stare.
“Your mother was a quiet woman,” he said, and mopped his perspiring forehead with a white linen handkerchief. “I knew your grandmother a lot better. She practically raised me. When I came back from Paris, Acéfie had died and your mother had taken her place, working for my parents.”
“Who was Acéfie?”
“Hagathe’s mother.”
“If you hardly knew her, how did she get pregnant?” My voice had risen to a higher pitch, and a cloud of anger that resembled grief settled in my heart. I made an effort to lower my voice. “There must be more to it than you’re telling me.”
“Try to understand what happened.”
As I listened, I tried not to be judgmental.
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.
