Chapter 8

The rudder of man’s best hope

cannot always steer himself from error.

—Martin Farquar Tupper

In late spring on an exceptionally chilly Paris day, Brahami walked into a café on rue de la Huchette in the Latin Quarter. He stood at the bar that reeked of tobacco and was spanned by pinewood beams and waited for a table with a view of the narrow cobblestone street. Brahami watched the goings-on of the patrons and passersby intently, hoping his memories of the place would stay with him long after his return to Haiti. The headwaiter, an Algerian, came to let him know that Latham called and had been delayed but would meet him as soon as possible. Brahami thought about his imminent return home and wondered why his friend was late.

Moments later, Latham greeted Brahami: “Bonjour. Sorry I’m late. Did you get my message?”

Brahami nodded. “What happened?”

Latham removed his gray tweed jacket. “I was expecting an important call from New York. It looks like I’ll be going home too,” he announced as he settled into a chair across from Brahami.

“I thought you wanted to make Paris your home.” As the waiter took Latham’s order, Brahami fixed an inquisitive gaze on his friend. “Why did you change your mind?”

“There’s a whole lot happening back home with the civil rights movement,” Latham said, stretching his long legs underneath the table. “I’m too excited about it to stay here.”

As the waiter returned with their drinks, Brahami took a Gauloise from the pack and studied his friend under half-closed eyelids. “Can we actually make a difference at home?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that I want to make whatever contribution I can.”

They finished their beers and became absorbed in their own private thoughts, enjoying the city’s youthful optimism and excitement, dreaming of a world of justice, free of racial and social discrimination.

 

* * *

 

On a sunny day in June 1954, Brahami left Paris, filled with unlimited hope. The anticipation of being among family and old friends was greater than the sadness he felt about leaving. After all, he had everything that seemed to destine him for a good life, and that included finding his place in Haitian high society. He was ready to take over the family’s estate and also had his beautiful childhood sweetheart waiting for him.

As he drove through the gate, his father beeped the horn and guests rushed to welcome the young Bonsang. Instantly Brahami was distracted by the distinct smells of spicy food that mingled with the scent of hibiscus flowers and bougainvillea. Darah waited under one of the palm trees in the courtyard that had been transformed into an outdoor dining area with elegant blue tents that blended with the color of the Caribbean sky.

Brahami remembered that he had not answered her last two letters, but immediately noticed her iridescent eyes radiated love and forgiveness. Her hair was pulled into a chignon adorned with a white hibiscus flower; the white dress she was wearing accentuated her square shoulders and complemented her honey-colored skin. Brahami turned away from the crowd as soon as he could and walked toward Darah who extended her manicured hand to be kissed.

He sat at a table with her and their friends who also belonged to the exclusive Bellevue Club, where the passport for entry was to be a member of an influential mulatto family. The influence had to do with money and pedigree; the more French ancestors one could trace, the better. Madame Bonsang approached the table and embraced Darah. The older woman wore a straight black skirt and a white embroidered linen blouse; her long hair was styled in a French twist.

“Manman, the food is superb. It’s been so long since I ate a hearty meal like this.”

“The credit goes to Hagathe,” she told him.

Brahami stood from his chair. “I haven’t had a chance to say hello to her yet.” He excused himself from his friends and looked for the maid, who was clearing food from the buffet table. “Bonjour, Hagathe,” he said.

“Bonjou, Mesye Brahami.” A smile brightened her dark face as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“My parents told me about your mother in one of their letters. I’m so sorry she’s gone.” Brahami realized he was speaking Creole for the first time since he’d left Haiti seven years ago. He was definitely home, he thought.

“I’m glad you’re back, Mesye Brahami. Please excuse me.”

He looked up and watched the golden rays of the sun behind the mountains. A patch of cloud covered the sky as he walked away from Hagathe.

 

* * *

 

Brahami and Darah’s engagement lasted only a few months. Despite the short notice, her family prepared a lavish wedding that gathered Haiti’s most prominent mulatto families. The bride and groom received many valuable gifts, including Hagathe, the loyal family servant. Shortly after they returned from their honeymoon in Havana, Brahami received a letter from Latham, who wrote about the steady changes in civil rights for Negroes in the United States, which made Brahami consider questions he had not thought of since his return to Haiti.

“Bad news from Latham?” Darah questioned.

“Not at all,” Brahami said, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket as he announced that he was going for a drive.

