better.” As the Isley Brothers finished a ballad I closed the window. A cool early-evening breeze had replaced the sun’s warm rays. “How about listening to some vaudou music?” I suggested, while looking through the albums the Haitian dance instructor had recommended.
“I don’t usually listen to that kind of music.”
“Why not? You’re Haitian, aren’t you?” As I turned on the hot plate to boil some water, then poured chocolate powder into a cup, I realized, to my dismay, that I sounded like Dr. Connelly.
“I’ve never been exposed to it,” Pépé said in a neutral tone, and shrugged.
Legba an ye o-o-o, a strident voice filled the room with sounds that have entranced Haitians since before they arrived from the coasts of Africa, when Bartolomé de las Casas suggested their importation to replace the disappearing Indian race.
“Do you speak Creole?” she asked.
“I spoke it as a child in Haiti.” Drumbeats resounded in the background, and I handed a cup of steaming hot chocolate to Pépé. “That was my first language. When I listened to Haitians at the bookstore, I could understand quite a bit. But I’m not sure I’d be able to speak it if I’m back among Haitians. I speak fluent French, though. I went to a bilingual school.”
A shaft of sunlight cut through the window and brightened the room. The drumbeats shifted to a hypnotizing tone. Its fluidity evoked water flowing in a river. I executed the yanvalou snake dance that honored Damballah Wedo, the spirit of wisdom that resided in cool springs. Responding to the pulse of the music, my head, shoulders, and torso coiled into a spiral, and I moved around the room with increased abandon.
“You dance so beautifully!” Pépé exclaimed, watching every step with admiration and fascination.
* * *
About a week later, after a meeting of the Black Students League, I stopped by Pépé’s room. “You should join BSL,” I suggested.
As an upperclassman, I felt responsible for guiding her the way that Felicia had guided me. She looked at me with incredulous eyes; then glanced away before speaking. “I don’t want to get too involved with black Americans.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Why is that?”
“My mother warned me against the Black Panthers and their ‘black is beautiful’ talk,” Pépé said, and smiled faintly before taking a sip from his cup of tea. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . like in a funny way.”
“I was trying to understand why your mother would say something like that.”
“A couple of years ago, the Haitian government arrested people who wore Afros because they thought it was a sign of rebellion.”
“No kidding!” I said, admiring her long brown hair.
“BSL members are not just black Americans. There’s a guy from Ethiopia, one from South Africa, and a sister from Kenya,” I told her. “Some of us are West Indians or Latinos. Together we celebrate our common African heritage.”
Looking out the window, it dawned on me that the splendor of summer had disappeared in a cloud to give way to a withered brown meadow. Crisp leaves moved swiftly along the campus yard as an autumn breeze hinted at the coming of winter. It made me think of Christmas, and I asked Pépé if she was going to Haiti for the holidays.
“My father’s friend from his student days in Paris has invited me to his home in Manhattan,” she answered. “He’s a painter who manages an art gallery.”
“What’s his name?”
“Latham Blackstock.”
“I don’t believe it! That’s my godfather.”
I called Latham as soon as I returned to my room to tell him the Haitian girl who was coming to visit him for Christmas was my new friend.
“Her father is a longtime friend,” he said. “He asked me for a list of good colleges in the United States for his daughter. Wayberry College was one of the names I gave him.”
How ironic that it was the college Pépé had selected! I did not think anything of it then. But I should have thought it strange that Latham had never told me about Pépé. I guess he did not want to interfere with destiny.
Chapter 7
Or will it mend the road before,
To grieve for that behind?
—Walter C. Smith
Mom wrote a book about Haiti,” I told Pépé, who had come to our home with Latham the day after we arrived in New York for the holidays.
“Your father helped me meet the right people to make it happen,” Mom said. “You must have been about two or three when we were there.”
“I can’t remember meeting any of you.”
Mom smiled and twirled her glasses. “You were too young.”
“I told my father about Iris,” Pépé said, “but he didn’t know she was Latham’s goddaughter.”
“I’m meeting two friends at a jazz club,” Cynthia butted in. “You two are welcome to join me.” She then turned to Latham. “Is it okay if Pépé spends the night? We’ll probably come back late.”
“It’s up to Pépé. Any plans for tomorrow?”
“Shopping in the city,” I answered.
“Here’s the key to the loft. You can drop Pépé back there whenever you like.”
“Pépé should just stay here with the girls. It will probably be more fun for her,” Mom suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Latham said.
Continuing the tradition that started three years earlier, Cynthia and I were in charge of Christmas dinner. We roasted a turkey with chestnut stuffing and baked broccoli soufflé. Pépé made spicy rice and beans. Latham, who almost always shared our Christmas dinner, brought some of the best French wines. Mom baked a pumpkin pie. Dad’s duty was to play Christmas carols on the stereo. When the meal ended, we all retired to the living room to share Nat King Cole’s Christmas spirit.
The phone rang and Dad picked up the receiver after the third ring. “Could you leave a number where we can call back in half an hour? I can’t talk right now,” I heard him say in French.
I grew inquisitive when Dad called Mom and Latham to his study. When the three of them emerged about twenty minutes later, they sat down at the dining table where Cynthia, Pépé, and I were having tea.
“We have some serious news to share,” Dad said in a solemn tone that made me nervous. Somehow, I had a feeling the serious news concerned me. He moved his seat closer to mine, wrapped an
