House of Rougeaux(34)

All the children turned out to be fine players, if not legendary, and inevitably some enjoyed it more than others. Martine was one who found the music to be a living thing in and of itself. When she put her hands out to play it was as if the keys stretched up to meet her fingers. The music was eager to live, and the piano itself was there to do its part to let it be born. Saturday afternoons she taught lessons to a handful of children whose families could spare the ten cents she charged per lesson. And she sometimes warmed up playing with melodies her father made while working.

Papa didn’t play himself anymore. Years of unending labor had stiffened his fingers so, but time had refined his ear. “See if you can do something with this,” he’d say, and sing a few notes in his rough bass. If he liked the results she’d hear the tenderest words he would allow: “That’s nice.” And he might give her a little pat on the shoulder.

Papa didn’t work for the railroad now, since with the help of his family he had expanded his beer brewing into a successful small business. He had painstakingly invested in bottles and equipment, during his years as a porter, that eventually filled the tiny basement of their row house from floor to ceiling. Albert-Ross, Martine’s older brother, drew out the lettering for the red and white label, including the beer’s slogan—Enjoy a Rougeaux Today—and many a customer did just that. Prohibition brought Americans in droves to Montreal’s saloons and nightclubs. When Papa turned forty he was able to retire from the railroad and run his business full-time. Martine was still a child and spent many evenings with her siblings cutting the sheets of labels with scissors as they came from the printers, and sticking them on the filled bottles with rollers and pots of glue. Later these bottles would be collected and boiled and refilled again.

Momma divided her time between her paid domestic work, helping Papa, and, as usual, commanding her household. She still managed to devote considerable energy to the betterment of the community through the church and the Colored Women’s Club, which among many other projects sponsored the lending library. With God’s grace the Rougeauxes now paid a mortgage, rather than rent, a source of great pride, and had their eyes on furthering the education of Maxwell, the youngest child.



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Martine worked in service to a well-to-do family over in the Westmount district. The Braddocks had two children away at boarding school, a gardener who came twice a week and a full-time cook, the short, plump Caroline Tulane, from Martine’s own neighborhood, who played the organ at church on Sundays. Martine kept the house. It was her third position since leaving school, and she’d been there since March. It was June now.

The previous position, one she’d had for three years, was easier. She took care of Madame Lambert, a decrepit old thing who slept most of the time; she needed bathing and spoon-feeding, and sometimes reading to. Aside from these things her duties were light, which allowed her the time to sneak into the library, which was vast. If any of the other servants found her there she had the ready excuse of looking for a book for Madame.

Besides playing the piano Martine loved to read. Indeed, there was nothing she treasured so much as books, and these, for a girl in her station, were hard to come by. In school she read everything she could. Time and again she visited the school library to ask permission to borrow nearly every book they had. There was also a small lending library, housed at their church, Union Congregational, and in the years since finishing school, Martine read every publication there several times over, excepting the mechanics manuals and navigational texts. Martine herself owned no books, save for a small Bible given to her on her eighteenth birthday, that she knew pretty much by heart and used to press flowers. Books were alive as music was, if not more so, and what she loved most was poetry. She’d had one teacher in school, a Mrs. Ives, who made them learn and recite the English poets, with a special emphasis on Shakespeare, Keats, Byron and Blake.

Martine read Madame Lambert’s books with a desperate haste, well aware the job could come to an end at any moment. Her favorite titles she noted down on the endpapers of her Bible. If one day she could acquire them for herself she would do so. She dreamt of having her own library, however small.



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The day dawned clear and gentle. Martine woke at Momma’s knock and her voice passing in the hall calling out, “Rouse yourself, Sister.” She washed her face at the basin on the table in the corner of her small bedroom, put up her hair with combs in the postcard-sized mirror and slipped on her uniform. Her friends often complimented Martine on her good hair, which was soft and pliable, and grew long enough so that her plaits reached her shoulders, not that she bothered to do anything special with it on a workday.

Down in the kitchen she got the coffee on for Momma, who was upstairs still and engaged in the daily struggle to get Maxwell out of bed. Martine served herself a bowl of porridge from the stovetop and checked the oven. Momma’s bread rolls were almost done baking.

When Martine stepped out onto the street, handbag hooked over her elbow and still buttoning her coat, the world smelled of green and flowery things. Spring had come late this year, but now every tree and courtyard bloomed. On her way to catch the streetcar she passed several neighbors. Mr. Anson, sweeping out in front of his grocery, waved and smiled.

“Lovely morning,” he said. It surely was.



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