Chapter 1

Exile is terrible to those who have, as it were, a circumscribed

habitation; but not to those who look upon the

whole globe but as one city.

—Cicero

How is it going?” Latham asked when I answered the phone.

“Not so well.”

“What happened?”

I stepped over my dance bag and sat on the bed. “I’m frustrated with the finale.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s choppy and long.”

“You have a week to pull it off,” Latham reminded me. “I’m bringing a special guest. So make it good.”

“Yes sir,” I replied in a military voice, saluting like a soldier, forgetting he could not see me. “Who’s coming with you?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Somebody I know?”

“You don’t know him, but he wants to meet you.”

I hung up the phone, rushed to the dance studio to be alone with my art. Then something that had happened earlier that day came to mind, forcing me to reflect. I was packing the books I had accumulated over the years when I found a letter from Brahami. The words he wrote were meant to erase any trace of bitterness in my heart, but I prefer to believe he was only trying to make peace with himself. Afraid of being abandoned again, I doubted the sincerity of his words, knowing the sex with Hagathe was obviously a mistake he regretted. The fact that his blood flowed in my veins never made a difference until I accidently showed up in his life two decades later. Yet, I knew I was being unreasonable and wanted to forgive him. I also knew it was unrealistic for me to assume that he should have gone against the norms of society and keep Hagathe and me in his life. The thought of making peace with him lingered in my mind and made me think of going to Haiti again. Perhaps we could take walks together like we did the day I met him. Perhaps he could tell me things about Haitian culture, like kaponaj. Perhaps he could teach me to love and trust him the way I loved and trusted John Winston. Perhaps.

 

* * *

 

I peered at the audience from backstage, spotted Latham in the second row, next to a brown-skinned man in a shirt-collar jacket and a burgundy scarf with triangular beige designs, tied into a V-shape around his neck.

The production portrayed the historical and cultural journey of an African-American slave. The first act captured the middle passage; the second was about the life of slaves on a Caribbean island; and the third was set on a Southern plantation in the United States. The movements represented a cultural symbiosis that blended classical and ethnic movements. My idea was to utilize a variety of dance forms and techniques, marked by history and geography. The only drawback was that I had to use white dancers because of the small number of black students on our campus.

The head of the dance department, who had once argued against ethnic dance forms under the pretense that they were too spontaneous and did not require specific training, ran backstage when the performance ended. “A plus! Bravo! Bravo!” she exclaimed, hugging me.

I hurried off to find Latham, who introduced me to Ngwendu, the director of the National Arts Institute of Zaire. “There are good techniques and sensibilities in your work,” he said in one breath. “You have talent.”

“The ambassador to the Zaire mission told me about Ngwendu coming here with a troupe. He’s trying to recruit a dance instructor for the Zaire Arts Institute,” Latham explained. “So I brought him here to see your performance.”

“You should come to our performance at Carnegie Hall next week,” the director suggested. “I would like some feedback from you.”

 

* * *

 

Driven by the beat of drums amid a décor of huts and trees that replicated life in an African village, dancers in grass skirts and colorful beads at the waist, neck, and ankles enticed the audience with rhythmic movements of the hips. In a choreography that depicted a royal wedding, they twisted their bodies into provocative forms. The sound of the drums called to me, reached the pulse of my soul, and revealed memories of a distant life.

When the magical moment ended and the lights brightened the theater, still under the spell of the performance I said to Latham, “I am so glad that I came.”

After leaving the white-and-gold interior of Carnegie Hall, we were on our way in a taxi to a reception at the Zaire mission.

“Iris made some interesting comments about the performance,” said Latham to the director, who had joined us for the ride.

“I’d love to hear them.”

I smiled and hesitated while thinking, so Latham took it upon himself to speak on my behalf. “Iris thinks rigorous training in modern and classical techniques would give the dancers more stage presence and would bring more depth to their movements.”

I was afraid the director would find my comments insulting, but he nodded in agreement and encouraged me to elaborate. “The movements should be more uniform,” I said. “There are too many individual variations.”

