Free A Million Nightingales by Susan Straight Page A

hard thumbs on my forehead, but her eyes watching mine.
    And now, she waited.
    “The eyebrows,” I said. “That's how I know what they feel. To be careful.”
    She nodded.
    “Madame's and Céphaline's are the same. Tadpoles kissing and leaping apart.” I clasped her legs and sat. “Msieu's are wild like his hair on his head. He even has hair on his fingers. So angry. He wants to buy Petit Clair. He needs money.”
    Mamère loosened my tignon and pulled out the heavy plait. Her hands were warm and dry against my neck. Out the open door, the sun sent golden needles into the clearing. I had even missed the clothes flying empty and clean and silent. Sleeves flat under the iron and no faces springing from the collar to speak.
    “Céphaline not ready yet?”
    “No. Madame is waiting for medicine from Paris. But Céphaline is sick again today. Her head.”
    Mamère nodded. “Write, write. Oui?” She studied the stained dresses I'd brought, sprigged calico and pink muslin, blue-black ink stains along the cuffs and sleeves. “Get that out, make a cake. Like the one I show you, when the doctor first come. He bring that India ink. Bring you all them words.”
    She said nothing after that. She began grinding the beet leaf with her pestle, releasing the bitter juice. I wanted to lie down on my bed, but a dress lay on the blanket. Pinned together, not sewn. Skirt of stained tablecloth. Sleeves of pillowcase.
    “I have never seen Phrodite,” I said.
    “She been in the cane since the day she come. All day.” I sat next to the dress. Someone I had never met slept in my place. Strips of cottonade for trim were arranged at the waist and neckline.
    “She look like her mother. Bambara. But no scars,” Mamèresaid. “Same animal. But you are a different animal from me. No scars for you. But you are half mine. Your hair is not dead.”
    “Then how can I burn Céphaline's and she doesn't scream?”
    My mother shrugged as if giving up. “Doctor know. He and governess know. Céphaline know. I only know other words.”
    She began to unwrap something at the table. “A mother never governess because she always wrong. Toujours. But them scar? On Hera? My mother tell me four lips. Two on your mouth, two under your dress. Doctor don't tell you this.”
    I didn't want to hear about under my dress. She raised the tiny biscuit of indigo. A cake of twilight.
    “Old woman show me this. My mother already gone. Show me to shake the bucket, indigo settle on the bottom and you make enough for one cloth. Say in Africa, indigo grow wild and people make just enough for their own cloth. Say my mother cry and tell her, indigo was good luck in Africa. Someone from Africa bring it here and grow so much it kill them. Finish.”
    My mother didn't cry. Her voice was urgent, but careful, as if she spoke to Tretite about damaged lace. “You wear dress from Céphaline now. I make a dress for Phrodite, and her mother tell her about the hair. About Bambara. Maybe mark her someday.” She put a coffee bean in her mouth. “But maybe you don't believe Bambara words if I tell you. You believe medicine words. You tell me all your words. But I can't tell you anything.”
    She lifted her head. “Maybe I finish with lessons.”
    “I know what happens,” I began, but she wrapped the indigo cake again and sat in her chair. She pointed to the floor, which meant I was to sit for my hair.
    She rubbed almond oil on my scalp and moved the skin against my skull. She said, “Li travaille—your work is besoin. What they need. Whoever come. The doctor. Maybe Céphaline husband. You have four lips. Three passages. You lie down and be still, they say. You move, they say. What they say.”
    I whispered back, angry. “No.”
    “Céphaline become beautiful again, like when she is a child. Then she marry. And you will go with her. But not far. Just to the river. Ecoute. Listen! Tretite tell me the place names. So if you go,I know where.” Her voice was calm. “Here Azure.