Part 2 Lavil

Dry Twigs

At the bus terminal,

the streetlamp glows

on a thin woman

with sad eyes.

That can’t be Cousin Phebus.

It’s true she hasn’t been home

for Christmas in a few years,

but still, I’m surprised

to see how much she’s changed.

“Ti Cousine! Don’t tell me

you’ve forgotten

your favorite cousin!”

the thin woman says.

Her little laugh

sounds like dry twigs

snapping.

Cousin Phebus,

who used to swing me ? ? in circles

until my feet

flew ? ? high ? ? off ? ? ? the ? ? ? ground.

Why does a cook

look like she’s starving?

Behind her smile,

a sadness.

She takes my hand

and my small suitcase,

tries not to grin

at the rope.

“You’re so lucky

to work for Madame Ovide,”

says Cousin Phebus.

Together we walk

on the Chemin des Dalles

to Bois Verna,

where the houses

are like castles

carved with

towers and balconies,

set back from the street

enough to be admired

but with gates

to keep people out.

My heart skips a beat

with excitement at the

fairy-tale houses,

with their delicate carved wood lattices.

My first time in the capital

feels like a daydream.

Papa would love these.

On Cousin Phebus’s palm

I feel a scar, a rocky island

of flesh.

“Did you burn yourself

when you were cooking?”

Cousin Phebus

pulls away her hand.

We walk on in silence.

Tree frogs croak high

in the thick night air.

“We both

have our secrets to keep.

“I heard what you did.

Weren’t you afraid?”

“No,” I lie.

“You should be.

The section chief’s mother

has an elephant’s memory.”

I remember the shadow

behind the lace curtain

when the policeman knocked.

“I still want to go home.”

Cousin Phebus turns

to face me.

“Don’t you even know

how lucky you are?”

This time her voice

is on fire with anger

and pain.

I know I’m lucky

compared to Fifina and her family,

Sister Gilberte’s fiancé,

the boys and men in chains.

“It’s just that

I want to

run my own school

like Sister Gilberte—”

“You think that will happen now?

I thought you were smart .”

We reach the gate

of a blue-and-white mansion,

a castle in the sky.

The most beautiful house

I’ve ever seen.

“This is Madame Ovide’s.”

Cousin Phebus’s hand

trembles,

clammy in mine.

She pulls it away

and points around the back.

Why is she shaking like this?

I thought she liked

working here.

“Go through

the courtyard

to that little house

in the back.

You’ll see

where you’ll sleep.”

She rings the bell.

“Don’t go off

by yourself

and do something stupid

again,” she adds softly.

“The tallest tree

is always chopped down first.”

Shadow Girl

The yard boy meets me

at the gate. Brings me inside

by a side door, in the part of the house

where the servants live.

Where I now live.

At least I have my own room.

My first night

sleeping away from home.

Itchy rag-stuffed mattress

bumpy on my back,

not like my smooth straw mat

back home.

I toss and turn

on my bed of thorns,

questions tormenting me

like bedbugs.

What happened

to Fifina?

What happened

to my cousin?

What will happen

to me?

What if Cousin Phebus is right

and what I did was stupid?

I’m a mountain

emptied out.

I miss:

Papa ? ? Fifina ? ? Sister Gilberte

Mapou

Even Tante Lila

making me wince

when she washed and untangled

my thick bushy hair,

telling me to stop squirming,

smoothing castor oil

onto my scalp

as I sat on the floor

between her knees.

Even that,

I’ll miss.

The classroom smell ? ? ? of soft white chalk ? ? on gray slate.

Cracked leather books ??? Sister Gilberte opened

when the cracks in her heart ?? grew too wide.

Papa polishing my carving handing it back

with two words I loved: ? “Well done.”

Fifina’s neck ? misted with sweat when I kissed it.

Mapou’s leaves ? ? that danced ? when I touched them.

The window ? to my dreams

now closed.

Country Girl

I turn over again

on the mattress,

feel its resistance

against my back.

Even the night sounds here

are not like home,

where frogs and crickets

sing together.

Here the tree frogs croak

thin and high.

The crickets don’t respond.

I try to picture

the woman who owns all this,

but my mind refuses.

What I want right now

is to run

all the way home.

Morning

When I hear

the pipirit’s song

of dawn

I get up,

wash my face,

feet, hands

with the courtyard pump.

I step into the sandals Papa made,

remember his face

when he gave them to me.

The gray uniform

draped over an old

cane-and-straw chair

is stiff. Too big

for me

in the chest and hips.

Another girl’s body

molded its shape.

Another girl’s sweat

darkened its armpits.

My arms and legs

are twigs

trapped in gray.

I tie the white apron

twice around my waist.

A tall round woman

who looks as old as Tante Lila

comes out from

one of the other rooms.

Gray hair peeps from

beneath her madras headwrap,

but her face is smoother

than Sister Gilberte’s.

The houseboy

joins her

and makes us all

sweet black coffee.

“I’m Celestina,” the woman says.

“Been working here

since I was a girl.

And you must be Lucille.”

I nod.

“A real country girl

is always up

before the sun.”

I’m not sure

if I’ve already made

a mistake

my very first day

at Madame Ovide’s.

We finish our coffee

squatting in front of

an open-sided building

where I see chicken feathers

on the table.

Celestina sprinkles

a few drops from

the bottom of the cup

on the ground—

“for the ancestors,”

she says.

She walks us over

to the open building.

“The real kitchen is inside,

but we pluck the chickens

and gut the fish out here.

Can you cook

like your cousin?”

I nod

and stare at the long charcoal stove,

cast-iron pots and pans,

lined up neatly.

“Here is the icebox.

Only I can open it.”

She points to the key

around her neck.

“You can start

by shelling peas

soaking beans

pounding millet

plucking and skinning.

You’ve done all that before, right?”

“I used to help Cousin Phebus

before she came here,

before I went to school.”

“Euh, you went to school?

Then why are you here?”

I hesitate.

“My father is ill. My aunt

is caring for him.

I’m working here

until he gets better.

Then I’ll go home.”

My lie feels better

than explaining

the truth.

Finding Fifina

I unfold my drawing of Fifina.

“Have you seen my friend?

She went missing

from my village.”

Celestina squints,

sighing as she shakes her head.

“Such a pretty girl.

If she’s in the city, I hope

she’s not on her own.

“Bad things happen

to girls on their own.”

She takes another look

before moving me along.

“May Bondye protect her.

“Come on, now. There’s more to show you

before you start working.”

I turn away

so Celestina won’t see

the tears brimming.

Butterfly World

We walk quickly

through the courtyard

and enter paradise.

Deep-pink bougainvillea

on trumpet vine

curls over the garden wall,

spider lilies, white oleander,

blood-red hibiscus

sharp lemon-tree scent

mingles with jasmine,

ylang-ylang, gardenia.

Butterflies flutter

from color to color.

At the center

a marble fountain,

chubby angel spouting

water from its mouth.

A standing parasol

like a soft white cloud

shades the table

and four wrought-iron chairs.

What is it like to live

each day in paradise?

Work

Celestina doesn’t linger long.

Our day’s work is waiting.

“My cousin Paul

is the driver. My cousin Dieudonné

is the gardener. His son is my godson,

Felix, the yard boy.

“There are other servants

that come and go

for parties and dinners,

but they don’t live with us.

“Madame Ovide is from

a place called Cazales.

She told me all the people

look like her

and used to speak a strange language

and came from far away.

“Madame only comes outside

when the sun isn’t too bright.

Truth is,

she doesn’t want the sun

to ruin her light skin.”

She eyes me sideways.

“At least we’ll never have that problem!”

For the first time

since leaving home

I smile.

Celestina’s joke,

so many flowers in one place

butterflies fluttering

and that angel

whose trickling water

reminds me

of the waterfall

near my village.

“Come on, country girl.”

Her voice is gentler.

“We can’t afford

to waste time.”

Crystal Waterfall

From the garden,

we enter French doors

to a room

as large as a church.

“This is where

we serve the meals.

Over there

is the parlor.”

A crystal waterfall

hangs from the ceiling,

double rainbows dancing

in the early-morning light.

My neck grows stiff

from looking up so much.

“I’d never seen one either.

It’s called a chandelier.

It’s made of glass.

Keeping it clean

will be your job

one day.”

A long oval table

is already dressed

in lace and starched white linen

polished silver

blue-and-white china,

and blazing birds-of-paradise

in a carved crystal vase.

Madame Ovide’s table

is an altar.

Even Sister Gilberte

would be speechless.

Real Shoes

Celestina nudges me along.

“Don’t worry about leaving marks

on the tiles here. The yard boy

mops the floors in the morning.

I will have a seamstress

make your uniform fit,

and I will get you

some real shoes.”

Real shoes?

I’ve heard

city people make fun

of country people

for having big feet

because we’re always barefoot.

But I’ve always loved feeling

dirt between my toes

and the way the earth

breathes.

I glance down

at Celestina’s rubber sandals.

Manman’s sandals, the ones Papa gave me,

look more comfortable,

and beautiful.

I ball up my fists

to keep myself silent.

Temptation

I step carefully

through the living room,

into a room made of glass

where a black piano gleams.

I want to reach out

and touch it.

“Her only child,

Mesye Oreste,

plays like the angel

he is. I saw that boy born

with a caul on his head.

That’s rare, you know.

It’s a good sign.

“I’m the one

who wiped his bottom,

taught him his first words,

and held him tight

when his father died.

He was only ten

when his father died

of a heart attack.

We were living in Brussels.

That’s the capital of Belgium,

where his father was ambassador.”

That very same Belgium

where Sister Gilberte came from

and lost her one and only love.

“Mesye Oreste always called me Bébelle.

Said it was short for Bellestina,

because I was so beautiful.

When he was seven,

he said he’d marry me

one day.

Can you imagine?”

She makes a small laugh

that sounds mixed with sadness.

“That boy is my heart.

“Bondye never blessed me

with children of my own.”

Like Tante Lila.

It’s hard to listen

when I can’t stop staring

at the piano’s gleaming wood.

“You’ll dust and polish.

“Except for the piano. You are

never to touch it.

“I will take care of it,

like I always have.

“I’ll show you how to set the table.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.

“When Madame is out,

I’ll show you how to make a bed.

“Don’t make any noise

while she’s asleep.”

That piano’s glowing wood

reminds me of Mapou.

Maybe one day

it will sing to me,

just like Mapou.

A music book waits open

on the piano.

The magic of sounds

from signs on paper

that look like

the black footprints

of birds.

The Queen and Her Prince

The silver-framed

photo on the piano

shows a light-skinned woman

seated like a queen

with her little prince.

“That’s Mesye Oreste.”

A frail-looking boy,

light curls caressing

his forehead,

with the pouty lips of a girl,

stands with his hands

on his mother’s shoulders.

“He’ll be back next week

from a trip to Paris,”

she says smiling.

“Always brings me something

wherever he travels.

I remember

helping him

take his first steps.

He was so proud

and looked up at me

as if to say, ‘Look, Bébelle!

Look what I can do!’”

She tilts her head

and picks up the photo,

gazing. “I watched him grow

from a boy to a young man.”

