A Million Nightingales: A Novel - Hardcover

Susan Straight is the author of five previous novels, including the best-selling I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots and Highwire Moon, which was a finalist for the National Book Award and won the California Book Award. She is a regular commentator for NPR, and her fiction and essays have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The New York Times, The Nation, Salon, Zoetrope, McSweeney’s, and Best American Short Stories, among many other publications. She has received a Lannan Foundation Award and a Guggenheim Fellowship. She lives in Riverside, California, with her three daughters.

In late summer, I collected the moss with the same long poles we used to knock down the pecans in fall. I waved the pole around in the gray tangles and pulled them down from the oaks on the land beside the house, not far from the clearing where we washed and sewed.

I couldn’t take the moss from the two oaks in front of the house, where the windows faced the river, because Madame Bordelon liked to look at that moss. It was a decoration. She watched me from the window of her bedroom. Everything on the front land at Azure was Madame’s, for decoration. Everything in the backlands was Msieu Bordelon’s, for money.

And me—she stared at me all the time now. She stared at my hair, though she couldn’t see it. My hair was wrapped under the black tignon my mother had made last year for me, when I turned thirteen. I hated the weight on my skull. My hair was to be hidden, my mother said. That was the law.

The cloth at my forehead felt like a bandage. Like it was holding in my brain. A brain floated in Doctor Tom’s jar, in the room where he always stayed when he came to treat Grandmère Bordelon, for her fatness, and where he stayed now to treat Céphaline, for her face. The brain was like a huge, wrinkled, pale pecan. One that didn’t break in half. Swimming in liquid.

When I came for his laundry, he sat at the desk and the brain sat on the shelf, with the other jars. He said, “You can hold it.”

The glass was heavy in my hands, and the brain shivered in the silvery water.

“I bought that brain in 1808, yes, I did, and it’s been two years in the jar after spending several years inside a skull. You seem unafraid to hold it or examine it, Moinette,” he said in English. He was from London, and his words made his thin lips rise and twist differently from Creoles. “Your lack of fear would indicate that your own brain is working well.” Then he returned to his papers, and I took his dirty clothes away.

How could brains be different? I measured heads the same way Mamère had taught me to measure a handful of fat to throw in the pot for soap, cupping my palm; the heavy handful had to reach the second bend on my fingers. The other side of knuckles—the little pad of skin like oval seed pearls when a person held out a hand to get something. I stared at my palms so long, clenching and straightening them, that Mamère frowned and told me to stir the soap.

At the edge of the canefield when the cutters were resting, I hid myself in the tall stalks and fit my bent fingers over their heads. The grown people’s heads wore hats and tignons, but the skulls were nearly all the same size under my curved hand. It was not exact, though. I made a loop of wire from a scrap and measured Michel’s head when he was in the cane. He was a grown man, same as Msieu Bordelon.

The cutters held very still when they rested. Their backs were against the wagon wheels and the trees.

When I took clean laundry to the house, I stood near the dining room and quickly measured those heads at the table. The same loop for Msieu’s head, the only time he didn’t wear his hat, while he was eating.

All our heads were the same size according to our age and sex: mine and Céphaline’s, Mamère and Madame’s, the men cutting cane and Msieu Bordelon’s. Under their hair, all their skulls were the same, and so the pecan brains floating inside that bone would be the same size unless the head was wrong, like Eveline’s baby who died. The baby’s head was swollen like a gourd grows in summer when it’s watered too much and then splits.

By September, I pulled down the last moss from the side-land oaks. They were the most beautiful to me. Their branches lay along the earth so that I could walk on the bark. The bark was almost black, damp under my bare feet.

I could hear the field people working in the cane near here, when someone shouted or laughed, the hoes hitting a rock now and then. They were weeding the rows. The cane was so tall, everyone was invisible. I piled the moss on the little wagon we used to take laundry back and forth from our clearing to the house. I pushed down the springy gray coils with my palms.

When the bell rang for lunch, I pulled down one more dangling clump, and then Christophe was behind me.

“Boil it and kill it and then it look like your hair. Then I sleep on it.”

He hated me now. He had always pulled my hair when we were small, but now that he was sixteen, he hated me. His hair was damp and separated into black pearls on his head, from the heat. His faded black shirt was white with salt around the neck. We wouldn’t get new clothes until Christmas.

