The Albatross and the Mermaid by Amanda Fox
- Jul 10
- 2 min read
After experience a horrific at the age of eleven, the smouldering images of his dead mother live in the faces of every black woman Adrian Moreaux ever meets. After one failed relationship our Caribbean man is also convinced that white women are not for him either. Adrian is plagued by nightmares of the past and resigns himself to a life of sex without love, until an enchanting flaxen-haired beauty comes into his life ...
Excerpt:
He told me that he loved me. He'd said it a total of eleven times over eight years; I'd counted. Counted each finger on both hands, plus one. Five instances occurred in the throws of passion, when his mottled penis--an appendage the color of plums and overripe strawberries--plunged in and out of my developing body. Twice, he'd mouthed the words across the dinner table as I cleared the dishes between courses--between the stew and custard, and the meat pie and spice cake. Three times, he'd said it in various locations around the great house: when he caught my arm on the way up the grand staircase, when he pushed me up against the stone wall in the cellar, and in the nursery as I lulled baby Stephane to sleep. The last episode happened in the kitchen when, with his wife's back turned, he whispered those very words into my ear. "I love you Seraphine," he said. "I love you."
The day I knew for certain that Henri Bouchard's love for me was false, was the day my life took a turn for the better. It was May 2nd, 1786 at about 3:30 in the afternoon, five years prior to Toussaint L'Ouverture's joyous insurrection. A revolution had been brewing for some time and reports of many uprisings throughout the Caribbean had reached the house over the years.
Undoubtedly, we were all waiting for the big one to finally deliver our salvation, and as such, the mood between the supervisors and the workers was tense, orders coming down even harsher than usual whenever details of another outbreak made news. Cook always seemed to know about the gossip on and around the Lazare plantation, and that was how I found out about things.
Now, I wouldn't say that I was a very smart person in those days, but that doesn't mean I lacked the potential. It's in us all; it's just a matter of circumstance, and as you will see, mine were less than ideal. What little schooling I got was acquired mainly by accident as I dusted and tidied up around the master's children. Marie Rose--Henri's eldest daughter--took me as a friend and taught me the basics of how to read and write. Cook did what she could as well, but like most of us, she too lacked an education. At best, she tried to impart upon me the essential facts of life, or whatever those could've been living in such a terrible place.
And while I don't really blame myself for my predicament, I do wish sometimes that things had been different.
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