“Your description,” said Jane, “reminds me of a Botero painting. The fat man and his six little dumplings.”
Marie watched the old man, making sure that his wandering eye stayed fixed upon her right forearm. “Of course! I had not thought of Botero before, but the children and their father could have stepped right out of his canvas. Plump pullets, but good dears when they were young and had been fed.”
This time the old man had kept a finger on the spot, and when their colloquy had ended, he was able to resume without further pause.
“My job was to be a nanny to the children and to apprentice to Hachard in the housekeeping. She had been in service to the family from the childhood of M. LaChance and was now an old woman near fifty and could not move about as quickly for the pain in her joints and a stiffness in her hands and feet that left her fingers and toes twisted and gnarled. The Mistress insisted that Hachard continue to cook the meals, but every other household chore fell upon me—the cleaning, the slops, sweeping, washing, and serving the dishes, and besides all that, to help look after the little ones. That duty was my easiest burden. Lazy creatures on even the finest days, they barely moved when the rainy season arrived, and come July and August, in the oppressive heat, they lounged behind the heavy draperies, reading their books or quietly playing cards or other games of chance. The two little girls had their dollies, and the boys would sometimes chase each other with wooden swords, but mostly they ate and slept and did their lessons with an old white woman who came to the house. The babies napped in the shank of the afternoon up until they were five or six years. But the mere presence of the children was a blessing, for they reminded me of my own Anna and my sisters and thus relieved in small measure the anguish in my soul.
“Very quickly—that first day in fact—I realized why Madame made Hachard to continue preparing the food, for she cooked most exquisitely in the French manner, unlike many of our neighbors who seemed to ape the worst of English—or merciful God, colonial—cuisine. No, Hachard performed magic with simple, fresh ingredients, and drew on a kind of cooks’ club of her neighbors in the Quarter. Old slaves who actually ran the homes would be entrusted to visit the stalls in the square to buy fish or meat or produce from the cartmen who rolled along the street calling out their wares. Hachard above all was the best, cooking with touches of the Creole and Cajun, of France and Africa. I had not eaten so well in Port-au-Prince and, I imagined, not even King Louis himself ate so well in Paris. Though my heart was empty, my stomach was full.
“In this way the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. I was kept very busy. All that Hachard could no longer manage, she assigned to me. The simple things—the sewing and mending, plucking a hen or shucking corn, cleaning the dishes or dusting and polishing—did not trouble me, for my mother had shown me and often enlisted my assistance. Even the ordinary washday was tolerable, if, with so many children, never-ending. Worst of all, when we stripped the beds and took down the curtains and the soiled linens, perhaps once each season of the year, my back would like to break from the heaviness. Poor Hachard could not bear to steep herself in hot water, which would linger in her joints and pain her fiercely. Recompense for every odious task was time in the kitchen as sous chef to Hachard—chopping ingredients or making the sauces or roux. As she cooked, Hachard spoke aloud each ingredient, every step—a pinch of salt, three spoons of butter, keep stirring till the sugar melts and thickens, and I seized every word, memorizing in spite of myself all of her secrets. Perhaps she was consciously passing the traditions, or perhaps she was merely grateful for the company. Someone to talk with despite having little to say.