Part 3 Lawout

OCTOBER 1, 1936

Mamzelle

A dry goodbye from Madame.

She does not mention

exactly how long I will be gone.

Sitting in the back of this car,

I twist myself to see her house

until I can’t anymore.

Joseph is silent. From time to time,

his mustache twitches.

We’re heading away

from the city,

to another fancy neighborhood

up in the hills,

called Pétion-Ville.

Sharp turns snake the hills

like the road

from my village.

When I arrive

at the house Mamzelle is renting,

the front door is unlocked.

Joseph brings me through

a big sunlit parlor

to the kitchen.

No chandelier or gleaming piano.

No garden with fountains and flowers.

Still, a beautiful house

high in the hills with a view of the city

and serenaded by birdsong.

I could picture

Oreste and Fifina and me

happy here.

Joseph interrupts my daydream.

“As soon as you hear

she’s awake,

bring her breakfast in bed.

“Strong black coffee

with red sugar.

“Cassava bread,

spread with peanut butter,

and sliced mango.

“I went to the market

this morning.”

He points to the basket

on the kitchen counter

and leaves.

Joseph’s voice

was as dry as Madame’s.

Did I expect

anything different?

Preparing Mamzelle’s breakfast,

I wonder: Why does she

wake up so late?

I hear a yawn from the bedroom.

I snatch at the breakfast tray.

The cup and the saucer

rattle like chains.

My face is a pinewood mask.

I knock loudly.

“Entrez!”

says a voice

in a lazy, strange accent.

Mamzelle is arching her back

and rubbing her neck.

I try to remember

Cousin Phebus’s warning:

The tallest tree

is always chopped down first.

Rings Tell the Truth

I stand in the doorway

until Mamzelle motions me in.

From a distance

Mamzelle is no older

than Madame Ovide

but the rings on her neck

are deeper up close.

“Right here is fine,”

says Mamzelle in a French

I’ve never heard before.

She pats the bed with her hand.

“Oui, Mamzelle.”

“You can call me Zora.”

“Oui, Mamzelle Zora.”

Even her name

sounds strange to my ears.

I put down the tray

and step away from the bed.

Mamzelle sips her coffee.

“Mmmm. C’est bon.”

She dunks the kasav

into her coffee,

doesn’t even look down

when it splashes on the saucer.

“Le déjeuner à midi, s’il vous pla?t.”

“Si’l te pla?t,” I blurt out

before remembering Madame’s warning

to stay in my place.

I know she would say

it isn’t my place

to correct Mamzelle’s French.

Even if Mamzelle doesn’t know

she shouldn’t use vous

with a servant.

“Your French is very good,”

Mamzelle says, drinking her coffee.

“I can teach you English.

Would you like that?”

A small nod.

Though my mask remains steady,

my heart

twirls with joy.

“I’ll be out a lot

for my fieldwork.

That means talking to everyday folks

and learning and seeing how they live.”

To learn English

would give me wings,

like learning French.

Oreste is speaking English

in New York. I’ll learn enough

to write him a letter in English,

and his mother

won’t understand it

if she gets her hand on it.

Maybe I can even

find a way to get Mamzelle

to help me find Fifina and

go back to school

and start our own.

After all,

the Ameriken are rich.

They pay in dollars.

Or maybe

this will just lead ? ? to more cliffs ? and dreams

burned to ash.

“If Mamzelle Zora would like.”

I try to make

my voice a little warmer

but without inviting

her any closer.

“Would Mamzelle

like anything else now?”

“Non, merci.

I’ll be writing now.

Whenever this door is closed

or you see me reading or writing

anywhere at all,

don’t disturb me.

That means I’m working.”

I close the door.

I will leave lunch for Mamzelle

covered on the terrace

and dinner inside.

Since I know how

to do my chores quickly,

and she hasn’t asked me

to do anything more,

working for her

might leave me more time to carve!

This may not be

as bad as I thought.

Rings That Can Vanish

Breakfast next morning

dashes my hopes

of being left to myself

and having time for myself.

“Are all your beds this small?”

asks Mamzelle.

“Looks like

they’re meant

to be in a convent.”

Mamzelle tilts back her head,

laughing loudly.

The lines on her neck

disappear.

I don’t know

what to say.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You look younger.

That will be good

when you’re my age.

Are you married?”

I shake my head,

hoping she can’t see

my eyelids twitching.

“No boyfriend?”

My lips tighten.

Will Mamzelle be

a woman

who always asks questions?

Another Life

On a desk by the window

is a stack of white paper,

some pencils, a red notebook

with loose pages peeking out,

a leather-bound scrapbook

like Sister Gilberte’s,

something wrapped in brown paper,

and a shiny black typewriter,

even bigger

than the one at the police station.

That was the last time

I held a pencil.

Another life.

There was a crucifix

above the bed.

It’s now on the bottom row

of the bookshelf.

Madame Ovide

would not be pleased.

I know she hasn’t invited

Mamzelle to dinner,

as she did Mademoiselle Dunham.

Mamzelle is certainly

different.

Her nonstop smoking.

That desk, overflowing.

I can’t help staring.

“You want to know

what all this is for?

I can tell you all about it

if you help me with my work.”

“What work?”

“I need someone I can trust

who knows Kreyol inside out

for my studies on voodoo.”

I remember that tourist,

and the dinner

and what Pince-Nez said.

“Why do you

want to study that?”

“Because it’s important

to me, and it should be

to the world.”

I back away.

“I can’t help you with that.

Sorry.”

Mamzelle is inviting

trouble to the table.

She shrugs off my no,

but I can tell

it won’t be

the last time she asks.

NOVEMBER 3, 1936

The Dead

It’s been a month,

and the shape of the days

is clear to me now.

Mamzelle was gone

the past two days

for the Fèt Gede,

the Feast of the Dead,

at the cemetery,

laughing, singing, drumming,

drinking kleren,

to raise the dead.

Not exactly how the Sisters

taught us to celebrate

the Day of the Dead

and the Day of All Souls.

So it’s no surprise

when she wakes up around noon

with bloodshot eyes,

has lunch in bed,

then closes her door

to write.

Sometimes I hear

the quick clack-clack

of the typewriter;

other times I imagine

the soft scribbling of her pencil

in that red notebook.

When she comes out for dinner,

she peppers me with questions,

until she realizes

she won’t get far.

She has Joseph drive her

to who knows where

and sometimes isn’t back

until deep into the night.

Her fieldwork. When it comes

to zonbis,

the less I know,

the better.

Opportunity

Ever since the Fèt Gede,

it’s as if Mamzelle herself

is possessed

by a spirit

that pushes her

to wake up early

and work hard

until late at night,

mainly in her room,

with less time

on her fieldwork.

One afternoon,

Mamzelle brings out her scrapbook

and asks me to sit next to her

on the parlor sofa,

where I never sit.

“I’m working on a novel

I’ve wanted to write

for a long time,”

she says.

“Let me show you

a few things

about my past.”

She opens the scrapbook

on her lap. I’m surprised to see

how perfectly neat

the pages are.

“I grew up

in a town run by our own people,

like yours in Haiti,

where my father was a preacher

and a mayor. We had a big house

surrounded by trees.

“This is a photo

of Mama. She died

when I was thirteen.”

Mamzelle turns the page

so quickly

all I see is a black-and-white blur

of a woman in white

and a man dressed in a suit.

“This is one of the first

poems I ever wrote. It’s called ‘Home.’

How do you say that in Kreyol?”

“Lakay,”

I respond,

thinking of Fifina’s

book of recipes.

“Lakay,” she repeats,

almost correctly.

She turns the page.

“This is when I graduated

from the best university

for our people, Howard.”

Mamzelle wearing a black gown,

a flat square hat with a tassel,

with such a big smile,

it’s contagious.

“One of the happiest days

of my life. But it wasn’t easy

for me to get there.

I had to lie about my age

to be able to go

to the school that was free.

“After Mama died,

my father stopped paying

my school fees

when he met his new wife,

who was just a bit older than me.

But that’s another story...”

Are Mamzelle’s eyes

welling with tears?

She clears her throat.

“There were some tough years.

Eventually, I realized

if I wanted an education,

I’d have to

shave ten years off

my real age

to be able to go

to the free school.

I loved that school,

even though I had to work

all kinds of jobs

when I wasn’t studying

to pay for everything I needed.

In the end, it was worth it.

“You do whatever you need

for freedom.

But I don’t need

to tell a Haitian that.”

Mamzelle laughs,

and I’m surprised when

I join her.

“This is one of the first

short stories I published,

and this is the award ceremony,

where I won the most awards.”

She lingers on those photos.

One is the front page

of a magazine:

OPPORTUNITY .

“Does this mean the same in English,

as it does in French?” I ask.

“Yes, exactly. ‘Opportunity’ is like ‘opportunité.’

It was one of the best magazines

our people ever created,

and when my stories were published there

and won prizes,

people sat up and took notice.

My life changed

almost overnight.

“It will change again

when this new novel

I’m writing here

gets published.”

She’s beaming now,

but she gently closes her scrapbook.

“That’s enough for now.

I just wanted to show you

that I’m not like Katherine Dunham,

the toast of the town.

Or like Madame Ovide and her friends.

“Nothing

was ever handed to me.”

Or to me.

When Mamzelle was young,

was she a shadow girl, too?

How did she get

from there to here?

DECEMBER 1, 1936

Uninvited

Mamzelle is

in the bedroom

clacking away

on her typewriter.

A sharp knock

at the front door.

Mamzelle didn’t say

there’d be any visitors.

I straighten my mouchwa madras

on my head—

Mamzelle does not like

the stiff white cap

Madame Ovide had me wear—

and open the front door.

“Bonjour,”

says a wiry light-skinned man

dressed in a perfectly pressed

white linen suit.

It’s Pince-Nez

from Madame’s dinner party.

“I am here

to see Mademoiselle Hurston,”

handing me

his hat and his cane.

I tell him to wait

while I fetch Mamzelle,

who is never happy

when I interrupt

while she’s working.

“Who is he?”

“I saw him once

at Madame Ovide’s,

but I don’t know his name.

He didn’t offer it,

and he didn’t give me

his calling card.”

Mamzelle stubs out her cigarette,

spritzes perfume,

strides to the parlor.

“Good morning, Miss Hurston.”

He bows, kisses her hand.

He must be high up

in the government.

What does he want

with Mamzelle?

Mamzelle lights a cigarette

and crosses her legs.

“So you’ve found me.”

Mamzelle doesn’t bother

asking his name.

She seems to know

exactly who he is.

Watched

“I simply wanted

to offer my personal welcome

to our beautiful country.

“You must know

we Haitians

are solicitous

of our guests,

especially those

who voyage from

such a great distance,

like yourself.”

His French is too perfect,

all tight and polite

and sharp as

an ice pick.

“And you are indeed

a guest

in our country,”

he adds,

flicking a piece

of lint

from his knee.

He leans back

in the wicker chair,

pulls out a cigar.

“Would you like a drink?”

asks Mamzelle,

glancing over at me.

He ignores her offer

and puffs his cigar.

“I hear you’ve taken

a considerable interest

in the case of a poor woman,”

he says.

“Which woman

might that be?

There are many

poor women in Haiti.”

“Mademoiselle Hurston,

let’s not waste

any more time.

We know where you went

and where you plan to go.”

“Really?

Word must travel fast

by teledjol. Isn’t that the

right expression in Kreyol

for ‘bush telegraph’?”

Mamzelle blows

her cigarette smoke

over her shoulder.

Pince-Nez crosses his legs,

his creases so perfect,

I have to hide my amazement.

“Ah, yes. You must mean

my coming appointment

with the esteemed Dr. Léon,

your director of public health,

who studied obstetrics

in Europe?”

asks Mamzelle.

“It gives me such pleasure

to know how closely you follow

my comings and goings.

Do all the guests in your country

get this kind of personal attention,

or am I just lucky ?”

“I will take a drink,”

says Pince-Nez

without looking at me.

Fruitless

I go into the kitchen

and fetch the bottle of rum.

When I return,

Mamzelle’s smoking a new cigarette

and tapping her fingers

on the arm of her chair.

“I’m afraid your interest

in that poor woman

will prove fruitless,”

says Pince-Nez. “There are

no zombies in Haiti,

despite what Mr. Seabrook wrote

in The Magic Island .

An atrocious book.”

“I agree he packed it with lies,

says Mamzelle. “But, look,

the White Zombie film

is making Hollywood rich.

“Why wouldn’t you welcome

a book with the truth?”

“All books and films about zombies

spread the dangerous lies

that are voodoo.

They are an insult to my people

and scare tourists away,”

says Pince-Nez.

I tighten my grip

on the tray. Is this really

what Mamzelle wants?

She pretends to care

about folk music

and proverbs.

She really wants

the secret of zonbis.

Then she’ll write her own book

to make lots of money.

“If there are no zombies,

then why are you

so interested

in my research?”

Pince-Nez stands up

abruptly. I move

to put down the tray

and get his hat

but he holds up his hand.

“It’s so warm. I’d like

a glass of coconut water.”

“Lucille will get it for you.”

But before she can say more,

he follows me

into the kitchen.

I know better

than to speak to him

first.

He stands

closely behind me

his hot cigar breath

burning into my neck

watching me move

as if he’s afraid

I might poison him.

I slowly pour

the coconut water

from the pitcher.

He sees

the bottle of Barbancourt

and gestures

for some in his glass.

“I know who you are,”

he says,

gritting his teeth.

He takes a sip,

looks me up and down.

“Just like

the section chief’s mother,

I don’t forget faces.”

I’m frozen

in place

like my Venus ice sculpture

he saw that evening.

“I’m sorry, but

you must be thinking

of someone else.”