Her smile turns to me.

“How old are you?”

she asks.

“Sixteen.”

“ Hummph. You look younger,

flat as a board.

With that fuzz on your lip,

you look like a boy.

“At your age,

I had curves

that stopped men

dead in their tracks.”

I’ve heard this before,

from Tante Lila.

Why do some women need to tell me

how much they were wanted by men?

“Even the ambassador

flirted with me

when Madame

wasn’t around.

He said I was

the real salt of the earth.

“Had a lot of proposals

and turned them all down.

Why let some man

tell me what to do?

“ This is my family.”

Her sad-smile laugh.

Celestina sighs

and crosses her arms.

“Anyway, that was then.

“As for you, I can’t imagine

any man will bother.”

Like they bothered with

Fifina? God help any man who tries.

I feel for my knife

strapped under my skirt.

Meeting the Queen

When Madame Ovide

finishes her breakfast in bed,

she calls for me.

“You arrived late last night.”

“I’m sorry... Madame.”

I’ll need to remember

to always say Madame.

Madame presses her lips

to a starched white napkin.

I try not to stare.

I never knew women

wore lipstick in bed.

Today is a day

filled with firsts.

I can always tell

a woman’s age

by the lines in her neck,

like the rings of a tree.

Madame’s are light creases.

She’s much younger than Tante Lila

and Fifina’s mother.

In fact,

she doesn’t look old enough

to have a son as tall

as Oreste.

The china plate

on Madame’s tray

holds two slices of

a strange red fruit

with dark seeds

scooped to the side.

The red of her nails

is like the red of her lips.

“How’s your cousin?

She told me she likes

her job cooking

for Madame Perez.”

“She’s very well, thank you.”

I remain standing by the bed,

hands clasped behind my back

head slightly bowed

to better peek

at Madame Ovide

without getting caught.

Plump and light-skinned,

straight nose,

soft wavy hair

in a tight chignon

the color of wet sand.

Cheve swa, like Fifina.

Not like mine

so wild and puffy

Tante Lila had to wrestle

and yank it

into cornrows so tight

they pulled at my face.

Now I can cut my hair

as short as I want.

Stay in Your Place

Madame peers over

her coffee cup.

“Come closer.”

She holds my face

in her hands. “Your father

and cousin say you’re a good girl.”

I have no idea

if I should respond

or stay silent.

Up close, Madame’s eyes

are jewels of green and gold,

like the eyes of the gray cat

in the churchyard.

“Were you baptized?”

“Yes, Madame. I even

received my First Communion

when I studied with the Sisters.”

She lets go

of my face, her fingers

cool and soft.

I’ve already talked too much.

Staying quiet will be hard to learn.

“Your cousin

tells me you can read and write.”

She pauses, looks down

at my sandals.

I straighten my back.

“What else can you do?”

Does she know

about the section chief?

“I can do

anything.

I learn fast, Madame.”

“We’ll see. I can tell by your eyes

that you’re smart.

And your French is very good

for a country girl.”

Her bracelet

jangles gold charms,

sparkling little suns.

“No Kreyol in the house.

My son will try to speak it with you.

Just ignore him.

“Stay in your place

and all will be fine.”

Girl

Pick pluck shell wash

wipe dust polish set.

Make breakfast.

Make beds.

Set laundry

in courtyard

for washerwoman

to pick up.

Get back to kitchen.

Make the next meal.

Cook and clean

clean and cook

dust and polish.

Mind the silver!

If even one teaspoon goes missing,

you’re out the door.

No need to tell me

anything twice.

Time is Master now.

Nights

so tired

even my dreams

need a nap.

Scraps

In my dream,

Fifina is pounding

a paste with mortar and pestle

and drenched in sweat.

Where is she?

I don’t know.

It’s not a place

I’ve ever seen.

She doesn’t look at me.

Only says:

“Use whatever you have

on hand.”

All day I wonder

what the dream means.

Then, clearing the dishes,

I see two black olives,

unwanted.

“Celestina, can I

take these scraps?”

“As long as

everyone’s fed,”

she says with a shrug.

My First Recipe

Use

what you have on hand.

Take some of the vinegar.

Squeeze the juice of a lemon.

Mash up the olives

with the mortar and pestle.

Strain the olive oil

until you have enough

to make up your mixture.

Strain it through

a cheesecloth

until the drops that come out

are smooth.

My Polish

The next morning,

I wake up at four,

when workers

go to Mass,

to try out my dream.

I write down each step

I remember from my dream

and then do exactly

as my recipe says.

I clean a small empty jar

of Madame’s confiture

until it is spotless.

I pour in

my new polish

as golden

as honey.

On a piece of pine

I was carving for practice

I rub my polish.

Beautiful!

I tiptoe to the piano

to try my polish

there.

“Stop!”

Celestina snatches

the cloth from my hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I—I made this wood polish,

and I thought

for the piano—”

“I told you

never to touch it!”

“But I just,

I just thought—”

“Stop thinking and just do

what I tell you to do.

“Did you ever even see a piano

in your little country village?”

I look down,

my feet ugly

in black rubber sandals.

I didn’t think

she’d be this mad.

Is it just because

it’s her Oreste’s piano?

“Then how would you know

how to take care of one?”

My cheeks burn red.

“But—but I thought—”

I’ve never heard myself

stutter before.

“Stop thinking you know

things you don’t know.

“You have no idea

what you almost did.

“The ambassador bought this piano

in Brussels for Oreste’s seventh birthday.

Oreste would be heartbroken

if anything happened to it.

“It should never

be polished, just dusted.

“And only I will do that.”

“But

you never said—”

“Never said what?

I told you never to touch it!”

She glares at me,

her eyes a locked icebox.

“Go outside now.

I’ll bring some guinea fowl

for you to pluck.”

I return to the courtyard,

rubber sandals

dragging.

Burning

Nobody wants

a troublemaker in the house,

a girl

who doesn’t know her place.

Nobody wants

a country girl,

a shadow girl,

a mule.

Nobody wants

a girl

who thinks she dreams

the truth.

What if Celestina

tells Madame about the piano?

Will she

send me away?

A week of no dreams,

no drawing,

no wood to carve.

My heart

is roped tight.

Before falling asleep,

I place Fifina’s butterfly book

like a pillow

beneath my head

to invite my dreams

back.

Cedar

Celestina keeps me

in the courtyard

plucking fowl

soaking beans

stirring soup

peeling lemons

scrubbing pots.

Today Cousin Phebus came by

to give me a package from Papa:

a small piece of cedar

whose rich scent I inhaled

to fill up the emptiness.

Is this simply

a precious gift from Papa,

or is it a message?

People like their coffins

made from cedar:

it protects them

from evil

and becoming zonbis.

“Is Papa

in danger?”

“He’s fine—don’t you worry.

We’re making a plan.”

Cousin Phebus says she likes

working for Jeanne Perez

and the ladies from La Ligue.

“Jeanne didn’t grow up

wearing white gloves.

She was born like us,

and raised by her

mother and sister.

She’s one of us,

but the white-gloved ladies

respect her.

“When Jeanne writes,

she asks my opinion.

She gives me each issue

of her magazine to read

and keep. I’m learning more

than I ever did back home.”

Not quite like me.

But I’m happy for her.

When Madame sends the money

to Papa,

I could add a note

for the town scribe

to read to him.

But what if someone else reads it,

and tells the section chief where I am?

I could write to

Sister Gilberte.

But what if someone asks her

where I am?

She said lying is a sin.

Would she lie for me?

Where else can I go

when I can’t go home?

Glow

Celestina is still angry

with me

for daring to touch

Oreste’s piano.

But still I don’t believe

my dream was wrong.

I try my polish on my carvings,

see how bright they glow.

“Can I come with you

to the market?”

I finally ask Celestina

after giving her a week

to calm down.

Cousin Phebus has always said

that the Iron Market

in Port-au-Prince

is the biggest market

in the country.

I’ve wanted to see it

since I was a girl.

“If I can sell

this wood polish I made,

or my carving,

I’ll give you half.”

Celestina narrows her eyes

before she agrees.

“You’re not as useless

as I thought.”

Iron Market

The next morning

we leave by car

to beat the morning heat

and buy the freshest fish.

Riding in

Madame’s big fancy car

is just like a dream

of smooth-water sailing,

even if,

on the capital’s Grand Rue,

the ride can get choppy.

Celestina sits in the front

with Paul, the driver.

From the back seat,

I can see

the two white-capped towers

of the Iron Market

rising up from the city.

On one tower,

the word PEACE .

On the other, WORK .

Above them, joining the two,

is the name of President Hyppolite,

with the year 1889.

If Fifina were here,

she’d quickly tell me

how many years ago that was.

All I know

is it was before the Occupation.

I stare up in awe.

As I step out of the car,

the smell hits me first,

a forceful wave of sweat,

fish, fruit, and dust.

On either side of us,

stalls filled with clothes

and other dry goods.

A man brushes past me,

ten straw hats balanced on his head,

carrying two more stacks in his hands.

Another man, covered in straw mats,

weaves quickly and easily

through narrow aisles,

even with his face nearly covered.

The man behind him

almost knocks me down

with his load of plantains.

A woman elbows her way,

carrying five live chickens

on her strong shoulders.

The energy of this place

sends sparks through my hair.

May this be

how I find my way back

to Fifina.

Madan Sara

Celestina is looking

for a market woman

she knows well

who sells wood carvings

to tourists.

Les blans.

“Not as many,

but still enough

to make money for hotel bellboys

who send them to see

‘real voodoo.’” She laughs.

“She might use

your polish and

sell it herself,”

says Celestina.

Squeezing through the crowd,

we finally find her stall,

crammed with wood platters,

carved boxes, smooth bowls,

and wood sculptures

of women carrying

straw baskets on their heads.

“Do you sell voodoo dolls?”

asks a plump white man in

a damp hat and shorts.

The market woman

sizes him up.

“No, I don’t, but this will make you

irresistible to the ladies.”

She hands him a wood carving

of a man and woman,

legs wrapped around each other.

“Combien?”

he asks, fumbling for his wallet.

“For such a handsome gentleman,

I’ll make a special price.

Just five.”

“Five dollars?”

The man shakes his head.

“I’ll give you one.”

She folds her arms

and looks him straight in the eye.

“We can both be happy at three.”

The market woman shakes his hand,

and as she wraps his carving in old newspaper

he says, “Tonight I’m going to see a voodoo ceremony.

I hope it’s just like that movie White Zombie ! Have you ever seen one?

I mean, a real zombie?”

The market woman sighs

and shakes her head,

almost nudging him along

when she hands him his package.

Celestina was right.

Those kind of tourists

won’t stay away.

“Bonjou, Madan Sara.

This is the new girl

at Madame Ovide’s.

She has something

to show you.”

Madan Sara,

hands on hips,

looks me up and down.

“Which one do you want?

You can pay in gourdes.

I always make the Ameriken

pay in dollars. That’s five gourdes

for each dollar, but three

dollars sounds better to them

than fifteen gourdes!”

“No, I’m here to

ask for your help

to sell something

I made.”

“Well, hurry up.

