Part 6 (2/2)

”'What,' Emma says, 'You do not call her ”Mrs. de Rivera” or at least ”Aunt Rosa”?' She is shocked. But Rosa asked me to, although I do call her husband Uncle Henry. Aunt Emma does not understand that Rosa is like that; she doesn't care much about rules. The house is jolly. The boys are such pretty little boys; they break everything, but it doesn't seem to bother Rosa. She scatters things around, too. I laugh a lot when I am there. People laugh in their house. The boys are named after their father and their uncle. Jews aren't supposed to name after the living, but the de Riveras are Sephardic, and that's different. The family takes me to the synagogue, the Gates of Mercy. Sometimes when Marie Claire is in the city visiting, we take her, too.

”I wish I had a talent like Marie Claire's. Uncle Sisyphus says she might sing at the opera someday. She is surely not pretty except when she is singing. Then she is almost beautiful. I have quite a silly thought about her, that we will be connected in some way when we are grown up. I don't know why that should be, we hardly know each other.”

”The Scroll of the Law is full of holes; this synagogue is a poor place, but it is better than nothing, Uncle Henry says.

”I wish Papa would go with us, but he will not. It is too bad. Aunt Emma says that he is pleased that the de Riveras take me, they are a fine family. They are rich, that is what she and Papa mean. I am beginning to understand things that people don't think I understand.

”Sometimes I sit at the services half asleep because it can be very boring, but I don't mind, because I know my mother is glad I'm there. I feel her warm breath on my neck. Her shoulder touches mine. She is wearing the plaid shawl that she always wears when I think of her. I remember her death and I know for her sake I will never be led away from what I am. Never. I am what I am. New Orleans is a mixed-up place.”

”What a good thing it was that Papa was not with us last week on Yom Kippur. Manis Jacobs, who isn't really a rabbi anyway, said right out in the middle of the service that he was going home to eat and we should all go home, too, and eat, because fasting was ridiculous. And now this morning he is dead. I said to Papa that was perhaps G.o.d's punishment and Papa said that was superst.i.tious nonsense. He said it kindly, though.

”Now we shall have Rowley Marks to lead the congregation, and I think he knows even less than Manis Jacobs knew. Rosa says he got his name because he plays old Rowley in The School for Scandal. He is a part-time actor and also a captain in the fire engine company.

”But he doesn't pretend to be a scholar of religion, Uncle Henry says, and he keeps saying it will all come right in time, you have to give credit where it's due. These men are trying to keep our people together in the absence of anything better. At least they are not turning their backs on their own people. Like Papa, he means, and so many others.”

”I wrote to David and asked him why he can't study medicine here next year. But he doesn't want to. He says he cannot live in a place where human beings treat other human beings so cruelly.

”One would think that people here sat around thinking up ways to torture their servants! Aunt Emma and Papa are always so kind. They gave a wedding for the cook's daughter last month, with a white veil and a big cake. All the people in the house are very fond of them. They buy beautiful new clothes for Maxim and Chanute, who are always joking with each other. If they were so miserably treated, would they always be joking?

”I asked f.a.n.n.y whether she was happy and she said she certainly was. She likes the dances in New Orleans. You know, colored people love to dance, she said. And she was so pleased with the hat Aunt Emma gave her for Easter. I asked her whether there was any place she would rather be and she was quite alarmed. 'You're not going to send me away?' she asked. 'Of course not,' I said. 'I am going to teach you to read.' I go over my own lessons with her on the upper piazza after school. She is learning quickly, she is very smart, I think.”

”I got a letter from David in which he says he met Gabriel Carvalho.

New York, November, 1841 Dearest Sister, I do not know why you have been in my mind more than ever today. I am sitting here in front of my lamp and a pile of textbooks, three big, fat ones, to be exact, and I cannot open them without first writing this to you.