It takes everything I have

to control the tremble

in my voice.

“If you help me,

I can help you

find your friend.”

Does he really know

where Fifina is?

How can I find out

without betraying Mamzelle?

“You must be thinking

of somebody else.

My face is so ordinary,

that happens a lot.”

He places his glass

on the counter

and nods for more rum.

At Madame’s dinner party,

Pince-Nez stared a hole

through Oreste

when he talked about

Vincent and Trujillo.

I steady my hand

as I pour.

Mamzelle’s car

is pulling up now.

Joseph took it

to the garage.

He’s back

just in time.

Eat You Up

When Joseph sees

Pince-Nez’s car

parked on the street,

he doesn’t get out

of the car, only rolls down

the window.

Pince-Nez tells me to wait in the kitchen,

then he goes outside.

From the open window,

I can hear his words clearly.

“Get out of the car.

Have you done

what I told you?”

There’s no doubt Pince-Nez

enjoys giving orders.

Joseph gets out of the car

slowly

and leans away from Pince-Nez.

The two men stand tense

in the afternoon sun.

“Imbecile!”

Joseph’s eyes

stay glued to the ground.

“Didn’t I tell you

to keep an eye on her?

We want to know

where she goes,

who she sees.

Or else.”

Pince-Nez makes a gun

with his finger,

points it at Joseph’s head,

and whispers something I can’t hear.

“Lucille!”

I nearly

knock over the bottle.

Mamzelle joins me

in the kitchen.

“What are they saying?”

she whispers.

“I can’t hear it all,

but I know Joseph,

and he is afraid.”

Mamzelle winces,

then straightens her back.

“I can tell you one thing,”

says Mamzelle.

“He’s no friend

to people like me,

or anyone else

who doesn’t go along

to get along.”

When Pince-Nez

returns to the kitchen,

his mask is firmly

back in place.

“Your maid,”

he says, staring at me,

“was kind enough to

pour me rum

and coconut water.”

Mamzelle’s smile is tight

as she escorts him

back to the parlor.

“Haitian peasants

are such a poetical group,

don’t you think?”

he says, raising his glass.

“What would Haiti be

without its rich folklore?

Haitian peasants

can be so easily

misunderstood

by people

who don’t know them.

The Haitian peasant

has a classic expression:

‘I’ll eat you up

without any salt.’

“Yet of course,

they don’t mean it literally.”

Mamzelle sips her rum

and lets out a sigh.

“Don’t worry, Miss Hurston.

We always

take good care

of our guests.”

Mamzelle makes a sound

like agreement,

walks Pince-Nez to the door.

I hand him his hat.

His gets into his car

and drives away.

Joseph,

nowhere in sight.

Warning

Only when the car is long gone

do I ask Mamzelle his name.

“His name doesn’t matter.

I’ve met people like him before.”

“What kind of people?”

“He’s probably from Vincent’s

secret police.

He thinks I’m one of those

Americans who comes down here

to pick the bones

of your culture,

write a bunch of lies,

and make lots of money

doing it.”

“What kind of lies?”

“The lies that keep tourists away.

Lots of white people

think Haiti is

a land of savages.

Hollywood loves making movies

with flesh-eating zombies,

devil worship,

and voodoo priests

sticking pins in dolls.”

My shoulders tighten,

but I pull myself taller.

So that’s how they see us.

We’re not even human.

“Why would anyone

be afraid of us?”

“Other than the fact

that Haiti

freed itself from slavery?

That was scary enough!

Fear makes money.

Hollywood makes movies.

New York makes books.

They all want to make money.”

I think of saying Oreste

is in New York,

but quickly decide

this isn’t the time.

“Why does he want

to scare you?”

I ask her.

“So I won’t tell the truth

about zombies.”

“What is the truth?”

Mamzelle’s fists rise,

as if she’s ready to fight.

“Some people in power

use voodoo to control others.

It’s complicated.

The less you know now,

the better.

“But with what I’ve been learning,

no one will hurt us.”

Proverbs

She said “us.”

But what did she learn

that could save us

from Pince-Nez

and the secret police?

His threats

lingered in the air.

Mamzelle tried her best

not to look rattled at dinner,

but for once,

she went to bed early.

The next morning after breakfast

Mamzelle asks me

to help translate some proverbs.

I sit down with her,

explain what they mean,

while Mamzelle

makes notes in English.

1. Tout bèt jennen mòde!

All beasts bite when they’re cornered.

2. Granm è si chin se kout baton.

Thanking the dog is a stroke of the stick.

3. Rayi chin; di dan-li blanche.

Hate the dog, but admit that his teeth are white.

4. Chin grangou pa kouche.

A hungry dog can’t sleep.

5. Se chin map leve pou-m kouche.

I’m pushing dogs aside in order to lie down.

6. Pote mak sonje kout baton.

He who bears the scars remembers the stick.

7. Ti Mapou pa grandi anba gwo mapou.

A little mapou tree doesn’t grow under a big mapou tree.

8. Fèy mapou sanble ak fèy manyòk.

Mapou leaves look like manioc leaves.

9. Mapou tonbe, kabrit maje fèy li.

The mapou tree falls; goats eat its leaves.

10. Se kouto sèlman ki konnen sa ki nan kè yanm.

Only the knife knows what’s in the yam’s heart.

She thanks me with a hug.

Says she understands

what all of them mean,

except the last one.

“I think it means

some secrets are better left alone,”

I offer.

And I want to add:

That would be the best one

for you to remember.

Questions

That afternoon I ask Joseph

what Pince-Nez whispered.

At first he lies

and says “Nothing.”

Then he finally admits

that things are bad.

“They’re ready to stop her,

whatever it takes.”

“What do you mean,

‘whatever it takes’?”

“These people are high up.

They can hurt us, and...”

“And what , Joseph?”

“Nothing. I can’t say any more.”

Joseph just shakes his head

and stares at his feet.

“I have a wife and a baby.

They are my life.

This is too much for me.”

I know what it’s like

to fear for your family.

How to stop Mamzelle

from getting us all

in trouble?

Mamzelle is only a guest.

She’ll go back to her land,

but whatever she does

will stick to us

like hot tar on our heels.

And who knows just

how far they are willing to go?

As far as they went

with Fifina and her father?

I don’t want that

for anyone.

All because Mamzelle

keeps asking questions

she shouldn’t be asking.

Two Shadow Girls

That night,

as I turn down her bed,

Mamzelle stands at the door,

smoking.

“You know,

I did this work myself

when I was your age.”

She observes me.

“I was only thirteen

when I left home.

Worked in all kinds of places.

Let me see your hands.”

I hold them out,

cringing inside.

I hope they felt softer

back when Oreste held them

on my way home from tasting ice.

“Just what I thought.

You need my special corn lotion.

It’s a secret recipe

a black Seminole woman

taught me.”

Mamzelle reaches

for a brown glass bottle

on her dressing table.

“Each year they

do a Green Corn Dance.

They stomp around

a big fire all night,

singing and praying.

By the end, I was so tired,

I fell asleep right there on the ground,

felt the earth breathing in and out.”

Mamzelle rubs the rough patches

where the calluses are.

“It was hard at that age,

especially with men

old enough to be my daddy.

One offered to take me to Canada.

His wife

got wind of the plan

and I got the boot.

“But at least

I kept one of his beautiful books. Paradise Lost .”

I close my eyes,

smell the wood pulp and leather

of Oreste’s books.

I open them

to find Mamzelle

staring at my palm.

“The life line is long, but the love line...”

“What?”

Mamzelle holds up her palm

and traces the broken brown curve

from above the thumb.

“It’s broken.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry.

It’s the same with me.”

DECEMBER 9, 1936

Birthdays

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Last year,

my entire world was a different place.

When I turned sixteen,

Papa gave me my mother-of-pearl-

handle knife

and Fifina,

she gave me

a day I will never forget.

It was my fifth birthday

that Papa taught me to swim.

I was afraid

of the waterfall caves,

afraid of dark cliffs

underwater.

“This was one

of your mother’s favorite places.”

He held me up lightly;

my legs and arms paddled.

I was afraid

of deep-water monsters

grabbing my ankles

dragging me down.

“I’m right here.

Swim into my arms.”

I kept paddling forward

until with one final leap

I reached him.

DECEMBER 10, 1936

Turning Seventeen

No one to celebrate

my seventeenth birthday.

I didn’t tell Mamzelle,

who is rushing around excited

to welcome her special visitor.

Joseph, with his twitchy mustache,

is picking him up

from his hotel

and driving him over.

“He’s a friend from America

here to help me

research your country’s folk music.

We’ve worked together before.

I even had to sweet-talk him

out of jail once!”

I hardly hear her. Instead,

my heart softens as I hear Oreste

playing “Ti Zwazo”

our last evening together.

Is that folk music, too?

“Please make a special lunch

for Monsieur Alan Lomax.”

I had decided on lambi with pikliz

and diri ak djons djons.

I’d woken up before dawn,

to pound the lambi,

marinate it in lime sauce,

make the pickled

pepper sauce,

and soak the black mushrooms

for the long-grain rice.

When Joseph drives me

to the Iron Market, which I insist

has better choices for Mamzelle,

I take my time. No more Celestina

to rush me. I’m so relieved

I haven’t bumped into her

yet.

To anyone willing, I show

my drawing of Fifina. I already left

two copies with Madan Sara, gave

Cousin Phebus two copies,

and kept three for myself.

Oreste’s gift swells my heart.

“Have you seen this girl?”

“Se yon bèl marabou,” they all say,

but none say they’ve seen her.

Mamzelle’s Special Friend

It’s already noon

when Mamzelle’s special friend arrives.

He’s a young white man,

the first white man I’ve met.

His thick brown hair frames

a face without whiskers,

a mouth that speaks gently.

He reminds me

of Oreste.

He sets a big

leather suitcase

carefully on the floor.

“What’s your name?”

His French is much better

than Mamzelle’s.

“Lucille.”

“Want to take a look?”

He opens

the leather case.

I peer in.

It’s bigger

than Madame’s gramophone.

“This is where

we ask people to sing.”

He holds a metal tube

to his mouth.

“This is where

the needle writes

your voice

on the record.”

He shows me

an aluminum disc

and the special needles

that he says will etch

the sound onto it.

He takes one already made

from inside its brown paper sleeve.

It’s black and shiny

with tiny grooves on it,

like the rings of a tree.

He sets up a shiny

silver-colored microphone,

large stripes on its head,

and asks me to stand near it.

“Want to say something

into the microphone?”

I glance at Mamzelle,

who nods.

“Bonjou, tout moun. Mwen rele Lucille.”

I can’t think of anything better

than saying my name.

“And my name is Alan.

Now your voice

will live forever.

“This is the recorder

I use for my fieldwork,”

he says.

“You could call me

a song hunter.”

“A bit like what I do

with stories,”

says Mamzelle.

“We both go poking our noses

into people’s lives

to save something precious

they don’t always know they have,”

she adds.

I’m hardly listening—

my head is spinning with joy.

My voice will have wings

and travel the world.

Latibonit O

This morning Mamzelle

asked me to press

her cherry-red dress

of silk

that matches

her lipstick.

She even asked me

to help curl her hair

with pomade

and the flat iron.

Now she sits smoking,

crosses and uncrosses

her bare legs.

“Thanks for buying me the stockings

I asked for. You got it just right:

size ten, light tan,”

she says to Mesye Lomax.

She holds them up

to the sunlit window,

caressing them.

Madame Ovide

had stockings like that.

They both laugh,

but I find it strange

that a white man

would buy stockings

for Mamzelle.

Her voice sounds lighter,

like a girl in love sounds.

I should know.

It only lowers

when he mentions

that his fiancée

will be joining him next month.

“So soon? Please give her my best.

More rum?”

Mesye puts his hand

over his glass.

“Zora, are you trying

to get me drunk? It wouldn’t be

the first time!”

They laugh again,

like they have shared adventures

in the past.

“You never used to mind,”

she says, her mouth a mock pout.

“Are you already a married man?”

He shakes his head, smiling.

“I’m so grateful

for everything you’ve done,

all the letters of introduction.

Thank you!”

“Anything for you,

my friend,”

says Mamzelle,

but I can easily

imagine her

replacing

that last word

with “love.”

“Lucille, is there

any song

you want to sing?”

he asks.

Surprised,

I glance at Mamzelle.

“Go ahead. This is

your time to shine.

Alan is collecting Haiti’s

folk songs

for the Library of Congress.

That’s America’s

biggest library.”

I don’t know what

that kind of library

could look like. Maybe like

the Mission School’s,

only much bigger.

A cathedral

of bright leather books,

like Oreste’s,

that reach from floor to ceiling.

I picture everything bigger

in America.

That’s all very nice,

but not why

I want to sing today.

It’s my birthday,

and this is a gift

I can give myself.

I close my eyes

and remember.

Manman Papa

Mapou Cousin Phebus

Sister Gilberte Tante Lila

the famn lakou

Fifina. My sixteenth.

Her gift. The cave.

Running hand in hand.

The kiss.

Oreste. Dous lèt.

Our outside life.

Tasting ice.

Our slow-burn kiss.

The memory of water.

Ti Zwazo.

Only my voice

can nest all these birds

when I sing.

“Latibonit O

yo voye rele mwen

Yo dim Soley malad

Soley malad li kouche.

“Latibonit O

yo voye rele mwen

Yo dim Soley malad

“Le m te rive

mwen jwenn Soley kouche

Le m te rive

mwen jwenn Soley mouri

“Kisa poum fe O

poum antere Soley

Mwen di kisa poum fe O

poum antere Soley

“Sa fèm lapenn O

Pou’m antere Soley

Se regretan

sa pou’m antere.”

Latibonit O,

they sent me word

the sun was sick

and lying still.