I don’t make any money

using my eyeballs.”

I pull out my jar

and open it.

“It’s a polish I made

for wood.”

I hold it up

to Madan Sara’s nose.

“ Humph . It doesn’t

smell too bad.”

She takes my jar,

dips a strip of calico

into the polish,

and picks up

a sculpture.

A mother and child,

not “well done,”

as Papa would say.

Heads too large,

faces too blank.

The carver was rushed

or just didn’t care.

Next time, I’ll show you

what I can make.

She gently rubs

the sculpture

with my polish.

Now

the wood is alive again,

almost breathing.

Her own reflection

glows back.

“That’s not bad

for a country girl.”

We shake hands.

Who knows what Madan Sara

will ask for my polish?

Whatever the blan

is willing to pay.

That’s how it works

at the Iron Market.

Madan Sara tells me

she’ll put my polish

in smaller jars

she can get for me.

My first try that night

had been a test,

and since then I’d been making

more every day.

For every jar she sells,

she will pay

me some money.

Celestina adds that

she will get half

for introducing us.

“That’s how it works,”

she says.

So I won’t get much,

but it will add up.

“Little by little,

the bird builds its nest,”

says the proverb. Papa

likes that one.

“Can you get me

some wood

so I can make my own carvings

and see if they sell?

I have some small pieces

from my father,

but I will need more.”

Madan Sara

puts her hands on her hips.

“Well, well, well.

You’ve got the head

for this.

I will ask my artists

for the bits they don’t use.”

“Thank you, Madan Sara! I’ll bring you

something I carved

next time we come.”

Inside, I’m leaping

and clapping.

Celestina nearly yanks me away,

throws a goodbye

to Madan Sara

over her shoulder.

“Wait! I have to ask her—”

I unfold the drawing of Fifina

I always carry with me

in my satchel.

“Have you seen her?”

Madan Sara looks closely.

“Pretty girl,” she says,

shaking her head.

Celestina pushes me along.

“What makes you think

you’ll find her here?

“And don’t get a big head

about all this.

“Everyone thinks

they can sell what they make.”

Celestina’s words

do not discourage me.

My knife will find

the shapes in the wood.

Madame Williams

Madame’s friends

from La Ligue Féminine,

the Women’s League,

are here tonight.

They come every month

to talk about education for girls,

creating a safe place

where they can learn and live,

paying women for their work

instead of letting husbands and fathers

control their money.

I wonder if all their talk

will make Madame Ovide

stop sending my pay

to Papa.

They even mention women voting.

I heard their first magazine

was closed down

for being just a little too critical

of the government.

But since their husbands

are all gwo zouzoun, gran nèg,

these white-gloved women

are allowed to keep meeting.

I like to listen in.

Maybe this

will be my way

back to school.

Madame Williams passes around photos

of her wood sculptures,

of girls who look like me

even though she is like the others,

rich and light,

and born in the city.

Madame Williams

says she will start

a free art school.

“Our nation’s native genius

deserves to be unleashed.”

“Can I come to your school?”

I hear myself ask.

The ladies fall silent,

eyes glued to their teacups.

Madame Ovide gives me a look:

Why can’t you stay in your place?

“Everyone can come when

I open the school.

We’ll build our own

center for art.”

Madame Williams smiles

when she looks in my eyes.

I can’t help beaming,

even when Madame Ovide

can hardly hide her scowl

as I clear the table.

“What good is art

when stomachs are empty?”

Madame Perez asks.

She ran the magazine

the government banned,

but is still the editor

of La Voix des Femmes .

Madame Williams

looks thoughtful.

“Our people’s creations

inspired Picasso.

“They didn’t believe

we had to choose

between feeding the body

and feeding the soul.”

Invitation

Since our deal

at the market,

Celestina is nicer.

She’s still angry

about the piano,

but at least

she decided

I can do some cleaning

inside again.

Mainly I want to see

Oreste’s books,

which I’ve only seen

from his open door.

Celestina always cleans

his room,

but one afternoon

when she’s away with Madame,

I sneak in.

His silver-framed photo

welcomes me.

“Petit Prince, why do you

look so sad? You have

the whole world

at your feet.”

Madame said he’ll be home soon.

I lie back on

his canopy bed

carved from mahogany

fit for royalty.

Then I go to his desk.

There’s another framed photo,

of his father

sitting next to a man with darker skin

and a lion’s mane

of bushy white hair.

Doesn’t look Haitian. Maybe an Ameriken,

but not the kind

I saw in the Occupation.

The photo is signed

With all my esteem,

Frederick Douglass.

A magnifying glass,

school medals and ribbons,

a notebook filled

with coins and stamps

(some with his father

on them),

and an empty cologne bottle

with a label marked 1903 .

Celestina told me

it had been specially mixed

in Paris

for his father

before he died.

I open it

to sniff

the few drops left

at the bottom.

Leather, tobacco,

sage, eucalyptus,

perhaps even

some pine

like my forest

back home.

His Books

have pretty

gold-lettered spines

and firm linen pages

that curl at the corners,

not cracked and moldy

like Sister Gilberte’s.

They’re filled with drawings

of plants, flowers, trees,

animals,

and are written by men

with strange-looking names:

Hugo, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Mallarmé.

I choose one

Les Fleurs du Mal

and sneak open its pages,

inhale the scent

of wood pulp and ink.

At the top of the page,

“L’Invitation au Voyage.”

Black-river words

crossing dry land.

Like the smell of chalk

the smell of learning.

I want more

without sneaking in

and being afraid

of getting caught.

JUNE 6, 1935

The Prince Returns

Madame Ovide

is so excited

her bracelets

can’t stop dancing.

“He arrived late last night.

Paul drove him

from the harbor. Celestina

made him a honey-butter sandwich,

his favorite snack.

“Don’t make a sound

this morning.

My dear son needs

his rest.”

Madame has already boasted

about all his first prizes

in so many subjects,

the beautiful speech

he gave at his graduation.

Madame has already told me

about his bright future

after he studies

at Columbia University,

in New York.

After all we went through

with the Occupation,

I can’t imagine why

her son wants to study

in America,

but I remind myself

that it’s not my place

to ask questions.

“I knew my Ti Charlo was special

the day he was born

with a caul on his head,

like a king with his crown.”

I don’t know if he’s really

all that special. Isn’t every boy

considered more special

than a girl?

But Papa never made

me feel I was less special

than anyone else.

“Tout moun se moun”

is his favorite proverb.

What I do know

is Oreste has been

treated like a prince

entitled to his kingdom.

Yet I’m the one

who knows his every book,

every object

in his room.

And I have to admit,

I’ve dreamed

of him reading poems

to me

while I’m carving

for Madan Sara,

sitting on his bed.

Now that it’s time

to meet him,

I’m afraid my dream

will be nothing more

than a gray-cloud field

of dry twigs and ashes.

Dous Lèt

This morning, I’m making dous lèt.

Standing in the courtyard,

arms and shoulders aching

from stirring milk and sugar

with a wooden spoon,

I dab at my face

with my apron.

A few drops of sweat

fall into the pot.

A pinch of salt

makes it taste better,

Cousin Phebus taught me.

The charcoal fire is

not too hot, just right.

Watch for warm milk bubbles

to rise to the surface,

circle the edges,

and thicken to caramel.

“Se anfans mwen.”

He speaks in Kreyol,

his voice almost cracking.

“Smells wonderful.

Reminds me

of when I was a boy.”

Without turning around,

I know it’s him. I expected

a different kind of voice.

Commanding,

not cracked.

“Mèsi anpil, Mesye Oreste.”

I clap my hand

over my mouth.

Will he tell on me?

“Don’t worry about

my mother’s ‘No Kreyol’ rule

with me. It hasn’t worked so far.

And please call me Oreste.

‘Mesye’ was for my father.”

I like that he likes

breaking that rule.

First Look

When I turn around to face him,

I try to smother

the surprise in my eyes.

He glows,

more beautiful than his photo.

Behind his glasses,

his eyes are a deep blue-green,

like the waterfall

near my village.

His eyes are shy,

but somehow

still make me feel

completely seen

in a way

I never expected.

Clear Water

“How do you know

when the dous lèt

is ready?” Oreste asks.

I tighten my grip

on the glass of water

to stop my hand

from shaking.

I drop a spoon of dous lèt

into it.

Trying to keep my mind

on his questions.

“You see?”

showing him the glass.

“When it’s ready,

the water is clear,

not cloudy.

“The slower you go,

the better.”

“Hmmm,” he says,

looking at the glass.

My face

is growing hotter.

He looks away quickly.

“I think that’s true

of most things in life,

but not all.”

Does he mean

what I think he might mean?

Or something else?

The Line

“Like revolutions,”

he says, sitting on my stool

to watch me

take the pot from the fire,

pour out the dous lèt

onto the wood cutting board,

and spread it to dry.

Oh. A dip

of disappointment.

“What’s your name?”

“Lucille.”

Butterfly wings ? ? beat hard against my ribs.

“Where are you from, Lucille?”

“I’m from L’Artibonite, Mesye Oreste.

From a village near Hinche.”

“Just Oreste, please.

I can’t be much older than you!”

“I’m sixteen.”

“I’m just a year older. See?”

His smile

goes straight to my heart

like a sunray

piercing the clouds.

“L’Artibonite is our breadbasket,

feeding our whole country. We

should be thanking

all of you.”

It’s the first time

someone has thanked me

for being from home.

No idea what to say,

I focus on the the dous lèt.

“You’re far from home.

I’m sure your parents miss you.”

“My mother died

when I was born.”

Why in God’s name

did I tell him that?

It’s the first time

I’ve talked about Manman

since being sent away.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is a gentle sea breeze,

not like any boy’s

I’ve ever heard before.

When I finish spreading the dous lèt

and turn to face him again,

I lean back on the table,

lightheaded, weak-kneed,

as if I might faint.

“Is your father

still with us?”

he asks.

“Yes. He has his own

woodwork shop

in our village.”

“That’s good to hear. My father died

when I was ten. We were living

in Europe then. One morning

I went off to school, and when I came home

he was gone.

I never had a chance

to say goodbye.”

Neither did I. Who would have thought

we’d have anything in common?

“My mother told me

that I shouldn’t cry.

I was

the man of the house now,

and I needed

to be strong.”

How could she tell him

not to cry?

I want to reach out

and hold him tight.

Celestina calls me

from inside.

“I have to go,”

I say, not wanting

to budge from the spot.

“I understand. It was

good to meet you. I hope

we can find some time

to talk again.”

“I do, too,”

I say,

moving slowly away.

I wonder

if we’ve already crossed a line.

French

We don’t have a chance

to talk again

until a week later.

Celestina and Madame Ovide

are going with Madame Perez

to a friend’s summer house in Kenscoff.

Cousin Phebus will be there,

but they want me to stay

at Madame Ovide’s

to start preparing

a dinner party

for a special Ameriken.

Madame has left me

a long list of things to do.

I start with

polishing the silver.

As soon as Madame’s car leaves,

Oreste comes right out to the courtyard

and takes a seat,

as if he’s been waiting

to pick up

where we left off.

