Chapter 19

What is that wall that always rises up between human beings?

—Françoise Sagan

Bolingo left the bag of groceries he had brought on the kitchen counter and looked around the apartment. “I’ll bring two suitcases tomorrow. You can’t travel with those,” he said, setting his eyes on the stained and overused suitcases in the middle of the living room.

“How long do you think I’ll have to stay here?”

“Not long. I called the head of Sabena Airlines, but I didn’t get him. I’m going to try again first thing tomorrow morning.” He sank his hands into his pants pockets. Leaning on the doorframe, he watched me take the food out of the grocery bag. “Be prepared to leave within the next two days. What are you having for dinner?”

“I can’t think about food right now.”

“But you have to eat.”

I glanced through the glass doors. Gray clouds rolled across the sky, and the roaring menace of thunder filled the room. “I’ll eat something when I get hungry,” I promised.

“I have to go before it starts pouring. Call if you need me. Tikala malamu.”

“Quendé malamu,” I replied, thinking about the day we would start a new life in Belgium.

 

* * *

 

The three-bedroom suite could have been an apartment in the United States. It was furnished with a beige couch and two armchairs; there was a glass coffee table in the center of the living room with an Impressionist art book on top. The beige lace curtains blended with the wall-to-wall carpet. Abstract paintings from unknown artists completed the décor. There was nothing to remind me I was in Zaire, except the two majestic elephant tusks on a malachite table.

The rain washed away the stuffiness in the air, and I thought about the day’s events. The past was shifting; the future was uncertain. Driven by a feeling of restlessness, I sat in front of the television with a glass of milk and chocolate chip cookies, imported from apartheid-ruled South Africa. Amba’s face appeared on the screen. She looked even prettier than she did in person. I listened to her introduce the evening’s movie on Zaire National Television, the only station in the country. I grew hungrier and couldn’t stop eating. The baby suddenly rolled over in my womb, kicked sharply.

I propped the pillows on the couch, settled in to watch Black Orpheus, my favorite movie. A growing discomfort in my stomach and heartburn made me think I had eaten too much. While Eurydice and her cousin got ready to join the carnival float, the tension in my lower abdomen grew. When a gush of warm liquid ran from my upper thighs, I rushed to the bathroom in a panic. Staring at the blood I was so eager to see eight months ago, I let out a gasp, hoped it was only a trick of my imagination. I wrapped my arms around my stomach to protect the life inside. “You’re going to be all right. Mama will make sure of that,” I whispered.

The discomfort soon turned into sharp pain. Unlike the pains of labor that come at intervals, these were uninterrupted. I wobbled back to the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed Bolingo’s number.

A female voice greeted me.

“Allô, oui. I would like to speak with Citoyen Bolingo, please. This is Iris Odys.”

“Please stay on the line. Citoyen Bolingo will be right with you.” The voice was detached, flat, impersonal.

“Iris! I was watching The Cosby Show on satellite. His daughter Denise wants to work in Zaire and that made me think of you!” Bolingo quickly realized it wasn’t a social call. The pain and I were one. “I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up the phone.

Death was pursuing Eurydice at the railroad station. She looked frightened, hopeless. I turned away from the screen. Head hanging, I kept protective arms around my stomach, begging the baby to stay still, rocking my upper body back and forth, hoping to overcome the pain that made me dizzy. My eyes returned to the screen. Eurydice was hanging from a power line, trying to get away from Death, but Orpheus accidently electrocuted her when he turned on the power. Death was victorious.

The doorbell finally rang. I wanted to run to the door, but I was only able to take small, cautious steps.

Bolingo examined me with incredulous eyes. “What happened?”

“I’m bleeding, and I can’t get Dr. Blanchard on the phone.”

“We have to get to his house then,” he said, taking me by the arm.

I leaned on him for support. Sheltered under the umbrella he carried, we braved the rain and the raging wind that accompanied the thunder.

Bolingo sat upright in the car, held the wheel with both hands, and struggled to drive to Dr. Blanchard’s through the heavy rain. “Please hang on,” he said several times.

Driving around a curb on the mountain of Binza, the car hit a patch of water and skidded sideways. The back end swerved out, pulling the rest of the vehicle with it. The level of pain suddenly escalated, and I let out a cry. Panicked, Bolingo took his eyes off the road to check on me. The car then did a couple of turns on the slippery road. Bolingo kept a firm grip on the wheel and stirred in the direction of the skid. Managing to regain control, he put the car in neutral and brought it to a stop. When the moment of panic was finally over, he wrapped an arm around me, repeatedly asked if I was okay. Even though I felt his fast heartbeat under his polo shirt, there was a miraculous calm on his face when he resumed driving.

I was relieved when the car stopped in front of the doctor’s home. The three of us hurried into his clinic so he could examine me. Even though the pain made it difficult for me to speak, I could hear the conversation between the two men.

