This short novel in French explores the life and bloodline of one Haitian woman, Emma Bratte, through the perspective of the interpreter tasked with recording her testament – Flore. Flore works for the icy Dr. MacLeod in a psychiatric hospital in Montreal. She is a quiet, stable brown woman, whereas Emma is ‘deranged’ and so black as to be 'blue,' a color that seeps through her whole story like seawater. After failing to defend a dissertation on the transatlantic slave trade at a university in France, Emma is charged with murdering her own daughter and locked up for examination in Quebec. She does not give the straightforward account of her alleged crime that the doctor expects. “She refuses to speak to us in any language other than her mother tongue,” he complains to Flore. What seems to him a hindrance in communication will become, for his interpreter, the key to understanding Emma’s story: 'la langue maternelle.'
Emma gradually wins Flore over from the hospital’s cold ideology with a poetic account of her provenance. She begins with autobiography: she was the unwanted product of rape, raised by a mother who wouldn’t acknowledge her and an antagonistic aunt. It isn’t until Emma moves in with Mattie, the old woman who took care of her late grandmother, in Grand-Lagon, Haiti, that she finds any relief. Mattie shows Emma all the care that her damaged mother wouldn’t. She braids Emma’s hair late into the night while telling the accursed, enchanted story of her bloodline.
It all began with a Guinean mother whose daughter was torn out of her arms and sent to the New World on a slave ship. Over the next few decades, the series of daughters that followed the first barely survived plantation life in Haiti. Emma inherits the still-raw trauma of these several generations after they have finally escaped slavery. A woman as black as she is, Emma insists, is always already condemned. In the end, she follows Mattie’s prophecy (based on Emma’s apocalyptic dreams) that she will end the bloodline – and thereby end its suffering. Emma never explicitly admits to killing her daughter; but by the end of her testimony, she doesn’t have to.
Marie-Célie Agnant treats this lead-heavy matter in a graceful, weightless manner. Emma is the physical reminder of a legacy so bleak that normative society can only treat it as a threat. Such closed-mindedness (represented by Dr. MacLeod) only gives her more reason to want to end that legacy for good. Flore, the reader’s interlocutor, can hardly bear the weight of Emma’s story. She finally seeks shelter in Nickolas Zankoffi, the father of Emma’s child, but his manliness fails her as it failed Emma before her. Men are not welcome, nor are they of use, in this matrilineal saga.
In fact, it is mainly a shared feminine energy that animates the story. Agnant’s narrative alternates between Flore’s present and Emma’s past, and their two voices come to blur together as the book progresses. Emma and her ancestors do not have the privilege of publishing their account in a nice, orderly book. Their history can survive only orally, obliquely, through the vessels of more stable friends like Mattie and Flore. (When Emma did try to formalize her history in writing, white academic gatekeepers denied it.) The Book of Emma frequently interrogates problems of language, translation, and text. Implicitly, it posits History – characterized by men, writing, and clinical science – against Memory – characterized by women, oral storytelling, and dream interpretation. The unspeakable horror of what enslaved black women went through manifests itself in the struggle of sharing their story. The reader receives Emma’s “book” secondhand (through Flore), and this simple narrative technique gestures toward all the pained past lost in translation – in transatlantic translation. Emma ends her testimony with the question that drove it from the start: “Can one heal from the hate and contempt swallowed in large doses since the birth of the world?” Her tragic ending suggests no, but Agnant’s breathtaking novelization of it refreshes the question.