Uncle François was a banker, and his house showed it. Though Aunt Véronique was Mama’s sister, she’d learned only a few basic signs, so Mama could not really participate in the table conversation. At first, Joseph’s father tried to translate everything that wassaid, but it was hard for him to keep up, because Aunt and Uncle did not wait. They behaved as if Mama were not even there. Finally, when his father tapped her, she just shook her head and kept her eyes on her quail.
Joseph’s cousin Frederic was nearly eighteen. When he discovered Joseph didn’t know how to ride, Frederic promised to teach him. “I bet you don’t have the right boots, though.” They determined that Joseph did not. Their family’s shoemaker didn’t even make riding boots. “My man can make you some, then,” Frederic offered. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Father?”
“It’s your allowance,” Uncle François answered without interest.
Frederic was as good as his word. They set off as soon as they’d finished breakfast. Joseph’s cousin walked with a silver-tipped cane he didn’t need, because he thought it made him look elegant. Frederic extolled the virtues of his boot-maker, and they were only half watching where they were going. They nearly collided with another pair on the sidewalk: an elderly colored man and woman who were finely dressed. Their eyes lowered immediately.
Gripping the head of his cane, Frederic glared at them. “Well?” he prompted.
Slowly the colored man guided the woman to the edge of the sidewalk so that Joseph and his cousin could pass.
“And they didn’t even apologize!” Frederic muttered as they continued. “These free coloreds get so full of themselves!”
Joseph liked the way the boot-maker’s shop smelled: sharp and rich from all the leather hanging about them. The boot-maker was a free mulatto who owned slaves. One of them took Joseph’s measurements, and his cousin helped him choose a style.
On the way back, Frederic paused at the corner between St. Philip’s and the Huguenot Church, staring down Queen Street toward the docks. “Father said I could have a new valet for my birthday—the one I have is getting too old. You don’t mind if I take a look at the stock while we’re here, do you?”
Joseph could only shake his head and follow his cousin. He’d never entered this part of the city, but he knew what it contained.He’d only glimpsed slave auctions from a distance while his parents or grandparents hurried him and his sisters along.
Frederic turned onto State Street. “We’re looking for a trader called Hart. Let me know if you see his sign.”
Some of the buildings here resembled warehouses or stables, but most looked like houses, except for the high white-washed walls surrounding their yards. Negroes stood in lines along the sidewalks, sometimes on little wooden footstools to elevate them above the milling crowd. They were all clean and neat: the men in suits and many in top hats, the women in calico dresses and tidy head kerchiefs. Joseph tried not to stare at them—he imagined enough people did that.
Most of the negroes kept their eyes on their shoes, but one woman seemed to be gazing vacantly across the street. Joseph tried to follow her eyes. He saw nothing unusual, only a sign on the façade of one of the buildings that said:
PRICE, ARMSTRONG, & CO.
DEALERS IN SLAVES
“Here we are!” Frederic cried, almost in the same moment a white man stepped in front of them. He had bushy whiskers on his cheeks, and the band of his hat declared in bold letters:
CASH FOR NEGROES!
The man smiled coolly. “Out for a stroll this morning, gentlemen?” He seemed to be assessing them.
“Not at all—I am quite in earnest.” Frederic produced a card from his pocketbook. “My father isFrançoisTraver. He’s purchased from Mr. Hart’s firm before.”
Uncle François’s name seemed to satisfy the man, who gave a sharp bow. In fact, Joseph saw another dealer turn his head and frown in disappointment. “Are you looking to sell or to buy, Mr. Traver?” asked the man in theCASH FOR NEGROEShat.
“Both. I need a new body servant.”
“Of course.” The man led them to the red door of a three-story building that looked like a house. “If you’ll step into our showroom, I am sure we have just what you need.”
TheCASH FOR NEGROESman directed them down a sparse hallway to a room that resembled a large parlor without much decoration. It did contain several chairs and a sideboard topped by crystal decanters. Beside it waited a dark-skinned boy of about fifteen in livery. Other negroes stood with their backs to the long wall while white men contemplated and questioned them. At the far end of the room, an elderly man sat in a fine chair and puffed on a cigar while he eyed two mulatto girls.
A well-dressed man shook hands with one of the other buyers in parting, then greeted Joseph and Frederic with the tip of his hat. “Simon Hart, at your service.”
Frederic introduced himself.
“And the young master?”
“This is my cousin, Joseph Lazare.”
“Will Mr. Lazare be doing business with us as well?” Hart queried in a voice like a chuckle.
“How are your negroes treating you, Joseph?” Frederic grinned.
At least, his cousin sounded like he was grinning. Joseph had returned his eyes to his shoes. “Fine,” he mumbled. Joseph didn’t think such a suggestion was at all amusing. Henry and May had served his family for as long as he could remember. Even thinking about trading them made him feel disloyal. He didn’t like Agathe’s food as much as he had their old cook’s—she used strange spices—but Agathe was Henry’s mother.
