Chapter 16

The lion had need of the mouse.

Angels their failings, mortals have their praise.

—Edward Young

You need to spend time with your father,” Lamercie had said, picking up her pipe. She struck a match and looked away from me, indicating that she was through talking.

The truth was, it was only out of decency that I had told her and Marie Ange that I didn’t want to go when Brahami sent his driver to pick me up to spend New Year’s with him and his family.

The Christmas tree in Brahami’s living room reminded me of the phone call that led to my sudden return to Haiti, yet I looked forward to taking a shower without having to squat in front of a bucket, using a cup to pour water over my body; not to mention the luxury of using an indoor toilet instead of a latrine.

While waiting in the living room for the dinner guest to arrive, I picked up an album with black-and-white pictures of Brahami and his friends in Paris. Both he and Latham had an eccentric appearance that I still saw in Latham, who almost always wore a French beret, either for style or to hide his thinning hair. As for Brahami, he was now a prosperous gentleman who wore pure linen suits. Quickly turning the pages, I came across a photograph of his welcome-home party in which Darah was wearing a beautiful white dress and a flower in her hair. In another photograph, a woman in a black dress and a white apron stood behind a table covered with a white lace tablecloth, laden with food.

“Who is this?” I asked, suspecting who it might be.

Darah leaned closer to me on the sofa. “That’s your mother,” she said, but avoided looking directly at me.

The casualness of her tone did not match the feelings inside me that the picture evoked. Aware of the place my mother occupied in that class-conscious society, I thought about the life that would have been mine had I not left. I had a clearer view of Hagathe’s aspirations and the life she lived within the cloister of Haiti’s social limitations, and that freed me of any doubts I might have had about the decision that she’d made to let me go to America with the Winstons.

Brahami turned to Darah. “Have you seen the picture I took in front of the Louvre? I want to give it to Iris.” He then turned to me. “Latham took it one afternoon after we had spent hours studying Delacroix’s paintings for an assignment.”

“It must be in one of the three albums,” Darah answered dismissively. Then almost immediately she announced that the guest had arrived.

I closed the album, hoping that no one would mention the missing picture that only days ago I had torn to pieces.

“Doctor Georges Buisson,” Brahami greeted his friend.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, we sat on the veranda after dinner and the maid asked if we preferred coffee or tea. I asked Pépé to tell her I would like lemongrass tea.

“How is it that one knows more Creole than the other?” Georges asked after the maid left.

Brahami lowered his eyelids. “One grew up in Haiti and the other didn’t.”

The sudden pain in his eyes aroused sympathy on my part, and I wanted to come to his rescue. “When was the last time you two saw each other?” I asked, changing the subject.

The lines on Brahami’s face softened. He shared with me how Georges fell out of grace with Papa Doc, sought asylum at the American Embassy, and left Haiti in 1961. “This is his first trip back.”

“Baby Doc has given amnesty to political exiles. I guess the boy is smart enough to realize foreign currency will help the country’s economy,” Georges explained.

“Georges used to be Papa Doc’s adviser,” Brahami added.

At that moment, Darah excused herself and so did Pépé, who said she had calls to make. As I took the lemongrass tea that the maid handed to me, I pictured my mother doing her job. “So you knew Papa Doc well. What was he like?” I asked in order to divert the thought.

“At first he was a doctor with modest tastes,” Georges said, reaching for the sugar bowl. “A lot of us thought he would continue the social ideology we fought for in 1946. But he turned out to be a ruthless dictator.”

“Papa Doc knew he was going to be a puppet to the army,” Brahami said. “So he created a militia to counterbalance their power.”

Georges took a sip from his cup. “That was a wise political move.”

“An act of kaponaj,” I said. Brahami smiled at the private joke between us.

Georges soon wished us a goodnight, leaving me alone with Brahami.

“His great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father were prosperous planters from Jérémie,” Brahami began. “But he didn’t continue that tradition. He became interested in science at an early age. While pursuing our studies at Saint-Louis de Gonzague, his knowledge of Haitian rural life and his analytical skills impressed me. Unfortunately, I’m not as committed as he is to the destiny of Haiti. I guess I don’t have what it takes.”

I inhaled the scent of flowers in the clean air. “Like what?”

“Passion.”

“How come he didn’t even know I existed if you are good friends?”

“He left Haiti several months before you did.”

That didn’t answer my question. But I gathered no one outside of Brahami’s immediate family knew about me.

 

* * *

 

When I went downstairs the next morning, Brahami had already gone to his office and Darah was in the living room listening to Charles Aznavour lament an Italian mother’s death on a radio program that featured French music. She lowered the volume and told the maid to bring my breakfast.

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you,” she said, leading me to the dining room.

I was under the impression that she did not care much for me and I had avoided her. I also knew, from what Marie Ange had told me, that years ago she was the reason her pregnant servant had run away. I kept my head down and buttered a slice of bread. Darah turned off the radio and sat down across from me.

“You must be upset with me for what happened to you and your mother. I have been thinking that if I talked to you, you would understand what happened and perhaps you would not judge me too harshly. Pépé is close to you, and I don’t want a cloud hanging over your relationship with her.”

I took a bite from the buttered toast and listened.