‘Is there another side?’ I said.
‘There is always the other side, always.’
అంటూ తన కథను రోచెస్టర్ కి చెప్పడానికి ప్రయత్నిస్తుంది ఆంటోనెట్ (బెర్తా). భర్తగా కాకపోయినా సాటిమనిషిగా తన బాధను అర్థం చేసుకుంటాడేమో అనుకుంటుంది. బాల్యం నుండీ ద్వేషం, శత్రుత్వం తప్ప మరొక రుచి తెలియని తనకు ఆదరంతో కాస్త ప్రేమను పంచిపెడతాడేమోనని ఆశిస్తుంది. కానీ రోచెస్టర్ కూడా మినహాయింపేమీ కాదు. డబ్బు, పరపతి కోసమే ఆమెను పెళ్ళి చేసుకుంటాడు. ద్వేషంతో డేనియల్ రాసిన ఉత్తరం చదివి ఆమెకు లేని పిచ్చితనం అంటగట్టి చీకటిగదిలో బంధిస్తాడు. ఏదేమైనా ద్వేషంతో తన మీద, తన కుటుంబం మీదా దాడులు జరిపి, భయంతో పారిపోయేలా చేసి, చివరకు పిచ్చితనం ముద్రవేసిన సమాజంనుండి ఆంటొనెట్, ఆమె తల్లి ఆనెట్టే ఎంతదూరమని పారిపోగలరు ! ఎక్కడికి వెళ్ళినా అదే మనుషులు... అదే పైశాచికత్వం... అదే ద్వేషం. వారి ఇంటికి నిప్పంటిస్తారు. మగదక్షతలేదని గ్రహించి అనెట్టేపై అత్యాచారానికి పాల్పడతారు. చివరకు పిచ్చివాళ్ళని ముద్రవేస్తారు. విచిత్రం ఏమిటంటే, ఈ దారుణాలకు పాల్పడిన వర్గం కూడా ఒకప్పుడు ఇటువంటి అణచివేతకే గురైన నల్లజాతీయుల వర్గం కావడం.
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‘Justice,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard that word. It’s a cold word. I tried it out,’ se said, still speaking in a low voice. ‘I wrote it down. I wrote it down several times and always it looked like a damn cold lie to me. There is no justice.’ She drank some more rum and went on, ‘My mother whom you all talk about, what justice did she have?
I dare say we would have died if she’d turned against us and that would have been a better fate. To die and be forgotten and at peace. Not to know that one is abandoned, lied about, helpless.I lay thinking, ‘I am safe. There is the corner of the bedroom door and the friendly furniture. There is the tree of life in the garden and the wall green with moss. The barrier of the cliffs and the high mountains. And the barrier of the sea. I am safe. I am safe from strangers.’And if the razor grass cut my legs and arms I would think ‘It’s better than people.’ Black ants or red ones, tall nests swarming with white ants, rain that soaked me to the skin – once I saw a snake. All better than people.Better. Better, better than people.‘I am not used to happiness,’ she said. ‘It makes me afraid.’
‘When man don’t love you, more you try, more he hate you, man like that. If you love them they treat you bad, if you don’t love them they after you night and day bothering your soul case out. I hear about you and your husband.’ she said.She spat over her shoulder. ‘All women, all colours, nothing but fools. Three children I have. One living in this world, each one a different father, but no husband, I thank my God. I keep my money. I don’t give it to no worthless man.’
I undress Antoinette so she can sleep cool and easy; it’s then I see you very rough with her eh?’
I’d be gossiped about, sung about (but they make up songs about everything, everybody. You should hear the one about the Governor’s wife). Wherever I went I would be talked about. I drank some more rum and, drinking, I drew a house surrounded by trees. A large house. I divided the third floor into rooms and in one room I drew a standing woman – a child’s scribble, a dot for a head, a larger one for the body, a triangle for a skirt, slanting lines for arms and feet. But it was an English house. English trees. I wondered if I ever should see England again.I was tired of these people. I disliked their laughter and their tears, their flattery and envy, conceit and deceit. And I hate the place. I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
పుస్తకం నుండి మరికొన్ని అంశాలు :
* The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like sunset and I knew that I would never see Coulibri again. Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses, the rocking-chairs and the blue sofa, the jasmine and the honeysuckle, and the picture of the Miller’s Daughter. When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.
* Then, not so far off, I saw Tia and her mother and I ran to her, for she was all that was left of my life as it had been. We had eaten the same food, slept side by side, bathed in the same river. As I ran, I thought, I will live with Tia and I will be like her. Not to leave Coulibri. Not to go. Not. When I was close I saw the jagged stone in her hand but I did not see her throw it. I did not feel it either, only something wet, running down my face. I looked at her and I saw her face crumple up as she began to cry. We stared at each other, blood on my face, tears on hers. It was as if I saw myself. Like in a looking-glass.
* Italy is white pillars and green water. Spain is hot sun on stones, France is a lady with black hair wearing a white dress because Louise was born in France fifteen years ago, and my mother, whom I must forget and pray for as though she were dead, though she is living, liked to dress in white.
* This convent was my refuge, a place of sunshine and of death where very early in the morning the clap of a wooden signal woke the nine of us who slept in the long dormitory. We woke to see Sister Marie Augustine sitting, serene and neat, bolt upright in a wooden chair. The long brown room was full of gold sunlight and shadows of trees moving quietly. I learnt to say very quickly as the others did, ‘offer up all the prayers, works and sufferings of this day.’ But what about happiness, I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh happiness of course, happiness, well.
* Standing on the veranda I breathed the sweetness of the air. Cloves I could smell and cinnamon, roses and orange blossom. And an intoxicating freshness as if all this had never been breathed before.
* ‘You are safe,’ I’d say. She’d liked that – to be told ‘you are safe.’ Or I’d touch her face gently and touch tears. Tears – nothing! Words – less than nothing. I did not love her. I was thirsty for her, but that is not love. I felt very little tenderness for her, she was a stranger to me, a stranger who did not think or feel as I did.
* He will not come after me. And you must understand I am not rich now, I have no money of my own at all, everything I had belongs to him.’
‘What you tell me there?’ she said sharply.
‘That is English law.’
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