Latibonit O,

they sent me word

the sun was sick.

When I arrived,

I found the sun lying still.

When I arrived,

I found the sun had died.

What could I do?

How could I bury the sun?

I say what could I do?

How could I bury the sun?

It made me sad to bury the sun,

I felt so sorry to bury the sun.

“Beautiful!” Mesye Alan’s eyes shine

as he translates my words.

Mamzelle puts out her cigarette.

“Well done! That’s just what we needed.

“Now we’d better

get down to business

and record

some of my songs.”

She steps up

to the microphone,

taking my place.

“Thank you, Lucille.

“Please have lunch ready

on the veranda in an hour.”

Even the chill in her words

can’t bury my birthday sun.

Drums in the Night

The drums begin talking

somewhere high in the hills.

Mamzelle has already been

to see many temples,

to meet houngans and mambos

for her book. She even says

she was initiated into hoodoo

in New Orleans.

Good for her.

But what are these drums?

It’s not Carnival yet.

These drumbeats are different.

Mamzelle will want to see them,

even in the middle of the night.

It’s hard to fall asleep

when I hear Mamzelle

pacing, not snoring,

next door.

Mamzelle isn’t one

to walk in her sleep.

When I hear her

knock at my door,

I’m not surprised.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“Now? Where are we going?”

“To find

those rada drums.”

I pretend to yawn,

rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“What’s rada?” I pretend not to know,

hoping it will

at least slow her down.

Mamzelle taps her feet.

“Something special.

Hurry up!”

She holds a lantern,

her canvas bag

with red notebook

and camera.

How can I stop her,

for her own good?

Stopping Mamzelle

How can I stop Mamzelle

from going out to the drums?

I move slowly

to give myself time.

I step carefully into

the leather sandals

Papa made

and fiddle with the ankle straps.

“Come on, Lucille!”

Mamzelle is standing

at the front door.

There’s only one thing

I can do. I grab

Mamzelle’s arm

and pull her back in.

Mamzelle is so surprised,

she stands like Lot’s wife.

“What the hell are you doing?”

she asks, freeing her arm.

She sounds more hurt

than angry.

At least that’s a start.

We stand face-to-face.

Mamzelle’s eyes flash questions.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid

of going out in the dark?

Or is it the drums?”

I remain silent,

unmoving.

Let Mamzelle think what she wants.

Let her kick me out

right now

as long as she doesn’t

step foot outside tonight.

“You don’t want to go, fine!

But get out of my way,

because I’m going

to find those rada drums.”

I remain standing.

I close my eyes.

“Do not search for the drums,”

I say quietly.

“Now, look, Lucille,

this is exactly the research

I need for my book.

This is why

they paid me to come.”

“Who paid you?”

“People with lots of money

who help people like me

write books.”

Her words will not move me.

“Do not search for the drums.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes my dreams

turn out to be true.”

Mamzelle stares hard

at the door, then at me.

“And you dreamed

something bad would happen

to me?”

My nod is a whisper.

May Bondye forgive me

for this white lie

that can protect us all.

“Last night,

I dreamed

if you went to the drums,

you would be in danger.”

Mamzelle backs down

and takes off her coat.

She sighs long and hard.

“We’ll do it your way,

for now.”

Her words float

in the darkness.

But I can tell she trusts me.

She goes to her room.

Late into the night,

her typewriter keys

clack-clack in time

to the drums.

To Save Her

The next morning,

Mamzelle asks

for breakfast

on the terrace.

I bring her coffee

with the red sugar

she loves.

“Mèsi, Lucille.”

Mamzelle takes a sip

and sighs.

“I know you

don’t serve the spirits

and don’t want to learn

about them,

but even you must know

the Fèt Gede

is special.

“Maybe that’s why

last night

I dreamed

of my mother,”

she says.

I put down

my cleaning cloth

and sit at the table.

Mamzelle never

talks about her dreams.

“My mother’s name

was Lucy,

and she died

when I was young.”

I lean closer.

“I stayed by her bed

as she got sicker.

I read poems to her.

One of her favorites

was a poem called

‘If’

by a man named

Rudyard Kipling.

“I know it by heart.

This part was the best:

“‘If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss . . .’

“I told her

the day I risk it all

it’s to win, not to lose!

“That made her laugh.

I loved hearing her laugh.”

Now I understand

why Mamzelle

laughs so loud.

“I recited the whole story

of Demeter and Persephone,

my favorite myth.

“I told her I would turn

it around. Why couldn’t

a daughter save

her mother?”

The Pillow and the Clock

“I fed her myself,

spooned her soup,

mashed bananas and porridge,”

says Mamzelle.

“Nothing helped.

She grew weaker and weaker.

“She asked me to read

from the Bible,

the Book of Psalms.”

Mamzelle pushes her coffee away,

takes out a cigarette,

breathes in deep and long.

“Then one day

when her voice was

so weak, I could hardly hear her,

she said,

“‘Don’t let them

take the pillow

from under my head.

“‘Don’t let them

cover the clock.’”

I understand

Mamzelle’s mother.

Taking the pillow away

makes it easier for death

to come.

Covering the clock

means she wouldn’t

stop time when she died.

Mamzelle’s mother

was not ready to die.

“My family gathered around

that night, and the doctor

held a mirror to her mouth.

“Papa started taking

the pillow away.

“I screamed and tried to stop them.

I pleaded and cried, but they all held me back.

“Then I heard the last rasping,

and I knew Mama was gone.”

“What could you do?

You were only a girl.”

I say these words softly.

Mamzelle’s eyes

well with tears.

“I should have done what she asked me to do.

In my dream last night, she told me,

“I’ve always wanted

to bring back the dead.

“Maybe that’s

the real reason I want

the secret of zombies.”

Now I understand.

She misses her mother,

just like I do.

But she’ll get us in trouble

if she keeps up this digging.

DECEMBER 15, 1936

For Strong Emotions

It’s been exactly one year

since I lost Fifina.

A day I wish

never existed.

I wake up feeling

like I want to throw up.

My whole body aches,

sinking low

into the ground.

Would Fifina’s

Recipe for Strong Emotions

really help me,

unlike the one for

a Cracked Heart?

It’s been so long

since I’ve tried.

Make an infusion from three leaves

of purple verbena.

Steep it for three days.

On the fourth day,

take two big spoonfuls

of the juice of these leaves.

Mix it with

palma Christi castor oil

and a spoonful of

leftover coffee essence

from the bottom of the cup.

Drink it

as a purge.

Of course

I will try it,

though it’s not

strong emotions

that I need

a recipe for.

Driving Herself

Later that morning,

Mamzelle asks me

to come with her

on an errand.

Joseph is nowhere

to be found.

“He asked for time off

to visit his family.

Didn’t say for how long.

Not a problem for me!

I like driving

myself much better

than being a passenger.”

Mamzelle whistles,

takes curves in the road

a little too fast.

Her camera bag

shifts in her lap.

“Where are we going?”

“To meet someone special.”

The Hospital

We pull up to a big hospital.

Why does Mamzelle need a doctor?

At the front desk, Mamzelle

straightens her back.

“I have an appointment

with Dr. Legros.

The director of public health,

Dr. Léon, arranged it for me.”

Her voice fills the room.

The woman at the desk nods,

gets up, and walks briskly

down the hall.

Sweat prickles

my upper lip.

“Why are we here?”

“I told you. If I can discover

the truth about zombies,

it will help people around the world,”

says Mamzelle, her voice rising

with excitement.

We need to leave here.

As soon as we can.

Dr. Legros is light-skinned like Madame,

but his face is round and kind.

He leads us into an open courtyard.

“I’d be surprised

if you get anywhere,

Miss Hurston.

“This is a secret

passed along from family to family

since nan Guinée.”

Secrets from Africa,

first home of the ancestors,

where only the knife

knows the heart of the yam.

“Lucille, will you come with me to the yard,

where I will take some photographs?”

“Can’t you do that by yourself?”

I ask her, almost pleading.

“What are you afraid of?

You don’t serve the spirits,

do you?” asks Mamzelle.

“Maybe we all serve them,

one way or another,” I answer.

“Then you’re a believer?”

she says.

“Maybe,

in some ways, I am.”

“Lucille, I didn’t go after the drums

when you asked me not to.

“But I really need this photograph.

It could make my career.

If you help me now,

I promise I’ll help you, too.”

Maybe, with those rich white people

she knows, Mamzelle can help me

find Fifina. She can offer a reward

for information.

And then she’ll take us with her

to New York,

to find Oreste.

In a Corner

My love.

The sun in my heart

is waking again.

I agree to help Mamzelle.

In the hospital courtyard,

Dr. Legros points to a crouched woman

in the farthest corner.

Her head is covered with a cloth,

and she is sweeping the ground

with a bare branch,

like the ones I used

when I was a little girl,

drawing birds

in the red earth.

She’s curled tight like a dog

afraid to be hit.

“Felicia Felix-Mentor

is from Ennery,”

says Dr. Legros

as we make our way

to her corner.

“It’s a town

between Gona?ves

and Cap-Ha?tien.

“She helped her husband

with their grocery store.

“They had no children.

The husband was cruel.

One day, she suddenly

got sick.

People say

she was buried

near her house.

“The years passed.

The husband remarried,

became a top civil servant

with his new wife’s efforts.

“Then one day,

nearly thirty years

after Felicia’s burial,

she was found

naked on a farm,

insisting it was her father’s.

“You can imagine

how this frightened the tenants,

who chased her away.

“They finally called in

the section chief,

who reported the case

to the national police.

“Even though

her own brother

recognized her,

after all those years,

no one wanted

anything to do with her,

which is how

she ended up here.”

Her Face Was Covered

Mamzelle’s already

taking pictures

with her camera,

which hangs from a leather strap

around her neck.

She tells me it’s a new camera,

so light

that war photographers can use it

to take photos in battle,

as they are now doing

in Spain,

where General Franco

is getting help from the Germans

to fight the resistance.

What would Fifina’s father

write about that?

Is he even still alive?

I fight to keep

the bile from rising

into my throat.

When Dr. Legros approaches,

Felicia starts trembling.

“These ladies won’t hurt you.

They’ve only come

to take your picture.”

Felicia keeps her face covered

with a rough piece of burlap.

Mamzelle adjusts her tripod.

“Lucille, come help me.”

I don’t know what help

she wants, but I do know

that we need to leave.

Now.

Close-Up

Dr. Legros asks Felicia

to uncover her face.

She flinches.

“Don’t be afraid.

No one will hurt you,”

says Dr. Legros.

“Is she really a zonbi?”

I turn to Mamzelle.

“Some old people still say

your soul can be stolen

if your picture is taken.”

“Her soul was stolen

a long time ago.

“Telling her story

is the best we can do.”

After more coaxing

from Dr. Legros and Mamzelle,

Felicia uncovers her face.

I hold my breath

when I see her eyes.

They’re nearly all white,

with pink around the rims.

Her thick graying hair

is cut short,

her skin dusty

but smooth.

What things has she seen

in those thirty years?

I remember

the boy in chains

and make

the sign of the cross.

Mamzelle’s still

taking pictures.

“Where are you from?”

Dr. Legros asks me.

“Near Hinche.”

“Hmm. There was a young woman

from there

brought in

a few weeks ago.

“There were

two women

helping her.

“The well-dressed woman

seemed to know

Dr. Sam, our head of obstetrics,

very well. He was the one

who took care of the girl.

There aren’t many places

that will help girls

in her condition.”

Fifina?

“What was her name?”

“I didn’t catch it.”

I pull out my drawing

and show him.

“Well,

she looked more disheveled,

but, yes, that looks like her.

She’d lost

so much blood,

she got here just in time.”

Blood?

“What happened to—

to the girl?”

I manage to stutter,

fear damming my voice.

“We managed to save her,

but not her baby.”

A tidal wave of nausea

knocks me to the ground.

Felicia in My Dreams

When you see dry bones by the side of the road, don’t forget they used to be flesh and blood. Don’t know how I survived. Bondye must have spared me for a reason. My husband grew tired of beating me day after day after he realized my womb would never bear children. So he went to see a bocor. One minute I was eating dinner in the courtyard, alone. Next minute I knew I was waking up in a cane field, alone. Couldn’t remember what happened. Didn’t know where I was. Had to beg in the street to survive. Mainly on the church steps. Sometimes on the big road to the capital. My eyes look so strange because I’ve seen so much death. I was on the road that day when a bus drove by. People stared out the window at me, a few with pity. To them I was just an old woman begging in the road, no family, no home. The sun was shining through the rain. The devil was beating his mother. He was laughing at her tears. Perhaps she knew what was coming. Then I heard the driver shout, the bus bounced off rocks, screams, whimpers, moans, prayers. Smelled rubber, metal, humans, all burning together. Stood up and saw fire licking everything black at the bottom of the cliff. Smoke stung my eyes, never the same. People will see my photo and think they know who I am. Wrong, just like fanm Ameriken sa. She thought I was a zonbi from the land of the dead. Wrong. I lost my life, but I didn’t die. Like your friend. If the fanm Ameriken keeps making trouble, they’ll kill her, like my husband tried to kill me. At least I’m safe here. When your friend came, she was weak and bleeding. Two women helped carry her in. She said she was running away from a gwo zouzoun who made her his outside wife. He promised to keep her father alive if she stayed with him. She read his letters in secret and found out her father was dead. Maybe that’s what killed her baby. When your friend lost the baby, she said she was going to a place no one could find her. I think I heard Cazales. Death always finds a way in even when all the doors are locked. And people wonder what my eyes are watching. When you see dry bones by the side of the road, don’t forget they used to be flesh and blood.

Between

That morning I started my own

days of blood. Without a cloth

or safety pins, I had to ask

Mamzelle for help.