He looked at me intently, then smiled. “You are right. We need to develop our technique. I have visited a couple of dance schools here, looking for an instructor. But after seeing your work, I have decided that you should be the one to train our dancers.” He paused and smiled again. “Send me your curriculum vitae and two recommendation letters. I’m going to highly recommend you to our commissaire d’état.” He then nodded, as if to approve his own idea.

His words took me off guard. “I—I don’t know,” I managed to say. “I was thinking about going to Haiti for a year.”

“To do what?”

“Maybe teach English, I’m not sure.”

“You are a great choreographer! You cannot give up your art. Take my card,” he said. “Africa needs her long-lost children.”

I had considered a career in dance, but Mom and Dad were strongly opposed to the idea. They said I needed to keep other options open. So I majored in both dance and anthropology, to compromise.

“What if you get hurt?” Mom had said.

Dad, on the other hand, had reminded me of the competition in the field. “You cannot rely on talent alone. So much has to do with luck. Besides, you may later decide that all of the sacrifices that you must make aren’t worth it.”

 

* * *

 

Caught in my never-ending process of indecision, I called home as soon as I turned in my last paper before graduation and finally gathered enough courage to talk to Mom and Dad about my plans. A week earlier, I had told them that I was going to start applying for jobs; but I changed my mind after one visit to the placement office. The only possibilities were entry-level positions with insurance companies, banks, and department stores. None of which appealed to me. And now, I was torn between going to Haiti to be with Brahami, and the possibility of traveling to Zaire.

“How are you?” Mom said immediately upon hearing my voice.

“I’m fine.”

“How was the dance performance?”

“I loved the dancers’ enthusiasm. So much energy!”

She abruptly changed the subject. “How’s the job search coming?”

“I can’t imagine taking a nine-to-five job.”

“What do you plan to do then? Have you thought of graduate school?”

“I’m thinking about going to Haiti for a year. Maybe I can get a job teaching English.” I was sure the long pause on the other end meant she didn’t approve and that she needed to weigh her words before speaking.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Haiti isn’t a good idea,” she said, and asked me to hold on a second.

As I waited for her to come back to the phone, I looked out of my window and watched students who were playing Frisbee. They didn’t seem so worried about their future.

“Your dad wants to speak to you,” Mom said, coming back on the line.

“Your mom just told me about your new plan.”

“There was an article in the New York Times recently,” Mom added from the other line. “A Peace Corps volunteer was arrested and beaten because the government didn’t approve of what he was teaching,”

I listened to Mom’s rhythmic breathing and heard Dad cough. “Excuse me,” he said. “You grew up in a country and a home that encourage freedom of speech. You know that you can get in trouble for doing that over there.”

“Haiti is my country as much as it is theirs. They can’t stop me from going there.”

“But they could make you wish you hadn’t.” The seriousness in Dad’s voice made me shiver.

“Think about it,” urged Mom.

“I’ll be sure not to make any political statements in public,” I said, hoping to convince them it was safe for me to go.

“But your words could be misinterpreted,” Dad clarified.

The possibility of being locked up was suddenly enough to make me reconsider.

 

* * *

 

I went through piles of papers, looking for Ngwendu’s card. As I read the information on it, I felt Lamercie’s bony hands around my shoulders and remembered the story she had told me about Nlunda a Kinkulu, the keeper of traditions. Taking it as a clue, I sat at my desk to compose a letter to the director. While trying to find the appropriate words, I contemplated a fusion of the grace of classical movements with the fiery sensuality of African dance and remembered a proverb I had heard in Monn Nèg: When you can’t get the mother to breastfeed you, find the grandmother.

 

* * *

 

Soon after, I moved with Cynthia into the one-bedroom apartment that Mom and Dad kept on the Upper West Side. Cynthia hosted a dinner party. She was about to begin her residency in tropical medicine at Johns Hopkins University. That evening I met Paul, a Wall Street broker who had the body of a professional athlete; his hair was the color of dried straw; his eyes, which he kept on me from the moment he walked into the apartment, were as blue and warm as the Caribbean Sea.