Oh, I do know why you've haunted me all day! Last night I met Gabriel Carvalho-we don't see each other much-the law school and the medical school are on different planets-but when we do, it's always so good. We have some gay times in New York, theater, dancing, interesting people. Last night we went visiting on Was.h.i.+ngton Square. That's where ”old” New York lives, very elegant, a little bit like your Place d'Armes, but not much. The houses all have ”stoops,” a high flight of steps up to the front door. Gas lights, of course, and fires in every fireplace-it's terribly cold here, the way it was in Europe. Can you still remember how we s.h.i.+vered?

Anyway-I'm wandering, it's past midnight and my half-sleepy thoughts come crowding-anyway, there was a young girl in the house who looked so much like you, or the way I imagine you must look now that you're almost fourteen, and it's because of seeing her that I've been missing you all day. Gabriel, too, remarked on the resemblance. I was surprised that he remembered you so clearly after all this time, but he did, and we talked about the day Gretel fell overboard and how you cried and thanked him so prettily.

Sometimes it seems as if all that was yesterday, so I must remind myself that you are no longer that eager little girl. I suppose they will soon be getting you ready for marriage. Whoever the man may be, I hope he will be exactly right for you, a kind man with the right thoughts.

You will at once interpret that as meaning the ”right politics,” I'm sure, but believe me, I am realistic enough to know that would be expecting too much, living as you do, where you are. So I'll merely hope you will love each other well, and let it go at that.

As to politics, you would be astounded-at least I always am, although I should be used to things here by now-at the number of people who talk like southern planters and have never been in the South at all. One finds them mostly among the Was.h.i.+ngton Square and the stock market crowd. In the medical school there's a mixture of opinions, ranging all the way to fiery New England abolitionism, with which, you must know, I find myself most at home.

Funny thing-when I'm with Gabriel, I hold my tongue about politics most of the time, and he does the same, because we don't want anything to come between us. I hope nothing ever will, but I don't know. In my dark moments I seem to see the country sliding toward conflict. G.o.d knows, I hope not.

Oh, why do I bother you with all this? It's only my middle-of-the-night mood, and missing you.

Besides, I'd better get to the books. It seems there's no end to what you have to memorize to become a doctor. But I still love what I'm doing and can't see myself being anything but a doctor.

Write and tell me everything about yourself, about school and the holidays and even your new dresses, everything.

Your loving brother,

David

”And Rosa got a letter the same day from Gabriel telling how he had met David. Rosa is very proud of her brother. 'He is the spiritual one in the family,' she says, 'not like me.'

”And then she said, 'Do you know he would make a fine husband for you?' Which was very embarra.s.sing because of the way she looked at me, as if she were measuring me like yard goods. After all, I am only thirteen-well, almost fourteen. Papa, I'm sure, would be very pleased if I were to tell him. The Sephardim set the standard with their culture, he says, in spite of being a trifle haughty. But Rosa is not haughty. And Gabriel wasn't, either. I liked him. He wasn't fun to talk to, the way David is, though. He was too quiet, I thought. Papa said he will be a handsome man when he's grown up. Anyway, I think it was very silly of Rosa to talk like that.”

”We are all going up the river by sidewheeler to stay at Plaisance for the christening of Pelagie's new baby, her first boy. Just think, she had no children when I first saw her, and now she has four!

”Aunt Emma says it is the duty of a wife to have a large family, as many children as she can. Rosa says Aunt Emma is the typical Creole. 'Make no mistake,' Rosa says, 'these women may not appear to, but they really run things. They are the matriarchs. It is the secret power of women.' Rosa tells me interesting things about the world, but I do not always agree with them. I think, from what I see, having all those babies cannot mean you run things. What secret power is that?

”So many of them die! What can be the joy of that? One of Aunt Emma's children died when it was just a week old, three of them died in the fever epidemic, one was bitten by a rattlesnake. How horrible! And some others died of second-summer sickness. It is such a dangerous time, the second summer. Oh, I should feel terrible if any of Pelagie's babies died! I don't know how Pelagie would bear it, she is so tender. She cries so easily. Over nothing, sometimes.”

