After a drink, Desire was fond of launching into a long disquisition on one of a handful of favorite themes, and no discussion would be entered into. He fancied himself an amateur philosopher, especially regarding the subject of the races—the Negro, the failings thereof, and the advantages servitude brought thereunto. Regarding the full-blood slave, Desire had little to say: the full-blood Negro was beyond human redemption because of the curse of Ham, but could nevertheless receive divine redemption, which depended not on man but on the mercy of God. But was the half-caste subject to the same curse? There were, he admitted, undoubtedly many instances of half-castes in Louisiana who had flourished in their freedom, which indicated that they possessed certain qualities that might, in certain circumstances, approach those of a white man. But was the half-caste capable of human redemption? He would continue on this theme night after night, often alluding directly to one of the half-castes present, including Jeanne, all of whom had been trained to remain perfectly oblivious to the nature of the conversation being conducted by the masters they served. The disquisition always ended with its customary conclusion: that the Negro was better off in his bestial state than burdened with the ennui of the white man’s life.

Over the years, by force of repetition, one could follow the course of his argument paying only the slightest attention, and otherwise enjoy a moment of perfect solitude. It was best, when Desire was drunk, to keep one’s attention firmly fixed on one’s plate. As what was on my plate was my chief delight, I was only too happy to comply. I questioned his racial theories just once and regretted it instantly. He saw my words as a challenge to his unassailable authority. The viciousness of his retort was such that he stopped only when Hortense burst into tears. It was a most unpleasant episode, and I resolved never to provoke another like it. But the seed of defiance was planted in my mind and was watered nightly by Desire’s monologues.

Meanwhile, I continued my own, sad metamorphosis into a sight ever ghastlier to behold. I could barely stand to see my reflection in a mirror—and the house was filled with them. I had a sweet tooth that could never be satisfied, and a sugarcane plantation is no place for a sweet tooth. Subjected to a fatal admixture of gluttony and idleness, my body continued to swell, and my teeth to rot. Every toothache set off a nauseous trip downriver to the dentists of New Orleans, with tearful farewells from Hortense and a procession of servants to navigate the passage of my monstrous body over and around the hazards of the outside world. Eventually, for expediency’s sake, my few remaining teeth were removed all at once. By the time I was hauled out of the dentist’s office, my jaws were worth several slaves.