Who Slashed Celanire's Throat?: A Fantastical Tale

Guadeloupe: The Same Year

When they landed at the Lardenoy wharf in La Pointe, all the lychee trees on the island, from Matouba to Montebello, from Cocoyer to Trois-Rivières, were loaded with fruit, a good three months ahead of time, and it was as though clusters of tiny Chinese lanterns had been lit among the thick foliage. The lychee is a miserly and secretive tree. It only bears a few bunches at a time, and even then only every seven years. What then did such an abundance herald? A series of catastrophes, no doubt. Since March was not the hurricane season, some people peered at La Soufrière. It was true that for some weeks now it had been emitting gas and smoke again, as nauseous as somebody breaking wind. Others remembered it was the tenth anniversary of an earthquake that had devastated La Pointe from top to bottom. Afterward they had lost count of the number of dead and homeless. Other conflicting voices claimed that on the contrary, the lychees were a sign of good fortune. Good fortune, however, was something the folks in Guadeloupe were not used to seeing, and nobody paid them any attention.

Elissa de Kerdoré was waiting for Celanire at the foot of the gangway with members of the Lucioles association, clutching bouquets of arum lilies. Celanire accepted the flowers. Oddly enough, she refused to return Elissa’s outpouring of emotion and gave her a reluctant peck, as if suddenly she was embarrassed by their relationship. As for the Lucioles members, she scarcely greeted them. She eluded Elissa’s questions about the journey, explaining merely that in Lima she had fallen seriously ill. She had almost lost her life, in fact. As a result she had seen nothing of what travelers enthuse over — the selva, the páramo, the pyramids of the Incas and their temples of worship. She hadn’t visited Machu Picchu. No, she hadn’t made a pilgrimage to Arequipa in the footsteps of Flora Tristan. No, she hadn’t been interested in the condition of the Amerindian women. Thereupon she turned her back on the crowd of inquisitive women and headed for the carriage, whose horses were stamping impatiently over a mountain of manure.

The journey from La Pointe to Basse-Terre lasted the entire day.

Comfortably propped against the cushions, Thomas and Celanire constantly dozed off. As for Ludivine, she never tired of gazing at her surroundings. She had forgotten the splendor of her adopted island. They drove through a series of landscapes, each one more impressive than the next — from the formidable mangrove swamps around La Pointe and the cane fields of Petit-Bourg, bristling with their shaftlike flowers, to the banana groves at Capesterre, each tree bent double from the weight of its cluster of fruit, and the foothills of the volcano flecked with fleecy clouds. After Gourbeyre, they made a sharp turn, and the horses seemed to gallop straight for the blue gulf of the ocean. Then they swerved suddenly to the right and entered Basse-Terre.

It was barely dark. But with shutters lowered, the houses were already asleep. At the governor’s residence the servants, making believe they were glad to see their masters back, served a light supper. Ludivine’s nurse went into raptures: how she had grown in such a short time! How could she possibly talk to her like a little girl now and tell her bedtime stories! Then everyone retired to their quarters. Thomas and Celanire had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for some time now, and night visits to each other were rare. Once he had drunk his laudanum, Thomas was about to drop off when he heard the door creak open. He opened his eyes and to his surprise saw his wife appear, her hair falling loose, wearing a white silk negligee over a nightdress of the same color, a lace ribbon around her neck.

She came and lay down next to him in bed, and he caressed her tenderly, surprised by her mysterious, preoccupied expression.

“What’s the matter, my little pet?”

She curled up against him. He loved her fresh smell of the rain forest.

“Do you remember what Montaigne said: ‘The soul which has no set aim is lost’?”

He burst out laughing.

“I thought you hated Montaigne. Since when have you been reading the Essais?”

She turned to face him.

“I want a child!”

“A child?” he repeated, flabbergasted, almost frightened.

He doubted he was capable, but miraculously, he felt his member stiffen. Meanwhile, she was clasping him in her arms as she used to do and whispering in his ear:

“Please, Thomas! All I can do now is be a good mother.”