Island Beneath the Sea by Isabel Allende Page A

be grateful for my luck, that it wasn’t at all bad. I begged her to let me stay with her, but she said she didn’t need me. She counseled me to behave if I didn’t want to end up cutting cane. She was training me to be a lady’s maid for Madame Valmorain, an easy task. I would live in the house and eat well, it would be better than being with Madame Delphine. She added that I shouldn’t pay attention to Loula, that being Spanish was not an illness, it merely meant speaking differently than we do. She knew my new master, she said, a decent monsieur any slave would be happy to belong to. “I want to be free, like you ,” I told her, sobbing. Then she told me about her grandmother, caught in Senegal, where you find the most beautiful people in the world. A rich merchant bought her, a Frenchman who had a wife in France but fell in love with her the minute he saw her in the black slave market. She gave him a number of children, and he freed them all. He planned to educate them so they would prosper, like so many people of color in Saint-Domingue, but he died suddenly and left them in penury because his wife claimed his entire estate. The Senegalese grandmother set up a little fried food shop in the port to support the family, but her youngest daughter, twelve years old, did not want to ruin herself gutting fish amid fumes from rancid oil and chose instead to service gentlemen. That girl, who inherited her mother’s noble beauty, becamethe most sought-after courtesan in the city, and she in turn had a daughter, Violette Boisier, to whom she taught everything she knew. This is what she told me. “If it hadn’t been for the jealousy of the white man who killed her, my mother would still be the queen of the night in Le Cap. But don’t get ideas, Tété, my grandmother’s love story happens only rarely. A slave remains a slave. If she escapes, and is lucky, she dies in her flight. If she doesn’t, she is caught alive. Tear that idea of freedom from your heart, that is the best thing you can do ,” she said. Then she took me to Loula to get me something to eat.
    When my master, Valmorain, came to look for me a few weeks later, he didn’t recognize me because I’d put on weight ; I was clean, my hair was cut, and I was wearing a new dress Loula had sewn for me. He asked my name, and I answered with my firmest voice, not looking up because I knew never to look a white in the face. “Zarité de Saint-Lazare , maître,” as Mademoiselle had instructed me. My new master smiled, and before we left he set down a pouch. I did not know how much he paid for me. Another man was waiting in the street with two horses, and he looked me over from head to toe and made me open my mouth to examine my teeth. He was Prosper Cambray, the head overseer. He pulled me up on the croup of his horse, a tall, broad beamed, steaming hot beast that was snorting restlessly. My legs weren’t long enough to get a grip, and I had to hold onto the man’s waist. I had never ridden on a horse, but I swallowed my fear—no one cared what I felt. Master Valmorain also got on his horse, and we set off. I turned to look at the house. Mademoiselle was on the balcony, waving good-bye, until we turned the corner and I could no longer see her. This is how I remember it.

The Lesson
    S weat and mosquitoes, croaking frogs and whip, days of fatigue and nights of fear for the caravan of slaves, overseers, hired soldiers, and the masters, Toulouse and Eugenia Valmorain. It would take three long days from the plantation to Le Cap, which was still the most important port of the colony, though no longer the capital, which had been moved to Port-au-Prince with the hope of better controlling the territory. The move had little effect; the colonists mocked the law, the pirates sailed up and down the coast, and thousands of slaves fled to the mountains. These Maroons, the always more numerous and bold