“My mother does loves her silver—

and her gold!” We laugh,

feeling free, the house

to ourselves.

“Did you go to school

back in your village?” he asks,

“Because your French is so good,

and I know that in our country

education is not

the right it should be.”

Pride, then a pang of sadness.

Missing Fifina, Sister Gilberte,

and those now lost days

of chalk and books.

“Yes. I went to a mission school,

run by the Sisters.”

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

I try not to let

my voice quiver.

“I hated my school.”

“Why?”

“It’s the so-called best

school in the country,

the Lycée Saint-Louis de Gonzague.

But the Brothers teaching us

refused to let us learn

our own language and history.”

Still, I’d give anything

to be back in school.

I look up from the serving spoon

I’ve been polishing. Oreste’s face

is a tangle of anger and sadness.

“No Kreyol, of course. That goes

without saying. As if Latin and Greek

would be more important to learn

than the language

of our own land. They know

most people here

don’t speak French,

but they didn’t care.”

“Well, I’m happy I learned French.”

Because without it,

I couldn’t read all the books

in your room.

I’m on the verge of confessing

but instead

pause to survey

all the forks, knives, and spoons

I need to polish.

Madame’s silver storage box

is made of cherrywood

and lined with drawers

of dark-blue velvet.

I can’t help admiring the wood,

wishing I could carve it.

A sigh slips out.

“Of course it’s good to know both.

But only five percent of us

learn French, and in school they don’t use

Kreyol to teach us, or teach us the language.

“French is the language

of the people who enslaved us.

Language is another form

of occupation. It keeps us

chained to them and their history.

“The history books we used

were French history. They started with

our ancestors, the Gauls!”

His laugh is bitter. “Of course,

I know my French family tree,

from Lorraine to Canada

to Louisiana, then Saint-Domingue,

because free people of color

and the Church kept records

of our births, marriages,

property, and wills.”

He has a point. I don’t

have a birth certificate,

but the Sisters

did write down

the date of my birth

and Manman’s death.

“They wrote down

what they wanted to remember.

Definitely not the history of the Africans

who went to war

for their freedom.

They wrote about them

as if they were household objects,

with numbers next to them,

their value as property.

“Which is all we were

to them.

“How are the French

still making us pay

for our freedom?

Our ancestors already paid

with their lives.

“Why are we paying them

when they were the ones

who used us as slaves

and stole the riches of our land

from under our feet?”

My eyes are on the silver,

but my mind is on his words.

Paper Boats

With Oreste,

time passes faster,

but at the same time,

it slows down.

Sometimes, it even feels

like time stops.

Strange how

the two of us,

in just a few hours,

have made our own

paper boat

we’re filling with stories.

It floats us

away from the shore

we both know

into a sea

of sun-dappled water.

Outside

I’ve finished polishing the utensils.

Now for the soup and serving bowls,

the champagne buckets.

“All this is well and fine

about the French.

But what about sòlda Ameriken yo?

You were in Brussels as a boy.

What do you know about the Occupation?”

“A lot. My father went to school

with the Caco resistance leader

Charlemagne Péralte.

The same school, Saint-Louis.

My father supported his friend

in secret, since he was

an ambassador, and the

Ameriken would have

gotten rid of him if he said

what he truly thought of them.

That’s what they did

to those

who opposed the Occupation.”

The champagne buckets

have grapevine handles

that are hard to polish.

Never have I been

so happy to polish them.

“Your mother says

you’re going to study

in New York City.

Why do you want to go there?”

Oreste gets up

and brings his stool

next to me.

“I’ll tell you

if you let me help you,”

he says.

“Fine. You can put all the utensils

back in their places.”

I hand him the cherrywood box

with a mischievous smile.

Did he think

I wouldn’t take him up on his offer?

He smiles, pretends to buckle

under the weight

of that cherrywood box.

“There’s already a group of us

Haitians in New York, studying

at Columbia. New York

is where Harlem is. It’s

where a movement

of the New Negro started.

That’s what I really

want to see.”

“Then you’ll come back?”

“Of course. This

is home. My mother wants me

to be president one day.”

“She’s told us that before.”

He laughs. “Sorry. I know

she talks about me a lot.

Like I’m doing now!”

I grin, nodding slowly.

Madame may be dreaming

that her son will be president,

and soar even higher

than his father,

but to me,

he doesn’t seem

like the politicians I’ve seen

in our village festivals,

full of themselves

and putting on airs.

He’s talking with me

and helping me polish

the silver.

The way that he talks

makes my sun inside

rise.

Tasting Dous Lèt

When we finish polishing,

I offer him

some more dous lèt

I made. This time,

just for him.

I take out my knife

and cut a slice

from the corner.

“That’s a beautiful knife.”

“Thank you. My father gave it

to me for my sixteenth birthday.”

I’m about to hand him

the slice of dous lèt

when he leans his face close,

opens his mouth,

and puts out his tongue.

I feed him

a piece

without saying a word,

beaming so hard

my cheeks hurt.

He closes his eyes. His tongue

roams the sweetness.

“Li bon!”

“I’m glad you like it,

because it’s the only thing

Celestina has let me cook so far.

My aunt moved in

after my mother died,

but I didn’t learn this

from her.”

“Then who taught you?”

“My cousin Phebus.”

“She taught you well.

It has a special taste.

My mother mentioned

her. I was away at school then,

so we never met.”

“I only see her once a month,

after Sunday Mass.”

“May I please have some more?”

I like to hear him ask

for something only I can give.

“You’ve been a help to me,

so you deserve a reward.”

I feed him another slice.

I know exactly

how delicious it tastes.

Another sweet secret

wrapping us closer.

A Warning

Celestina comes out

to the courtyard.

We hadn’t heard them arrive.

“How is my Bébelle today?”

Oreste asks before kissing

her on the cheek.

“M’ap kenbe, Ti Charlo,”

she says with a smile

that turns into a frown

when she glances at me.

“Isn’t it time

you set the table for dinner?”

I go inside quickly.

The hours crawl like crabs

when we’re not together.

That night, as usual,

I keep my eyes lowered

when I serve Oreste dinner

even when he smiles

and thanks me by name.

Celestina notices.

“Don’t think

I don’t see

how you look

at him.

“Don’t make this mistake.

“You’re smarter than this.

“Do you want to lose

everything you’ve worked for?

“He will never be yours.”

I don’t care what she says.

The moments we steal

are a treasure I guard.

Sunday in July

Sunday after Mass,

I can’t wait to see Cousin Phebus.

I want to tell her all about Oreste.

It’s already July,

with the kind of weather you wear,

that weighs us down as we walk.

“Hello, Ti Cousine!

What’s going on? Do you like it

at Madame Ovide’s?

You look so much happier

than last month when I saw you,”

she says, tilting her head.

“I brought this from your father.”

She hands me his package,

wrapped as usual in burlap.

This time it’s birch,

so soft for carving.

My father’s gifts

make me miss him more.

Like Fifina’s gift.

In my dreams

I flip pages in vain,

desperate to find the recipe

that will bring her back.

“So what’s making you smile,

like the world’s at your feet?”

she asks.

“I met someone.”

“Let me guess.

Is it a boy?”

I nod.

“I must say I’m surprised.

You were never the type

to fall for their nonsense.”

“He’s different

from any boy I know.”

“Sure, he is.

Is he someone I know?”

I lean close to whisper.

“It’s Oreste.”

My cousin’s mouth

makes a frozen O of surprise.

“Please don’t tell me

you’ve fallen for him.”

“I didn’t say that. But every time

I see him, the sun rises inside me.

You know what I mean?”

She puts her arm around me

and sits me down on the park bench.

“My dear little cousin. You don’t have a clue.

You know what he wants?

“Haven’t you heard

all those stories

of light-skinned boys

from good families

who make it a game

to seduce servants like us?

Then we’re thrown out

on the street

when we become pregnant.

We’re just toys to them!”

“Why do you say that?

You don’t even know him!”

“I know all I need to know.

But he’s one of them,

not one of us.

It’s as simple as that.”

Her words hurt.

Does she think I’d be stupid enough

to be fooled

by those kind of seducers?

“I don’t need to know him to know.

All men are alike.

If they can’t sweet-talk you,

they’ll find other ways

to get what they want.”

“Oreste is not like that.”

“Of course he is.

Men want one thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

She squeezes my hand.

One Night

“I have to tell you a story

that you can never tell

anyone else. Promise?”

She’s whispering,

so I move closer.

“Promise.”

“There was an Ameriken. He’d been here

since the beginning. A marine, in charge of things

near us. A big man. Important.

He came to dinner once

as a guest of Madame Ovide.”

Hard to imagine Madame Ovide

inviting the invaders to dinner.

“I know what you’re thinking. But

when Madame Ovide returned from Belgium

a widow, she had to deal with the Ameriken,

or she would have lost all the property

the ambassador left her.”

That explains it.

“Anyway, I was fifteen at the time. Already

helping in the kitchen, but that night I was also serving.

That man couldn’t keep his eyes off me.

Madame Ovide pretended not to notice.

Maybe she didn’t have much choice.

When he said he was going to the bathroom,

he came into the pantry instead,

where I was alone.

He closed the door behind him

and said we had to talk.

He said I should come live with him.

He needed a girl like me, to cook for him.

And take care of him

in other ways.

Then he tried to kiss me,

grinding himself into me.

When he wouldn’t let go, I slapped him.

He looked completely shocked.

Called me a dirty Haitian whore

and said I’d be sorry.”

Her hands grow clammy.

“He kept his word.”

Her voice is flat and dry

but I feel her body tremble

just as it did

when she took me to Madame Ovide’s.

“It was just a week later.

I was walking home from the market.

Suddenly his jeep was beside me.

There were

four of them. They grabbed me and threw me down

on the floor of the jeep, covered my mouth,

and brought me out to a field

far from the road.

“I begged him to leave me alone,

said I was just a girl.

‘Wrong. You’re just a whore,’ he said.

He slapped me. Again and again.

Pinned me down. Told his friends

they should all take a turn

when he was through with me.

“They smelled like cigars.

When I tried to scream, he

burned my hand with one.

That shut me up.”

I feel that island of flesh on her palm.

Her searing pain in the dry-twig voice.

“I passed out from the pain.

I don’t how long it lasted, but it was dark

when they finally left me there.

I thought I might die there,

alone in the dark.

A farmer found me. Laid me across

the back of his mule,

carried me back to Madame Ovide’s.

“She took me to the hospital.

She knew the director.

I stayed there for a week.

“The doctors and nurses took care of me,

as best as they could.

But they said

I could never have children.”

When the tears stream down my cheeks,

I don’t wipe them away.

I kiss the scar on her palm.

She sighs, makes a long exhale,

and turns away from me.

“Little Cousin, promise you will never tell anyone.

They will look at me different.

Like I’m dirty

and ruined.”

“I promise.

I’m sorry. I wish—”

“No. No more wishing and dreaming.

Face the real world.”

She stands up and drops my hand.

We walk on in silence.

An Offer of Help

The nightmare woke me,

and going back to sleep was impossible.

Cousin Phebus. So much pain.

