Читать книгу The Roving Tree - Elsie Augustave - Страница 16

Chapter 8

The rudder of man’s best hope

cannot always steer himself from error.

—Martin Farquar Tupper

In late spring on an exceptionally chilly Paris day, Brahami walked into a café on rue de la Huchette in the Latin Quarter. He stood at the bar that reeked of tobacco and was spanned by pinewood beams and waited for a table with a view of the narrow cobblestone street. Brahami watched the goings-on of the patrons and passersby intently, hoping his memories of the place would stay with him long after his return to Haiti. The headwaiter, an Algerian, came to let him know that Latham called and had been delayed but would meet him as soon as possible. Brahami thought about his imminent return home and wondered why his friend was late.

Moments later, Latham greeted Brahami: “Bonjour. Sorry I’m late. Did you get my message?”

Brahami nodded. “What happened?”

Latham removed his gray tweed jacket. “I was expecting an important call from New York. It looks like I’ll be going home too,” he announced as he settled into a chair across from Brahami.

“I thought you wanted to make Paris your home.” As the waiter took Latham’s order, Brahami fixed an inquisitive gaze on his friend. “Why did you change your mind?”

“There’s a whole lot happening back home with the civil rights movement,” Latham said, stretching his long legs underneath the table. “I’m too excited about it to stay here.”

As the waiter returned with their drinks, Brahami took a Gauloise from the pack and studied his friend under half-closed eyelids. “Can we actually make a difference at home?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that I want to make whatever contribution I can.”

They finished their beers and became absorbed in their own private thoughts, enjoying the city’s youthful optimism and excitement, dreaming of a world of justice, free of racial and social discrimination.

* * *

On a sunny day in June 1954, Brahami left Paris, filled with unlimited hope. The anticipation of being among family and old friends was greater than the sadness he felt about leaving. After all, he had everything that seemed to destine him for a good life, and that included finding his place in Haitian high society. He was ready to take over the family’s estate and also had his beautiful childhood sweetheart waiting for him.

As he drove through the gate, his father beeped the horn and guests rushed to welcome the young Bonsang. Instantly Brahami was distracted by the distinct smells of spicy food that mingled with the scent of hibiscus flowers and bougainvillea. Darah waited under one of the palm trees in the courtyard that had been transformed into an outdoor dining area with elegant blue tents that blended with the color of the Caribbean sky.

Brahami remembered that he had not answered her last two letters, but immediately noticed her iridescent eyes radiated love and forgiveness. Her hair was pulled into a chignon adorned with a white hibiscus flower; the white dress she was wearing accentuated her square shoulders and complemented her honey-colored skin. Brahami turned away from the crowd as soon as he could and walked toward Darah who extended her manicured hand to be kissed.

He sat at a table with her and their friends who also belonged to the exclusive Bellevue Club, where the passport for entry was to be a member of an influential mulatto family. The influence had to do with money and pedigree; the more French ancestors one could trace, the better. Madame Bonsang approached the table and embraced Darah. The older woman wore a straight black skirt and a white embroidered linen blouse; her long hair was styled in a French twist.

“Manman, the food is superb. It’s been so long since I ate a hearty meal like this.”

“The credit goes to Hagathe,” she told him.

Brahami stood from his chair. “I haven’t had a chance to say hello to her yet.” He excused himself from his friends and looked for the maid, who was clearing food from the buffet table. “Bonjour, Hagathe,” he said.

“Bonjou, Mesye Brahami.” A smile brightened her dark face as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“My parents told me about your mother in one of their letters. I’m so sorry she’s gone.” Brahami realized he was speaking Creole for the first time since he’d left Haiti seven years ago. He was definitely home, he thought.

“I’m glad you’re back, Mesye Brahami. Please excuse me.”

He looked up and watched the golden rays of the sun behind the mountains. A patch of cloud covered the sky as he walked away from Hagathe.

* * *

Brahami and Darah’s engagement lasted only a few months. Despite the short notice, her family prepared a lavish wedding that gathered Haiti’s most prominent mulatto families. The bride and groom received many valuable gifts, including Hagathe, the loyal family servant. Shortly after they returned from their honeymoon in Havana, Brahami received a letter from Latham, who wrote about the steady changes in civil rights for Negroes in the United States, which made Brahami consider questions he had not thought of since his return to Haiti.