Like Latham, Brahami had considered getting involved in the political struggle when he returned home; so his friend’s letter was a reminder of the promise he had made to himself. He drove through the streets of Bois Verna, Canapé Vert, and Champs de Mars, where people lived behind closed gates in houses adorned with red, pink, white hibiscus, and laurel flowers. He then continued through the more popular rue Pavée and rue du Centre, where houses were close to the sidewalks, one right next to the other. Driving along the shabby streets of Bel Air, he observed les misérables of Port-au-Prince with growing interest, eager to learn about their lives, wondering how he could be useful to them.

The streets of Bel Air, with their peeling, crumbling houses, were quite noisy. Brahami was impressed by the shrieks and cries of street peddlers that rose in crescendo, inviting people to purchase food staples such as ground corn, rice, and salted pork. “Min-bel-mayimoulin-diriblan-mayi-sinmak-min-soupoudre-e-e-e,” said the voices that reached the walls of nearby houses. Listening to the musical sound that translated a unique cultural reality, Brahami realized he had never paid attention to those ambulant merchants before he left for Paris and that being away for so long made him more appreciative of them.

Women hurried through rundown gates to make purchases. People sat on porches and carried on with their everyday activities. A young girl sat between the legs of an older one on a low stool, having her hair braided. A woman bent over a sewing machine, and next to her, loose cigarettes, mint candy, coconut cakes, and grilled peanuts were set up to be sold. At other places, men cut each other’s hair. Boys played with colorful marbles. Passersby stopped to exchange bits of friendly conversation. Some sat alone with their thoughts; others gossiped.

Brahami parked his jeep next to three women who were carrying empty buckets to a public water fountain. They stopped to talk with another woman, sheltered under a cloth tent, who was selling cooked rice and beans and goat stew. She kept clean enamel plates and spoons in a wicker basket on one side, dirty ones on the other. Brahami listened to their conversation.

“How’s business today?” one of the women asked.

The vendor fanned herself with an old straw hat. “Half of the rice is gone. I’m hoping I won’t have to take the rest with me tonight.”

“Do you know what happened to that girl who lives inside this alley here?” another woman asked, pointing to a chipped metal gate that was open. “We heard her scream a little while ago. What was the beating about this time?”

“Adye!” the vendor cried out in pity. “The poor thing has to clean the place, do the laundry, and wash the feet of the lady of the house for scraps of food.” She sucked her teeth and continued to fan herself.

A man walked up to her to buy a plate of food. She served him a small piece of goat meat on a sea of rice and beans. He ate his meal on a wooden crate a few yards from her.

“The poor girl was on her way back from the fountain. She was right there.” The vendor pointed to a street corner. “A schoolboy pushed her, and the water fell from the bucket she carried on her head, and she had to return to the fountain. When she came back to the house, the woman beat her with a rigwaz because she took too long. You know how much that dried cow skin hurts!”

“Oh yes,” said another woman. “I used to get my share of it when I was a restavèk.”

Brahami peered through the opened gate and watched the restavèk, an unkempt, undernourished servant girl, no older than eight or nine. She wore a torn, faded dress that hung limply below her shoulders. He felt even more pity when he saw that her face was badly burned, which made him ponder the question he had often asked himself in Paris when he flirted with Communism: could Marxism be the answer to Haiti’s color and class division?

 

* * *

 

Two years after they were married, Darah went to France to seek medical treatment that she hoped would put an end to her infertility. One evening after supper, Brahami and his high school friend Georges sat on the veranda. After Hagathe had brought the rum punch that he had requested and was no longer in sight, Georges exclaimed, “What a bel nègès! A true black beauty!”

“You’re talking about the maid?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed?”

“Not really,” Brahami lied. Although he had fantasized from time to time about having sex with her, he had, thus far, managed to brush away the desire.

After Georges left he helped himself to another drink. At the sight of Hagathe putting dishes away, he stopped at the doorway of the kitchen. She was startled when she became aware of his presence.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I just came for some water.”

His eyes searched hers as she filled a glass from a pitcher, then presented the tray to him.

“Tonight’s conch was the best,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say. Giving in to an impulse, he put his arms around her and pulled her close. As he touched and squeezed her breast, he told himself to stop. The liquor had fogged his better judgment. He held her tightly and continued to fondle her soft breasts. He unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. His knees weakened, and when he could no longer stand, he pulled her down to the mosaic-tiled floor and grappled to free himself; he quickly discovered she was a virgin.