I couldn’t help my own cousin, but

the horror she lived through,

and the shame she still carries,

convinces me

that I must do absolutely everything possible

to find my friend.

I’ll ask Oreste for help.

When he comes by that afternoon,

I show him my drawing.

“This is Fifina.

She was in school with me

before she disappeared.

“I think she was taken

by the section chief

to be his outside wife.

I also think he had her father

transferred to another prison

so she’d be completely

in his power.”

The first time

I’ve told anyone

the whole story

I’ve pieced together

from the scraps of my nightmares.

I want to throw up.

Oreste takes the drawing

and studies it carefully.

His face fills with pain,

then a dark wave of anger.

“This is what happens

when the powerful

think they can do

whatever they want.

“Who needs the French

or the Ameriken to hurt us

when we do things like this

to ourselves?

“I’m sorry about your friend.

I’ll help you find her.”

In his eyes I now see

the young boy

who cried inside for his father.

Side by side we stand,

almost touching,

my drawing between us.

“How can you do that?”

I try very hard

not to sound too excited.

Oreste is the first person

who has offered to help me.

“My father had a very good friend,

the biggest publisher in Haiti.

“I can ask him

to use his mimeograph

to make copies of your drawing,

and I’ll bring them to you.”

Seven Copies

Two days later,

when he brings me seven copies

of my drawing of Fifina,

I hug him so tight that I nearly crinkle

them. Their ink smells like castor oil.

Seven copies.

“Thank you! I will leave some

with Madan Sara

at the Iron Market.”

“Who is she?”

“She sells the wood polish I make

and will sell my wood carvings

as well.

I’m saving

to go back to school.”

“Carving, too? On top

of all your work?

Do you ever sleep?”

Faraway questions.

I’m floating on the hope

of finding Fifina.

“Will you show me

your carvings?”

I almost never giggle,

but today there’s a reason.

“Only if you play the piano for me.”

“Deal.” We shake hands, but

this time, he pulls me in close.

I close my eyes.

Wrap my arms

around him,

bury my face

in his neck,

as I did with Fifina.

He smells of fresh linen

and his father’s cologne.

We hold each other

breathe as one

before I step back.

Celestina might show up

any second.

Might threaten

to tell Madame everything.

Or have me sent away.

You could lose everything.

He strokes my cheek

with his featherlight fingers.

The silence between us

wraps us soft as a blanket.

The Cross

It’s already mid-July.

Oreste comes out to the courtyard

in the afternoons,

when he knows his mother

will be out

at her women’s meetings.

But even then, it’s rare

we can talk.

Ever since he gave me

the copies of my drawing of Fifina,

I have shown them

to everyone whose path I cross.

I feel close to him,

without needing to see him,

or even say a word.

When I’m alone,

and Celestina isn’t nearby,

we talk a few minutes.

But there’s rarely time

for more than just that.

Each time he visits

is like dous lèt in my day.

Except that one day,

when he showed me that photo.

“This is my father’s friend,

Charlemagne Péralte.

He led the Cacos,

fighting the world’s most powerful army

with its cannons and machine guns,

like David against Goliath.

“When they finally caught him

“they shot him in the heart

“threw his corpse on a mule

“lashed him to a door

“for everyone to see.

“Then they took pictures

and made sure we all saw them

to scare us from fighting.

“Instead, they created a martyr,

a hero we’ll never forget.

“Yon Caco.”

I stare at the photo,

sick to my stomach.

A glowing man

stripped nearly naked,

his pants at his feet

tied up on a door

like Christ on the cross.

Without thinking,

I make the sign of the cross.

Unroped

The men and the boys

roped together on the road

who I saw

when I was little,

this man in the photo

was fighting to free them.

“Péralte, along with

Toussaint Louverture,

our revolution’s father,

are my heroes.”

Oreste is a dreamer

in his own way, like me.

He says he is happy

the Occupation is over,

but there is still something

he can learn in New York.

“The Ameriken controlled our treasury,

our army, our police, and our courts.

Everything!”

And raped our women ,

I want to add, but then remember

my promise to my cousin.

“I want to learn

how we can run our country ourselves,

without corrupt leaders

like Vincent and Trujillo.”

When he talks like that,

I grow afraid

he might somehow end up

like the heroes he worships.

But I also

believe he is right.

When he talks about history,

he breathes it to life.

Maybe he’s the reason

Madame holds her salons

with the white-gloved ladies

who will build schools for girls.

“All men and all women

should be equal in rights,”

he says. “Partners in life,

not divided by fear.”

No wishes or dreams,

Cousin Phebus told me.

Yet I do wish

and dream

of a different world,

not divided by fear.

Carving Ice

Celestina says

Madame gave her money

to pay some artist in town

for an ice sculpture,

a centerpiece on the table

for her special dinner party.

“Why don’t you do it instead

and we’ll split the money?”

she whispers.

“But I have never even

seen ice before.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure

it’s not hard to do,”

she reassures me,

but doesn’t offer

to lend me her icebox key

to let me have a look.

Since her warning,

she’s always watching me.

I don’t believe

carving ice will be easy.

What if Celestina is offering this,

hoping I will fail

and lose face

in front of Oreste,

Madame, and everyone else?

I already know

ice will be different

from wood.

No grain or rings.

Ice will rush me,

like a spring mountain

stream.

I find an art book

in Oreste’s room

and choose a painting

to chisel in ice.

Hurricane Season

August,

hot and humid.

The time for

hurricanes,

like the one in my heart.

He’ll be leaving

by the end of the month.

We don’t find it easy

to steal time alone,

with Celestina

on the lookout.

I have to wake up

an hour early

so I have time

to carve for Madan Sara.

I brought her my first ones

last week,

and she thinks they will sell fast.

People will buy them

and also my polish.

I work on carving the

Madonna and Child.

All slightly different:

the grain of the wood,

the color and season.

Thank goodness Madame

is so busy with plans for

her big dinner party.

She spends afternoons

with Jeanne Perez

and the women of La Ligue,

whose promise of schooling

holds my future

in their white-gloved hands.

Our Inside Names

August is melting

like dous lèt on my tongue.

Oreste loves everything

that grows from the ground.

He sits for hours

in the garden and paints.

Sometimes he lies

down in the dirt

to get a closer look

at one little plant.

He doesn’t seem to care

that his white shirts get dirty.

Celestina always

has a clean one ready.

One morning when I’ve finished

my work for the day

and Celestina is gone,

I bend near him to ask

what exactly he’s looking at.

“That plant,” he says.

He rolls over on his side,

his bright white shirt

stained with red earth,

and points.

A pair of thin leaves

joined at the heart

by a bright yellow fruit,

small hairy capsules

with three red-brown seeds.

The thin little plant

sags under its weight.

I stand up, back away,

brush the dirt from my knees.

“That’s a weed,”

I say,

but there’s something else.

Oreste rubs his hand

on his seersucker pants.

“A weed is a plant

whose virtue is unknown.

Do you know its name?”

I know the names

Fifina uses for plants,

but I don’t think

they are the same in the city.

“In Latin it’s called

Euphorbia pilulifera ,”

says Oreste.

“Known by us here

as the asthma weed.”

Then I remember.

“It’s called hurts-your-hands

where I come from.”

Oreste looks up at me,

almost ready to laugh,

but becomes serious again.

“Well, that’s the first time

I’ve ever heard that.

But that’s as good

a name as any.

“Things can have

many names, right?

“Like people.

I’m Oreste Charlemagne,

“or Ti Charlo

for short.”

I smile at the nickname

I’ve heard Celestina use.

It’s only for family,

and never outside.

Madame must have dreamed

of an emperor-king as her son.

“Do you have a nickname?”

The one Fifina gave me.

“Ti Sè.”

“That’s nice,

but not for me to use with you.

What about Ti Zwazo,

like the little bird

in a song I love?

“It does make me think

of you.”

My cheeks grow warm.

“Then it’s perfect,”

I whisper.

Saying our inside names

wraps us even closer.

Serpent’s Herb

I want to tell him

all about Mapou.

“With a tree,

you can climb it

“and hold it

in your arms

“and hear it sing.”

He stands up

to face me,

red earth

on his clothes. ?

Does he think I’m crazy?

“I like what you say

about the trees singing.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

A breath of happy relief.

Like Fifina, he understands.

“Weeds are like trees

that sing in small voices.

“I wish I could paint them

and put them on stamps.

“I wish I could write

a book about all of our plants

“with their names

in Latin, French, and Kreyol.

Then they could be studied

in schools run by us.”

“Great! Fifina and I

want to start our own school.

We want to write a book, too.

You could come teach with us.”

“That’s a deal,”

he says, shaking my hand.

I don’t mind the red earth

on my palm and my fingers.

I pluck up a handful

to dry,

just in case I need some

one day,

for a recipe

from Fifina’s book.

Now I remember

what else Fifina once said.

That weed’s other name

is the serpent’s herb.

AUGUST 15, 1936

Anniversary

Papa’s piece of mahogany

arrived just in time

for me to start the carving

I will give Oreste

before his departure.

Cousin Phebus handed it to me

with a kiss but didn’t talk again

about the horror

she lived through

that night.

Today, it’s been two years

since the sòlda Ameriken

left.

And it’s the Feast of the Assumption.

And our revolution

began in August.

So much to celebrate

all in one day.

And Madame’s dinner party

is in three days.

And sooner than I want,

Oreste will be gone.

The Ice in August

He comes out to see me

after eating his breakfast,

right after Celestina

and his mother leave

for another trip to the market

before the Dinner Party.

I feel almost giddy,

because we know

we have time.

“I wish that one day

I could go to

Paris,”

I say.

“You might not like it.

It can be cold and gray,

and sometimes it snows.”

I’d heard of cold winters

from Sister Gilberte,

and even saw her postcard

of snow

in the Ardennes.

I have a question

that I know could sound stupid,

but I ask it anyway.

Because I want to know.

“Is snow made of ice?”

“Snowflakes are crystals of ice.”

Should I tell him?

“I’m carving the ice sculpture

for your mother’s big party.”

“What? She said

she was paying

an artist to do it.”

He doesn’t sound angry.

His lips curl in a smile.

“Celestina arranged it,

and we split the money.

“I need that money

to go back to school

one day,

then open a school with Fifina,”

I say, hoping he doesn’t think

I always lie like this.

“You don’t need

to explain. She’s got more money

than all of us

could spend in our lifetime.”

“Thank you. Now I don’t

have to feel

as guilty.”

We laugh.

“This may sound

a bit strange to you,

but I wish I could

really just taste some ice.

“Celestina may decide

she needs to watch

while I’m carving,

and of course,

I won’t have much time!”

“Let’s go, Ti Zwazo!

“It’s a special day.

Off with your apron!”

Oreste takes my hand,

the first time

we’re leaving

Madame’s house together.

Celestina’s warning becomes

melting ice in the sun.

Tasting Ice

At the street corner,

a graying man pushes his cart

lined with bottles of color.

“Bonjou, Machann Fresco,”

Oreste calls out.

“Bonjou, Mesye Ovide.”

Machann Fresco eyes me,

his questions unsaid.

“We are celebrating

the day the sòlda Ameriken

left,”

Oreste announces.