“How come you and Cynthia are sisters?” he asked, taking a seat next to me on the sofa.

“Because we are.”

Leaning closer to me, he smiled and said, “You two must be twins because she gave me the same answer.”

“Why did you ask?”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one to wonder about that. How about a movie tomorrow afternoon, or should I ask big sister first?”

“She will probably tell you that it’s up to me.”

 

* * *

 

After we had been dating for about three months, Paul and I were walking back to my apartment after a matinee performance of Carlos Saura’s Carmen at Lincoln Center. I reveled in how the director had cleverly used an Italian art form to express a cultural reality that had originated in southern Spain. “Wouldn’t it be great to tell an African story with modern dance techniques?” I said, thinking about the work that I would be doing in Zaire.

Paul stopped, forcing me to do the same. “Why this fascination with Africa?”

“It’s my heritage,” I said, looking into his bluish eyes.

“What’s that supposed to prove?” he snorted.

I looked away, watching a flock of migratory birds fly away from Central Park in search of a warmer place.

“My ancestors were Polish, but you don’t see me trying to dance the polka,” he blurted.

We continued our walk to my apartment and I wondered how to explain to Paul the potency of African heritage in my veins and what he would think if I were to tell him that I saw Lamercie on the sofa in my living room in my dream last night. She was smoking her pipe and telling me Nlunda a Kinkulu was happy that I was going to the land of our ancestors.

 

* * *

 

A week later, a yellow cab sped north on Sixth Avenue, taking us home from a dinner party at one of Paul’s colleague’s homes. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You looked bored all evening.”

I held on to the black strap above the window, watching the city lights. “I got tired of all of the talk about money and power,” I answered. But the truth, in fact, was that I was preoccupied with thoughts of the letter I had received from Ngwendu that afternoon, informing me that the commissaire d’état of culture and education welcomed my idea of integrating modern and classical techniques into the institute’s program.

Paul rolled down the window to let in the cool autumn air. My mind, at that moment, traveled back to the fight in the school cafeteria years before. Go back to Africa! the girl had said.

Once in the apartment, I filled the kettle with water, sat across from Paul while he drummed his fingers on the dining table. The kettle’s whistle summoned me back to the kitchen.

“I got the job at the National Arts Institute of Zaire,” I said, returning to my seat at the table.

“I’m thrilled,” he said with tight lips.

I poured steaming hot water into a ceramic mug. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

“Roving Iris,” he said and sighed. “I’d love to plant you in my garden.” He left the apartment without even looking at me.

 

* * *

 

I threw the comforter back and reached for the alarm clock on the night table. I had stayed in bed much longer than I intended. I fantasized about the work that I would do in Zaire as I envisioned women in grass skirts executing steps from the nation’s rich folkloric repertoire, combined with the controlled technique of Martha Graham.

I left the apartment without drinking the four glasses of water and eating the grapefruit that I usually had for breakfast and responded to the wind’s crisp kiss with good humor. Autumn rays sneaked through clouds, providing adequate warmth. I quickened my steps toward the subway. Two construction workers stood on a corner, eating a quick breakfast of buttered rolls and coffee. One of them looked me up and down and said, “Ooh, mama. You look so-o-o-o good! Take me wit ya!”

The other one laughed. “Uh, uh, uh!” he said, shaking his head. “Baby’s got back!”

The train emerged from the dark tunnel with people packed like cookies in a box. Some forced their way out of the two sliding doors, but twice as many rushed to get inside. An ageless woman wearing a white scarf paced the platform. “Why you do dis to Haitians? What we Haitians do to you? We boat people but we good people!” Some commuters watched with faces void of expression. Others dozed or flipped newspaper pages. The Haitian woman continued her plea for justice, walking up and down the crowded platform.