“Her blood pressure is up, and there is albumin in her urine.” The doctor paused. “The placental abruption is due to cervical incompetence.”

“How did that happen?”

“When the placenta is not high enough and has been separated from the womb, it causes a hemorrhage. But this is highly unusual for a woman carrying her first child.” Another pause. “She’s going to need a blood transfusion.”

Because the AIDS scare was ravaging the country, Bolingo panicked when he heard the words blood transfusion. Dr. Blanchard proposed finding an analyst to process Bolingo’s blood, to make sure we had compatible types. The shot the doctor gave me before he left the clinic had an immediate effect and I woke up to Bolingo’s whisper, about an hour later.

“Mama Nzari.” Hearing him call me by that name brought a faint smile to my face. “The doctor said he will have to perform a C-section,” he said, holding my hand.

I almost immediately drifted back into sleep, and he was still at my side when I woke up again.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, stroking my hair.

“I’m drowsy.”

He continued to hold my hand while I considered the dream I’d just had about chasing a woman. When she’d turned around, I realized the woman was no one else but me.

“I need to talk to you.”

“What’s the matter?” Bolingo asked, tightening his grip.

“If anything happens to me, I want Pépé to raise my baby.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” he said in a firm, reassuring voice that didn’t succeed in convincing me.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Blanchard, who was delayed by the dangerous road conditions, finally returned to the clinic with a nurse. Bolingo’s blood type was compatible with mine, so the doctor could administer the transfusion. The nurse then came with a stretcher to take me to the operating room for the operation. A white cotton cloth hung above my chest, leaving Bolingo on one side, the doctor and the nurse on the other. Even though the epidural soothed the pain, my nerves were sensitive to the cold betadine and the instruments in the doctor’s hands. A pulling sensation in my womb made me squeeze Bolingo’s hand, then a cry from a newborn’s throat suddenly pierced the silence.

“It’s a girl!” the doctor exclaimed, handing the baby to the nurse, who cleaned the blood and the amniotic fluid.

“Her name’s Zati Nlunda Bolingo.”

His face beamed, and he kissed my forehead. “Beautiful name.”

The nurse handed me the baby wrapped in a towel. “You can hold her for only a minute. She has to go in the incubator.”

Zati weighed just four pounds. She had no hair and kept her eyes shut in a frown.

“She’s beautiful,” Bolingo said, reaching for her.

 

* * *

 

I fell asleep again and dreamed of a conversation with Hagathe. Even though her voice was filled with suffering, it projected strength.

“Did you love Brahami?”

“I only wish he could have seen me like a woman, not just as a maid. But, regardless, you need to let go of your anger.”

“That’s done. I stopped judging him once I began to understand the complexities of Haitian society.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that because he has enough regrets as it is.”

When I woke up from the dream, Bolingo was still at my side. And in spite of the air-conditioned room, sweat glistened on his forehead.

“How’s Zati?” I asked in a feeble voice.

“She’ll be in the incubator for a few days,” he said, studying me. “You look like you’re in pain. Should I get the doctor?”

I nodded yes.

The pains that were pulling and tearing me inside responded to the shot the doctor administered. Baron Samedi, the Haitian spirit of death, appeared in a long black tailcoat, a top hat, and dark glasses. His face was covered with white powder. He held his cane with one hand, a cigar in the other. He stared at me with mocking eyes, then burst into laughter as his image gradually faded away.

 

* * *

 

People dressed in white with indistinct features emerged. I could see them up close at times; other times they seemed distant. The room suddenly grew misty. The morning breeze whispered secrets while I reflected on my life. I was, once again, a young girl running with my cousins in Monn Nèg; Cynthia was smiling at me as she handed me my first doll; Mom and Dad were taking me to Dr. Connelly. I then saw Pépé like I did for the first time at Wayberry College; Brahami was greeting me at the airport. I saw Hagathe lying in her coffin and Lamercie telling me my soul belonged in Africa, and I was holding a trimmer, trying to cut Bolingo’s hair. In the midst of those visions, Aïda Wedo, the vaudou spirit, appeared in a fine, translucent sea-blue silk robe, flowing in a light breeze.

Hopes for a future with Zati and Bolingo swirled in my head. Wary of what was to come next, my body was engaged in a battle. But my soul left it behind in its human frailty. Before the doctor could come back with Bolingo, I was choking. I coughed and gasped for air. Bells tolled in my head to celebrate a soul liberated from a body, marking the end of a life. I hovered above my body, and an elated feeling of tranquility filled my soul as it traveled toward infinity. I reached a wooden door, hesitated briefly, and knocked. Engulfed in thoughts of Zati’s life in a motherless world, I prayed she would find solace, love, and guidance.