“This is your first period?”

I nod, still feeling queasy.

“Are you all right?

Do you need anything?”

After yesterday’s surprise,

she seems more ready to help.

“I have some Kotex.

Let me show you

how to use them.

Do you have clean panties?”

I go into my room

and bring them out.

We go into the bathroom.

“Wash the blood with this.”

She hands me a wet washcloth.

I wash the warm stickiness

without looking down.

My insides are cramping

so much I double over.

Mamzelle helps me to the bathtub

and runs the tap to fill it.

“Take a hot bath now. I’m putting in

some Epsom salts. That’s what I use.

I’ll go get you an aspirin

for the cramps. I used to get those

every month. Now it’s less often.”

When she leaves, I undress

and slip into the tub.

Mamzelle returns, holding up

a white rectangle of cotton

attached to an elastic belt.

My own days of blood

have begun.

Another prayer

not answered

The Bride Specialist

Mamzelle sits by the side

of the claw-foot

porcelain tub

while I let myself

soak in warm water

up to my chin.

My first bath

like this.

“I know with this bleeding

and the pain you’re in,

your body

feels like a burden.

“Some people

will even want to make

it a mule.

“Don’t let them.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m thinking of

Cousin Phebus

and Fifina,

whose bodies

brought them

nothing but trouble.

That’s why I wanted

to never start bleeding.

And then, of course,

the Sisters warned us

about mortal sin,

concupiscence,

and adultery.

The body makes us

vulnerable

to the desires of men.

The flesh makes men

weak, they said.

“When I was in Jamaica,”

Mamzelle says,

“I went to stay

with the Maroons

in a place called Accompong.”

“Like the mawons

who escaped into the

mountains and used a lambi shell

to call others to freedom?”

I ask.

“My great-grandfather

did that.”

“Yes, like him,”

she responds.

“When a young woman

was ready for marriage,

there was an old woman

who’d prepare her.

“She was called

the bride specialist.

“I watched her

bathe a young virgin

in a secret mix of herbs

and massage her

with lemon and verbena oil.”

That’s not a recipe

Fifina has in her book.

“The bride specialist

showed her

the best ways to make love

with a man.”

Mamzelle sighs.

“I’m guessing you’ve never

been with a boy.”

“Not that way.

Kissing, yes, but—”

I stop myself.

This is already

too much to share.

“Did you ever

want to have children?” I ask her,

surprised at myself.

It must be the warm water

relaxing my body

and mind.

I could imagine

Oreste would be

a wonderful father.

I have no idea

what I’d be like

as a mother

since I never once had

my own mother with me.

“I had an operation

from a burst appendix.”

She lifts up her shirt

and points to a ravine of a scar

on the right of her belly.

“There was an infection

and I nearly died

and had complications,

so I can’t have children.

“But, yes, I like children.

Most people do, don’t they?

Let me finish my story.”

Mamzelle continues:

“Minutes before the wedding,

she gave the bride-to-be

a long sip of rum

steeped in ganga,

and she whispered

‘Remember,

your body

is made

for love

and comfort.’

“I’ll never forget

that night.

And I want you to

imagine that pleasure,

just for yourself.

“You don’t need to be

a bride

to feel this good.

“Give your body

the love and comfort

it deserves.

“I interviewed

a peasant woman

who had moved to the city;

she said,

‘Kò mwen se tè mwen’—

“my body is my land.

“Decide

how you’ll plant it.

“You can

make it a garden

with pear trees

that blossom

with springtime

delight . . .”

Her voice trails off.

I close my eyes.

My body,

my land,

of birds and mapous,

and black butterflies

that grow strong

in the sun.

Becoming

No dreams

that night.

Or the next.

Just a week

of blood, cramps,

and throwing out

the soaking Kotex.

You don’t wash these,

like Fifina had to.

“Just put them

in this burlap bag,”

said Mamzelle.

“I’ll throw them out

with the trash.”

Mamzelle is very

matter-of-fact

about the days of blood.

No stories of the moon

and tide

singing in my body,

like Fifina’s mother.

In a strange way,

I like how

she makes it feel

ordinary.

“It’s just part

of being a woman,”

she says.

“To me, it’s not

the best part, but in many cultures,

there are ceremonies

to mark it.”

She has the good sense

not to ask me if there’s one here.

I wouldn’t want any ceremony,

I just want

this pain to be over.

Pain, the famn lakou said,

is part of being a woman.

The Bible says it, too.

Days of blood.

Now I can make a baby.

And lose it, like Fifina.

Would having a baby

hurt this much?

Or kill me,

as it killed Manman?

There’s no way

I want to find out.

Now I see why we say

women are the poto mitan.

We not only

hold up the temple;

we can also

hold up the sky.

Gazelle

I move slowly now,

like a sleepwalker.

The fog in my mind

muffles all sounds

and makes the world

a quiet, gray place.

Fifina’s alive,

but her baby died.

Fifina’s alive,

but her baby died.

Fifina’s alive,

but her baby died.

Is Fifina like Felicia,

chained by death in life?

At least after seven days,

my bleeding stopped.

But it feels

like my body

has changed

in just one week.

I take another bath

in the bathtub,

for the second time

in my life.

The bliss

of letting my legs

float up,

then submerging my head

and holding my breath,

pretending I’m swimming

with Papa and Fifina.

When I look at myself

in the bathroom mirror,

I still see a gazelle,

thank goodness.

But I’ve changed. More swelling

in my breasts

the shape of half lemons,

and tufts of hair

between my legs.

There wasn’t a mirror

for me to use

at Madame Ovide’s.

I like that there’s one here.

DECEMBER 20, 1936

A Pilgrimage

On her way home

for Christmas and the holidays,

Cousin Phebus

comes to see me

at Mamzelle’s.

Mamzelle is out,

so we sit on the veranda,

looking down on

the lush green, blue, and white

of the hills above the capital.

A shared moment,

a rare moment

of peace.

“I’m sorry I missed

your birthday. But here’s

your father’s gift, and

something from me.”

I open Papa’s burlap.

The ebony glows

dark and brilliant.

“What a beautiful piece!”

It makes me

want to reach for my knife.

“Yes, he knew

this birthday, your first away,

would be hard.

“The good news is

we convinced the police

that you’ve always heard voices,

had visions and dreams,

that you ran away

from home,

like such

a crazy girl would.

“The best Christmas gift

you could get.

“And this one

is from me.”

She hands me a magazine.

It’s the September issue

of La Voix des Femmes .

On its cover

is a massive fortress

on a hill overlooking the sea.

La Citadelle.

“Thank you, cousin! This is where

Mamzelle and I will be traveling

after the holidays.”

“Then you’re in luck.

Read this,

and you’ll see why.”

I take the magazine,

the first of my own,

and give her a kiss.

“I wrote down

my special recipe

for soupe joumou, since I know

you’ll be making it

for Mamzelle.”

She doesn’t have much time

to stay, because the bus

will be coming by soon,

and she’ll be heading home

for Christmas.

“Are you all right?”

she asks

at the door.

I’m looking down

at my feet, about to cry.

“I started bleeding.”

“Ah, Ti Cousine. I thought

something was different.”

She comes back

and hugs me tight.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it last?”

“Seven days.”

She hugs me again.

“You’re a woman now.

You know what that means.

If you ever make a baby,

I’ll be the godmother.”

“I don’t think I want

to make a baby.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Yes.”

“I understand.

I miss your mother, too.

I wish I had a choice

but now I don’t. You still do.

Just make sure it’s your choice.”

“Mamzelle doesn’t have children.”

“Neither does Jeanne Perez.”

We look at each other,

and suddenly we’re giggling.

“They both seem fine.

They’re not witches or hags,”

she says.

“We’re all mothers, aunties, godmothers

in some way. We are mothering

every day. Not all of us

will be blessed with a baby,”

she adds, with only a hint

of sadness in her voice.

“You know, Ti Cousine,

everywhere I go, I show

your picture of Fifina.

We won’t stop until we find her.

I meant to ask

how you got the copies

of your drawing.”

“Oreste made them for me.

His father’s friend

runs a printing press.”

“Ooh,” she says, smiling.

“So your little prince

is a good man after all.”

“Not all men are pigs.”

We laugh, hugging.

It feels good to laugh,

to know that we still have

our own sun inside us,

no matter how hard

some people try

to cloud it over.

It is ours,

and it still shines.

“Take good care of yourself,”

she says.

“Enjoy your pilgrimage.

Make some drawings for me.

I want to see what you saw

and hear every detail.

“I can’t believe you’ll be in all

the places where our history was made.

You’ll be walking

in the ancestors’ footsteps!

“Do you know

how lucky you are?”

This time when she says it,

my heart answers yes.

DECEMBER 22, 1936

Their Eyes

“I finished my novel

three days ago.

My Christmas gift to myself

is this trip to La Gonave!”

I’m packing for Mamzelle’s

five-day trip

to the island

not too far from us.

When she asked

if I wanted to join her,

I said, “No, thank you. I don’t

want to miss my monthly

visit from my cousin,

especially since this will be

my first Christmas away

from home.”

Mamzelle doesn’t need to know

Phebus already came.

For the first time

in my life,

I will have a whole house

all to myself.

And I can’t wait.

“I wrote it in seven weeks,

but it’s been inside me

much longer,

waiting to be born.

“I put in it all of myself

and my love for a certain

young man I had to leave behind in

New York. My title is Their Eyes Were Watching God .”

I was only half listening

to Mamzelle’s bubbling voice,

until I heard the word love.

Mamzelle was in love

and left him behind?

“Why?”

I ask her.

“Because it’s a great title!

Don’t you think? Oya,

the god of storms...”

“No, Mamzelle.

I meant

why did you leave

the man you loved?”

“Oh. Well, to make

a long story short,

he made my heart

and body sing,

in all the ways

I’d always dreamed of,

but he wanted a wife

who would give up her work.

“That’s not me. If I couldn’t write

and do my fieldwork,

I’d lose

what makes me me.

“No man is worth that.”

Oreste would never

tell me to stop carving.

And if he ever did,

I’d know he wasn’t

the man I think he is.

Love should spread joy,

not steal it.

DECEMBER 24, 1936

Christmas Eve Day

It feels like a lifetime ago

that I was with Cousin Phebus

as she prepared

our réveillon

Christmas Eve feast

we always ate after midnight Mass.

Instead, I’m alone

in Mamzelle’s rented house.

Sitting on the veranda

reading La Voix des Femmes .

Another first.

I’m reading our history

written by Haitian women.

A history

I hardly knew existed.

Jeanne’s Letter

I read the magazine

breathing in

the sweet scent

of ylang-ylang,

my whole body soothed

by the trees and flowers

that surround me.

No, it’s not the same

as hearing Mapou’s song

when I was back home.

But there’s a song

I can listen to here,

when I have the silence

to hear it.

Jeanne’s article

is called “A Pilgrimage”

and is written in the form

of a letter to her four-year-old niece,

Madeleine Price-Mars,

part of that grande famille.

But really,

it’s to all of us.

What sinks deep

into my skin

is what she says

about why

we should all

visit the Citadel

and Sans-Souci Palace,

both?cracked?wounded?abandoned,

where Henri Christophe,

who crowned himself king,

had his ill-fated reign.

Because,

unlike the common moth,

which is burned by the light,

we are like

our own Haitian butterflies,

with their brown-black wings,

that fly

in the dark of night

toward their home

of light,

where we recharge ourselves,

growing stronger.

DECEMBER 25, 1936

Silent Day

All through the night

I read and reread,

drifting in and out

of a happy sleep.

At dawn, I stretch,

slowly eat a mango

on the veranda.

My favorite time

of day

when the world

holds its breath.

I have feasted

on a banquet

of words,

all the articles

in La Voix des Femmes.

Thank you, dear cousin.

As the sun sets,

my first Christmas alone,

I vow that

I will heed Jeanne’s letter,

and open myself

to the ancestors.

I will find Fifina

and keep her safe,

something I could not do

for my own cousin.

I miss Fifina even more,

because in my bones I know

she is alive

and she must be found.

At least she’s not

an ocean away,

like Oreste.

Tonight the sunset

blazes orange and gold.

For the first time

I can savor its light,

in silence,

alone.

DECEMBER 26, 1936

Her Scrapbook

When I was cleaning up

to prepare

for Mamzelle’s return,

dusting her room,

I decided to peek

in the leather scrapbook

she’d shown me.

What she didn’t show me

was what she’d written

on the very first page:

For Mama

Just two words.

She was collecting

all this evidence

of her success

for her mother,

whom she hoped

was watching

with pride.

Those two words

break the dam

of my tears.

My body shakes

as I sob

until the hurricane

inside has stripped

bare my land.

That night,

my dream is

one of the clearest

I’ve ever had.

Mamzelle, Dying

They want to stamp my passport and send me right over. Just because I had a stroke doesn’t mean I’m ready. I still have something in my head for anyone who wants to listen. Never mind all my memories. I’ve been down before. When you see those dry bones by the side of the road, don’t forget they used to be flesh and blood.

Sometimes they act like we’re already dead. They clean up after us, all right, but their touch is rushed and distant. I used to be too proud to ask for help. Now I wish someone would rub my hands and read the story in my palms. Instead, eyes look away and fade into silence. All I see are dust motes, drenched in light. They kept me company for a while.

The red ball of the sun slides down the earth’s belly. Still shines through the rain. “The devil is beating his mother.” I remember when I wrote that one down in my notebook. It was in Haiti, all those years ago. The sun is the devil laughing; the rain is his mother’s tears. I thought I was the expert, but it was Lucille who helped me understand. Never found the right place to use it until today.

Now I can see my firstborn. Seems like yesterday. My name in print, so long ago. I felt like Thor with his magic hammer, thunder roaring from his chariot. He was always my favorite.

