The Prospector (38 page)

I spend my days riding around the plantation in the dust, in the sun that makes my head spin. Is she really here? All the women in gunny cloth resemble her, frail figures stooped over their shadows, working with their sickles, their hoes. Ouma has only shown herself to me once, as she used to by the Roseaux River. I think about the first time we met, when she fled between the shrubs in the valley, when she climbed into her mountains as agile as a young goat. Did I dream all of that?

That's how I make the decision to give everything up, get it all out of my system. Ouma showed me what I need to do, she told me, in her own way, simply by appearing before me like a mirage, in the middle of all those people who come to work on land that will never belong to them: black people, Indians, half-breeds, every day hundreds of men and women here in Yemen, in Walhalla or Médine, in Phoenix, Mon Désert, in Solitude, in Forbach. Hundreds of men and women who pile rocks atop walls and pyramids, who rip out tree stumps, plough, plant young cane stalks, then, throughout the seasons, strip the leaves from the stalks, crop off the tops, clean the land, and when summer comes, move through the fields, patch by patch, and cut, from morning to night, stopping only to sharpen their cane knives, until their hands, their legs are bleeding, lacerated by the sharp leaves, until the sun makes them nauseous and dizzy.

Almost without realizing it I've gone all the way across the plantation to the southern end, where the smokestack of an abandoned sugar mill stands. The sea isn't far, but you can't see or hear it. You can, however, get glimpses of seabirds circling, freely, up in the blue sky. There are men working here, clearing new land. In the heat of the sun they're loading black rocks on to carts, they're digging at the earth, striking it with their hoes. When they see me they stop working, as if they are afraid of something. So then I walk over to the cart and start digging up stones too and throwing them on to the pile. We work without stopping, while the sun descends towards the horizon, burning our faces. When one cart is full of stones and stumps, another replaces it. The old walls stretch far into the distance, maybe as far as the seashore. I think of the slaves who built them, the people Laure calls the ‘martyrs', who died in these fields, the ones who escaped into the mountains to the south, to the Morne… The sun is very near to the horizon. Today, just like back in Rodrigues, I feel as if its burn has purified me, has freed me.

A woman in gunny cloth walks up. She's an old Indian woman with a shrivelled face. She's brought sour milk for the workers to drink, dipping it from a pot with a wooden bowl. When she reaches me, she hesitates, then extends the bowl to me. The sour milk cools my throat, burning from the dust.

The last cartload of rocks rolls away. In the distance the sharp whistle of the boiler announces the end of the workday. The men take up their hoes and saunter off.

When I get to the sugar mill Mr Pilling is waiting for me in front of his office. He looks at my sunburned face, my dusty hair and clothing. When I tell him that I want to work in the fields from now on, harvesting, clearing, he interrupts me, snapping, ‘You aren't capable of doing that, and at any rate it's impossible, no white man ever works in the fields.' He adds in a calmer voice, ‘In my view, you are in need of rest and you have just turned in your resignation.'

The discussion is closed. I walk slowly down the dirt road, deserted at this hour. In the light of the setting sun the cane fields seem as vast as the sea and, scattering into the distance, the smokestacks of other sugar mills resemble ocean liners.

The rumour of a riot has once again brought me over to the arid lands around Yemen. They say the fields are burning in Médine, in Walhalla, and that men who are out of work are threatening the sugar mills. Laure tells me the news without raising her voice, so she won't worry Mam. I dress hastily. Despite the morning drizzle I go out wearing my military shirt, without a jacket or hat, barefooted in my shoes. When I'm up on the plateau, near Trois Mamelles, the sun shines down on the wide-open fields. I can see columns of smoke rising from the stands of cane around Yemen. I count four fires, maybe five. I start to climb down the cliff, cutting through the underbrush. I think of Ouma, who's undoubtedly down there. I remember the day when I saw the Indians throw the field manager into the bagasse furnace and the silence of the crowd when he disappeared into its flaming mouth.

I reach Yemen around midday. I'm soaked with sweat and covered with dust, my face scratched from the underbrush. The people are crowded around the sugar mill. What's going on? The sirdars have contradictory stories. Some men have fled in the direction of Tamarin after having set the hangars on fire. The mounted police are on their trail.

Where is Ouma? I move closer to the refinery buildings surrounded by the police, who refuse to let me in. In the courtyard, guarded by militiamen armed with rifles, men and women are squatting in the shadows, hands on their heads, waiting for their fate to be decided.