The machann bows,

tips his cap.

He smiles

and picks up his scoop.

“What does your heart desire?

I have it all here.

Mango and guava

and fresh grenadine.”

I point at the sparkling

ruby bottle of syrup.

“Grenadine it is.

What an excellent choice!”

He pulls back the burlap;

beneath it a block,

a crystal clear cube.

He shaves off some ice

from the top of the block

and uses a spoon

to shape a small dome.

“Wait,” says Oreste.

“Lucille has never

tasted ice before.”

Oreste turns to me

and takes both my hands.

“Let her taste ice

on its own first.”

The machann places

a chunk of shaved pieces

in my palm.

I bring it to my lips

like the host at Communion.

“Ay!”

“What does it taste like?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to say.

It tingles my mouth.”

But I like it.

I see why Celestina

guards the icebox

with a key.

“Now the grenadine?”

asks the machann.

I nod my excitement.

With a delicate

flick of his wrist

the machann drizzles

grenadine on the ice

then hands it to me

in a white paper cone.

Oreste watches my face.

My palms are still tingling,

seared by the ice.

Mountains and Roots

After my feast of ice,

we walk back,

holding hands.

“Ti Zwazo, you do know

that our country is better

than anywhere else

because it’s our home.

“We may not have snow

and ice on our mountains,

but our rain has passion

and our mountains

are magic.

“That’s what Christopher Columbus

wrote when he and his pillagers

landed all those years ago.”

Passionate rain

is one way to

describe the lavalas

and their deadly mudslides.

Oreste knows his history.

But I know our land.

Papa told me

our mountains

were once filled with fire

that carved rock

into caves

and made underground rivers.

I’ve seen times

when a brutal rain

battles

an even fiercer sun.

“The devil’s beating his mother,”

Papa would say.

The devil smiles brightly

when his mother’s tears flow.

I remember a day like that

when I would have been swept away

if I hadn’t held tight

to Mapou’s roots.

Aftertaste

When we get back to the house,

and he’s leaving me in the courtyard,

Oreste stops.

“Thank you for that,”

he says.

“For what?”

“Celebrating with me.

Letting me watch you

taste ice for the first time.”

We both laugh.

“I hope you enjoyed it

as much as I did,”

I say.

“I did.”

We lean toward each other

and kiss. My lips still feel the tingle of ice,

now mixed with heat

that sends a ripple

through my body.

My first kiss on the lips.

I remember kissing

Fifina’s neck. Her scent

of pine needles and sweat.

His of starched linen and eucalyptus.

Both so good

I know they’ll return

in my dreams.

AUGUST 18, 1936

Trust Myself

When the block of ice is delivered

that afternoon,

I run outside to see it,

walk next to Paul,

who rolls it in a wheelbarrow

and sets it up

in the corner of the pantry

where my cousin first suffered.

Stomach turning, heart pounding,

I stare without moving.

Celestina stares at it, too,

no idea what I’m thinking.

“You’ve got no more

than six hours.

We will serve dinner

promptly at eight.”

Thank goodness Celestina

urged Madame

to hire extra help.

A big smooth cube

of possibility,

like a summer morning.

I circle it slowly,

peer at it closely,

then close my eyes.

Papa would tell me

to look hard and listen

before I use my knife.

Of course with ice,

I’ll be using an ice pick

and a chisel, but so far,

the ice isn’t speaking to me,

unlike wood,

which always has something to say.

I try and see the shapes inside,

but at first I only see

bubbles of air and

unforgiving frozen water,

waiting to melt, a ticking time bomb

that melts instead of exploding.

Maybe this was not

a great idea.

The ice pick

feels clumsy in my hands,

and chunks of ice

splinter on the table.

I think of Papa.

He’s taught me

I can trust myself

to know what’s well done.

Coming in and out of the pantry,

Celestina says nothing.

Hard not to think

I may fail at this.

I take a deep breath,

slow down, use my own knife,

and trust myself

to shape Venus,

rising from a half shell

in the foamy sea.

I will spoon black caviar

at her feet.

I will give Venus

Madame Ovide’s face.

Will she see

that I was the one

who made this?

The Dinner Party

Standing by French doors

in a new black uniform—

made to fit me—

the scratchy wool

digs into my skin.

The black patent-leather shoes,

also new,

are stiff and shiny

and hurt my feet.

Madame spared no expense.

My ice sculpture

sends waves of cool air

like a goddess wafting perfume.

Madame Ovide, the queen,

raises her glass for a toast.

“To all our guests,

especially Miss Katherine Dunham,

welcome to my humble home

in the Pearl of the Antilles.

“And to my dear son, Oreste,

who is leaving us too soon,

I wish a bon voyage.”

In the soft glow

of candles

and the crystal chandelier,

she sparkles, a jewel.

Her gold-green eyes

meet the gaze

of each guest

one by one

before extending her arm

to Oreste.

He bows to his mother,

then turns and raises his glass.

“Merci à toutes et à tous. My late father

would have been honored,

as we are, to welcome you.”

I expected more

of a speech

until I realize

that the memory of his father

is making him heavy

with sadness.

But for Madame,

the mood is triumphant.

Roast pheasant and grapes,

champagne shipped from France,

white roses in vases,

mahogany, marble, silver,

all polished and gleaming.

All our days of hard work

for one night of their feasting.

For me,

the evening’s star

is the ice sculpture

I carved.

When the guests

enter the dining room,

they ooh and aah

at my creation.

Madame is like a cat

being stroked.

She soaks up the praise

before looking more closely.

“Yes, you’re right. It does look like me. The artist

certainly outdid himself!”

Celestina glares at me.

Is she unhappy

at the praise

she knows

is meant for me?

No guest is thinking

the ice sculpture

was made

by the girl

in the shadows,

clearing their plates

and refilling

their glasses.

The Athens of the Antilles

As I serve dinner,

I follow their talk.

They are all

speaking French.

What’s new for Madame Ovide

is that men and women

at her table

are talking politics together.

Maybe Madame’s white-gloved friends

are changing her. Everyone is going

around the table, introducing themselves

to the guest of honor, yon fanm Ameriken

named Katherine Dunham,

who begins by thanking

her hostess and saying

she looks forward to

studying the rich folklore and dance

of Haiti.

This is a different kind of woman.

And Ameriken.

I overheard Madame say that

Mademoiselle Dunham

was not only well educated,

studying for the highest degree,

a doctorate, in something called anthropology,

but that she also was such an impressive

horse rider at the Jockey Club in Pétion-Ville,

that everyone was impressed.

Especially the men.

I couldn’t stop staring.

She was petite and firm,

with the graceful movements

of a woman who knows

what her body looks like to others,

and likes how it feels to herself.

I could easily picture her on a stage,

in front of an audience,

hypnotizing them.

She looked happy in her skin

lit from within,

the color of oak,

just a shade darker than Madame.

When she smiled,

with her perfectly straight white teeth,

and spoke French

with a charming lilting accent,

the entire room was entranced.

Yes, this was the kind of woman

Madame wanted to stand

at her son’s side

in the Presidential Palace.

My heart tightens

as I refill her glass.

Jeanne Perez,

whom Cousin Phebus went to work for

after that terrible night,

is the friend Madame

spends the most time with.

“Bonsoir à toutes et à tous.

We have read

so much about you,

Mademoiselle Dunham.

Please allow us to

introduce ourselves.”

She turns to Madame.

“First, a toast

to our generous hostess,

a salonnière who cultivates

the finest minds of her nation,

as did Athena,

the goddess of knowledge.”

Madame, blushing,

tilts her head slightly.

“You flatter me so!”

She places her hands,

with their blood-red nails,

on her heart.

“Not at all,” Jeanne replies.

“Madame is the Athena

of the Antilles.”

Madame is more like a cat,

arching her back for petting.

“My name is Jeanne Perez,

I’m editor of La Voix des Femmes .

I’m also starting

my own literary journal

and writing a play

on one of the Haitian Revolution’s

greatest heroines,

Sanité Bélair.”

Jeanne Perez, our own

Joan of Arc.

The woman next to her stands up.

“Mademoiselle Dunham,

my name is Suzanne Sylvain.

Like you, I’m an anthropologist,

completing my dissertation

on Haitian folktales

and our Kreyol language.

I’d be happy to help you

in any way I can.”

Next to Suzanne

is her sister Yvonne,

studying to be a doctor,

a special kind

that helps women with their problems,

especially giving birth.

If she had been in my village,

perhaps she could have saved Manman

after I was born.

Not that the midwife

didn’t do her best,

Papa told me.

Jeanne Perez and some others,

Madame Ovide told me, started

La Ligue

and its magazine, La Voix des Femmes ,

the one Cousin Phebus reads.

Then their brother Normil

introduces himself as a poet,

and founder of La Revue Indigène ,

“a journal dedicated to our culture.”

I’ve seen Oreste with a copy.

The youngest brother, Pierre, is a botanist,

studying our trees and plants.

He and Oreste have been

in deep conversation

since his arrival.

Pierre stands to toast the ancestors:

“To our father, Georges,

whom we lost eleven years ago,

God rest his soul.

A celebrated poet, lawyer, and diplomat,

a good friend to Ambassador Ovide,

who also took a principled stand

against the Occupation.

“To our uncle Benito,

who organized a Pan-African Conference

in London, back in 1900,

where he represented both Haiti

and Ethiopia. He was

an aide-de-camp to Emperor Menelik II,

who led the Ethiopian people

in driving out the Italians.

“All those years ago,

our uncle Benito

believed Haiti and Africa

should have closer ties

to fight the whites

ruling their countries,

to fight colonialism,

which they saw

as a new form of slavery.

May their fight for justice

continue to inspire our own.”

Pierre sits down

to applause from the guests.

Oreste looks enthralled.

It’s clear he admires both Benito

and Georges Sylvain,

heroes in the struggle

he himself wants to fight.

Only then

does it hit me.

I am in the midst of

people who care

about our history

and culture.

People I’d heard

being made fun of

at the market

for being absent-minded

professors,

their heads in the clouds,

or white-gloved ladies,

teacups in hand.

People some say have

never known

an honest day’s work.

Yet here they are.

They want us

to know our own history,

to chart our own future,

to connect the past

to the present.

No wonder the French

and the Ameriken

were still making us pay

for daring

to believe we deserved

to be free.

Yes. I see it now.

I know it is

exactly someone like Jeanne Perez,

or someone from une grande famille

like the Sylvains,

the kind that makes history,

that Madame would like

her Charlo to marry into.

He catches my eye

and smiles,

and despite my own sadness,

I smile back.

Politics

I go in and out of the kitchen,

refilling glasses

and bringing new plates

of Madame’s

gold-trimmed porcelain.

My stomach is growling.

I had no time

to eat

between carving the ice

and preparing this dinner.

Now I’m lightheaded,

trying hard to steady my feet.

In the kitchen,

when no one is looking,

I gnaw on the bones

of the pheasant,

scoop up

wild rice and asparagus

from the plates.

Back in the dining room,

I catch a few more names

and more words.

Jean Price-Mars

is also an anthropologist

and writer. It’s clear

from their faces at attention

that all the guests respect him.