Another train roared through the tunnel, then came to a stop. I entered a packed car with the help of people pushing from behind. Four stops later, I made my way out of the crowd, hurried to the fifth floor of a walk-up building, two streets away from the dance studio where the Haitian instructor had taught. After graduation when I returned to the city, I had stopped by to see him but he was no longer teaching there. No one seemed to know where he was.

In the locker room, I kicked off the boots that I wore over my black tights, and took my ballet slippers out of my bag. While I was pulling my large beige sweater over my head, the clear energetic voice of the dance instructor reminded me that I was late for class.

 

* * *

 

After class, I called to tell Mom and Dad about my decision to accept the job offer in Zaire. Mom was at the university, but Dad told me it was a good idea and that he was sure Mom would also think so. “It’s not often a recent college graduate finds an interesting job like this,” he said.

That night, I dreamed of walking a long rocky road. The more I walked, the farther the end of the road seemed. My arms stretched out to the sides and I fell on a tree. I woke up suddenly and tried in vain to give meaning to the dream. Finally, I fell asleep again.

 

* * *

 

When I called Paul the next morning, his secretary told me that he was home nursing a cold. I bought chicken noodle soup from around the corner to take to him. During the bus ride downtown I experienced a sense of guilt about my imminent departure but managed, somehow, to convince myself that I probably dated him because I was bored, or perhaps it was because he reminded me of the boy I had a crush on in high school. Then again, it could simply be that I needed someone to be with in a city where one could feel lonely among a multitude of people. Another possibility could just be that I was ready to discover my sexuality, having been one of the few of my generation to remain a virgin throughout college.

“I’m leaving for Africa next week,” I said, setting the soup and a spoon on a tray.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as if he didn’t remember our last conversation.

“I’m going to visit Felicia, my friend from Wayberry College, before heading to Kinshasa. She’s working in Dakar right now.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“My mind is made up.”

He studied me briefly and in a disdainful voice said that he couldn’t believe I was giving up life in New York City for Africa. “What makes you think you’ll find an El Dorado in that wild place?”

I ignored the question.

He picked up the Wall Street Journal on the coffee table and started reading.

“I guess I’ll be leaving now.”

“Lots of luck to you,” he said, without seeing me to the door.

The January cold energized me as I walked among people rushing to buses and subway stations that would take them away from Midtown Manhattan at the end of their workday.

 

* * *

 

It was no easy task preparing to travel for an indefinite period. Mom, Cynthia, and Pépé had different ideas on what I should take. I spent days deliberating because each suggestion confused me more. As I was going through my belongings, I came across the book I’d had when I was a child and that Hagathe had kept for me. I opened it to the page where the ballerina leaps across a stage and I smiled at the thought that dance turned out to be so important to my life, after all.

When the doorbell rang, I was surprised to find Mom and Dad standing there. I had turned down their invitation to dinner because I still had too much to do and they had agreed that the next day we could have a late lunch on our way to the airport.

“We’re not staying,” Dad said, handing me a box carefully wrapped in bright blue paper and a red ribbon. “We wanted to give you this before tomorrow.”

My heart raced as I untied the ribbon with shaking hands, thinking it was odd that they would make a special trip to the city just to give me a present. The sight of Hagathe’s picture in its original frame stirred a twinge of regret and guilt and reminded me of all the times I had wanted to recover the picture that connected me to my essence. I stared at Hagathe’s face with a feeling of wholeness, as if I had found a part of myself.

It was snowing outside. Big round flakes. Watching through the living room window, I wondered when I would see snow again. I had visions of New England winter wonderlands when a robe of the purest white covered the ground to form a perfect bliss. But snow in Manhattan was not very appealing. In just a few hours, it would become a dirty grayish slush.

As I moved around, making sure I had packed all that I could possibly take with me, the silence in the apartment made me sad. I turned on the television and listened to a talk show about Reaganomics. People were arguing about that a lot in those days. Some called it “voodoo economics.” I don’t know why. The controversial economic policy advocated activities to boost tax revenues, meaning tax cuts for the rich and job loss for unskilled workers. I had heard enough. I turned off the set, watched snowflakes from the living room window, and finally dozed off on the couch.