The Book of Night Women (25 page)

Lilith don’t know what to do with her head. She think to cut it off so that her mind would stop haunt her. Dulcimena, no matter what wrong with her, could still laugh like God did wish a niggerwoman joy. Seem that when Dulcimena dead, the noise in the house dead with her and the corridors feel colder. Lilith cook the meals fast, so she have plenty time to think about how she no got nobody. One day, she so sick with herself that she go from room to room downstairs looking for something to make her mind flee from herself, even if that mean more work. She open a door that never open before and smell something that leave her memory a long time ago. She close her eye and breathe in long and deep. She breathe out long and slow and breathe in deep again. That scent, like tobacco, or an old batch of spice.

Books.

Wall and wall and wall and wall of nothing but book.

Massa Roget library.

Nigger got no reason to mess with books, not even to clean them. She pull a blue book out, open it and then clap the thing shut. There be something in the sound that make her giggle. She pull another one out and blow the dust off the top and feel she just clear away a secret mystery. Books. She grab one book because it red like a cherry and another because it red like blood. Lilith run her fingers along a shelf of brown book that feel like the skin of a shoe. Leather. She pull out one and carve in the front is a ship, while at the back is a half woman, half fish. Lilith never see the like of which before. In the book was handwriting but the writing too tight for her to make out any word. And Lilith did more spelling than reading so making out words was still not easy. Some words she know without thinking, others she had to call out the letter until the shape fit into her mouth and she know it. At the end of the same shelf of leather books she pull out the last one. Behind that book was another. Lilith go the door and look east and west. The mistress was asleep and Matraca would never leave that room upstairs. The massa was a good four hours away. Lilith go back to the shelf and pull out four to see which books hiding behind them. One say
Fanny Hill
, one say
Moll Flanders
and one say something that look like it write by the devil. The next one spit out dust and make her cough. She put them back and her finger brush another book, with a rough skin like linen or osnaburg. She look outside at the sunset and pull the book and gasp when she open it.

Joseph Andrews
.

 

 

Massa Humphrey come to supper
at Coulibre after dusk. Lilith watch him as he seat Miss Isobel first, then sit down beside her. Francine seat Mistress Roget, then stand behind her. The supper table not longer than Montpelier’s but it dress more fabulous, with lace mats and shiny silver candle holder in the middle and blue and white plates that Dulcimena used to say worth more than a brand-new nigger. Miss Isobel and Massa Humphrey to one side. Massa Roget at the head and Mistress Roget at the foot. Before they even commence to eating, Miss Isobel tell her father how Montpelier niggers be getting away with so much murder that nobody goin’ surprise when they commit the act.

—A nigger not be like, I mean is not like, a man, Humphrey. Papa says that in his ways he is more like a cockatoo. Was that not what you said, Papa, was that not what you said exactly? They can imitate us, but above that they are still beasts that’d even kill their own? Miss Isobel say over roast goose and stuffed fowl.

—My daughter speaks my exact words, young sir. They are beasts that kill their own. I had a kitchen slave who killed her own twins, several months ago. Gave the poor bastards a Christian burial myself. Killers, the lot of them.

—Then in that regard they are more like us than we care to imagine, Massa Humphrey say.

—God’s words! Why must blood be brought up at the table! My husband and daughter are so insufferable, the mistress say, but nobody listening to her.

—Oh, no, young sir, they are nothing like us, they have no interest in the finer arts, knowledge, literature and science, nothing that man has put in place for his own advancement. No, sir, Massa Roget say.

—Neither do we, for the most part. In the colonies for certain, I must say. Present company excluded, of course.

—Good sir, you flatter me. I’ve certainly had my share of intelligence, but we were speaking of these unfortunate negroes.

—Some of his slaves choose when to have their own meals, Papa, Miss Isobel say.

—What? Good sir, surely my daughter speaks false.

—I think a negro is quite capable of knowing when he is hungry, sir. And truthfully, I don’t much care. Production is up and Montpelier continues to be the envy of many.

—That may be so, Master Wilson, but how do you know you’re not on the brink of rebellion? No, milord, take some stern words from a man who’s endured a lot more than you. You weren’t here for seventeen sixty. Oh, that was a year. Sixty good souls murdered all because these bushmen wanted to set up their African state! Confound it!

—Tacky?

—So you
have
heard of Tacky and his little revolt?

—I’ve heard of him and of seventeen sixty.

—A dark year for this island. Your father was involved, sir, surely he must have told you. I fought by his side myself!

—My father was never one to have me in his confidence.

—I see. Well, as we are in the company of such fine, gentle ladies I shall not bring up that bloody, tragic event.

—Please refrain from such, Mr. Roget, for you shall aggravate my poor nerves, Mistress Roget say.

—I daresay there is nothing poor about your nerves, Mrs. Roget, certainly not to this purse, Massa Roget say to him wife, then turn back to Massa Humphrey.

—No, sir, slaves cannot be trusted to do anything themselves.

—Not even eat, sir?

—What are we doing right now, Humphrey? Speak up, boy.

—I will not be called a boy, sir.

—My apologies, good sir, I am remiss, Massa Roget say, looking at Miss Isobel.

—Well, unless my vision serves me wrongly, I’d say we were eating.

—Eating and what else?