Regret covered him when it was over. He gathered his clothes and left the kitchen. After showering, he wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned against the bedroom balcony. Sleep eluded him. His irredeemable act haunted him. He gazed into the night, trying to erase the memory.

By the time he fell asleep, night had fallen. In the morning, he was too distraught to eat the breakfast that awaited him and too embarrassed to face the maid. At ten o’clock Brahami left for his office.

There, he hid behind his closed door, and smoked more than usual. That afternoon, he drove up the northern highway and stopped at a roadside vendor for a lunch of fried plantains and fried fish. He watched the passengers in crowded buses on their way to Cap-Haïtien. They seemed anxious and resigned to the lengthy trip on the bumpy roads that were still greatly in need of repair despite the improvements made by Americans during the fifteen years they had occupied the country.

By nightfall, he found himself roaming aimlessly in the neighborhood of Carrefour. He walked into a bar where Dominican women allowed Haitian men to live out their fantasies of possessing a light-skinned woman. He ordered a rum punch and, alone with his thoughts and the drink, he considered the troubles that he had created. From that day on, Brahami stayed away from Hagathe. Seeing her was an unpleasant reminder of the unforgivable night in the kitchen.

Darah returned from Paris three weeks later, radiant and relaxed. Brahami thought her more beautiful than before. He was delighted to have her home because now he no longer had to discuss expenses or other practical matters with Hagathe.

 

* * *

 

Months later, when Brahami’s mother came for supper along with her husband, she noticed that Hagathe’s hips had broadened. Afterward, she went into the kitchen where the maid, wearing a dress that fit her loosely to disguise the roundness of her stomach, was washing the dishes.

“I need to talk to you.” The seriousness of the older Madame Bonsang’s voice alarmed Hagathe, who lowered her head. “I’ve known you since you were a young girl. You’re like family to me, so what happens to you concerns me. Is there a man in your life? Could it be that you’re pregnant?”

Hagathe’s heartbeat quickened. “Wi, Madan Bonsang, I’m pregnant, wi. That’s one thing I cannot deny, non.”

“You’re right. Sooner or later you’ll have to admit it. Tell me who the father is. I must see to it that he marries you. I owe it to your mother.”

“Madan Bonsang, I can’t tell you, non.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s the matter?” Monsieur Bonsang asked when his wife returned to the veranda.

“Hagathe is pregnant.”

“Who is the father?” Darah wanted to know.

Madame Bonsang twirled her thumbs. “She wouldn’t say. I’ll talk with her again in a few days.”

After his parents left, Brahami closeted himself in his study to avoid his wife. Early the next morning when the smell of coffee reached him, he went to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Hagathe.”

“Good morning, Mesye Brahami,” she answered without looking at him.

“My mother told me you’re expecting a child. Could it be mine?” he asked, a stifled smile surfacing across his face.

“Mesye Brahami, you know it couldn’t be anybody else’s, non.”

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

At that moment, the steady flow of Brahami’s life became a raging river. The crude reality was that he had to face the consequences of his action. He summoned enough courage to talk to his wife, but then decided it would be better to have his mother speak to Darah first. Like a coward on his way to a battlefield, he walked upstairs and found his wife standing in front of an open closet; there was a suitcase packed with shoes and clothes.

Without any form of introduction and a surprising calm, she said, “I overheard your conversation with Hagathe.”

Even though Darah spoke in a soft voice, her words echoed like thunder in a field. “What did you say?” he asked, refusing to believe his ears.

She repeated the terrifying revelation before losing her composure and slapping his face, not once but twice, and then again, while sobbing and calling him a sang sale, an undignified lowlife.

 

* * *

 

Brahami later drove to his parents’ home to finish his mea culpa and to find allies. Once he arrived, his body dropped into a chair like that of a tired old man. Resting his elbows on the table, he held his head and watched his parents eat their breakfast of hot banana cereal.

“You look exhausted,” his mother said with a worried look. “Didn’t you sleep last night? Is something wrong? Would you like some breakfast?”

“Easy, Maud. How many questions are you going to throw at him at once?”

“I don’t want anything to eat,” Brahami answered a bit too curtly. “But coffee will do me good,” he added in a softer tone, removing his elbows from the table. He lit a cigarette and abruptly broke the silence. “Hagathe’s baby is mine.” He then threw his head back to blow out smoke but mostly to avoid looking at his parents.