Yet his skin is almost

as dark as mine.

Not all the important people

in our country

look white,

thank goodness.

There’s hope.

“Professor, I’ve read your fascinating book

on Haitian customs and folkways,”

says Mademoiselle Dunham

to Professor Price-Mars.

“Do Haitians feel ready

to govern themselves,

now that the Occupation is over?”

she asks.

“The Occupation helped us unite

against a common enemy,” says

Jeanne Perez.

“Excuse me, Professor, for jumping in.”

The professor nods with a smile.

“But we do know

that democracy is

as fragile as an orchid,

which can wither

in the wrong soil.

“Look at Hitler,

helping Mussolini invade Ethiopia,

helping Franco

bomb his opponents. Never mind

what he’s doing in his own land.

“I have it

from reliable sources,

my journalist friends,

including those who’ve escaped,

that Hitler sends those who oppose him

to a hellish prison called Dachau,

and just a handful

have lived to describe it.

“Weren’t their nations

once democracies?

“If Europe cannot

defend herself

from vile men

who crave power,

then who are they

to lecture us?”

Mademoiselle Dunham nods

but asks,

“Europe has been a mess

since the Great War,

but is there a tradition

of democracy here?”

“With respect,

is there one in America?”

replies Jeanne.

“From what we see,

democracy doesn’t extend

to all our people. Your great

Professor Du Bois,

whose father was Haitian,

has written about

the American Negro’s

‘double consciousness.’

“It’s clear to us, especially after

the Occupation,

that American democracy

has a double standard.”

I nearly drop the stack of plates

I’m balancing on my way to the kitchen,

from both hunger and shock.

It’s the first time I’ve heard

a woman talk about politics,

especially like that.

In my village, that kind of talk

was always left to the men.

Bravo, Jeanne! I want to jump up and shout.

If only I weren’t

a hungry girl

in the shadows.

The Talk at the Table

Jeanne is sitting next to

a thin light-skinned man,

whose name I missed.

His gold-rimmed pince-nez

sits high on his nose.

“Are you saying

that all Americans

are imperialists?”

“Of course not,”

says Jeanne.

“Look at all the Negro

newspapers and leaders

who spoke out against

the Occupation.

But most Americans

don’t even know

they are part

of an imperialist culture.

“Excuse me for saying this,

Mademoiselle Dunham,

since you are our honored guest

and we appreciate your serious study

of our culture,

but when it comes to history

and geography, Americans seem to be

willfully ignorant.”

Mademoiselle Dunham simply smiles

and seems not to take offense.

Unlike Pince-Nez.

“The problem, Mademoiselle Perez,

is not American ignorance,

but our own.

It is precisely the customs

and folkways

that Mademoiselle Dunham

and others want to study.

“The common Haitian peasant

is not in any way

ready for democracy,

because he truly believes

in magical thinking.”

He won’t even say

the word vodou .

“We need science

and modern thinking

to govern ourselves.

The old ways

are holding us back.

That is why President Vincent

supports the laws against them.

How can we be

the Athens of the Antilles

if our people

believe in nonsense?”

Pince-Nez takes off his glasses

and rubs them clean

with his white linen handkerchief.

His question hangs in the air.

Jeanne Perez folds her arms.

Oreste speaks up.

“It isn’t our traditional ways

that damage democracy,”

says Oreste. His mother

shoots him a look of warning,

but he continues.

“Look at how General Trujillo

runs the Dominican Republic.

Vodou isn’t the problem.

The problem is

that he openly cavorts with people

who do terrible things

and stirs up trouble

at the border.

“He inflames his people

with speeches

against us.

“He says Haitians are weeds

that should be

pulled up,

black vermin infecting

his people’s ‘white’ blood.

“Isn’t that ironic,

when we all know

his own grandmother

was Haitian

and he uses bleach

and makeup

to lighten his skin?”

Nervous laughter escapes

from most of the guests

before Oreste continues.

“That sounds a lot to me

like how the National Socialists

in Germany

talk about people

who do not see things

their way.

“They clearly announce

the ‘enemies of the state,’”

he says, then goes on,

counting on his fingers:

“The Jews, of course.

We’ve seen the photos

of the boycott

back in ’33.

‘Juden’ painted on buildings,

on broken-glass storefronts,

shopkeepers trying

to sweep up the chaos.

The same year, they banned

political opponents,

the Social Democrats, the Communist Party,

and trade unions.

“I’ve heard from some friends

who used to frequent

Berlin’s nightclubs

that severe new ‘race’ laws

will be passed

against Jews.

“But that’s not enough.

There are Jehovah’s Witnesses, even some Catholics,

gay men and women,

cross-dressers, jazz lovers,

‘degenerate’ artists, handicapped people,

anyone seen as ‘unfit’

for the ‘pure’ Aryan nation.

“And the list goes on!

“I’m only reporting

what my school friends in Europe

are writing to me.

They live in Belgium,

where I was born,

where my late father

was ambassador.

“We at this table

all know German Haitians

who have been here

since right after independence.

In our own family tree

is a Jewish German.

“Hitler and his party

hate all of us, too.

“My friends just returned

from Berlin

for the Summer Olympics.

Everything was spotless,

with glorious pageantry.

“The trams and the trains,

all ran like clockwork.

“Yet Hitler was so furious

that a Negro athlete

won four gold medals

that he refused

to shake hands

with that victor,

Jesse Owens.

“Doesn’t that tell you

what’s beneath all the show?”

Oreste looks around the table

and puts up his hands.

“Please don’t shoot.

I’m only the messenger!”

Laughter erupts, like pent-up relief,

from nearly every guest.

“But the situation is serious

here, too.

Trujillo is close

to some of those Germans.

“He is playing with fire.

His words fill people with hate,

the kind that leads people to kill.

“Why doesn’t our own president

restrain his so-called friend,

especially at the border,

and stand up for us?”

Silence. No laughter

when it’s so close to home.

Pince-Nez clenches his jaw

and stares coldly at Oreste.

Madame clears her throat

and shifts in her chair.

“Please excuse my son,”

she says to Pince-Nez.

“You know how

rash the young can be. Their fervor

overtakes their manners.

All of us here

greatly appreciate and are loyal

to our president,

as much as my late husband was.”

Her words drip with honey,

then she changes the subject.

When I look at Oreste,

his face is unrepentant.

He turns slowly away

from his mother.

I am proud of him and Jeanne,

but fear gnaws at me, too.

Couldn’t

what’s happening there

happen here?

It’s not as if

we haven’t known

terror before.

He looks up at me,

then at my Venus,

and winks.

Our secrets are growing.

From across the room,

Celestina is staring me down.

From the eyes of my Venus,

glistening tears melt.

What Paris Is Like

Two days later,

while his mother is visiting

Jeanne and her friends,

basking in the afterglow

of her triumphant dinner,

and Celestina is with family

in Jacmel,

Oreste comes to see me

in the courtyard.

No mention of

his defiance at dinner.

Perhaps his mother scolded him

in private.

“You said you wanted

to visit Paris. Surprise!”

He carries brightly painted postcards

from Paris, otherwise known,

he tells me, as the City of Lights.

“My father bought me these

on our first trip to Paris

to visit his good friend

Dantès Bellegarde, who was

the minister plenipotentiary.

My first memory is watching

the Bastille Day parade with them,

perched on my father’s shoulders.

“I loved that even more

than when we visited Waterloo,

where Napoleon

was defeated.”

He spreads out the postcards

like a deck of cards.

“Which do you want

to visit first?”

I choose one

at a time.

He tells me

the story behind each

of the cards.

Notre-Dame Cathedral,

majestic and proud

stands on ?le de la Cité.

La tour Eiffel,

unloved and unwanted

at first,

now a symbol of Paris.

Le Louvre museum,

where he saw the world’s

most famous painting,

the Mona Lisa .

He knows the history

of each place pictured.

He shows me

the Canal Saint-Martin,

with its green-iron bridge.

“That’s the Place de la République,

named in honor of the French Revolution.

The French make sure their history

is in everyone’s face.”

That night I dream of us

floating on a flower-covered barge

on the Canal Saint-Martin.

It feels a lot sturdier

than our paper boat.

Drums

At the dinner party

Pince-Nez implied vodou

was holding Haiti back.

Some city people

even helped the blans

take away the temple drums.

But most people

in my village have statues

of the Catholic saints

next to shrines

for the lwa.

Drums in the night

could mean secret meetings

of vodou or fighters—

not exactly the things

those in power want.

Papa even helped

neighbors hide drums

in the forest

to keep them safe.

He didn’t go to the temple,

but he never said

anything bad

about the gods.

Why not be

protected by both?

I need all the help

I can get.

I can no longer pretend

I’m not falling in love.

An Unsuitable Wife

Madame can talk all day

about improving

the condition of our women

and making sure all of us

can read and write

but she’d never let

her little prince

marry me.

I have no money,

no famous family,

and have dark skin to boot.

Celestina is right.

At best, Madame might accept me

after she marries him to

the right girl

from the right family,

like the Sylvains.

Only then

might Madame allow

her only son

an outside wife.

The one who must always

stay in the shadows,

like a mistake covered up.

An indulgence,

expected of the powerful man

her son is sure to be.

I can tell

he feels the way I do.

But since Oreste is leaving soon,

Madame Ovide and Celestina

want more of his time.

We know

we must be more careful.

Still, he sneaks out

to see me,

and it takes all our will

not to kiss again.

His voice is gentler than before,

though now his eyes burn brighter.

“Haiti is the Pearl

of the Antilles,”

says Oreste.

“The French say

our country reminds them

of their beautiful Riviera.

I think it’s better.”

“If you love it here so much,

why don’t you stay?”

“There are things

I must do first.

But I’ll come back.

I promise.”

“You might forget me

when you go away.”

“Do you truly think

that I can ever forget you?

Love is like water,

which never forgets

its home.”

But will love

carve a cave in my heart

and fill it with

ash and tears?

Little Bird

Oreste will soon

board the ship to New York.

Since being sent away

from home,

I no longer dream every night,

but when I do,

I wake up even earlier

to keep it fresh in my mind.

Last night’s dream

was of three red-bottomed birds

perched next to each other

in my happy Mapou.

So now I take

my knife to slowly shape

the glowing mahogany

Papa sent me.

My fingers

feel clumsy,

the knife slips away.

I can’t carve this

as perfect as my dream.

Oreste is busy

saying goodbye to family,

to all his school friends.

A last trip to the tailor

for his shirts and his suits,

and then to the barber

for a proper haircut.

At last

when everyone

is out of the house

Oreste takes me inside

to the piano.

“I want to play this for you

before I leave.

I wrote down

the words for you—

they’re from a poem

written in Kreyol.”

“People write poems

in Kreyol?”

“Not many right now,

but more will learn.

“The song

is called ‘Choucoune’

and the words are by Oswald Durand,

one of our greatest poets.

“It’s about

the beauty

of our women here.

“But of course,

it’s about you.”