My books were love letters to the world. With each one, I tried to catch God’s attention. I wrapped a rainbow around my shoulders. Of course, back then I didn’t know what I know now. Too impatient. Just wanted to step right through history’s gates. Didn’t know how much drifting I would do. One of those old Greeks said the art of living is learning how to die. Took me this long.

I used to be afraid of dying alone. Not anymore. Right now, I can see all my babies crowding around my bed: the ones I loved, like Janie and Tea Cake, and the ones who drove me to distraction, like Herod the Great. I gave them their wings, just like Mama gave me mine. Mama, watching from the chair in the corner. The day she died, my wanderings began. I know she’ll cover the mirror for me.

Maybe these people feel sorry for me, but they don’t see what I see. They see an old colored woman broken down, with a mysterious disease in her gut she says she got in a land where the dead come back to life. No husband, no children. At least a brother came to visit with his family.

A charity case. Crazy woman covers her bald patch with an old felt hat but still talks like she has the world on a string. Her hem unraveling tells another story. There was a time, I want to say, when I was known up and down Manhattan for my dazzling style.

These bones were flesh and blood.

They can’t help steering clear. They’re waiting until I die so they can cover me up like a bad mistake and pretend I was never here. Poor old lady.

But they’re the poor ones—if only they knew!

There I am, back in Eatonville, sitting on the gatepost, asking everyone on the road if I can go with them.

I thought I was a woman in charge of my own destination.

Long before any of them could imagine me, I decided the world was my oyster and was too busy sharpening my knife to spend all my time talking about the thousand slights and humiliations, the self-hatred. I said no to these and other ways of dying.

No way would I be a slave ship in shoes.

When I sat alone in that hospital, I made a bet. I thought I had done nothing with my life so far, so no one would miss me. Nothing to lose. I promised that if I lived, I would be in charge of my journey, even if it meant I would travel alone.

No one held my hand as they wheeled me into the operating theater, flooded white with light. Mask over my mouth, falling backward into darkness.

My eyes were closed, but they were watching you.

When I woke up, I knew I had to keep my promise. I traveled on my own down South, toting a pistol and driving Sassy Susie, posing as a bootlegger to keep trouble at bay. From the backwoods of Florida to Baltimore, DC, Harlem, all on my own. A woman like you is asking for trouble. That didn’t stop me. Then Jamaica, Haiti, and Honduras, only to return back where I began.

They said life left boot marks on my face. But they’re wrong.

I faced down those mobs that accused me of molesting that landlady’s boy. A lie so ugly I wanted to die.

I hid, like a dying wolf falls away from the pack.

All my books were out of print. All my words were dust.

I went to work as a maid because I had no other way of paying my bills. Too proud to ask for help, but the newspapers found out: “Once-famous writer works as a maid.”

Research. That’s what I told them, and flashed them all a big smile.

I had to quit before week’s end.

My mother used to say an enemy had sprinkled travel dust around the doorstep the day I was born. I traveled so far to come back home. Never stopped loving the world, just stopped expecting it to love me back.

Some things I do regret.

One is that I didn’t have the strength to gather up all my papers before coming here. Now eight hundred pages of Herod will be thrown out with the trash and burned to a crisp before they rent out the house. That’s my own fault. I thought I had more time to put my things in order. But everyone knows how I feel about bothering people with my problems, especially when they have enough of their own. I thought I could take care of it by myself.

Then there’s Lucille. I saw myself in her. Did she ever read what I wrote about her? That I loved her and would have trusted her with the US Treasury? She would have liked that. I always wondered what happened. I’m sorry I never wrote her. Never guessed one book could lead to so much trouble. And back then I wasn’t ready to die.

Behind a curtain, they wheel out a bed of salty, twisted sheets. I don’t want them to draw mine. They wouldn’t understand my tears. If only they could see what I see.

With each breath I float higher, in a flutter of light.

I exhale. My dream is finally true.

I inhale. There’s less of me, and more of you.

With one last breath, I soar.

Papa Legba, you divide heaven and earth. Open the gate for me. I’m coming home to that little girl by the side of the road.

JANUARY 1, 1937

Soup for All

The first two days of the year

we celebrate

our independence.

We were the first

to unchain ourselves

and create our own country;

on the first day

of 1804,

we declared Saint-Domingue

free and renamed it

to honor the first people,

who called it Ayiti,

the land of mountains.

The first day of the new year,

I cook soupe joumou

the way Cousin Phebus

taught me.

I wake up early

to peel and cut

the calabaza

into even squares,

then cook the pumpkin

in water

with beef neck bones

marinated in

Scotch bonnet peppers,

pikliz, and lime.

The sharp smell of the soup

winds through the house

as I add cabbage and leeks

and roll flour in my palms

to shape the cloud dumplings.

I’m glad Cousin Phebus

brought me her recipe.

I tell Mamzelle it’s a

Haitian tradition

to eat this soup

on January 1,

and to offer it

to anyone

who comes to the door.

Soup is even

served on the streets

of cities for anyone

who asks.

Though I haven’t finished

cooking today’s meal,

I have to prepare

the real feast.

Independence Day

Mamzelle says

she loved La Gonave

but right away saw

that Faustin Wirkus story

of being crowned

the White King

was a fraud.

Still, it sold

a lot books

for him

and William Seabrook.

She adds that she, too,

wants to sell many copies

of the book

she is writing about Jamaica

and Haiti,

but she will do that

with the truth

instead of more lies.

Of course

I don’t tell her

I dreamed of her dying

alone.

What good

would that do?

But it has shaken me,

and made me look at her

with a tenderness

I didn’t really feel before.

At midnight,

we watch

the fireworks

light up the capital.

Mamzelle and I make a toast

and sprinkle champagne

on each other

and on the earth,

for the ancestors.

JANUARY 2, 1937

Ancestry Day

A juicy African guinea fowl

is our feast

on January 2,

the day that honors

all our ancestors

who fought

for our independence,

the day the president

addresses the nation

at the big parade.

Mamzelle says

she doesn’t want

to hear any more

of President Vincent’s lies,

so she’s staying home.

“Rumor has it

he wears makeup to look as white

as he can. His grandmother

must be rolling in her grave!”

She loses herself

in her laughter.

So she has been talking

to people who trust her.

I chop up beets and carrots

to make a salad

in the form of a cross,

my own silent prayer

to find Fifina this year.

JANUARY 7, 1937

Enough for a Month

The past few days,

I’ve been preparing

for our journey north,

to La Citadelle,

cleaning the house,

buying provisions,

and packing.

“Pack enough

for a month,”

said Mamzelle.

The Feast of the Epiphany

came and went,

with an epiphany

of my own.

I have an idea.

I’ll get Mamzelle

to go to Cazales

to see if my dream of Felicia

will help me find Fifina.

At least Celestina

did give me that clue

that Madame Ovide

could be from Cazales.

What if Madame Ovide

was the well-dressed woman

the doctor saw

helping Fifina?

What if

she took Fifina to Cazales

to keep her safe

from the section chief?

Oh, Celestina. We could have been friends

if you hadn’t betrayed me.

Mamzelle agrees

to this new stop on her trip

right away.

“I like places like that,

off the beaten track.

“We leave in two days.”

She rubs her hands in excitement.

“I have some big plans

but can’t tell you more.”

So do I.

Fifina. Oreste.

Will I see you again?

Thank goodness

at least Papa and Tante Lila

are safe.

Both hope and fear

take a seat in my gut.

JANUARY 8, 1937

Between

Mamzelle gets a letter

that makes her smoke

all her cigarettes

in just one morning.

“Ah, Henry Moe!”

Mamzelle sighs,

pushing away the envelope

on the table.

“Who is he?”

“The man who gave me

the money to do

my work here. He’s from

the Guggenheim Foundation,

a place where

white people with money

give away some of it

to people like me.

“He’s waiting for

a report on my research.

How can I explain that

writing

a book about voodoo

is like trying to squeeze

a whole universe

into a postcard!

“And he doesn’t know

my novel came first.”

Her novel,

the one she was celebrating.

“Am I in it?”

I ask, in a way that’s

half joking.

“Yes, you are.

Because your culture,

and those who serve

the spirits,

the colors, trees,

symbols, and numbers,

are all there

for those who know

how to look.

“But I don’t think

most readers will see

that what I’ve learned

in my fieldwork

is the heart

of my novel.

“My heroine,

like Erzulie Frida,

the lwa who lives her life

for love.

She also

has three husbands.

“When she finds

the love of her life,

he’s younger, like mine.

Together they work

the land,

in a place called the muck.

They fight, too,

like I did with my love.

“Eventually she must kill him,

because he catches rabies

when he’s attacked by a dog

during a hurricane.”

“The one you left behind

in New York?”

I ask, thinking

what would I give

to see Oreste again.

“I had to leave him,

like I told you.

He thought he could dictate

how I should live.

We were either fighting

or making love.

I chose to be free.”

“That sounds

like a passionate story,”

I say.

That also sounds

like Mamzelle does not care

what people think or say

on the teledjol.

She goes into her bedroom

for more cigarettes.

“Lucille,” she says, lighting

a new one, “you’ll never really be free

without money of your own.

I’ve been able to write

this novel,

and am writing my book

about Haiti and Jamaica

and starting my autobiography,

because for the first time in my life,

I have money

and freedom.”

So it’s not true

that all Ameriken

are rich.

“A few years ago,

a rich white woman

I called Godmother

sent me money

every month,

to gather my people’s folktales

for her.

“But the price was my freedom.

I had to send her

a list of everything I bought,

even Kotex.

“It’s not like that

with the Guggenheim grant

I have here

and Mr. Moe.”

I must make enough money

from my carvings

to open my school

to have freedom

and help others get it.

“I’ve already told him that

I— we —will go down in history,

for taking the first photo

of a real zombie.”

Mamzelle sent her photos

of Felicia

to a magazine

called Life ,

though zonbis

live in the space

between death and life.

Clinging to the Cliff

The next morning,

we leave for Cazales,

which I can’t even find

on Mamzelle’s

large tourist map.

We head north

on la route nationale,

which connects the capital

to Cap-Ha?tien,

more than a hundred miles away,

says our map.

But in the wrong weather

or with bad luck on the road,

you can never be sure

how long it will take

to reach where you’re headed.

The car slowly climbs

past the weathered cacti

up the steep mountains

to Arcahaie.

On our left

is the sea,

in which I want to swim

one day

when it’s warmer.

It’s too chilly now;

I wrap my shawl

tighter

around my shoulders.

It’s my first time

using a map.

I stare at it

to try and find my bearings,

the way I did

with the numbers in math.

Of course,

I don’t say this to Mamzelle.

Instead, I memorize the directions

we get at the petrol station

at Arcahaie.

We’ve driven

less than twenty miles,

says Mamzelle.

Yet it already feels

like we’re in

another world.

“Mamzelle, this is where

Catherine Flon,

Dessalines’s goddaughter,

sewed the first Haitian flag

in 1803, the one we celebrate

every May 18 on Flag Day.”

Now I’m the one

teaching Mamzelle,

and I like that.

She slides her sunglasses

down her nose,

and gives me a

wide-eyed look.

“So you’re willing

to be my guide?”

“Why not? I’m learning

a lot from this.”

I hold up my copy

of La Voix des Femmes .

“Uh-huh. Professor Lucille,

you can translate some of that

for me while I drive.

Unless you’d rather

hear more of my stories.”

We both laugh

because we know

her stories

never end.

Unmapped

We leave the car

with the petrol station’s owner,

and hire a local guide

to show us the way.

We travel

on the back of a burro,

Mamzelle in khaki trousers,

her old wide-brim hat

shielding her eyes from the sun.

I’m wearing pants

Mamzelle gave me,

trimmed to my size.

I like them a lot better

than the shadow-girl uniform

I had to wear at Madame Ovide’s

or the dresses

Tante Lila sewed for me,

except for my Sunday dress,

which she made from the cobalt cotton

of my mother’s dress.

Mamzelle said

we’d be more comfortable

in pants, and she’s right.

I hold fast to her waist

as the burro moves slowly ? across a wide, shallow river

littered with rocks,

not a bridge in sight.

On the other side—

Cazales,

a village of stone

clinging to a cliff.

Even the scrub bushes

look thirsty.

The burro sways

under his load.

Some loose stones

bounce down the mountain.

“Welcome to the glamour

of fieldwork!”

Mamzelle says,

chuckling.

Burros remind me of home.

To me, this is already special,

like the way Oreste said he felt:

we are explorers

in our own homeland.

Dried-mud houses,

banana-leaf-thatched roofs.

Triangle houses,

carved balconies,

not like any

I’ve ever seen.

Off the burro

we shake out our legs.

Villagers stare

from a respectful distance.

Mamzelle opens her canvas bag

with her red notebook,

her field recorder,

and her camera.

I think of Oreste again—

that dinner party

was just a few months ago

but feels like another world.

Untying the bandanna

on my head,

wiping the sweat

from my face

and neck,

I prepare for my mission.

Find my way

back to Fifina.

Silence

and stares.

A village

on the moon.

Their Reward

Here

the villagers look strange,

lighter than Madame Ovide,

but their faces are freckled.

Women with thick brown braids

pinned on top of their heads.

The village elder steps up,

leaning on his walking stick.

His accent in Kreyol

is too hard for Mamzelle,

so I take my place in the center.

“This Ameriken

is writing a book

about our country

and needs your help.

“Can she ask you

some questions?”

I wait to ask

about photos

and recordings.

Mamzelle digs in her bag

for a dollar.

The elder

waves it away.

“We will help her

if she helps us.”

Mamzelle agrees,

not waiting to hear

what kind of help they need.

