--"Mi!"
--"Ah! quimbé moin!" cries black Fafa, enthusiastically; "fouinq! li
bel!--Jésis-Maïa! li doux!"... Neither ever saw that woman before; and
both feel as if they could watch her forever.
There is something superb in the port of a tall young mountain-griffone,
or negress, who is comely and knows that she is comely: it is a black
poem of artless dignity, primitive grace, savage exultation of
movement.... "Ou marché tête enlai cornu couresse qui ka passé
lariviè" (_You walk with, your head in the air, like the
couresse-serpent swimming a river_) is a creole comparison which
pictures perfectly the poise of her neck and chin. And in her walk there
is also a serpentine elegance, a sinuous charm: the shoulders do not
swing; the cambered torso seems immobile;--but alternately from waist to
heel, and from heel to waist, with each long full stride, an
indescribable undulation seems to pass; while the folds of her loose
robe oscillate to right and left behind her, in perfect libration, with
the free swaying of the hips. With us, only a finely trained dancer
could attempt such a walk;--with the Martinique woman of color it is
natural as the tint of her skin; and this allurement of motion
unrestrained is most marked in those who have never worn shoes and are
clad lightly as the women of antiquity,--in two very thin and simple
garments;--chemise and _robe-d'indienne_.... But whence is she?--of what
canton? Not from Vauclin, nor from Lamentin, nor from Marigot,--from
Case-Pilote or from Case-Navire: Fafa knows all the people there. Never
of Sainte-Anne, nor of Sainte-Luce, nor of Sainte-Marie, nor of Diamant,
nor of Gros-Morne, nor of Carbet,--the birthplace of Gabou. Neither is
she of the village of the Abysms, which is in the Parish of the
Preacher,--nor yet of Ducos nor of François, which are in the Commune
of the Holy Ghost....
V
... She approaches the ajoupa: both men remove their big straw hats; and
both salute her with a simultaneous "Bonjou', Manzell."
--"Bonjou', Missié," she responds, in a sonorous alto, without
appearing to notice Gabou,--but smiling upon Fafa as she passes, with
her great eyes turned full upon his face.... All the libertine blood of
the man flames under that look;--he feels as if momentarily wrapped in a
blaze of black lightning.
--"Ça ka fai moin pè," exclaims Gabou, turning his face towards the
ajoupa. Something indefinable in the gaze of the stranger has terrified
him.
--"_Pa ka fai moin pè--fouinq!_" (She does not make me afraid) laughs
Fafa, boldly following her with a smiling swagger.
--"Fafa!" cries Gabou, in alarm. "_Fafa, pa ça!_"
But Fafa does not heed. The strange woman has slackened her pace, as if
inviting pursuit;--another moment and he is at her side.
--"Oti ou ka rété, chè?" he demands, with the boldness of one who
knows himself a fine specimen of his race.
--"Zaffai cabritt pa zaffai lapin," she answers, mockingly.
--"Mais pouki ou rhabillé toutt noué conm ça."
--"Moin pòté deil pou name moin mò."
--"Ale ya yaïe!... Non, voué!--ça ou kallé atouèlement?"
--"Lanmou pàti: moin pàti delé lanmou."
--"Ho!--ou ni guêpe, anh?"
--"Zanoli bail yon bal; épi maboya rentré ladans."
--"Di moin oti ou kallé, doudoux?"
--"Jouq lariviè Lezà."
--"Fouinq!--ni plis passé trente kilomett!"
--"Eh ben?--ess ou 'lè vini épi moin?"[16]
And as she puts the question she stands still and gazes at him;--her
voice is no longer mocking: it has taken another tone,--a tone soft as
the long golden note of the little brown bird they call the
_siffleur-de-montagne_, the mountain-whistler.... Yet Fafa hesitates. He
hears the clear clang of the plantation bell recalling him to duty;--he
sees far down the road--(_Ouill!_ how fast they have been walking!)--a
white and black speck in the sun: Gabou, uttering through his joined
hollowed hands, as through a horn, the _ouklé_, the rally call. For an
instant he thinks of the overseer's anger,--of the distance,--of the
white road glaring in the dead heat: then he looks again into the black
eyes of the strange woman, and answers:
--"Oui;--moin ké vini épi ou."
With a burst of mischievous laughter, in which Fafa joins, she walks
on,--Fafa striding at her side.... And Gabou, far off, watches them
go,--and wonders that, for the first time since ever they worked
together, his comrade failed to answer his _ouklé._
--"Coument yo ka crié ou, chè?" asks Fafa, curious to know her name.
--"Châché nom moin ou-menm, duviné."
But Fafa never was a good guesser,--never could guess the simplest of
tim-tim.
--"Ess Cendrine?"
--"Non, çé pa ça."
--"Ess Vitaline?"
--"Non, çé pa ça."
--"Ess Aza?"
--"Non, çé pa ça."
--"Ess Nini?"
--"Chaché encò."
--"Ess Tité?"
--"Ou pa save,--tant pis pou ou!"
--"Ess Youma?"
--"Pouki ou 'lè save nom moin?--ça ou ké fai épi y?"
--"Ess Yaiya?"
--"Non, çé pa y."
--"Ess Maiyotte?"
--"Non! ou pa ké janmain trouvé y!"
--"Ess Sounoune?--ess Loulouze?"
She does not answer, but quickens her pace and begins to sing,--not as
the half-breed, but as the African sings,--commencing with a low long
weird intonation that suddenly breaks into fractions of notes
inexpressible, then rising all at once to a liquid purling bird-tone,
and descending as abruptly again to the first deep quavering strain:--
"À tè--
moin ka dòmi toute longue;
Yon paillasse sé fai moin bien,
Doudoux!
À tè--
moin ka dòmi toute longue;
Yon robe biésé sé fai moin bien,
Doudoux!
À tè--
moin ka dòmi toute longue;
Dè jolis foulà sé fai moin bien,
Doudoux!
À tè--
moin ka dòmi toute longue;
Yon joli madras sé fai moin bien,
Doudoux!
À tè--
moin ka dòmi toute longue:
Çé à tè..."
... Obliged from the first to lengthen his stride in order to keep up
with her, Fafa has found his utmost powers of walking overtaxed, and has
been left behind. Already his thin attire is saturated with sweat; his
breathing is almost a panting;--yet the black bronze of his companion's
skin shows no moisture; her rhythmic step, her silent respiration,
reveal no effort: she laughs at his desperate straining to remain by her
side.
--"Marché toujou' deïé moin,--anh, chè?--marché toujou' deïé!"...
And the involuntary laggard--utterly bewitched by the supple allurement
of her motion, by the black flame of her gaze, by the savage melody of
her chant--wonders more and more who she may be, while she waits for him
with her mocking smile.
But Gabou--who has been following and watching from afar off, and
sounding his fruitless ouklé betimes--suddenly starts, halts, turns,
and hurries back, fearfully crossing himself at every step.
He has seen the sign by which She is known....
[Footnote 16:--"Where dost stay, dear?"
--"Affaire of the goat are not affaire of the rabbit."
--"But why art thou dressed all in black thus?"
--"I wear mourning for my dead soul."
--"_Aïe ya yaïe!_... No, true!... where art thou going now?"
--"Love is gone: I go after love."
--"Ho! thou hast a Wasp [lover]--eh?"
--"The zanoli gives a ball; the maboya enters unasked."
--"Tell me where thou art going, sweetheart?"
--"As far as the River of the Lizard."
--"_Fouinq!_--there are more than thirty kilometres!"
--"What of that?--do t thou want to come with me?"]