“Bad news from Latham?” Darah questioned.

“Not at all,” Brahami said, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket as he announced that he was going for a drive.

Like Latham, Brahami had considered getting involved in the political struggle when he returned home; so his friend’s letter was a reminder of the promise he had made to himself. He drove through the streets of Bois Verna, Canapé Vert, and Champs de Mars, where people lived behind closed gates in houses adorned with red, pink, white hibiscus, and laurel flowers. He then continued through the more popular rue Pavée and rue du Centre, where houses were close to the sidewalks, one right next to the other. Driving along the shabby streets of Bel Air, he observed les misérables of Port-au-Prince with growing interest, eager to learn about their lives, wondering how he could be useful to them.

The streets of Bel Air, with their peeling, crumbling houses, were quite noisy. Brahami was impressed by the shrieks and cries of street peddlers that rose in crescendo, inviting people to purchase food staples such as ground corn, rice, and salted pork. “Min-bel-mayimoulin-diriblan-mayi-sinmak-min-soupoudre-e-e-e,” said the voices that reached the walls of nearby houses. Listening to the musical sound that translated a unique cultural reality, Brahami realized he had never paid attention to those ambulant merchants before he left for Paris and that being away for so long made him more appreciative of them.

Women hurried through rundown gates to make purchases. People sat on porches and carried on with their everyday activities. A young girl sat between the legs of an older one on a low stool, having her hair braided. A woman bent over a sewing machine, and next to her, loose cigarettes, mint candy, coconut cakes, and grilled peanuts were set up to be sold. At other places, men cut each other’s hair. Boys played with colorful marbles. Passersby stopped to exchange bits of friendly conversation. Some sat alone with their thoughts; others gossiped.

Brahami parked his jeep next to three women who were carrying empty buckets to a public water fountain. They stopped to talk with another woman, sheltered under a cloth tent, who was selling cooked rice and beans and goat stew. She kept clean enamel plates and spoons in a wicker basket on one side, dirty ones on the other. Brahami listened to their conversation.

“How’s business today?” one of the women asked.

The vendor fanned herself with an old straw hat. “Half of the rice is gone. I’m hoping I won’t have to take the rest with me tonight.”

“Do you know what happened to that girl who lives inside this alley here?” another woman asked, pointing to a chipped metal gate that was open. “We heard her scream a little while ago. What was the beating about this time?”

“Adye!” the vendor cried out in pity. “The poor thing has to clean the place, do the laundry, and wash the feet of the lady of the house for scraps of food.” She sucked her teeth and continued to fan herself.

A man walked up to her to buy a plate of food. She served him a small piece of goat meat on a sea of rice and beans. He ate his meal on a wooden crate a few yards from her.

“The poor girl was on her way back from the fountain. She was right there.” The vendor pointed to a street corner. “A schoolboy pushed her, and the water fell from the bucket she carried on her head, and she had to return to the fountain. When she came back to the house, the woman beat her with a rigwaz because she took too long. You know how much that dried cow skin hurts!”

“Oh yes,” said another woman. “I used to get my share of it when I was a restavèk.”

Brahami peered through the opened gate and watched the restavèk, an unkempt, undernourished servant girl, no older than eight or nine. She wore a torn, faded dress that hung limply below her shoulders. He felt even more pity when he saw that her face was badly burned, which made him ponder the question he had often asked himself in Paris when he flirted with Communism: could Marxism be the answer to Haiti’s color and class division?

* * *

Two years after they were married, Darah went to France to seek medical treatment that she hoped would put an end to her infertility. One evening after supper, Brahami and his high school friend Georges sat on the veranda. After Hagathe had brought the rum punch that he had requested and was no longer in sight, Georges exclaimed, “What a bel nègès! A true black beauty!”

“You’re talking about the maid?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed?”

“Not really,” Brahami lied. Although he had fantasized from time to time about having sex with her, he had, thus far, managed to brush away the desire.

After Georges left he helped himself to another drink. At the sight of Hagathe putting dishes away, he stopped at the doorway of the kitchen. She was startled when she became aware of his presence.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I just came for some water.”