Grateful

“My great-grandfather’s name

was Stanislaw Zalewski,

but everyone here

just calls me Granpè.”

Mamzelle writes quickly

in her notebook.

“How old are you?”

Granpè strokes

his cloud-white beard.

“We measure time here

by the people in power.

“I was born

under the rule of Faustin,

emperor of Haiti.”

Not the faux Faustin,

that White King of La Gonave!

If Fifina were here

she’d do the math quickly.

His face is lightly lined,

his eyes like Madame’s.

Sometimes old people

grow back into children.

Granpè leads us

past a cemetery,

strange names on headstones:

Belnoski, Kanski, and Lovinski.

On one of them,

we see a large

six-pointed star

with pebbles lined up

on the headstone.

“Our people came

from the land

of Polska.”

“La Pologne?”

I ask, remembering

Sister Gilberte’s

map of Europe

in her books.

Granpè nods,

leans on his walking stick.

“Napoleon sent

my grandfather’s unit

to accompany

his brother-in-law

General Leclerc

so they could recapture

Saint-Domingue for the French.”

He talks slowly

so Mamzelle can write

it all down.

“Aah, but the people here

refused to be recaptured.

They wanted to keep the freedom

they’d fought so hard for.

“My grandfather understood

this, and laid down his weapons

to join the people.

“Napoleon’s rising debt

led to his sale of

the Louisiana Territory.

“Ameriken like you

should be

grateful to Haitians for this,”

Granpè says to Mamzelle.

She looks up from her notebook,

her pen in midair.

Forgotten

“Thank you, Granpè.

You sure know your history!”

says Mamzelle.

Mamzelle is a campfire

that draws people

to her.

Granpè smiles wide

beneath his beard.

“I am the guardian of the stories.

I remember it all,

and I teach the young

to remember, too,

so that when I die,

the stories live on.”

“What happened

to the other Polish soldiers?”

Mamzelle asks.

“Most died of yellow fever.

A few hundred survived,

and the great Dessalines

decided not to have them killed

since they had refused

to shoot unarmed men.

“Instead, he gave them all

small plots of land

to farm in this region,

and together they built

this village.

“My grandfather

always said the Poles

knew what it was like

to fight for their nation.”

Polska had been

invaded over and over again,

Granpè explains,

but the Poles had never given up

their struggle for independence.

The Polish soldiers could see

that the Haitians were like them.

Slaves wanted freedom

as much as they did

and they were willing

to die for it.

Like the Poles,

our people put their faith

in the promise

of the French Revolution:

liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Were they wrong to have faith?

What is it like to live

forgotten

by the rest of the world?

Their Church

Granpè stops when

we reach the church,

leans against it.

“We have no records,

no proof this land is ours.

“We need help

to feed ourselves,

to keep our village

from dying.

“The land isn’t irrigated

and the crops can’t grow.

“We cut down our trees

and sell them at market,

but when the lavalas come,

there are no trees

to prevent the mud

from washing away our houses.

“No one in La Pologne

knows we exist.

The Haitian government

doesn’t care.

“All we have left

is our church,

our music and dances,

and a handful of stories.”

Mamzelle asks Granpè

about a proverb neither

of us could figure out.

“‘Mwen chage kou la pologne.’

What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,

‘I’m in excellent shape,

ready to take on the world.’

“Our soldiers

who joined the Haitian army

were well trained.

We fought with our guns

and our brains.

“And here is our treasure,

our church,” he says,

sweeping his arm

across the threshold.

A leaking roof,

rotting wood floors,

cracked and dusty

stained-glass windows

and yet

the villagers

are proud

their church

is still standing.

“We need help

to make our repairs,”

says Granpè to Mamzelle.

“Most of our young people

leave

to work in the city.

It’s hard to farm here.

Would you be

so kind

as to petition

President Vincent

on our behalf?”

Mamzelle carries herself

in a way that suggests

she would have

the president’s ear.

From the Fire

Granpè leads us

to the front of the church.

“The original

Black Madonna

is in Polska

in a place called

Czestochowa.”

He pulls back

a faded velvet curtain.

Long oval face,

long, thin nose,

almond eyes.

The brown child she holds

wears a heavy jeweled crown like hers

with two angels supporting it,

but his crown has a cross

at its center.

“The one in Polksa

was painted

by Luke the Evangelist

on a tabletop

built by Jesus,”

says Granpè.

I can see Mamzelle

has her doubts,

but she says nothing.

The scars

on the Madonna’s cheek

are a darker brown,

like her eyes.

Her skin is the color

of cherrywood,

a little bit darker

than my hand.

I’ve never seen

a Black Madonna before.

“Why is this

Madonna black?”

Mamzelle asks Granpè.

“They say a fire

started in the church.

Everything burned

except our Madonna.

It was a miracle!”

He looks up to the sky

and makes the sign of the cross.

On the Porch

We leave

the Black Madonna

behind her velvet curtain.

Across from the church

an old woman

watches from a

long wooden porch.

“That reminds me

of back home,

where people told stories,”

says Mamzelle.

I hardly hear her.

The old woman’s eyes

draw me to the porch.

In my knife pouch

is a copy

of my drawing of Fifina,

carefully folded.

I pull it out,

hand it

to the old woman.

“Bonjou, ma kòmè,”

I address her as Godmother,

as Papa taught me,

as a form of respect

and to remind us

that we are all connected

in a web of caring.

“Have you seen

my friend?”

The woman’s glassy eyes

stare straight ahead,

and I wonder

if she is blind.

“Yes. She was here.”

If she’s blind,

how can she know that?

“Ma kòmè,

did you see her?

How do you know

she was here?”

“It’s true

my eyes can’t see.

But I know she was here.

“She never told me her name.

She said an evil man

was hunting her

and she needed to hide.

“She was here,

then she left.”

My knees start to buckle

again,

as they did

at the hospital.

“Was she alone?”

“No. Belle Madame

brought her.

She told us

to keep all of this secret.”

“Who is Belle Madame?

Where did my friend go?”

A shrug.

“Sorry. I can’t remember

anything else.

At my age...”

I can’t tell if she’s lying

to keep her promise.

Her face closes

like a window shutter.

Is it possible

that Madame Ovide

brought Fifina out here

after she lost her baby,

one of those times I thought

she was with Jeanne Perez?

Shouldn’t I

have noticed something?

But I was too happy

she was gone,

so I could spend

more time with her son.

The woman

hands me back

my drawing.

I want

to scream

cry

pray

for help.

Ask the Black Madonna

for another miracle.

Whatever power

I felt I had,

the faith that my dreams

tell the truth

is draining away,

drop by drop.

Fifina, why won’t you show me where you are?

Erzulie Dantor

After saying goodbye

to Granpè and the villagers,

Mamzelle tells me

she’s happy

I suggested

this wonderful detour.

“You do realize

that Black Madonna

is also a shrine

to Erzulie Dantor?”

Mamzelle is excited,

recharged.

“She’s the lwa of

vengeance, who

inspired the slaves

to revolt in 1791.

“From our ancestors’ gods

and the Church of Rome,

something new

was created.”

Our ancestors?

So now

she’s one of us?

“Someone once told me

you had to choose

between the Church

and our gods,”

I say.

“That someone

was wrong.

“Don’t let anyone

shrink your horizon.

Make it

as wide as you can.”

The Black Madonna

I am she who cannot be shamed or shackled. Believe me, they tried.

Rejoice and be glad that they failed.

They tried to banish me into darkness.

In darkness I dwelled and bided my time.

I watched and waited.

Time is a spiral I watched uncoil from beginning to end

and back to beginning.

Stone earth tree sky water sun stars,

and back again.

I held myself back until time was right.

Blessed is the fruit of my womb, my roots, my limbs.

Night water black. Long before the flames in that church.

Black as the earth’s center.

My womb is a waterfall cave.

My fingers are trees that touch the sky.

I know you saw me in Mapou. When I spoke, you listened.

That’s why I’m here.

I’ll tell you a secret no one else knows.

I grew tired of waiting in shadow.

I am the spark that lit the fire.

I am the fire that lights the way home.

Ma Kòmè

“Why was that old woman

on the porch

sitting all by herself?

Why didn’t she join everyone

else when they went in the church?”

Mamzelle shrugs.

“Maybe she did something,

they considered taboo,

like help other women

throw away their babies,

or maybe she sold

her very young daughter

for a very high bride price.

Or maybe she just didn’t

play by the rules.

“There are many things

that can label you

a sinner

or a witch.”

Her father was a preacher.

So does Mamzelle

believe in sin?

Am I a sinner

for the ones I love?

That night my dreams

are as blank

as a parched cliff

in the dry season.

Ghosts

Mamzelle is as eager

as I am

to see

the ruins of Sans-Souci Palace

when I read its history aloud.

She grips the steering wheel

with one hand,

her cigarette

in the other.

In this perfect weather,

we can make it

to Milot in one day.

“The palace took twenty years

to build, but

King Henry the First,

as he called himself,

to honor the British

and their abolitionists,

didn’t live to see it finished.

The king shot himself

with a silver bullet

rather than suffering a more painful death

by his enemies’ hands.

“His wife was Queen Marie-Louise,

and their two daughters,

Anne-Athéna?re and Francoise-Améthisse,

were princesses,

not much older than me,”

I read from the magazine.

Mamzelle grins.

“The Black Royals,”

she says. “I wonder

what it was like in that court.”

If I were a princess,

Madame would be only too happy

for me to marry her son.

“Judging from what I’ve read,

I’d guess it was opulent.

Our last queen and princesses

were allowed to leave

and live in England,

where people say

they met that other queen.

“It’s a good thing

King Henry didn’t live

to see the earthquake

destroy what was left

of his dream.”

To see past the surface

is a gift

and a curse.

What They Did Not Teach Us

“Of course

there were kings back in Africa,

before we were stolen away

to be slaves.

There are even slaves in the Bible.

White people didn’t invent slavery,

but they sure made it worse,”

says Mamzelle.

“They didn’t teach

us any of this

in the Mission School,”

I say.

“Did they teach you

that at your school?”

“Yes, but Howard University

was a special school.

The professors were like us

and wanted us

to know our history.”

“We need that here,

so everyone can learn

that when we declared ourselves free,

we were forced

to pay back the slave owners

for the slaves they had lost,

and we’re still paying!”

Mamzelle shakes her head.

“The world isn’t fair.”

That,

I know.

“One day I’ll start

my own school,

with my friend Fifina.

We’ll teach all of this

and more.”

Mamzelle’s eyebrows rise,

but her smile is serious.

“We can make magic

when we make up our minds.”

Names That Are Waiting

Toussaint, Henri Christophe,

Dessalines, Pétion.

Names baptized in blood.

There were many women

in our revolution:

Sanité Bélair,

Catherine Flon,

Marie Sainte Dédée Bazile,

Marie-Jeanne Lamartinière,

Cécile Fatiman,

but their names

might be forgotten

as Cazales has been

if we don’t fight

to keep them alive.

The queen

and her princesses,

Erzulie Dantor,

names tucked away tight

in the bindings

of books

waiting for freedom

and light.

The names from our past

aren’t written in books.

They will fly like blackbirds

from the pages of books

when I open my school.

A New Kingdom

“They need to pave

the road to Milot,”

says Mamzelle.

Her car shakes

in complaint

as it climbs.

When we do reach

Sans-Souci,

Mamzelle

goes off with a guide.

I want to walk

the haunted hallways alone.

In the ruins

of the palace,

I close my eyes.

Couples dance

in a circle,

their fingertips touching.

Beneath

waterfall chandeliers,

they curtsy and bow

to the king and his queen.

Newly made royals,

barons

in bicorn hats,

purple plumes

at attention.

For their loyalty,

land and islands,

favors from a king

who was once a slave.

King Henry

imagined

a new kingdom

for the Africans

who’d been

stolen

from their own.

He wrote to the

king of England

and others

to make sure

the slave trade would end.

When we visit the Citadel,

it’s even more impressive

than I imagined.

“No wonder it’s called

one of the world’s wonders,”

says Mamzelle.

She has me

take a photo

of her

posing on a cannon.

We stand

shoulder to shoulder

staring over the parapet

out over the ocean.

To build

this mighty fortress

and carry heavy stones

up these steep hills,

were people forced,

the way sòlda Ameriken yo

used corvée workers,

treating us like slaves,

during the Occupation?

Or did we work together

of free will, in harmony,

like a konbit?

All of this, to keep out

invaders, and slavery.

But isn’t debt

a way for slavery

to slide by

all the cannons?

All the awe the king

hoped to inspire

with La Citadelle

would just lead

to bitterness, suspicion,

and the desire to destroy.

No wonder they want

to keep making us pay

instead of building schools.

Every morning

before Mamzelle

wakes up,

I carve

from Papa’s ebony.

Now I see

that history

is another way

of finding

shapes in wood.

FEbrUARY 5, 1937

City of Dreams

That afternoon,

after leaving the Citadel,

Mamzelle drives us

speeding on the road

to Cap-Ha?tien,

Le Cap,

a city of dreams

built on canals

the Venice

of the Caribbean.

We arrive at sunset.

The houses here

are painted in

cheerful pastel

yellow, blue,

lavender, and pink,

decorated with

delicate balconies

of wrought iron.

Mamzelle’s in a rush.

“I have an important meeting

in half an hour

at the H?tel Impérial.”

She shifts the

Ford’s grumpy gears.

“Come on!

Don’t break down

on me now!”

Mamzelle turns left

at the last minute,

almost climbing the curb,

at the hotel’s front door.

The bellhop rushes out

to carry our bags.

While I unpack,

Mamzelle unfolds her map

and checks against something

in her red notebook.

“I hope this informant

can help me

find where the meeting

will be tonight.

Alan gave me his name.”

“What meeting?”

