Birth of a Dark Nation (30 page)

"Drive back to school. Tell anyone who asks
that you were tutoring. Take a nap and forget everything. You
understand?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Fare thee well, my darling sister."

"Fare thee well, my darling brother." She
hurried away and I heard her car speed off. I then tended to
Justin, whose eyes were fluttering back into his head.

"Justin, what's happening?" I asked, touching
his temples with my hands.

"It's hot."

"Where are you? Go deeper."

"New Orleans. The French Quarter. A long time
ago. It smells like shit. Horse shit."

"Horse shit?" I laughed. "Welcome home!"

~

New Orleans, to me, has looked the same for
over a hundred years. At least, the good parts do. All that's
really changed has been the people. Except for the remaining Razadi
who still live there, of course. They are the city's constant.

In 1899, the daywalkers had been living in
the Pontalba buildings in the French Quarter for over 30 years. As
the city grew, so did its population of free black people, so
Babarinde grew more and more comfortable with letting us mingle, in
spite of the terrible shame we felt after the failure of the German
Coast rebellion.

Baba became more and more reclusive after
those events. Even today, I'm not sure that he fully forgave
himself for deserting our friends; but what choice did we really
have when Obatala himself tells us to leave?

It was Eşusanya who came to Baba with the
idea of buying some apartments in the city.

"So what do you say, Baba? We can get some of
those buildings the Baroness is renting out. Make a colony like the
one we have here, but closer to the action. Get real jobs."

"Tending this land is a real job," he
grumbled.

"Yes, yes, I know it is. We pick the cotton,
we operate the cotton gin, we spin the thread, we weave the fabric.
And we've done it for a century. And we're wealthy because of it!
But let's strike out on our own and diversify our strengths and
talents."

"Why do you want to go so bad?" Baba
asked.

"I'm restless, I can admit that. But I want
to learn new things, too."

"Don't you think it's dangerous? Going out
there among the world? You can pretend to be just like everyone
else for a while, but it's going to become obvious that you're not
aging."

"I've got that worked out, too. We create new
identities and give them expiration dates—say, fifteen years.
Longer if we can find good disguises to make us look aged. And we
just live, work, and move on back to the house when it's time."

"It could work," I interjected. "I mean, look
at everything that's happened. The Civil War. Slaves are free.
Things aren't perfect, but they're better. Resources are out there
for us. We just have to grab them."

"Resources? We have everything we need here.
Food. Commerce…"

"Baba," Eşusanya said flatly.

"Yes?"

"Baba."

"What?"

"Baba, really?"

"What?"

"We have everything we need, sure, but what
about everything else? Music. Art. Sports. Laughter. Living on this
plantation is no better than living in the woods of Dominica. Of
course, nothing would be better than home. But if we're here, then
let's be here fully, living among people. Not just our people. Any
people."

"You know what, fine. Do whatever you want,
Eşusanya. Just count me out. Organize the men how you want, buy
whatever you want. The coffers are open to you. Just leave me out
of it—me and anyone else who wants to stay here."

And we did. The first fifteen years went so
well that we were loath to come back to the plantation, but we had
to in order for the whole thing to work. Babarinde stayed at the
plantation and literally everyone else went to the Pontalba
apartments for their turn at a real life in the real world.

By 1899, my cohort was back at Pontalba. We
happily said farewell to agricultural life and looked forward to
ingratiating ourselves in New Orleans' thriving urban culture.

Ariori and I shared a room in one of the
Pontalba houses right on Jackson Square. I found work as a
blacksmith in the Quarter, while Ariori chose to study medicine at
New Orleans University. We were now the brothers Forestier. He was
Armand and I was Augustin. Our story was that we were descendants
of New Orleans'
gen de couler libre
, or free people of
color—a story that was not entirely untrue. The main difference was
that our lineage was not from revolution-era Haitian refugees.

