Читать книгу The Roving Tree - Elsie Augustave - Страница 12

Chapter 4

What we call our future is the shadow

that our past throws in front of us.

—Marcel Proust

Inspired by the American scholar Melville Herskovits, who wrote Life in a Haitian Valley, Margaret decided to study traditional Haitian beliefs. To help her with her field research, Latham wrote to his friend on her behalf. When Margaret, her husband, and Latham arrived in Haiti, Brahami, Latham’s friend, took them on short trips to nearby villages, mostly to Kenscoff and Furcy, where his family had properties. But Margaret soon faced the difficulty of finding peasants who were willing to contribute to the study. People were reluctant to talk to strangers because their comments could be misinterpreted and could be the cause of trouble with the authorities. The air was infected with fear.

Brahami and his guests were talking after dinner one evening, when Margaret expressed her disappointment. Granted, her husband had enriched his collection of paintings with primitive, abstract, and religious art that were expressions of the Haitian soul, but she hadn’t even begun her fieldwork. “I really need to meet peasants with traditional lifestyles,” Margaret insisted. “I’ve been here a week, and still there are no prospects.”

Brahami remembered a family that might be of help to Latham’s friend. “They don’t live close by and the roads are bad,” he said. “Besides, you won’t have any comforts there.”

“That’s no problem,” Margaret reassured Brahami. “Doing fieldwork means eating anything and sleeping anywhere.”

“I’ll drive you there early tomorrow morning. But I’m not sure how easy it will be for you to communicate with them.”

Margaret seemed worried. “Do they only speak Creole?”

“Someone there speaks French; not the most fluent French, but you’ll be able to communicate somewhat.”

* * *

Days later, Margaret and Hagathe sat under the shade of a mango tree, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the smell of ripe fruit. Margaret, who was anxious to move her research forward, asked Hagathe if she believed in vaudou.

Hagathe looked away. “We’re Catholics. We believe in God, our Granmèt.”

“Does being a Catholic mean a person cannot believe in vaudou?” Margaret asked, frowning, the thought of syncretism in the back of her mind.

“I don’t know, Madan Winston,” Hagathe replied and looked away again.

Margaret stared at the three-foot wooden cross in the yard and the bottle wrapped in black cloth that leaned against it. She would have to be patient, she thought.

Later that day, Margaret began another conversation with Hagathe, still hopeful to engage in talks about vaudou.

Not far away from where they sat, the son of one of Hagathe’s cousins held an old pot upside down between his legs and rhythmically beat on it with sticks. His younger brother, also holding a stick, beat on a bottle to the same rhythm. Young Iris danced. Margaret watched, and then turned to Hagathe. “Your daughter is a natural dancer,” she said.

Hagathe smiled faintly. “She’s a good child.”

“If you ever want her to visit the United States, she can always stay with us. My daughter Cynthia would enjoy her company.”

“That would be nice,” Hagathe said, “but I will never be able to come up with that kind of money.”

“Don’t worry. We can arrange that.”

“How many children do you have?” Hagathe asked, after a brief silence.

“I can’t have children. I adopted Cynthia when she was six weeks old,” Margaret said, as she applied lotion on her bare arms to protect her pale skin from the Caribbean sun.

“Does she know she’s adopted?”

“Of course,” Margaret replied. “We’re thinking about adopting another child soon.”

“You really like children?” The question sounded more like an observation.

“I do. I didn’t give birth to Cynthia, but I’m totally devoted to her.” Margaret spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “There’s the argument about heredity and environment. In some cases, heredity is more important, but it’s not always true,” she proffered.

“I don’t know what those words mean.”

“Let’s see.” Margaret paused. “Heredity refers to genes passed down through family lineage; environment implies conditions that surround a person.”

Hagathe nodded, but Margaret thought she looked as confused as before.

“I worry so much about my daughter,” Hagathe suddenly said. “I can’t sleep at night. Sometimes I walk around like a zombie, worrying about what might happen to her.”

“Why?”

Hagathe let out a moan of anguish mixed with fear and exasperation. “Vilanus, the Tonton Macoute,” she said, “you know, the village militia, he can’t stand my daughter.” Alarm and sadness covered her face as she spoke. She moved closer to Margaret and lowered her voice. “He thinks it’s because of her that I don’t want him. God only knows what that evil man will do to my daughter!”

* * *

That evening, Margaret lay next to John on the oak queen-sized bed in their room in town. She put down the Alfred Métraux book she had been reading and sighed deeply.

“What’s the matter?” John asked, turning down the light from the kerosene lamp on his side of the bed. “Are you still thinking about how to get Hagathe to talk?”

“She spoke about Iris today.” Margaret related the conversation she’d had with Hagathe about a Tonton Macoute and her fear for her daughter. Margaret couldn’t help noticing the horror on her husband’s face. She wiped her face with a wet towel to cool off from the heat and humidity of the late evening and waited for his reaction.