Ti Zwazo

“Ti zwazo nan bwa ki t’ apé kouté

Ti zwazo nan bwa ki t’ apé kouté

Kon mwen sonjé sa

Mwen genyen lapen

Ka dépi jou-sa

De pyé mwen nan chen

Kon mwen sonjé sa

Mwen genyen lapen

De pyé mwen nan chen.”

Little bird who listened deep in these woods

Little bird who listened deep in these woods

When I think of this

It brings me such pain

Ever since that day

Both my feet in chains

When I think of this

It brings me such pain

Both my feet in chains.

His voice fades

to little more

than a whisper.

When he finishes playing

he takes the bird-step paper,

rolls it up,

ties it with a

a ribbon,

and hands it to me.

“You are the best thing

that’s happened to me.

Thank you.”

I hurry away

so he won’t see

my tears

of joy

and sadness.

Wings

Later that night,

after all the lights are out,

we meet outside.

“I made this for you.”

I unwrap my gift for him

slowly, with care.

Three little birds,

their heads touching,

perched on a branch

of Mapou.

Wood glowing from inside

with my olive wood polish.

He touches it in silence,

peers at it close.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.

I’ll keep it with me

wherever I go.

Who is the third little bird?”

“Fifina.”

“If anyone can find her,

it will be you,” he says.

He stands the small carving

the size of my palm

next to him on the stone bench.

The sounds of the night—

crickets, frogs, dogs—

embrace us.

In the full-moon night

we see each other

even more clearly.

My carving watches over us

from the bench.

I take his right hand

lead him from the courtyard

to the garden

run my fingers

through his curls.

How long I’ve wanted

to do this. Why

did I wait?

My lips are drawn

to the hollow in his neck

a butterfly kiss.

He pulls me up

to the pillow

of his mouth,

for that long kiss

we’ve both wanted

since the first one.

A long kiss that shakes me,

burns through me,

then flows down

through my feet,

like the roots

of Mapou.

SEPTEMBER 23, 1936

Greetings

“A letter!”

cries Madame Ovide,

gold bangles jangling.

“Please, Madame,

read it out loud,”

begs Celestina.

I try to look

completely absorbed

in the fish soup

I’m ladling.

“All right. He says, ‘Harlem

is much better than Paris.

There’s a movement

of black people

from all around the world

who believe we should be

united . They call themselves

Negroes.’”

Madame

reads his letter,

disbelief in each word.

“ Negroes ?

From nègre —and nèg ?”

She sighs and shakes her head.

“My son is Haitian,

from une grande famille.

Has he completely forgotten

who he is

and where he’s from?”

What’s wrong with Negro ?

Of course

everyone in Haiti

knows that a nèg

is a person,

plain and simple.

Tout nèg se nèg,

like tout moun se moun.

All people are people.

“He says, ‘Columbia

is perfect

for studying the law.

I’m learning so much!

“‘My English is improving

every single day.

And the people I meet!

We fight against lynching,

which happens not just

in the South here.

We fight for our rights

to be treated as equals.

“‘Tout moun se moun!’

“Now he’s writing

in Kreyol?”

groans Madame.

“‘I’m meeting honorable men,

such as James Weldon Johnson,

who came to Haiti in 1920

and spent years exposing

the brutal truth of the Occupation.

He and the National Association

for the Advancement of Colored People

are true friends to our nation.

“‘As is the magnificent poet

Langston Hughes,

who wrote Popo and Fifina

and published a letter last May

decrying the imprisonment

and demanding the release of—’”

Madame frowns,

squints at the letter.

“He crossed out his name.

Oreste knows

Jacques Roumain,

a sworn enemy

of our president,

is back here in jail.

And now he brings up

that infamous letter!

The last thing my son needs

is to spend time

with even more Communists!”

She fans herself

with the letter,

then turns the page.

“‘In the mornings,

I go walking in Central Park,

which is near

my apartment in Harlem.

The birds there

are impressive,

but in no way

as glorious as ours,

nor will their song

ever be

as sweet to my ears.’”

She looks up to the heavens.

“My only son. May he grow wiser

in his time away.

Spend more time

studying and bird-watching

than indulging in dangerous politics.

“What a letter!

Oh, and he sends

his warmest greetings

to all of the servants.”

Is Celestina checking my reaction,

or am I imagining things?

His Letter

Greetings. Servants.

Oreste’s words are

the stings of a wasp

when the words

I want most

are impossible

for him to write

in a letter back home.

I try to squeeze

all the hope I can

from his only letter.

What he wrote about birds:

Could that have been

his secret message

to me, Ti Zwazo?

Why else mention birds

in a letter to his mother?

My heart is somersaulting

between doubt and faith.

I force myself to carve

but everything takes more effort

since our goodbye.

Celestina still keeps

her share of my coins.

I save my own coins,

stuffed in a sock

under my mattress.

After I cry,

I pray my three birds

will keep him safe

until he returns.

After

It feels like a lifetime

since the kiss,

that last night

in his arms.

And then that letter.

I have no way

of writing him back.

At first, I lit

a candle for him at Mass.

Then I stopped going.

What’s the use?

I’m tired

of losing everyone

and everything

I love.

I whisper his name

in my prayers at night,

like I do Fifina’s,

but Bondye

is too busy to listen.

Outside

I’m a shadow girl,

doing what I’m told.

Inside

I’m a bird,

beating her wings

against a cold cage.

I get even thinner

because nothing tastes good

in a cage.

My skin still tingles

when I remember

each touch

each kiss.

When we were together

we were a harbor

for each other,

our folded paper boat

our flowered raft,

safe in the storm.

How can I build

my own harbor inside

when all that I love

is taken away?

Betrayed

Celestina had Paul drive me

alone to the market today.

I ask Madan Sara

about Fifina.

“I’m sorry. I show this

to everyone I can.

With all the money you’re making,

you could offer a reward,” she says.

My heart tightens like a fist.

For the past month,

Celestina has given me

much less than before,

even though Phebus told me last Sunday

that Madan Sara was selling everything I make.

“Business is slow,”

said Celestina with a shrug.

“I told you not to expect too much.”

Celestina was lying.

Now I see why.

“Madan Sara, how much would you say

I’ve sold this month?”

“At least twenty gourdes.

That’s a lot for someone new—and so young.

You should be proud of yourself,”

she adds with a nod.

“Thank you, Madan Sara.

I will keep bringing you more.

From now on,

please set aside my money.

I will collect it myself.”

When I reach Madame Ovide’s house,

I’m breathing hard, and my fists are coiled tight.

In the kitchen, I tap Celestina on the shoulder.

“Where’s the rest of my money?

I just saw Madan Sara...”

Celestina doesn’t turn around.

“The rest of your money

is to keep my mouth shut.”

“What?”

“I deserve to keep more.

I saw you with Oreste

that night in the garden. I warned you

so many times. And don’t forget:

I’m the one who brought you

to meet Madan Sara.

You’d be nothing

without me.

And this is how you repay me?”

“But Oreste and I, we only—”

Celestina turns slowly to face me,

looks me up and down,

disgust and anger flaring her eyes.

“Who do you think you are?

You think

you’re better than I am?”

I feel like grabbing her shoulders

and shaking her,

but I don’t dare. She could easily

knock me to the ground.

“He doesn’t belong to you,”

my voice trembles.

“We love each other.

You can’t stop that.”

“Oh, really?” she says,

drying her hands on her apron.

“Watch me.”

In Her Place

For the rest of the day,

I avoid Celestina.

After dinner,

she follows Madame

upstairs.

I wait a bit,

then sneak up to listen

outside Madame’s door.

“At the market, Madan Sara

told me an American lady is looking

for a house to rent. She has

money to pay you well,”

says Celestina. I hear her

brushing Madame’s hair.

“Why don’t you

rent her one of your houses

at an American price,

and send Lucille to work there

for the same price you pay her here?”

Celestina’s revenge.

I never thought

she would go this far.

“I have a sweet cousin

who would be so happy

to take Lucille’s place.

She works harder,

talks a lot less,

and she costs a lot less.”

“Why do you want me

to send Lucille away?”

I hear Madame ask.

“Because she doesn’t know

how to stay in her place.

She thinks she’s better

than all of us servants.

People like that

don’t stop

until they get what they want.”

“And what exactly is it

that Lucille wants?”

“Your son.”

Madame groans.

The hairbrush falls silent.

“Madame, I warned her

over and over to stay away from him.

But the night before he left,

I saw her

lure him into the garden.

God only knows

what happened there.”

Madame sighs deeply.

“When Ti Charlo comes home

for Christmas,” adds Celestina,

“I know that girl will start chasing him again.

What if she makes a baby for him?”

A sharp crack splits open

the cliff in my heart.

Dreaming of Him

You were in night water. I watched from the shore.

My Love, My Light.

The tide held you firm in her arms. The farther you went, the louder

I screamed. No sound from my throat.

Only sharp shards of ice.

The harder I screamed, the farther you floated.

I tried to make my voice a rope you could catch.

A rope to bring you back.

I tried to follow you into the water, but my whole body stiffened.

My torso became a tree trunk.

My arms sprouted leaves.

My legs sank deeper into soft red earth.

My toes grew long, like the roots of Mapou.

I tried to follow you into the water, but my body, a tree, would not

let me.

When you called my name one last time,

there was no fear in your voice

before the waves

drowned you in darkness.

Leaving

I will pretend not to know.

What else can I do?

Celestina avoids me.

A week later,

after I bring Madame her breakfast,

she tells me to stay.

“An American woman

is renting one of my houses

for several months.”

I stare down at the rubber sandals

chaining my feet.

I’ve never even talked

to one of them .

And if I had any choice,

I never would.

Not after the Occupation,

not after what they did

to those poor souls in ropes,

to Charlemagne Péralte,

to our whole country.

But on the other hand,

Mademoiselle Dunham

was different. Perhaps it’s her.

“What’s her name?”

“Mademoiselle Hurston,”

says Madame.

“Just call her Mamzelle.

“Celestina’s cousin

Joseph will be her driver.

He’ll stay in the basement,

where his wife and baby can visit.

Joseph will pick you up

in an hour.

It’s too far to walk.”

That soon.

“You’ll stay in the maid’s room

next to Mamzelle. You’re lucky

to be working for her.

Of course

your pay will go

to your father.”

Lucky girl. Again.

“Now, go pack.

Everything else you need

will be at the house.”

Celestina left early for the market

and she hasn’t returned.

No wonder. Everything has already

been planned

to send me away.

“Americans have dollars,

but don’t ever trust them.

Remember the past.”

Cousin Phebus.

I bite my lip hard.

“But what about Mademoiselle Dunham?

She was your guest of honor...”

“She was different, a friend of our friends,”

she snaps back. “The exception proves the rule.”

I’ve never understood that saying.

Madame is staring hard at me,

as if she wants me to know

that she knows about Oreste.

“Remember that

just because Mamzelle’s skin

is the same color as ours

doesn’t mean

you can trust her.

“I’m giving you

one last chance

only because your mother

and Fifina’s

helped me

when I was your age.”

“What happened?”

I blurt out,

surprising myself.

“None of your business. This time,

be absolutely sure

you stay in your place.”

Our mothers helped her.

So who is she,

or Celestina,

or Tante Lila,

or anyone else,

to tell me my place?