“The less you know,

the better,

but I’d still like you to come

in case

the French or Kreyol

is tricky.”

I agree.

Ambition

I’ve never seen

Mamzelle this excited.

“I’ve been asking myself

about what Germany

would do here

if there’s a war,”

she says

as I help her

fasten the buttons

on the red silk dress

she wore for Mesye Alan

and smooth down her hair

with her flat iron and pomade.

My hair is easier

to care for

now that I keep it short.

I’ll wear my

Sunday dress,

the blue one

Tante Lila

sewed for me,

using the cloth

of my mother’s dress.

Since leaving Madame Ovide’s

I always wear

my mother’s sandals.

“I ask questions

for a living,

the perfect cover

for a spy,”

says Mamzelle.

She laughs,

but her voice

sounds nervous.

“I could even

help President Roosevelt.

I could be his special adviser,

like Mary McLeod Bethune,”

says Mamzelle.

“Who is she?”

“Her parents were enslaved.

But now she’s the president

of a college in Florida,

the place I told you about,

where I grew up.

“Only in America

could that ever happen.”

If Mamzelle

takes me to America,

could I also run my own school,

where Oreste would teach history,

and we could be married?

First things first.

I must find Fifina.

Informant

In the hotel lobby,

I wait with Mamzelle.

In the shade

of potted palms,

colorful paintings

hang on the wall.

I lean in close

to one painting

to see every detail.

A market woman

walks alone,

her basket

on her head,

climbing a mountain

where sky

and earth meet,

blue green red

paint, alive

in the frame.

At the bar, Mamzelle

meets a Haitian man in a suit,

wearing glasses,

hunched over his drink.

Mamzelle slides next to him

and asks the barman

for a rum punch.

I ask for a glass of grenadine juice,

to remind me of

my special day with Oreste.

Mamzelle orders two lambi dishes

with rice, banan peze and pikliz.

I can’t wait to devour

this special meal.

The informant glances around,

takes off his glasses

and wipes them

with a white handkerchief,

then puts them back on.

He points out

a spot on her map;

Mamzelle marks it with an X .

I pretend

I’m not listening

as I sip my juice.

“President Trujillo’s army is

massing at the border,”

the Haitian man whispers.

“Does President Vincent know?”

asks Mamzelle.

The man stares hard

and leans in.

“Do you know

Jacques Roumain?”

he asks.

“He was trying to help

the dockworkers, the planters

at the American sugar company,

all the workers, getting them organized

into unions to fight for their rights.

First time they arrested him,

only a hunger strike

led to his release,

and he fled to New York. But he returned.

Vincent’s secret police followed him

everywhere,

and now he’s back in jail,

accused of wanting

to overthrow the government.

“His health is getting worse.

You can imagine.

We’re doing all we can

with comrades all over the world

to get him released.

He would already be dead,

if his family wasn’t so powerful.

Remember his grandfather

was once president,

before the Occupation.

“If they could do that to our Jacques,

think of what they can do

to people like me.”

Jacques Roumain.

I remember that name,

from Oreste’s letter.

The server’s

black-and-white uniform

reminds me of the one

I wore for the dinner party,

except he wears white gloves.

He sets down our plates

with a flourish.

I start cutting my lambi

without waiting for Mamzelle.

It’s perfectly tender, with a sauce of

tomato, onions, and scotch bonnet peppers

as good as Cousin Phebus’s.

The informant stands up

to leave and shakes

Mamzelle’s hand.

“No need to tell you

this shouldn’t be shared,”

he says before leaving.

Mamzelle stares into the mirror

behind the bar, then

turns around quickly.

“Did you see him?”

she asks, her face frozen.

“Who?”

“The one from the secret police

who

threatened us.

“He’s here.”

“The man with the

pince-nez? Here?

Are you sure?”

I look around the room

and don’t see him anywhere.

“I think I just saw him

in the mirror.

“Let’s get out of here

before it’s too late.”

“What about our dinner?”

“Leave it.

We don’t have time.”

The Border

We rush up to our room.

“Pack everything back up.

We’re not staying here.

“We’re leaving

for the border

near the Dajabón River,”

Mamzelle says,

out of breath.

It’s dark when we get there.

I can’t tell how many

people are gathered,

in this hidden forest

clearing, lit by small torches.

We sit on a carpet

of soft green pine needles.

A man appears,

in a farmer’s straw hat

and stands under

a giant cedar tree.

I can’t see his face,

but he’s wearing

a clean white shirt

and smooth trousers,

not like any farmer

I know.

The people grow quiet

as soon as he speaks.

“Mes konpès!

Mes kòmès!

“We know that our land

was a Garden of Eden

“but what we see now

is a paradise fallen.”

His voice quiets

and stills us,

like a griot

around a fire.

“We’ve had enough

of Trujillo’s brutality,

how his police and soldiers

arrest us,

beat us,

jail us.

“They say we don’t have ID cards

or residence permits,

and they make us pay twice

for documents

we never needed

at the border

until Trujillo took power.

They won’t even let us

take care of our own farmland

and our animals

across the border.

“They say we’re selling contraband

or stealing,

but what they’re doing

is trying to label us

and make people believe

we are all criminals.

“We’re tired

of Vincent’s duplicity,

letting Trujillo visit our country

as if he’s a friend

when in fact,

Trujillo calls us filth

and says his hygiene laws

are the reason for his crackdown

at the border.

“We’re tired of having our hopes

dashed on the rocks

of poverty

“of corrupt politicians

in league

with greedy corporations

like the Haitian American

Sugar Company.

“It’s time

to stop complaining.

“It’s time

to start fighting

corruption and greed,

wherever we find them.

“When we work together,

just like the konbit

when we’re clearing a field

or building a house,

no one can stop us.

“The big fish is used

to eating small fish,

but when small fish

swim together

they can chase

the big fish away.

“The future is ours!”

His fist

punches the sky.

The people rise up

everyone clapping.

I jump to my feet

blind with excitement.

I know that voice!

Underground

I push through the crowd

to that voice in the center.

Oreste blinks in surprise,

then reaches out

and pulls me to him.

“Ti Zwazo? What

are you doing here?”

We move away

from the others.

“Shush. Please wait.

My comrades told me

where we can hide.

There will be police

looking for me.”

We stoop down

to brush away branches,

and we enter a cave.

My hurt and anger

are tangled.

“Why didn’t you tell me

you were back?”

“How could I?

My own mother

doesn’t even know

I’m here.

“I’m working with farmers

to fight for their land.

“Our president says

people like me

are Communists

so they can blame us

for everything,

when it’s their

greed and corruption

that is hurting our country.

“If they find me,

they’ll throw me in jail,

and torture me

to make sure

they scare others.”

That smell of fear

when I went to the police station

and felt the ghosts of the prisoners

sends a wave of nausea

through my body.

“Just tell me what happened.”

I lace my fingers in his.

“My comrade told me

that back in January,

yon fanm Ameriken

wrote a letter

the government censor read.

“They went ahead

and let us meet

because they want

to capture our leader

and arrest him,

like they did

Jacques Roumain.”

His words skip the river

of fire inside.

Yon fanm Ameriken.

Could she have posted

this letter herself?

“That’s terrible!”

There’s no way

I can tell him

I suspect Mamzelle.

“Even so, couldn’t you

have sent me word?”

Oreste lowers his head.

For a second,

I’m afraid

of what he will say.

The Cave of the Lost

When he finally answers

he looks straight in my eyes.

“I didn’t want us

to fall in love.

“I knew that one day

my life

would be

this.”

A bit late for that.

“Your letter

from New York?

You already knew

back then?”

That single word servants still stings.

“I thought

you’d understand

what I meant

when I wrote about

Central Park and

the birds.”

“I did understand,

but I just wasn’t sure.”

“In New York,

I met people who showed me

how to make

real change happen.”

Our foreheads are touching.

We stand holding hands,

our breath warming each other.

“Your friend? Did you find her?”

“No, but I’ll never give up.”

He lights his lantern.

“These are Taino

carvings,”

he says.

“My grandmother was

part Taino,

and they never let us

go into the cave.”

“Well, you’re here now,”

he whispers, and I

turn to kiss him.

We devour

each other’s lips

and let our hands

roam

all over our bodies

until he rests his head

on my shoulder.

“I missed you,”

he whispers.

“You don’t know

how much.”

“As much

as I missed you,”

I say,

stroking his hair.

Our voices

soft echoes.

“I love you,

Ti Zwazo,

and always will.”

Time

doesn’t feel real

in this cave.

If only

we could stay

here

forever.

On the walls

around us

are carvings and paintings.

Heart-shaped faces

with big eyes,

swirling like water

holding us

afloat.

The world

of our ancestors,

kept hidden from us

right under our feet.

Escape

“We don’t have much time.

Can you find a way

to get me

to the harbor?

“I know a comrade

who will sneak us

on his fishing boat

and take us to Cuba,”

he says.

“I’ll ask the woman

I work for

to give you a ride.”

“Too risky. I could be

recognized. They’ve sent out

my photo.”

“I have an idea.

Take off your clothes,”

I say as Oreste

kisses my neck.

His eyes still look like

seeing me is a miracle.

“Ti Zwazo, I’d love to,

if only we had more time.”

“Just take off your clothes,

and I’ll take off mine.

Then we’ll switch.”

We stand up

and face each other.

I take off his shirt,

kissing his smooth

naked shoulders and chest,

then step out my dress.

His eyes stroke me

from top to bottom,

warming me

from deep inside.

I hand my dress to him,

he puts it on,

then I wrap my red mouchwa madras

around his head.

A few curls peek through.

I put on his shirt and trousers.

They fit my gazelle body well.

We hug tight,

then hold hands

at the mouth of the cave.

“Will you come with me?”

My heart nearly stops

as I hear the words

I’ve always wanted to hear.

Night Ride

I ask Mamzelle

to drive us to the harbor

as fast as she can.

She looks at us both,

but for once,

she doesn’t ask any questions.

Mamzelle tells him

to sit in the front.

His smooth hairless face

is framed by my madras.

I sit in the back

in his straw hat.

His soft white shirt

and warm jeans,

caressing my skin,

still hold his scent

of pine and eucalyptus.

I wish

none of this had happened,

that we could be back

in our courtyard and garden,

our paradise lost.

Mamzelle slows the car.

Up ahead we see lanterns

sweep the darkness,

and hear

men’s voices barking.

“Police. Must be a checkpoint.”

Mamzelle’s voice is steady.

I put my hand on Oreste’s shoulder,

his hand touches mine.

We know these may be

our last seconds together.

Checkpoint

The car rolls to a stop.

The police.

Each second a heartbeat.

If Oreste runs, they’ll shoot him.

If he doesn’t, they may drag him away,

to who knows where.

Knots coil tight

in my neck and chest.

Mamzelle rolls down

the window.

“Bonsoir. What’s going on here?

Sorry, but those are the only

French words I know.”

I’m grateful to see

how Mamzelle lies as well

as an actress.

“Do you speak

English?”

she asks.

She tilts

a cigarette from her pack.

Oreste turns his face

away from the flashlight

that rifles the car.

“Merci, Madame,”

says the police officer

as he puts away his flashlight,

takes the cigarette

from Mamzelle’s box,

and stares at it hard.

“ Pall Mall! Américaine?”

Mamzelle smiles

and nods. Lights up her own.

A second policeman

comes up to her window.

“You’re an American?”

the second man asks

in English.

He’s clearly the boss;

his rifle is shining.

“Yes, I’m an American,

all the way from New York.

Please keep the pack.”

The boss thanks her,

puts the pack in his pocket.

“What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the sights.”

Her voice doesn’t show

any footprint of fear.

“La Citadelle. What a

magnificent fortress!”

The boss finally

breaks open a smile.

“Yes, it is. The pride

of our people.”

“With good reason,”

says Mamzelle.

“So can you tell me

what’s going on here?”

“We’re looking

for a fugitive from the law,

a real troublemaker.”

“What has he done?”

“Many bad things.

He spreads lies

about our president.”

The boss shines

his flashlight on me.

I hold my head higher

to bury my fear.

“Well, he’s not here,

as you can see,”

says Mamzelle.

“These are the servants

I hired for my stay.

It’s late. Can we go now?”

“Of course, Madame.

Enjoy the rest of your stay

in our fine country.”

“Thank you, Officer.

“I sure hope you find him.

“The world doesn’t need

any more lies about Haiti!”

She waves goodbye

and rolls up the window.

“Close shave,”

Mamzelle says quietly.

“Too close for comfort.”

It’s the first time I’m grateful

for my gazelle body.

Open the Gate

No one talks

until Mamzelle

at last breaks the silence.

“Little men with big guns

don’t scare me.

When I was driving around

the South collecting stories

in a car I called Sassy Susie,

I used to carry a gun.

Never had

to use it, but traveling around

alone as I did, things could

have gone very wrong.

“As they almost did

back there.”

Oreste reaches back.

His fingers touch mine.

We lace them together.

“A close shave, all right.

Things can go wrong

just like that.” Mamzelle snaps her fingers,

then glances at me

in the rearview mirror.

“Thank God

I was initiated

and know a special prayer

to Papa Legba, the god

of the crossroads. I asked him

to throw open the gate.

“We call on him

at the start of every ceremony, like this:

“Papa Legba, ouvè baryè pou lwa yo!

Ayibobo!”

Mamzelle’s voice sounds teasing—

and relieved. “Papa Legba,

ouvè baryè pou nou antre.

“I asked Papa Legba to

help us all find a way.”

My breath

is no longer shallow.

For once I am happy

Mamzelle

serves the spirits.

A Harbor in Moonlight

The full moon

shines, ripples

on the skin of the sea.

At the checkpoint,

I thought

I’d lost him again.