“Poor woman!” John exclaimed. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”

Long after the light had gone out, Margaret thought about Hagathe’s fear and apprehension. An idea slowly emerged. She had to figure out how to present it to her husband and, most importantly, to Hagathe. Although she assumed she could persuade John, she knew enough about the strength of motherhood to think Hagathe might not go along with the plan.

“Are you okay?” John asked, waking up from a light sleep. “You’re still awake.” He struck a match, lit the gas lamp, and wrapped an arm around Margaret’s shoulders.

“Since we’ve been thinking about adopting another child . . .”

John moved his arm away from her shoulders, raised his eyebrows. “You’re not thinking about adopting Iris, are you?”

“You said you wanted to help.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to adopt the child!”

“But we’re thinking about adopting another child.”

“A lot of thinking must go into adopting a five-year-old of a different race who doesn’t even speak English.”

“We could become her guardians and then put her through school.She’s bright enough to catch up with what she missed in preschool.”

“We’ll see.”

“John,” Margaret said in an exasperated voice, “We enjoy being parents and have already bonded with Iris. If you ask me, I’d say that’s a tremendous advantage. At least we know who we’re getting.”

“But Margaret, you do realize that whites who adopt black children are viewed with suspicion.”

“And you think we should care? Didn’t we already agree that what really matters is to find a child in need of a loving home?”

“All I’m saying is that Iris may suffer from lack of cultural identity.”

“Come on, John. We may be the only opportunity she has!”

John blew out the lamp. In the sheer darkness, with his eyes opened or closed, he could see the young Iris’s mesmerizing, tear-filled eyes with an indefinable sparkle to them. No matter how much he tried to erase them from his memory, they were there, forcing their way to the depth of his soul. As minutes and hours went by, his heart softened and he imagined the guilt he would live with if something irreparable were to happen to Iris. By early morning, he had begun to envision himself holding her hand and escorting her to school.

John was tired the next morning after only a few hours of sleep. Yawning and stretching, he watched Margaret brush her hair in front of the distorted mirror. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “perhaps taking Iris back with us might be a good idea after all.”

Margaret put down the brush and moved toward John. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, she looked into his eyes. “You are truly the best. That’s why I love you so much.”

* * *

Hours later, John and Margaret found Hagathe seated on a low chair with her head bent toward a large straw tray. She was cleaning the rice that was to be cooked that day. “My husband and I have something to ask you,” Margaret said, taking a seat next to her. “I told John about your concerns for Iris and we thought that, if you agree, we could take her with us to the United States. I promise she will be in safe hands and we will make sure she receives a good education.”

“I know it would be hard for you,” John added. “But Iris can spend summer vacations with you. And if you’re not happy with the job we’re doing, you can always take her back.”

“We would treat her like our own.” Margaret spoke slowly, making an effort to enunciate every word even more than she usually did.

John shifted in his seat. “If you want, we can adopt her to get her legal status,” he said, ending a brief silence that had fallen between them.

“I need to talk to my grandmother about it,” was all that Hagathe said.

* * *

Days later, John sat on the porch while Margaret paced the verandah, waiting for Hagathe, who was supposed to pick them up on her way back from buying wholesale merchandise that she would later sell in the market. For the third time, Margaret glanced at her watch and said that maybe Hagathe couldn’t come to town after all. “We should go there now,” she suggested.

Walking along the sugarcane field, they saw a figure lying on the ground. As they came closer, they recognized Hagathe with her panties hanging loosely around an ankle. Margaret gasped, and John shook his head in disbelief before realizing he needed to act quickly. The nerves at his temples pounded, as he felt Hagathe’s pulse. He tied his handkerchief around her head to stop the blood that was flowing from above her neck, then carried her to a nearby stream to dab cool water on her face. “I’m taking her to the main road,” he told his wife. “She’s got to get to a hospital.” He left Margaret with Hagathe while he ran to the church around the corner so he could borrow the Jeep from the priest.

* * *

When Margaret told the women in the village that Hagathe had been attacked and that John had taken her to the nearest hospital, they became hysterical. After they calmed down, Hagathe’s aunt Jésula swept the dirt floor and sprinkled water to keep the dust down. She put dried red beans in a pot to boil. Standing erect, she sighed heavily and shook her head before returning to the kitchen, which was a tent covered with dried palm leaves to shelter it from rain and sun. She fanned the wood fire with a torn straw hat, darkened by smoke and time, until the flames grew taller under the cooking pot.

“Goddamnit!” said a nasal voice that took possession of Jésula’s body.

“Papa Guede is here!” Jésula’s daughter, Marie Ange, announced with excitement. She removed the pot of beans that was balanced on three stones, and rushed to welcome the spirit who had come to visit the family through Jésula, a favorite steed.