So I start running across the plantation again, heading for the sea. If Ouma is here, I'm sure she would seek refuge by the sea. Not far from me, in the middle of the cane field, heavy smoke is wafting up into the sky and I can hear the cries of the men fighting the fire. Somewhere, deep in the field, rifle shots ring out. But the cane stalks are so high I can't see over the leaves. I run through the cane, not knowing where I'm going, first one way, then another, listening to the crash of rifle shots. Suddenly I trip, stop, out of breath. I can hear my heart skipping in my chest, my legs are trembling. I've reached the boundary of the property. Everything is silent here.

I climb up a pyramid of rocks, I can see that the fires have already gone out. Only one column of light smoke is rising over by the sugar mill, indicating that the bagasse furnace is functioning again.

It's all over with now. When I get to the beach of black sand I stand still among the tree trunks and branches washed up by the storm. I do this so that Ouma will see me. The coast is deserted, wild, like English Bay. I walk along Tamarin Bay in the light of the setting sun. I'm sure that Ouma has seen me. She's following me without making a sound, without leaving a trace. I mustn't try to see her. It's her game. One day when I told her about Ouma, Laure said, in her mocking voice, ‘
Yangue-catéra
! She put a spell on you!' Now I believe she's right.

I haven't been here in so long. It's as if I were walking in my own footprints, the ones I left when I used to watch the sun slip into the sea with Denis.

At nightfall I'm on the other side of the Tamarin River. I can see the twinkling lights of the fishing village across the river. Bats are flying around in the pale sky. It's a warm, calm evening. For the first time in a very long time I'm preparing to sleep outdoors. In the black sand of the dunes, at the foot of some tamarind trees, I make my pallet and lie down, hands behind my head. I lie there with my eyes open, watching the sky growing more beautiful. I listen to the gentle sound of the Tamarin River mingling with the sea.

Then the moon appears. It moves through the middle of the sky, the sea is sparkling below. Then I see Ouma, sitting not far from me in the glowing sand. She's sitting like she always does, arms around her legs, face in profile. My heart is beating very hard, I'm trembling, from the cold perhaps? I'm afraid that it's only an illusion, that she'll disappear. The breeze is rising, awakening the sounds of the sea. So then Ouma comes over to me, takes my hand. Just like in the old days in English Bay, she takes off her dress, walks down to the sea without waiting for me. Together we dive into the cool water, swim against the waves. The long rollers coming from the other side of the world pass over us. We swim for a long time in the dark sea, under the moon. Then we come back to shore. Ouma pulls me over to the river, where we wash the salt from our bodies and hair, stretched out on the pebbles of the riverbed. The air coming from the open sea makes us shiver and we talk in whispers, so we won't wake up the dogs in the vicinity. As in the old days we sprinkle black sand on each other and wait until the wind makes it slip off our stomachs, our shoulders, in little rivulets. I have so many things to say, I don't know where to begin. Ouma talks to me too, she tells me about death coming to Rodrigues with typhus, her mother's death on the boat that was taking the refugees to Port Louis. She tells me about the camp in Ruisseau des Créoles, the salt fields in Black River, where she worked with Sri. How had she learned I was in Yemen, by what miracle? ‘It's not a miracle,' says Ouma. Suddenly her voice is almost angry. ‘I waited for you every minute of every day, in Forest Side or I went to Port Louis, to Rempart Street. When you came back from the war I'd waited so long I could wait a little longer and I followed you everywhere, all the way out to Yemen. I even worked in the fields, until you saw me.' I feel a sort of dizziness coming over me and my throat tightens. How could it have taken me so long to understand?

Now we aren't talking any longer. We're lying close to one another, holding each other tightly, so we won't feel the chill of night. We're listening to the sea and the wind in the needles of the she-oaks, for nothing else exists in the world.

The sun rises over Trois Mamelles. As in the past, back in the days when Denis and I would go roaming, I see the blue-black volcanoes against the bright sky. I remember I always loved the southernmost peak, the one that looks like a fang, the one that's the axis around which the sun and the moon turn.