Our family—our fellow Razadi brothers—had, by
this time, established itself in enough markets that we were able
to spend our own money on our own businesses, whether we needed
food, clothing, or services. Ariori and I walked to the French
Market early one Saturday morning to pick up some groceries from
our family's carrel.

"Classes going well?" I asked.

"Absolutely," Ariori said. "I'm learning so
much every day."

"And what about this nutrition thing you're
working on?"

"It's amazing. We've only hit the tip of the
iceberg with what we know about the power of plants. These
scientists out here are working with chemicals, trying to make us
believe a pill can cure everything. But I'm telling you what I
know: we can make a difference with things that grow right in the
earth. And now that we have easier access to herbs from the Far
East, there's no telling what we'll be able to do next."

"Wow. You know, it amazes me that they have
colleges for Negroes. And that you can actually get the same jobs
as the white men now. You're going to be a doctor."

Ariori smiled. "It's truly a blessing. We
don't have to pick cotton anymore."

"Leave it to Baba, that's all we'd be doing,"
I laughed.

"Yeah, we'd be…picking…"

Ariori froze in his tracks. We were feet away
from a cluster of white women who were inspecting some fresh fruit
at one of the stands. That's when he saw her, the beautiful
olive-skinned woman he fell in love with.

"Dominique!" he gasped. The young woman in
the white blouse and long, slate gray skirt turned to us, pleasant
looking but startled. She looked just like Dominique, from the
cascade of brown curls to the slender nose and brown eyes. Even her
skin seemed tan, as Dominique's skin had looked on the last day we
saw her.

"Yes, sir?" she replied, looking up at his
tall frame.

"It can't be her," I whispered. "That was a
hundred and seventy-five years ago!"

"I'm sorry, Miss," Ariori said, his eyes
threatening to well up with tears. "I had you confused for someone
else."

"But my name is Dominique," she affirmed. "Do
I know you?"

"No. Not at all. We must be going now."

"Sir, please…" Dominique grabbed Ariori's
hand. Immediately, her eyes fluttered closed, as did his. I touched
Ariori's shoulder and knew at once what was happening.

They remembered.

Scenes of Dominique Bellanger and Ariori's
short life together replayed in my head as it did in theirs: secret
visits on the beach; stealing away through the forest to visit each
other; their wedding; the day she was stolen away from him.

"I know you…" Dominique said finally, as her
eyes opened.

"What did you do to her?" Dominique's
companion asked. Her round face tightened into a scowl.

"Nothing," Ariori whispered.

"I'm fine, Carmen. I'm fine." A tear rolled
down her face and they stared at one another for what seemed like
years.

"We should be getting back to school," Carmen
said to Dominique.

"Yes, we should," Dominique agreed.

"Can we…walk you to your carriage?" Ariori
asked.

"By all means," Dominique agreed. Carmen
scowled harder.

We walked the women to the corner of St. Ann
and Decatur, where their carriage awaited them on the edge of
Jackson Square.

Like a gentleman, Ariori assisted Dominique
into the carriage. I tried to assist Carmen, but she snatched her
arm away and insisted that she could do it herself.

"Thank you, mister…?" Dominique said.

"Forestier. Mr. Armand Forestier. Soon to be
'Doctor.'" Ariori said. "And this is my brother Augustin."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she
said.

"Mademoiselle, begging your pardon, but I was
wondering if I could see you again someday."

The carriage began to pull away.

"Yes!" she called back.

"Then meet me at Congo Square on Friday
afternoon, if you please!"

"I'll be there! Three o'clock!" she called
back.

"It's not her," I said. "It can't be."

"She touched me. It's her soul. I know
it."

"She can't come to Congo Square. No white
woman goes there unaccompanied."

"When has Dominique ever been afraid?"

~

Word spread like wildfire among the Razadi
that Dominique Bellanger was back and it was agreed that we would
all descend upon Congo Square at the appointed time. Although
Friday afternoon convocations at the square were common for people
of color, this time was different. There was energy in the air that
had never previously existed in New Orleans.