”The house at Plaisance looks like that engraving of the Parthenon that hangs in the upstairs hall outside Papa's room. It belongs to Pelagie's father-in-law, Mr. Lambert Labouisse.

”Pelagie has to live there even though she doesn't want to. Sylvain's father scares me, he is so formal, with such cold eyes. You feel as if he'd have your head off if you were to laugh too loud or spill something. He is all starched, without a wrinkle; he kisses your hand and bows his head like a king with such a charming smile that does not go with the rest of his face. Pelagie says he can be charming, but when he has rages, then everyone, even his son Sylvain, is afraid of him.

”David and Sylvain didn't like each other. David has such strong opinions about people, the way he liked Gabriel and still writes about him. Yet I must say Sylvain is very kind to me. He gave me the most thoughtful present for my birthday, a basket for Gretel, who is growing old. But everyone here is very kind to me except perhaps Eulalie. I think she doesn't like Jews, but I wouldn't tell anyone I think so. She sometimes makes remarks that have a certain meaning, I'm sure. 'Oh, it's your holiday,' she'll say with a queer expression, as if she didn't think much of it. Rosa says people nurture hatreds when they are miserable, they need something or somebody to scorn. I suppose that makes sense.”

”What a grand place this is! One could fit our house inside it six times over. Every room is filled with relatives and all their children with their nurses. The children are everywhere on the stairs and in the halls, the white children and the servants' children, running and playing. I have never seen so many servants. The chef was an apprentice to one of the best chefs in Paris, they say.

”There are four thousand acres at Plaisance. It was a wedding present to Sylvain's mother when she married Lambert Labouisse. Most of the servants came with the place, born and buried here. It's like an enormous family. They have riding horses, I am learning to ride. There are carriages for everyone, whenever and wherever you want to go. Such splendor!

”I suppose Pelagie doesn't like it because it isn't her own, or won't be until Lambert Labouisse is dead, which I don't think will be very soon, he seems quite strong and not so very old.”

”The christening is to be on Sunday. One of the Labouisse aunts is to be marraine, the G.o.dmother, while Papa is to be the parrain, the G.o.dfather. G.o.dfather to a Catholic child! Papa laughed. 'I told you,' he said, 'in this wonderful place it doesn't matter.' His gift has to be a silver cup. It is the custom. He is a lovely baby named Alexandre.

”This morning Sylvain told Pelagie that now she had given him a son, he hoped she would give him many more. Can she really want more babies? She is getting too fat and after a while she will look like Aunt Emma, which will be a shame. She was and still is so pretty. I don't understand it. Can't she say no? Is there no way? Does he force you if you don't want to? Does he rip your dress off? Suppose you said no to whatever it is that is done-and I'm not quite sure, I think I know what it is, but it's not clear and there is no one to ask, not even Rosa. She will talk about many things, but not that. Once I said something to f.a.n.n.y, but she only looked scared and told me I mustn't ask such questions, it wasn't fitting for a young lady like me.”

”After the christening I went outside by myself. I felt quiet, not exactly sad, although sometimes I do feel sadness. No, it's not that exactly, it is only that a person can be so alone, especially when there is a crowd.

”So many strangers talking at once, talking at each other, not to each other. As if all the talk were a way of saying, Look at me, listen to me, I'm here, I'm important, am I not important? Those are the times I feel scared, because there really isn't anybody who can understand the way I've been feeling lately. Not Papa, who would tell a joke and buy me a present the very next day. Not Pelagie, who would say something kind about how fortunate I am, which I already know. Not Rosa, who would just insist that I stay for a 'nice dinner.' Maybe David would, but he is not here and probably never will be.

”When I feel this way I have to go outside into some green place, even the courtyard at home for lack of anything more green. So I walked down to the bayou and I sat there on a flat rock.

”The slope is covered with wild iris of the palest lavender with moist, thick stems. There are swarms of white b.u.t.terflies, small as moths; one sat on my hand, I didn't move, its wings kept opening and shutting as if on hinges. David says all life is one, which means that those transparent wings are made of the same stuff that I'm made of.

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