I wait, sitting in the sun, facing Le Barachois, watching the river flow peacefully along. The seabirds are skimming slowly along the surface of the water – mangrove herons, cormorants, quibbling seagulls – flying out to meet the fishing pirogues. Then I go up the Boucan River until I reach Panon, walking very slowly, carefully, as if over a minefield. In the distance, through the leaves, I can see the Yemen chimney that is already smoking and I can smell the mellow odour of cane juice. A little higher up, on the other side of the river, I also see Uncle Ludovic's very white, new house.

I feel something aching deep down inside, because I know where I am. This is where our garden began and, a little farther up – at the end of the pathway – I would have seen our house, its blue roof shining in the sunlight. I walk through the tall weeds, getting scratched by the thorn bushes. There's nothing left here. Everything's been destroyed, burned, pillaged, for so many years. Perhaps this is where our veranda began? I think I recognize a tree, then another. But at the same time I notice ten more that look just like it, tamarind, mango trees, she-oaks. I trip over unfamiliar rocks, stumble into holes. Is this really where we lived? Wasn't it in some other world?

I keep going, feverishly, feeling the blood pounding in my temples. I want to find something, a bit of our land. When I talked about it to Mam, her eyes lit up, I'm sure of it. I was holding her hand very tightly in mine, trying to give her my life, my strength. I talked about it all as if our house still existed. I talked to her as if nothing ever had to end, as if the years that were lost would be reborn in our sweltering garden in the month of December, when Laure and I would listen to her lilting voice reading Bible History.

I want to hear her voice now, here in this place in the wild underbrush, among these piles of black rocks that were the foundations of our house. Walking up in the direction of the hills I suddenly catch sight of the ravine where we spent so many hours perched on the main branch of the tree, watching the water in the nameless stream flow by. It's difficult to recognize. While everywhere else the terrain has been overrun with weeds and underbrush, here everything is barren, arid, like after a wildfire. My heart is beating very hard, because this is where our – Laure's and my territory, our secret place really was. But now it's nothing but a ravine, a dark, ugly, lifeless crevice. Where is the tree, our tree? I think I recognize it, an old blackened trunk with broken branches, sparse leaves. It is so ugly, so small I can't imagine how we could have climbed it back then. When I lean out over the ravine, I see that wondrous branch upon which we would lie and it is like an emaciated arm extended over the void. Below, at the bottom of the ravine, water is flowing among the debris of branches, bits of sheet metal, old boards. The ravine was used as a dump when our house was demolished.

I didn't tell Mam any of that. It was no longer important . I talked to her about everything that used to be, that was even more true, more real, than this ravaged land. I talked to her about what she loved most, the garden filled with hibiscuses, with poinsettias, arums, and her white orchids. I talked to her about the large oval pond in front of the veranda where we could hear the toads singing. I also talked to her about the things I loved, that I would never forget, her voice when she used to read us a poem or when she recited the evening prayers. The path we would all walk solemnly down together to look at the stars, listening to our father's explanations.

I stay until nightfall, wandering through the underbrush, searching for traces, clues, searching for smells, for memories. But it's a dry, broken land, the irrigation ditches have been stopped up for years now. The remaining trees have been burned by the sun. There are no more mango or medlar or jackfruit trees. The tamarind trees, tall and scrawny as in Rodrigues, are still there and the banyans that never die. I'm trying to find the chalta tree, the tree of good and evil. I have the feeling that, if I succeed in finding it, something from the old days will have been saved. I recall it being at the end of the garden, on the edge of the fallow lands, where the path leading to the mountains and the Black River Gorges began. I walk through the underbrush, hastily climb up to the high end of the property, where you can see Terre Rouge and the Brise-Fer mountains. Then, suddenly, I see it right in front of me, in the midst of the underbrush, even taller than before, with its dark foliage making a lake of shade. I walk up to it and recognize its smell, a subtle, disquieting fragrance that used to make our heads swim when we would climb in its branches. It hasn't surrendered, hasn't been destroyed. To it, the whole time I was away, far from the shelter of its leaves, far from its branches, was but a moment. The storm waters have passed, the droughts, the wildfires, and even the men who demolished our house, who trampled on the flowers in the garden and let the water in the pond and the irrigation ditches dry up. But it has remained the tree of good and evil that knows all, sees all. I look for the marks Laure and I made on it with a knife, to write our names and how tall we were. I look for the wound of the branch the cyclone ripped off. Its shade is deep and cool, its odour inebriates me. Time has stopped its course. The air is vibrating with insects, with birds, the earth under it is damp and alive.