Now is my chance

for love

and to fight

what’s unfair.

That rickety fishing boat

holds

our whole future.

Mamzelle stays in the car

on the lookout for us

in case they decide

to search for him here.

We’re still dressed

in each other’s clothes.

Oreste

lifts my blue dress to his knees

to step onto the boat.

“?Hola, compa?ero!

There are two of us

coming. I’ll explain later.”

The Sea and the Flame Tree

Part of me wants

to hop on the boat,

and follow you

wherever you’re going

a warm soft vision

of us floating

on a raft of flowers.

My other dreams

are knives to the heart.

Finding Fifina

going back to school

carving my sculptures

in a house by the sea.

My day-night dreams.

If I follow you

to your dream,

would I lose my own?

Would your love

die as fast

as the flame tree blossoms?

When tangled dreams

meet at the crossroads,

which do you follow?

Love pulls at me,

urgent and hungry.

I dip my bare feet

in the seawater.

“We don’t have much time,”

says the fisherman.

You’re already

untying the rope

from the dock.

You reach for my hand

to pull me onto the boat.

I hold your hand tight,

but my feet stay

where they are,

feeling the mapou trees

and the caves

calling me back.

Clouds shift

across the field

of your face.

If I don’t go with you now

I may never see you again.

“I’m sorry. I thought

I could leave—”

The words are stones

in my throat.

“I didn’t want this to happen,”

you whisper.

Every inch of my body

longs to sail our horizon.

The dream of my school

feels small in comparison.

But is it, really?

Our ancestors

fed us, body and soul.

And Fifina.

I can’t leave

until I’ve done everything

to find her

and free her.

“Ti Zwazo, I understand.

This life isn’t for everyone.”

We hold each other

again, not wanting

to let go.

“I’m not afraid.

But I have to stay,

to find Fifina,

to start our school,

or die trying.”

We kiss like fugitives parting,

each second more precious.

“Compa?ero. It’s time.”

The fisherman doesn’t shout.

There’s respect in his voice.

I let go, step back on the shore.

“I’ll always love you,”

you say. When you step on the boat

it rocks under your weight.

“I won’t stay away long.

When I return, I’ll come

teach in your school!”

You pull out my carving

from your knapsack,

kiss it, hold it up high.

I knew you still had it.

And it did keep you safe.

In my dream

of you

in the water,

I was a tree.

I dreamed the truth.

Again.

A tree split by lightning

may never mend.

My tears

blur the boat

as you grow smaller

into the night.

Sick

I ride back with Mamzelle

to a pension

where she’s booked a room.

She says she feels tired

and needs to

go to bed.

Being away

from Oreste now

is worse than it was before,

because it was my choice.

I sniff his hat

for the scent of his hair.

I will wear his hat

whenever I can.

The cliff in my heart

is now a ravine

filled with love’s ashes.

The next day,

Mamzelle stays in bed,

feeling sick.

“What did you eat

on your own that

I didn’t eat?”

she asks me.

“Nothing. We had the same

meal at the hotel.

But didn’t you have a drink

at the bar?”

Mamzelle’s forehead

is sticky and hot.

She vomits into

the bucket I hold.

“Belly. Cramps. Poison.”

Words she spits out

between shallow breaths.

“They know ? the photo ? ? Felicia.

“They ? ? know ? ? what I’ve seen.

“They followed us ? ? here.”

Pince-Nez.

The drinks at the bar

of the H?tel Impérial.

I didn’t have a rum punch.

Could they really

have poisoned Mamzelle?

The Letter She Wrote

At sunset,

Mamzelle closes her eyes.

“Of course they’ve

been reading my mail.”

Sometimes she took

her own letters to the post office

and picked them up there.

“I wrote a letter

to my friend in New York,

a famous writer.

I was so excited

something important might happen,

I told her to drop everything

and join me here.”

My eyelids twitch.

At first I think

she can’t be the one.

But now

it all makes sense.

It was her letter

that tipped off the police.

If they knew about the meeting,

the secret police could have found out

that Oreste would be leading it.

Mamzelle is the reason

Oreste had to leave.

Mamzelle is the reason

I had to choose.

My Pencil a Knife

All that time

I was so busy

teaching her Kreyol

searching for Fifina

wishing for Oreste

I forgot

Madame Ovide’s warning.

Don’t trust Mamzelle.

And now Mamzelle

has proven her right.

It’s Mamzelle’s fault

Oreste had to go.

I let that sink in.

My temples are pounding.

I rip out a piece

of her notebook paper,

my pencil a knife

of vengeance and fire.

Note for Mamzelle

You said you loved truth.

You told me, have faith.

But your heart is full of poverty.

You throw down your thunderbolt wherever you want.

Your camera is a cannon.

Your notebook is filled with battle plans.

Even with our machetes and ancestors’ prayers,

we had no chance.

Yet you asked for my help,

and I gave what I could.

Rotten teeth feel strong

on soft bananas.

I wanted to help you

find what you were looking for.

You could not see it.

You thought it was in the eyes of a zonbi.

You said you were here to make things better.

You said you could save lives.

You said so many things

I wanted to believe.

You said you loved truth.

You told me, have faith.

I should have known you would lie.

It’s time that you go.

Wildfire Rage

I keep the note

with my knife

in the leather sheath

Papa made.

Mamzelle is no better.

She sleeps on and off.

When she’s awake

her talking is wild.

There’s no telephone in

this little pension.

I wake up the owner downstairs.

She has no idea

where to find a phone

at this hour. Offers to have

her husband go for a doctor.

But Mamzelle doesn’t want that.

“Don’t you understand?

They all want to kill me!”

Mamzelle’s nails

dig hard into my arms.

“Don’t you remember,

the man who threatened

Joseph? When he was

in the kitchen,

what did he say?”

“Nothing.

He just wanted some rum...”

“You’re lying!”

shouts Mamzelle.

Is lying the same

as not telling

everything you know?

“Let go!

You don’t know

what you’re saying.”

I twist away from her hands.

“The Secte Rouge,

a secret society.

The police

and the government man.

The checkpoint.

You’re in on it, too?”

whispers Mamzelle, eyes wide

and bloodshot.

I stumble backward

away from the bed.

Fear feeds the sickness.

That must be the reason.

After I saved her life

by keeping her away

from the drums in the night.

But with the sickness,

Mamzelle won’t believe

a word that I say.

She’s in

her own world

where I don’t exist.

Where can I get help

up here in the north?

I don’t know a soul

in Le Cap.

Madame Ovide,

Cousin Phebus

are both too far away.

My volcano inside

erupts,

with the lava of rage.

Put the note

by her bedside.

And leave her.

Vigil

Most of me

wants to leave

wildfire rage

burning my body

but a still, quiet voice

I can hear only

with the ear

of my heart

tells me

to

stay.

No Doctors

Mamzelle is

too weak

to sit up in bed.

Since she accused me

of lying,

there hasn’t been one word

between us.

I bring

her chamber pot,

mop the sweat

from her face and neck.

Bring her

cassava and milk.

Nothing works.

“I have to get

you a doctor. Can you

give me some money?”

But Mamzelle insists,

“No doctors. Can’t trust anyone.

They’ll finish me off.”

Night Forest

If she won’t let me

find a doctor

I’ll have to

be one myself.

I rifle through

Fifina’s recipes

for an answer.

Nothing.

Recipe book

under my head,

I fall asleep

and wake

from a dream

of the forest

where Oreste

gave his speech.

Papa’s words sound

as if he is here.

Find the shapes

in the wood.

Running back

to the forest

for a sign

any sign.

Sweating

and panting,

looking around

for a clue.

Only this tree

in front of me,

a growing mapou.

I wrap my arms

around it

put my ear

to its bark

and listen.

The Mother Tree

Mapou told us to care for you

as we care for each other.

Take out your knife,

take a piece of my skin

from my roots, take the mushrooms.

You’ll have what you need.

Together

The mushrooms

I gather

from the forest

aren’t ones I know,

but the smell is familiar.

I’ll make a tizan,

and try it out on myself

first.

I run back

to Mamzelle.

“Don’t let them

cover the clock,”

she whispers.

“When Mama died,

they covered the clock.”

If I take what I have

on hand,

I can make

something new.

“Don’t take the pillow,”

she says before crying.

I take

a handful of dried hurts-your-hands

a cleaned forest mushroom

and a sliver of mapou bark

boil water to steep them

and pray.

Carving Dreams

Just because you’ve lost me

doesn’t mean I’m gone.

My roots are like fingers gripping the earth.

My roots are rivers that flow underground.

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

They want to stamp my passport and send me right over.

When you see dry bones by the side of the road,

don’t forget they used to be flesh and blood.

Don’t know how I survived.

Bondye must have spared me for a reason.

I am she who cannot be shamed or shackled.

Believe me, they tried.

Rejoice and be glad that they failed.

Just because you’ve lost me

doesn’t mean I’m gone.

Quiet

Mamzelle sips

the tea that I made.

I break up

a bar of soap

in a pan

pour in

her rum

set it on fire.

I burn up my note

in the flames.

When it’s cooled down

I spread the mix

on her stomach

even on the ravine of her scar.

I rub in a circle

like the rings of a tree.

Mamzelle flinches.

I soak two compresses

in the burnt

rum and melted soap,

place one under

each armpit.

A still, quiet voice.

A faraway dream,

lit from within.

Wait

I follow Mamzelle’s

ragged snores

until she makes a sound

like a red-bottomed bird.

“Lucille.”

A spoonful of tea

to her lips.

She sips it

and closes

her eyes.

Next morning

Mamzelle is awake.

“What happened?

I thought I was dying.”

She stretches her arms;

dry compresses drop.

“What are these?”

“The medicine

I made for you.”

Mamzelle sees me again

her eyes brimming with tears.

“Another close shave.”

She’s no longer sweating.

Her breathing is steady.

“I’m going back to America

as soon as I can. I’ll see

a doctor I trust there.”

I can’t help remembering

her accusation.

“You said I was lying

and trying to kill you.”

“I was delirious.”

She pulls me to her

for a hug.

“I’m sorry, Lucille.

There are so many

secrets I know

“that people

don’t want me to tell

“in my book.

“Whatever happens

I’ll make sure that

nothing I write

will ever hurt you.”

Mamzelle asks for her bag.

She pulls out her billfold,

and hands me

a twenty-dollar bill.

The only other one

I’ve ever seen

was at the market

when Madan Sara

dealt with the Ameriken.

In my mind,

I write the numbers in the air.

One hundred gourdes!

I’ve never seen

that much money

in my life.

“I want you to have this.

This is how much

I’d pay you

for the time I’ll be gone.

Take it now.”

A plan shapes in my mind.

“Mèsi anpil.

I will find Fifina.

I will go back to school

and one day start my own.

I’ll even learn

enough English

to read your book.”

“I don’t doubt it

for a second,”

says Mamzelle.

“You remind me

of me

when I was your age.”

News

And so it is

the next morning,

Mamzelle drives me to Le Cap,

where I will board the bus

to Port-au-Prince.

Only this time,

I’m not crying.

“You can stay in the house

I rented from Madame Ovide

until the end of the month.

I paid up before leaving.

“Now please just get going,

because I can’t stand goodbyes.”

Even then I know in my gut,

I’ll never meet

another woman like her.

I cover that hurt

with a shawl.

The trip back to the city

goes by in a blur.

Mostly I sleep.

I stop at the market

to see Madan Sara.

“Lucille! It’s been so long.

I was wondering if

a lougarou ate you!

“Mèsi Bondye you’re here

and healthy.

“Here’s the money from all

the polish and sculptures.

“I saved it for you.

Celestina doesn’t come by

anymore.”

She hands me

a thick envelope.

“Don’t open this here.

You never know who

might be watching

and will follow

a young girl home

to rob her.

“Your cousin told me

the section chief

from your village

had a car accident

on the way to Cazales.

“That’s a dangerous road.”

Can it really be true

that nightmare is over?

“I hope you’re still carving

because Madame Williams,

the artist, left her calling card.

“She said she met you

at Madame Ovide’s.

She buys so many

of your carvings,

and wants you

to come to her atelier

for free classes.”

My heart skips ahead

as I try to absorb

all her words.

Isn’t all of this

a bit more than luck?

“Your cousin will be

so happy to see you.

She cooks at the new home

and girls school

Jeanne Perez and her friends

from La Ligue just opened.

Here’s the address.

“Good luck!”

says Madan Sara,

before returning

to one of the blans

lined up at her stall.

Home

It’s nearly dusk

when I reach the address

Madan Sara gave me.

There’s a mapou

at the crossroad.

Her song blooms inside me

wherever I go.

I follow the path

that leads to the house

and knock at the door.

Cousin Phebus answers.

“Are my eyes playing tricks,

or is it

my ti cousine?”

She pulls me in

for a hug.

The sun in her heart

shines bright

just like mine.

“What are you doing here?”

she asks.

“I want to meet the director

to pay for school fees.

I’ve saved enough money,

and I could work, too.”

“So you are smart!

But this school is free

for girls like us.

That’s why I’m here.

“And listen to this: Your father

and Tante Lila

are moving to the city.

Madame Ovide got him a job

working on the cathedral.

“Don’t ask me how,

but she knows

you helped

save her son’s life.”

“Now, please tell me.

How did you

end up here?”

I ask.

“I will. But first,

there’s someone

I want you to see.”

She walks me to the kitchen,

to the scent of dous lèt.

At the stove

a girl turns

to face us.

“Ti Sè.”

Your voice is the same,

wild honey and butter.

But your eyes tell a story

my body hears first.

Stolen, you escaped.

Wounded, you rose

and opened the gate

at the crossroad.

We hold each other,

rocking to stillness.

I knew that I’d find you.

We’re home before dark.