“The two beautiful lionesses, who happened to be mother and cub, went down to the river to spy upon the monster as he dozed in the mud. A hundred daggers stood in his jagged mouth, and scaly bark, thicker than that of a monkeybread tree, covered him in armor. If those defenses were not dangerous enough, he had a tail most formidable that could knock a gnu off its feet. A dry throat overcame the daughter, and she dared take a sip. At once, the crocodile stirred from its slumber and like a flash was at her nose, the water white and churning with his fury. Just in time, she jumped away, roaring in surprise. Off they went back into the bush to discuss their strategy. He is too fast, said the mama. And too hungry, said the baby. Maman said then we shall fatten him until he becomes lazy and slow.
“So they took a share of all they hunted down to the river. Wild pigs and antelope, and he grew bigger still. And then they had the monkeys gather mushmelons and yams by the score and cook them up with spices, and the crocodile loved their recipes and ate and ate. Now bloated like a thundercloud, he slept all but one hour of the day and then rose only to eat some more. He grew so big that his belly dragged on the bottom of the river and his petite legs and feet could not touch the ground, and still they fed him, those lionesses, more and more till he was just like a fat log idly floating on the surface. He no longer had the speed to catch so much as a turtle, and then they had him. The mama jumped on his back, but he could not even turn his head, he was so fat, and she sank her teeth into his snout and clamped shut his great jaws, and the daughter seized his formidable tail, which he could not so much as swish, he was so lazy, and stilled it with her great paws, and the old crocodile, he thought gallant thoughts, but he was no match, and so, phtt!, the end of him. When they heard the news, the animals danced in jubilee, for they were now free to come to the river whenever they pleased.”
The tale, written across her face, disappeared into the hair at the base of her skull, and the old man had to search a moment to pick up the narrative at its proper place, circling the woman as the words wound around her neck.
“This is the first story I can remember. My mother’s face appears before me when I tell it, for I heard it first at her knee, and my mother had learned the tale as a girl in Africa, before she had been stolen and transported to Senegal and sold into slavery and shipped to the new world. She was a girl herself, aboard a ship of 150 Africans, that landed first in Habana to unload half and then in Saint-Domingue to discharge the rest. So many stories my mother told, and the songs of the Bambara people were on her lips day and night whenever the Buckra folk were not around. She was a household servant …”
He turned to the woman. “Do you wish me to say slave?”
“This or that,” Marie answered. “In those days, we called ourselves servants, though in truth we were common property with no more rights than a barnyard hen and often not treated any better.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Yes, slave is the bon mot.”
“And the Buckra? Comment est-ce qu’on dit en fran?ais?”
“The Frenchmen,” she said and turned her face so that I might feel the brunt of her stare. “The whites.”
“She was a domestic slave on the plantation of Monsieur Delhomme in Saint-Domingue, and my papa was a slave in the sugarcane fields, and he fathered me and my younger sister Louisa, though for the youngest, Claire, who knows, perhaps my papa or perhaps Monsieur Delhomme, impossible to say, though even as a baby, Claire looked lighter than the rest. Makes no difference, I suppose. The master never claimed her as his own, and my papa never treated her as anything but his. Madame Delhomme may have suspected that her husband had something to do with the pickaninny, though truth be told, when you are young the attitude of adults is difficult to measure, being so subtle, especially for a girl like me whom every adult, black or white, mystified. Their moods changed as quickly as the late summer sky, bright to cloud-dark, in a trice, and best to be neither foul nor fair yourself, but on constant alert.
“Madame had few opportunities to come in contact with Claire or Louisa, for they had no natural place in the household, while I was constantly there as the companion to the Delhommes’ baby child, a girl named Anna about my age, or a year or so on either side. In all the world, she was my only friend, and I hers. For eleven years, we grew up together, playing, sometimes eating the same meals, even bathing together, and sharing a bed on the nights when she could not bear to part with me and would beg her mother so. Under the netting, she read me fairy tales and Bible stories, and while we were alone the many years, she taught me how to read for myself, though servants were not supposed to know, but we had our school behind the privy or hidden among the canes as they grew, and it was in the dust of Saint-Domingue where I first wrote my own name and more. Anna loved me more than the little dog who followed us around everywhere, and she dressed me and held my hand and nursed me whenever I fell ill. She treated me like a poupée—”
“Doll,” said Marie. “Though sometimes like a confidante, too, but as we grew older she came to realize that I was hers to do with what she pleased.”