Papa Guede tied Jésula’s faded black dress around his waist, exposing a seven-colored slip; each color was cut in a square. He walked to the wooden cross, took a drink from the bottle wrapped in black cloth, and entered the peristyle, the place where the people worshipped spirits. The women followed.

Margaret had finally found material for her study. And, though it was true that they sometimes chatted with her freely, whenever she mentioned vaudou, all lips were sealed. But she hung around, hopeful that one day they would expose her to the secrecy of their religion. Looking around the peristyle, she took mental notes of the religious icons and objects that she later recorded in a notebook.

“Everyone says I’m an indecent, gossipy good-for-nothing who speaks in a foul language,” the spirit boasted through Jésula’s lips, as he surveyed the room. “But you must admit, I speak the truth.”

“Papa Guede, we know you don’t keep anything to yourself,” said Lamercie, Hagathe’s grandmother. She laughed.

“Didn’t I tell you misfortune was on its way?”

“You did, Papa Guede,” Lamercie admitted.

“Se byen, very well. Hagathe will be fine. That lowlife Tonton Macoute is furious with her because she rejected him. But Granmèt will render justice.” Papa Guede suddenly noticed Margaret for the first time. “Oh! I’m honored to have a guest here,” he said, shaking her hand. “So you’re here to learn about the spirits of Guinen.”

Margaret smiled and nodded. “I’m happy to meet you.” She spoke to the spirit in French.

“I’m a nèg of Ayiti Toma. I don’t speak fancy like those people from the city,” Papa Guede said. “These women here, including my horse, were trying to hide us spirits from you. They thought we would not know how to behave around white people. That’s why I came uninvited.” Papa Guede broke into boisterous laughter, inviting everyone to do the same.

“Papa Guede, you are too much!” Lamercie said with a chuckle.

Papa Guede ignored Lamercie and turned to Margaret. “Bèl famm, beautiful woman, they show me no respect. They would never talk to Papa Ogoun that way,” he said and rolled his eyes. “O-revoi-la-société.” He then dismissed himself as abruptly as he had come.

* * *

A day later, Margaret touched Hagathe’s shoulder, leaned close to her, and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m here at the Lord’s mercy,” Hagathe said with a faint smile. “Thank you for everything you and your husband have done. I wouldn’t be alive without you. Doctors in this country don’t even look at you if you cannot pay in advance. Mèsi anpil, thank you very much. I’ve decided to let you take Iris with you,” Hagathe mumbled as tears filled her eyes.

“I will take good care of her.”

“Wait until she’s an adult before bringing her back here; wait long enough for that Tonton Macoute to forget her,” Hagathe said, as she turned her head away and closed her eyes.

“Get some rest,” Margaret advised and started to leave the room.

Hagathe opened her eyes. “I would like for Iris to keep her name,” she uttered in a feeble voice.

Margaret turned to face Hagathe again. “I will do as you wish.”

* * *

A young marine in his early twenties led John and Margaret to an austere room where the official flag of the United States of America hung high on a rod in a corner. A picture of the first Catholic to occupy the Oval Office decorated the otherwise bear walls. The consul, a tall middle-aged man with a full head of curly black hair and a mustache, informed them that they had to file papers with local authorities because François “Papa Doc” Duvalier wanted the names of all Haitians who wished to travel outside the country to go through a special screening process. The Winstons reluctantly left the air-conditioned room to brave the heat as they went from one office to another before coming to the desk of Dieudonné, who looked vaguely familiar, probably because of his resemblance to Jésula.

He invited John and Margaret to sit on folding chairs across from his desk, where they had a full view of a black-and-white photograph of Papa Doc in a black suit and a tall black hat, hiding behind thick glasses. Dieudonné asked his secretary to read the papers out loud because he did not have his reading glasses. His mask of indifference disappeared when he heard Hagathe’s name.

“What are your plans for the girl?” he asked in a throaty voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the couple.

“We promised her mother to give her a good education,” John said.

“Why are you doing this?” Dieudonné’s resonant voice filled the room.

“We love children, but we can’t have any of our own. We have already adopted a girl in the United States and we would also like to adopt Iris. We have become fond of her and her mother wants her to have a better life,” Margaret told him.

Dieudonné leaned forward on his chair. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an art collector and gallery owner. My wife is an anthropologist.”

“I see,” said Dieudonné, even though Margaret believed that he had no idea what their work entailed. All the same, he looked impressed.

“I’m here to study Haitian culture,” Margaret added. “A friend of ours introduced us to a loving family in Monn Nèg. That’s how we got to know the child and her mother.”

Dieudonné remained silent with a frown on his face. His features gradually relaxed before giving way to a smile. He summoned his secretary back to the office. “Make sure all the necessary papers are on my desk no later than tomorrow.”