His father raised his eyebrows. “How could you have done that?”

“Kyrie eleison!” his mother exclaimed, peering upward to address heaven. She reached for the rosary beads in the pocket of her skirt.

“Maud, the Lord’s mercy has nothing to do here,” Brahami’s father said in an even tone, although he was upset thinking his genealogical tree was about to be tainted with crude peasant blood. “Don’t you have any respect for the name you carry?”

Monsieur Bonsang came from a pedigreed mulatto family. His father often bragged about his ancestor, a mulatto slave owner whose patriarch was a Frenchman from Normandy, who had come to Saint-Domingue as Napoleon’s envoy after the 1791 slave revolt and had fallen in love with a free black woman of the affranchi class, who bore him two sons and a daughter. Thus began his family lineage.

“Sometimes you do something, even though you know you shouldn’t. I mean—”

“My son,” his father interrupted, “you should know better than to have sex with every woman who excites you. Being responsible and mature means exercising self-control. Does Darah know?”

“Yes.”

“How is she taking it?” his mother asked.

“She’s devastated. I thought we might raise the child as ours. But I didn’t have a chance to tell her that.”

“Wait for her to regain her calm before suggesting it. If she doesn’t agree, your father and I will raise the child. What do you think, dear?”

“I have no objections,” Brahami’s father reluctantly told his wife.

 

* * *

 

The week that followed Hagathe’s departure from the house, Madame Bonsang noticed that the maid had left her belongings behind. She asked her husband to drive her to Monn Nèg. Brahami gave them money for Hagathe and requested that they keep it a secret from his wife. He left the room but returned moments later to say he thought he should accompany them. Brahami’s father expressed his approval.

“I think you’re making the right decision. Hagathe is, after all, carrying your child.”

Brahami drove at a moderate speed, absorbed in thoughts of how he would feel seeing Hagathe again.

“Monn Nèg shouldn’t be far from here,” his father said. “Slow down.”

Brahami stopped in front of a booth next to a house off the road. On a small blackboard, a sign read, Borlette. First prize 100 gourdes. Second prize 50 gourdes. Third prize 25 gourdes. He stepped out of the car and walked toward a man who recorded names and numbers in a notebook.

“Bonjour. Could you please tell me how to get to Monn Nèg?”

“Wi, mesye,” the man answered. “You just turn left when you reach the second crossroad. Who are you looking for?” There was suspicion in his voice.

“We’re looking for a woman named Hagathe who used to live in the city.”

“Which Hagathe is that?” asked a woman, taking a five-gourde bill out of her bra.

“I don’t know her last name.” Brahami turned to his parents, who looked at each other, shaking their heads. He was amazed that they only knew the servant by her first name, even though she and her mother had worked in their home for decades.

“Who’s her mother?” asked an older man.

“Her mother’s name was Acéfie. She died a few years ago,” Brahami responded.

“Acéfie was Lamercie’s daughter,” the older man told the others. “Ti Jean, take them over there.”

The sound of the approaching jeep aroused curiosity. It had been quite some time since a vehicle had ventured off the main road. Children ran around grinning and waving. Women left their cooking. Men in the fields leaned on their hoes to watch. A man in cutoff faded jeans nearly fell from a coconut tree.

Lamercie, Hagathe’s grandmother, saw the approaching vehicle, moved the pipe away from her mouth, and walked toward the visitors. Madame Bonsang wiped the sweat on her forehead with a white embroidered handkerchief.

“We’ve brought Hagathe’s belongings,” she said.

“Mèsi anpil.” Lamercie thanked her and invited them to sit under the mango tree, where a mild breeze would keep them cool. “Hagathe is washing clothes in the river. I’ll send someone to get her.”

Half an hour later, the young boy returned and said he had looked for Auntie Hagathe but could not find her. Brahami suspected Hagathe did not want to see her former employers. How is it possible not to find someone who is washing clothes by the river? The Bonsangs entrusted the money and Hagathe’s belongings to Lamercie, who gave them plantains and coconuts to take back to the city.

 

* * *

 

Time passed. No one ever mentioned Hagathe and her baby again. But eventually a letter from Latham changed everything. Brahami had often wondered about Hagathe and whether she had given birth to a boy or a girl. At some point, he had even considered going to Monn Nèg, but decided that creating a tie with the former maid and her child would further complicate his life. Visiting Monn Nèg with the Winstons and Latham gave him a legitimate excuse to see his child.