Babarinde showed up at our doorstep in his
horse-drawn buggy about an hour before we were to meet.

"Baba…I didn't think you'd really come," I
said.

He nodded.

"I need to see her for myself. Plus, I knew
Eşusanya would want this tinker-toy for the occasion."

He motioned behind him to a massive object
covered by a black sheet.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Jacques!" he called up to Eşusanya. "Come on
down here, boy."

I heard his footsteps behind me. I turned
around to see him fully dressed for the cakewalk. He smiled at the
sight of Babarinde.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked.

"Come see," Babarinde said. The horse
whinnied and Eşusanya climbed onto the back of the buggy. He
removed the sheet and was astonished.

"You brought the piano? All the way from the
house?!"

"It's a special occasion," Babarinde smiled.
"Now where's Ariori?"

"I'm here," Ariori replied. He emerged from
the shadows of the walkway in his finest suit.

"You wearing that down to the cakewalk?" I
asked, slipping into my New Orleans drawl like it was second
nature. He grinned.

"Ain't we supposed to?"

Eşusanya sat in the back of that buggy and
began playing a rag on the piano. Congo Square wouldn't know what
to make of such a thing—an actual piano out there with the drums
and the brass instruments. Babarinde began driving the buggy up the
street, a straight shot toward Congo Square, while Eşusanya played
and Ariori and I followed. After about a block, we were joined by
men, women, and children who danced along behind us. By the time we
reached Congo Square, we had made ourselves a nice little "second
line" of a few dozen revelers. We were met at the square by a few
dozen more, including our own men interspersed with the other black
people there.

I nodded, waved, and shook hands with all of
my brothers. I winked at the pretty ladies who were clustered in a
corner of wide-open space, surrounded by trees, waiting to be
chosen for a dance. They all had on modest dresses, some black,
some white, but all crisp and clean.

The men were all in slacks and crisp white
shirts, but Ariori wasn't alone in his desire to wear a suit
jacket. This was, after all, a cakewalk, and it was always good to
be at your best at such an affair.

Ariori scanned the crowd and saw nothing but
the brown faces of the black women he already knew. His
disappointment was subtle, but present.

"She'll come," I assured him.

"I know," he beamed.

Eşusanya picked his rag up into high gear and
a few more men began improvising a tune on their trumpets.
Aborişade and I, along with a few men I didn't know, took the lead
in the cakewalk. We high kicked, strutted, and pranced around the
square, first alone, then marching over to the cluster of women to
pick out one to partner with.

I chose a very young woman who couldn't have
been more than 15. Her thick, curly hair was parted down the middle
and pulled into two braids. She smiled and curtsied. I bowed, took
her hand, and led her through the cakewalk.

She caught on quickly, glancing ever so
slightly at me to anticipate my next move. I spun her, then brought
her back to me several times over through the dance. She kept
smiling the whole time. We kicked high into the air, prancing a
complete circuit around the square. By the end of the cakewalk, I
held her dainty hand in mine and bowed before the crowd, while she
curtsied. I led her back to her friends, who giggled as I dropped
her off.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and took a
break while Ariori got ready for his round. The music kicked up
once more and the men went around to the cluster of women to choose
a partner.

Ariori was last. He peered deeply into the
crowd until he saw the partner he wanted. He pointed and extended
his hand through the sea of women, who parted to make way for his
intended.

There, at the back of the crowd, was the
fairest of them all: Dominique Bellanger.

The black girls gasped in astonishment that a
white woman would even appear in Congo Square, much less respond to
the beckon of a black man. But respond she did. She stepped forward
and curtsied deeply before Ariori while he bowed before her.

Their dance began. Ariori clasped Dominique's
hands and began to parade her around the square. Her rhythm was
impeccable and her moves were graceful. In spite of their
mismatched height, they were the most beautiful pair on the
cakewalk, with the highest kicks and deepest backbends we'd seen
thus far. All the people on the square were transfixed by the sight
of a black man and white woman dancing together like
professionals.