Chapter 14

What is water,

that pours silver,

and can hold the sky?

—Hilda Conkling

On our way to the outdoor market Marie Ange, Pépe, and I walked past the police station where Dieudonné had dropped Vilanus’s body. A growing hostility toward the dead man set in. I quickened my steps to dilute my anger, as I thought about the pain that the Tonton Macoute had inflicted upon my mother.

The market was teeming with people. Vendors with large hats sheltering their heads from the harsh sun yelled, “Men mwen wi pratik, here I am, customers!” Marie Ange waved and stood in front of the people from whom she wanted to buy things. Women sat on low chairs or squatted in front of fresh spices, onions, fruits, and vegetables arranged in piles on mats. Some had a pyramid of rice, ground corn, or a variety of beans. Under tents others sold cut-up pieces of beef, pork, and goat.

There were women selling freshly caught and dried salted fish. Except for a few small crabs, there were no shellfish in sight. Marie Ange said they were usually sent to the city for the wealthy, or sold at the beach to people in fancy bathing suits, who either had them cooked straight from the sea or took them home. The fish vendors were louder than the other market women and were more likely to pick a fight. They argued while gesticulating or standing with their hands on their hips, bragging about the freshness of their fish.

People pushed their way around the marketplace. “Bèt, bèt, bèt!” announced that their mules or donkeys were coming through. Marie Ange, who balanced a straw bag on her head, warned us to move quickly when a mule almost knocked us to the ground. Leaving the most crowded area of the market, we passed vendors who sold secondhand clothes, donations from charity organizations in the United States. A few feet away, men and women who sold live chickens, pigs, and goats bargained with customers.

After an hour of watching Marie Ange haggle with vendors under the hot sun, we made our way back to Lamercie’s, leaving behind the smells of animal, vegetable, and human essences. That afternoon Pépé returned home with the driver.

 

* * *

 

Feeling the effect of the suffocating hot air, I thought it a great idea when Marie Ange, Magda, and the children invited me to the river to bathe. As soon as we reached the river the children jumped in. Two of them pounded the water with their fists, making sounds like talking drums. A few adults stood waist deep, while others floated on their backs, enjoying the cool water on a hot, sunny afternoon. A woman who sat on a rock holding a tub between her leg stroked a denim shirt one hand over the other. Slightly hunched, her breasts swayed with her vigorous movements.

Under the still, cloudless sky, the refreshing water pushed its way over my shoulders and chest, past my hips and legs, washing away my worries. From an early-childhood memory, stories suddenly emerged of people living in a world below the river. I shivered and climbed out of the river, trying to imagine a life underwater. I sat on a rock and recalled a story Lamercie—or Jésula, I’m not sure who—used to tell about a girl who was in love with a fish that she met by the riverbank every day at dawn. The fish eventually took her to his underwater kingdom, though I forgot the rest of the story.

When I left Monn Nèg at the age of five, I left behind everything and everyone I had known. Now, the questions about my former life followed me like an invisible shadow. People, places, and experiences emerged from darkness to become a life beyond conscious memory. The river that knew the mysteries of my ancestors had caused my mind to wander in its flow. The river remembered the paths it traveled but couldn’t return to them, just like I couldn’t return to my past.

Although I took pleasure in bathing in the river, eating local food, and being reacquainted with Haitian life, I felt more like a tourist who willingly blended into a new culture, knowing the experience was only temporary. Sooner or later, my life would resume its course away from the pastoral setting. It would have been different if I had never left. But now, another culture and another life had laid claim to me.

Marie Ange came out of the river and sat down beside me. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m trying to tan a little.”

“Why?”

I shrugged and listened to the trickling of the river. The washerwoman was spreading white clothes on rocks so the warmth of the sun would dry them and make them whiter. “I was thinking about stories I must have heard as a child about people who lived underwater.”

“You know, Mesye Charles, the rich merchant in town, people say he spent seven years under this river and came back with mystical knowledge and wealth.”

“What should I call you?” I asked my godmother, breaking the silence that suddenly fell between us.

She smiled broadly, looked away as if to better remember. “You used to call me Ninninn.”

“Ninninn, did my mother talk about me?”

The question brought a wave of sadness over Marie Ange’s face. “After you left, she practically stopped talking, unless it was to tell us about something you did or said, or to wonder what you were doing at that very moment. On every birthday you’ve had, since the day you left, she would buy special treats for the spirits of Guinen so they would protect you.” Marie Ange went back to the river to splash her face with water from her cupped hands, washing away her tears. She returned to sit next to me on the rock.

Though I realized I was upsetting her, I wanted to know more about the mother I hardly knew. “How did she die?”

“Hagathe was never the same after the rape.”

The word “rape” stirred unrelenting horror, brought chills to my body. “Did she ever talk about it?”

“People don’t talk about those things.”

“Why not?”

She ignored the question and went on saying, “She had headaches that wouldn’t go away. One day, she stayed in bed and the headaches came with a fever. I made cow-foot soup to bring strength to her body.” Marie Ange closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. “When I came in the room she was soaking wet. She ate the soup and told me she didn’t think she would live much longer. She asked me to go to town to telephone Mesye Brahami and tell him you were with his white friends and that she wanted to see you. With a shaking hand she wrote down his telephone number. Then she dropped her head on the pillow and took her last breath. Just like that.” Marie Ange shook her head as though she still could not believe it had happened.

“She should not have sent me away,” I said, then realized my tone was more accusatory than intended.

The words had an explosive effect on Marie Ange, whose nostrils flared.

“Oh, no! Your mother wanted the best for you. There are people in this country who send their children to a faraway town or city just to make sure they have something to eat and can go to school. That doesn’t mean they have no heart.” Tears flowed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her voice became increasingly intense.

“How did my mother feel about my father?” I asked, remembering she kept a picture of him.

The sun had dried her tears, and Marie Ange gazed at me for what seemed a very long time. “The women in our family haven’t been lucky when it comes to love. I’m going to ask Ezili Fréda to make your luck better than ours.” She then peered at me with a faint strangeness. “She’s the goddess of love, you know. I want her to make you seductive and irresistible for the man you will fall in love with.” A quick smile brightened her face. “I don’t want you to suffer like the rest of us.”

Silence fell over us. I listened to the uninterrupted sounds of the flowing river and the children’s laughter. So many questions continued to flow through my mind, producing a bewildering flood of incoherent images. My curiosity to know more about my mother’s life grew even more urgent, and I knew my godmother could help me. Although reluctant at first, she agreed to tell me everything she knew about her cousin, who was more like a sister.