He held up his torn sleeve. “I got a girl on Petit Clair. She sew it. You useful for nothing.”

I shrugged. “We can’t sew for you. Only Bordelons.”

He imitated me, shrugged much more dramatically. “Cadeau-fille,” he said. Gift girl. He always called me that, adding, “Yellow girl only good for one thing, for what under your dress. All you are. Don’t work. Don’t mean nothing till he give you away.”

“Your head looks small,” I said, moving back so I could hook my fingers into a circle, like the wire, and measure.

But he moved forward and pushed my hand down.

“Somebody come for you soon. Just like your mother.”

“Close your mouth.”

My mother had been a gift for one week, a nighttime present for a visiting sugar broker from New Orleans. I was what she received. But Cadeau-fille was not my name.

I pulled the wagon down the path from the side yard toward the clearing near my mother’s house. The moss had to be boiled.

Christophe followed me. He spoke low and constant, like a swarm of bees hovering near my shoulder. He said he was a horse, at least pure in blood and a useful animal. He said I was a mule, half-breed, and even a mule worked hard. He said I was nothing more than a foolish peacock that les blancs liked to keep in the yard to show people something pretty. Then he said, “And the men, you are only there so they can think under your . . .”

At the clearing, fire burned low under the pots, but my mother was not there. I threw a bar of soap at him. I didn’t want to hear it again.

He picked up the soap and threw it from the clearing. “Go in the cane and get it. Then cadeau-mère can’t see you. You have to lift up your dress when Msieu pick someone for you. Lift it up now. Hurry.”

In the heat and my anger, my eyes felt underwater. He’d told some of the men I went in the cane with him. Just to let him look. The women had told Mamère.

“We’re all animals,” I said. “Hair and skin are like fur.” I had nothing else to throw at him.

He shoved me against the pecan tree where we hung our washline, and then ran into the cane. The stalks shifted and then stayed still.

I found the soap. The bar was soft and wet from Mamère’s using it all morning. I worked off the dust with my fingers, underwater.

My mother and I made the soap for Azure, and each bar was measuring and stirring, to me. Christophe was a man, so he didn’t think about his clothes being clean or the soap washing the cane juice from his hands. He didn’t think anything except cane was work, and he hated my face and especially my hair.

My hair fell to my waist, in the same tendrils as the moss from the branches, but black. But now no one ever saw it except my mother. On Sunday nights, she washed it with soap made from almond oil and boiled gourd, rinsed it in the washtub, and formed the curls around her fingers. We sat near the fire. When my hair was dry, she braided it so tightly my temples stung and covered it with the tignon.

Hair only protected my scalp. The thin cover protecting my skull. And my brain. My hair was only a covering. Céphaline Bordelon’s hair, too, like every other human.

But hers was thin and brown, her braid only a mousetail down her back. Her eyes were bright and blue, and I knew inside her brain was perfect, because she learned everything each of her tutors taught her and even questioned the lessons. But her pale skin was speckled with crimson boutons.

Madame had to marry Céphaline to someone with money, and for weeks, she had cried until her own blue eyes were rimmed as with blood. None of the men who visited could see Céphaline’s brain. Only her face, and her hair, and her mouth never closed or curved in a smile. Her mouth always talking, arguing, reading to people from her books.

The moss was soft in my hands, in the basket. I liked to look at each strand and feel the covering, like the velvet of Céphaline’s brown dress. My mother would be angry if she saw me studying the moss. She wanted me to boil it and lay it out to dry. It was not a lesson. It was stuffing. Every fall, we made new bedding—this year, seventy-two pallets for slaves and five mattresses for the Bordelons.

We lived between. Le quartier was one long street, houses lining the dirt road to the canefields and sugarhouse, but a grove of pecan trees separated the street from the Bordelons’ house. Tretite, the cook, lived in the kitchen behind the house, and Nonc Pierre, the groom, lived in the barn.

But my mother’s house was in a clearing near three pecan trees at the edge of the canefields. A path led from the main road to our yard. Madame Bordelon could see us from her second-floor gallery, could see what color clothes we hung, or whether we ...