Music for Chameleons Read Free

mountains that is entirely inhabited by albinos: “Little pink-eyed people whiteas chalk. Occasionally one sees a few on the streets of Fort de France.”
    “Yes, of course I believe you.”
    She tilts her silver head. “No, you don’t. But I shall prove it.”
    So saying, she drifts into her cool Caribbean salon, a shadowy room with gradually turning ceiling fans, and poses herself at a well-tuned piano. I am still sitting on the terrace, but I can observe her, this chic, elderly woman, the product of varied bloods. She begins to perform a Mozart sonata.
    Eventually the chameleons accumulated: a dozen, a dozen more, most of them green, some scarlet, lavender. They skittered across the terrace and scampered into the salon, a sensitive, absorbed audience for the music played. And then not played, for suddenly my hostess stood and stamped her foot, and the chameleons scattered like sparks from an exploding star.
    Now she regards me. “Et maintenant? C’est vrai?”
    “Indeed. But it seems so strange.”
    She smiles. “ Alors . The whole island floats in strangeness. This very house is haunted. Many ghosts dwell here. And not in darkness. Some appear in the bright light of noon, saucy as you please. Impertinent.”
    “That’s common in Haiti, too. The ghosts there often stroll about in daylight. I once saw a horde of ghosts working in a field near Petionville. They were picking bugs off coffee plants.”
    She accepts this as fact, and continues: “ Oui. Oui . The Haitians work their dead. They are well known for that. Ours we leave to their sorrows. And their frolics. So coarse, the Haitians. So Creole. And one can’t bathe there, the sharks are so intimidating. And their mosquitoes: the size, the audacity! Here in Martinique we have no mosquitoes. None.”
    “I’ve noticed that; I wondered about it.”
    “So do we. Martinique is the only island in the Caribbean not cursed with mosquitoes, and no one can explain it.”
    “Perhaps the night-flying moths devour them all.”
    She laughs. “Or the ghosts.”
    “No. I think ghosts would prefer moths.”
    “Yes, moths are perhaps more ghostly fodder. If I was a hungry ghost, I’d rather eat anything than mosquitoes. Will you have more ice in your glass? Absinthe?”
    “Absinthe. That’s something we can’t get at home. Not even in New Orleans.”
    “My paternal grandmother was from New Orleans.”
    “Mine, too.”
    As she pours absinthe from a dazzling emerald decanter: “Then perhaps we are related. Her maiden name was Dufont. Alouette Dufont.”
    “Alouette? Really? Very pretty. I’m aware of two Dufont families in New Orleans, but I’m not related to either of them.”
    “Pity. It would have been amusing to call you cousin. Alors . Claudine Paulot tells me this is your first visit to Martinique.”
    “Claudine Paulot?”
    “Claudine and Jacques Paulot. You met them at the Governor’s dinner the other night.”
    I remember: he was a tall, handsome man, the First President of the Court of Appeals for Martinique and French Guiana, which includes Devil’s Island. “The Paulots. Yes. They have eight children. He very much favors capital punishment.”
    “Since you seem to be a traveler, why have you not visited here sooner?”
    “Martinique? Well, I felt a certain reluctance. A good friend was murdered here.”
    Madame’s lovely eyes are a fraction less friendly than before. She makes a slow pronouncement: “Murder is a rare occurrence here. We are not a violent people. Serious, but not violent.”
    “Serious. Yes. The people in restaurants, on the streets, evenon the beaches have such severe expressions. They seem so preoccupied. Like Russians.”
    “One must keep in mind that slavery did not end here until 1848.”
    I fail to make the connection, but do not inquire, for already she is saying: “Moreover, Martinique is très cher . A bar of soap bought in Paris for five francs costs twice that here. The price of everything is double what it