Chapter 11

True kindness presupposes the faculty of imagining

as one’s own the suffering and joys of others.

—André Gide

When Lamercie saw Hagathe from a distance, she removed the pipe from her mouth and spat on the dirt floor. Only an hour ago, she had told neighbors her granddaughter would be coming home because the night before she appeared in her dream, asking her to make room for her to sleep.

“You must be hungry,” she said, as soon as the younger woman settled.

Hagathe held her waist, stretched her lower back. “I’m just tired.”

Lamercie examined her discreetly but kept her suspicions to herself. “Sit down and have some ginger tea,” she said.

Days later, after a breakfast of cassava pancakes and avocado, Lamercie told Hagathe she must greet the spirits. That afternoon, Lamercie and the other women carried rum, water, and candles to pay their respects. The older woman knocked three times before opening the door. Once inside, she lit candles, poured water and rum libations.

They all sang and clapped until the spirit of Papa Ogoun, the Yoruba god of fire, inhabited Jésula’s body. The fierce spirit of war and thunder let out mixed cries of joy and anger through Jésula’s lips.

Marie Ange brought forth a red scarf that Lamercie tied around Papa Ogoun’s head. She tied another around the waist, a third one around the right arm. She then passed a machete and a bottle of rum to the spirit, who shook hands with everyone. Staring at Hagathe long and hard, he shook one hand then the other before spinning her around three times.

“Manzè Hagathe. It’s about time you fulfilled your duty,” the spirit said in his powerful voice.

“Papa Ogoun, you must excuse her, she’s innocent, wi,” Lamercie pleaded. “She came home tired. That’s why she didn’t come to the peristyle sooner.”

The explanation seemed to appease Papa Ogoun. “Manzè Hagathe,” he said, “the father of your baby will have another child, who will put an end to the hatred in his wife’s heart.” The spirit who inhabited Jésula’s body brandished his machete and speared it into the dirt floor. Next he poured rum into an enamel washbasin and struck a match that he dropped into the liquid, igniting flames that danced furiously around the rim; red and gold entwined and twisted in a celebration of life.

Papa Ogoun ordered Hagathe to remove her clothes except her underwear. In his powerful voice he sang as he rubbed flames on Hagathe’s stomach, arms, legs, and back to bring vigor into her body and give her strength for upcoming struggles.

With excitement in her voice, Lamercie said, “Wi, Papa Ogoun, make her strong enough to fight like a warrior and ward off bad luck!”

As Jésula’s body fell to the floor she slowly regained control of herself. Papa Ogoun had left the world of mortals.

Lamercie watched the older children dive off a rock, and listened to their laughter. A woman balancing a bucket of water on her head approached. Behind her, a young boy followed.

“Bonjou, man Cicie,” the woman said, addressing Lamercie in the way that the villagers did, out of respect for her age and wisdom.

“Bonjou, fammi,” answered Lamercie, who referred to most of the people of Monn Nèg as family since they were usually related through marriage or one ancestor or another.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for someone with strong legs to bring Hagathe to me. I can’t go down these steep paths like I used to.”

The woman asked the boy to hurry, knowing it had to be important for Lamercie to come to the river herself. And she was right.

Late that afternoon Brahami had arrived at Lamercie’s with Latham and the Winstons. Because the old woman feared Hagathe might find an excuse not to come, as she had done years ago, she decided to look for her granddaughter herself.

When Lamercie found Hagathe, she whispered, “Mesye Bonsang is here with two white people and a foreign black.” As they walked back to the house, Hagathe remained absorbed in her own thoughts. Lamercie held her hand and respected her silence.

“Bonjou-mesye-dam,” Hagathe greeted everyone as they entered the yard.

Brahami shook her hand but avoided looking at her. “What’s your name?” he asked, picking up his daughter on an impulse.

“Iris.”

He wiped perspiration from his forehead and turned to Lamercie. “My two friends are from the United States,” he said, pointing to the Winstons. “They have come to Monn Nèg to study Haitian culture. Since I don’t know anyone else in the countryside, I thought of bringing them to your home. I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience for them to spend time with you and your family.”

“I’m honored,” Lamercie said, intertwining her fingers as if in prayer. “We don’t have much, but we share whatever the Good God gives us. The only problem is, I have no place for them to sleep.” She tightened the red scarf over her braided gray hair. “Our home is small. Hagathe will talk to Madan Dufour, who lives alone in a big house in town, but you should leave now, before it gets dark.”

As Lamercie watched them climb into the jeep, she whispered to her daughter Jésula, “Iris is the spitting image of that man.”

“Uh-huh. She’s just a few shades darker than him and her hair is coarser.”