes. In the neighboring streets, cases and bundles of merchandise were piled up in front of the stores amid heaps of packing straw and canvas. True to their habits, a crowd of loudmouthed and ragged dockers stared at the young girls. Lourdes was offended by the catcalls and lewd invitations, whereas Victoire kept walking, head lowered, hugging her child to her heart.
Once again they didn’t have enough money to pay for the coach that traveled from La Pointe to Goyave in two hours and forty-five minutes. They had to make do with one of the sailboats that linked up with Petit Bourg by way of the Petit Cul-de-Sac. Since they were to set sail at dawn, they had to sleep at the house of a certain Sigismonde Quidal on the road to Les Abymes, who asked next to nothing for the room and pig-foot soup.
They left at four in the morning, the baby muffled up to her eyes, the adults shivering in the cool of the predawn. They had been kept awake by the chimes of the church of Saint-Pierre and Saint-Paul. They had just dropped off when the din of the night soil carts and the smell of their contents abundantly spread over the sidewalks once again interrupted their sleep. At La Pointe, the town’s sanitation services resembled Rio de Janeiro’s, a city that didn’t have cesspools either. Excrement was poured into barrels, the contents of which were then thrown into the sea.
On the other side of the bay, nestled up against the mountains, the busy streets of Petit Bourg hinted at the crowded town it is today. Lourdes and Victoire did not linger and set off for Goyave, carrying the baby in turns as they walked the six or seven kilometers. Victoire was frightened by the roar of the rivers and gullies that wound under the rope bridges, as well as by the stifling thickness of the vigorous vegetation ready to swallow her up: all types of trees whose armpits were eaten away by wild pineapples, creepers, orchids, tree ferns, and shrubs. This landscape was so different from the flat cane fields of Marie-Galante, dotted here and there by windmills. At times they were forced into the ditch to avoid the oxcarts, trundling along amid the cracking of whips, the swearing of the drivers, and the creaking of the axles.
The town of Goyave was nothing more than a hamlet. A few cabins scattered along the seashore. But it took them hours to find Elie’s. Fortunately, at the church that had been totally destroyed by the 1843 earthquake and rebuilt in stone, the asthmatic priest was kind enough to give them directions. They had to walk along the railroad tracks, used for transporting the cane to the Marquisat factory in Capesterre, until they reached the entrance to the beach at Sainte-Claire. Dusk was falling when they finally knocked on the right door.
Alas! Bobette was giving birth to her twelfth child.
You would have expected it to be a mere formality, to go off without a hitch, as the saying goes. Far from it. The poor woman was losing pints of blood and screaming like an animal in agony. Some matronly neighbors were busy carrying scarlet-stained sheets and calabashes of water. The following morning Elie was a widower, father of Eliacin, the fifth son, a pale crybaby of a boy who never got over the death of his mother. Elie suffered a lot. In his own reserved way, he had adored his Bobette. It’s true she was no longer very lovely. It’s true she had become fat, enormous even, from giving birth, and from eating breadfruit,
dombwé
dumplings, and thick soup. Even so, she had meant a lot to him.
The next morning, they were getting ready for the wake ceremony when a tilbury jolted into the sunken lane. A young woman got out. Blonde, perfumed, dressed like a princess out of a fairy tale, it was
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