—Really, sir, I wish you’d get to the—

—Eating and talking, sir, we’re talking. We are in discourse. And who’s to say your negroes aren’t doing the same? A chance to talk in numbers is a chance to gossip, conspire and plot. Most estates have one gentleman or lady to thirty to thirty-three niggers, Humphrey. Thirty-three sullen, lazy, rebellious negroes, many unseasoned. Have you been to the dark continent, sir?

—Oh, no, Venice was as dark as my travels got me, I’m afraid.

—Well, curse me, I’ve been. So savage a disposition is the blackie that many cook and eat their enemies! The heart they find a particularly tasty dish.

—Mr. Roget! Mistress Roget say.

—Mrs. Roget. The truth shall never be an unwelcome guest at my table. Not at all. As I was saying, they, meaning the negro, have a ferocity in manner that must be tamed. At all times they must fear you, Master Humphrey, they simply must. Because they are capable of thought, some anyway, and once you have them thinking beyond fear of the cowhide, they will see strength in numbers.

—My negroes are quite docile.

—Your negroes are plotting. You must tame these beasts, young sir, you must never, ever let a slave forget that you are master. At least those Maroons have begun to behave themselves accordingly—well, as accordingly as wild rutting beasts can possibly be. Raided us all the time, they used to, and who can blame them? Why raise chickens when you can steal them, after all? Even they were of little use in seventeen sixty.

—Seventeen sixty, you say? Pardon me, I’ve just realised. My father had never even seen Jamaica before the seventeen seventies.

—Really? I could have sworn . . . nevertheless, I shall not ever forget that year, sir, even though I was quite young myself when it happened. I shall take it to my grave. That Tacky was a demon. That—that . . .

Massa Roget didn’t finish the sentence. He start cough little, then hard, then he start trembling and grabbing him left shoulder with him right hand. He fall back in the chair and him face red like beet. Massa Roget eyes gone.

—Good lord! Massa Humphrey say and jump up. The mistress and Miss Isobel rush to him too.

—Dearest Papa, what’s the matter? Miss Isobel say.

—Water! Water! Get him water! Mistress Roget say. Massa Roget coughing and him eye getting redder. He squeeze him left arm with the right and he shaking all over. Everything he say come out as a cough or a wheeze.—He wants water! Mistress Roget say. Him face get redder. He cough up something dreadful. Miss Isobel grab her father, and almost push the mistress out of the way. Everything quiet save for the wheezing sucking in and out of him chest. Francine pour water from a pitcher to a glass and give it to Miss Isobel. Miss Isobel hold the glass to her father mouth and he gulp down the water and cough. Plenty time pass before he stop breathing queer-like.

—For heaven’s sake, sir, do you need a physician? Massa Humphrey say.

—I already know the great physician, Massa Roget say and try to laugh but the laugh turn into a cough.—Probably just the wind leaving me for a second, not for the first time either. Fret—fret not, young sir, this too shall pass.

Massa Humphrey look at him for a long time. Lilith was by the door watching Massa Roget. She didn’t look at Massa Humphrey.

Mistress Roget, who was red herself from not getting to talk, finally say that while Lilith has come a long way, she still have a disturbing spiritedness that must be tamed. So the Roget family get new permission to whip Lilith. Lilith get whip and hit so much that she could tell just from the sound what a nigger was getting beaten with. Lilith know the sound of cowskin on young flesh and how different it be when it lash old flesh. Lilith know the difference between the smart of the rope, cowskin, cart whip, bullwhip, slap with wedding-ring finger, punch, box, and hot tea throw on her dress. Most of the whipping, pinching, hiding, scraping, cutting, thumping and punching Mistress Roget do herself. Even though otherwise she never come out of bed, sake of the hard birthing she do for the young’un, or so she claim to anybody who would hear, even negro.

Lilith take her beating in silence. But fire going off in her head. Blood spraying and flesh tearing. Lilith can’t sleep, not ’cause the cuts from the whip burnin’ her, but because darkness burnin’ in her own heart. Ashanti blood racing through her and she can’t stop thinking about white people shedding theirs. Even the two young children. Lilith count how much lash she get each time and by who and she remember it. She think of Mistress Roget getting tie to a tree and getting whip till she raw. She think of dashing salt in her gashes until the mistress smell like corned pork. She think of a cornstalk thick like black man cock ramming up Massa Roget arse so hard that he piss blood in him own bath. Lilith having dark thoughts and think the devil taking control of her. And there be no Homer to know without Lilith telling and help without Lilith asking. There be only Joseph Andrews. There be only one man, one soul, that can make her laugh and he be neither black nor real:

There was a time when she would reckon a certain white man in this certain way and not think it uncanny. She think of perfect legs, sturdy and strong like a wonderful horse, legs that only behaving as they should inside breeches that can’t deny what pack tight and loose where the two legs meet.

She need him every night. After working through a page, she would wipe away tears from laughing quiet-like and feel her face. The soft skin would surprise her. Something about her new days make her expecting that one day and one day soon her face would feel hard as rock. Hard from dark thoughts. She take the book out at night when everybody gone to sleep and try to read with piece of a candle. In time, reading wasn’t even too difficult and she come to understand Joseph Andrews in a way that perplex her about other white man. Joseph Andrews never do a cruel thing, but he also didn’t know negro flesh. But sometimes she wonder if this Joseph, being as him be, was a real man after all. For he take after no kind of man she ever meet. Not even Robert Quinn, and it anger her to think of the Irishman and him damn
wanton ringlets down his back
and him ye’s and fer’s and lasses and feckin’.

She read this over and over and the more she read, the more it perplex her.