that would have been settled with one swift blow of a machete.
A necklace of red pearls.
It’s not that I am
such a prize catch.
But it’s an obsession among some rich farmers
to have an intellectual in the family.
The way the middle class
bought up ruined aristocrats
so their grandchildren could carry
a noble name.
Night has fallen. I knock timidly at the door. An old man shuffles over to open it. Excuse me for disturbing you at such a late hour, but I have a message for Madame Philomène. Did Jérôme send you? he asks with a smile in his eyes. Yes. Tell him he’s welcome here. And that he can stay the night. I go back and give Monsieur Jérôme his envelope. When we get there, the beds are already made up. Monsieur Jérôme spends the rest of the night conversing in low tones with his father-in-law. The next morning, we get back on the road after a strong cup of coffee. Suspecting that business is bad, Monsieur Jérôme does not want his father-in-law to go to any extra trouble. When it is time to leave, the older man declares that “this whole business was just a terrible misunderstanding.” On the road, Jérôme tells us that the friend who was supposed to build bridges between him and his father-in-law had lied to both of them, and that during the negotiations he kept asking for Philomène’s hand for himself, which the old man always refused.
The Farewell Ceremony
My nephew sits down next to me
on the hood of the car.
A pink sky edged in darkness
above a vast desolate landscape.
In a moment it will appear,
bringing the world to life as we watch,
the star that novelist Jacques Stephen Alexis
called General Sun, My Brother.
The only reason to wake up in so poor a place.
Every detail I notice
that others do not see
brings fresh proof
that I am not of this place.
I long for the coolness
of primitive dawn.
I would like to lose
all awareness
of my being
to blend
into nature
and become a leaf,
a cloud
or the yellow of the rainbow.
We piss, my nephew and I,
off the edge of the cliff.
Two continuous streams.
Pure arcs.
A slight smile on both our faces.
I hear a man singing
but do not see his face.
Someone tells us he is crippled
and never leaves his room.
A song so desperate
it has lost all humanity.
The coffee arrives. The taste of Césaire immediately comes into my mouth. Césaire who spoke of “those who explored neither the seas nor the sky but those without whom the earth would not be the earth.” Now they are walking past me, in this little market that’s slowly coming to life.
People here are not
in the habit of complaining.
They have the ability to change
all pain into song.
The tobacco the women
chew at noon
shaded by their broad hats
makes the bitter taste of life tolerable.
I slip the old water-warped copy
of Notebook of a Return to the Native Land
into my nephew’s bag.
We need it before we leave.
Not when we return.
In his own way, he seems very happy with this trip that has helped him understand the difference between the big city and peasant life. But I can feel he is beginning to miss his friends from university and wants to be back in the urban dirt and violence. That’s what he’s made of. A person doesn’t change his nature in a few days.
In the end I decide to go ahead on my own. With no other protection than the blood that runs in my veins. I give the rest of my money to Monsieur Jérôme who refuses it at first, but I convince him he will make better use of it than I. Two letters hastily scribbled on the car’s burning hood. The longest to my mother and the other to the former minister who willingly let me use his car. A final hug for my nephew and I climb into this shuddering jalopy, with my black hen as sole companion. Destination Baradères, my father’s native village.
I watch the Buick 57 pull away in a small cloud of dust as I negotiate the fare with the driver. You were in good company, he tells me with a conspiratorial smile. My nephew and the minister’s chauffeur. That’s what you think, but I recognized Zaka. Zaka, god of peasants. How did you recognize him? A throaty laugh that signifies the end of the conversation. I find a spot in the back of the truck.
And Now Baradères, My Father’s Village
Sacks of green bananas.
Cans of oil.
Coal and flour.
Chickens, goats and even a donkey.
A fat man snoring in the back.
Rumbling breath issuing from the bottom of his belly.
I banish all reflection
even the most intimate
and give in to the embrace of this crowd
where the boundary between man and animal
is so narrow as the truck
makes its way through the arid landscape.
A soft voice behind me. A woman in black whose husband has just died. The mother and the son lived in Brooklyn, though the father stayed in Haiti. She tells her story. The first time she saw him was at the door to the lycée. Her girlfriends made fun of him. But he was so sweet she immediately fell in love with him. He was shy, even in their private life, and he remained that way till the end. He was a delicate man. He died of throat cancer, without a complaint. His name was Séraphin.
The coffin is at the back. Securely tied to a bench. Taking up space for six passengers. Since he is dead the widow paid for four seats only. She wouldn’t have had to pay anything if she had agreed to have the coffin tied to the roof of the truck. She decided, whatever the price, Séraphin would not ride up there with the dust and the goats and the chickens. They would make their last journey together.
His young son is wearing a white shirt
and a black tie.
His head leans on his mother’s shoulder.
Somber and silent.
I hear a lady whisper,
“The spitting image of his father.”
She knew him well.
Actually, I’m in the same situation.
Except I have no body with me.
And almost no memory of the departed.
This journey is to bring him back
to his village that I will be discovering at the same time.
A funeral without a body.
A ceremony so intimate
it concerns only me.
Father and son, for once,
alone face to face.
To disappear without a trace.
Or anyone to remember you.
Only a god deserves such a destiny.
Here is Baradères in the rain.
It’s been raining for two days.
Water rises fast here.
Houses on stilts.
The truck turns carefully behind the church.
We come upon a modest cemetery
under water where small golden fish
swim into the cavities
of freshly buried bodies.
A small group is waiting
at the foot of the tall cross.
Soaked to the skin.
The gravity of death.
The boy in the black tie
is not so sure he wants to get out of the truck.
He doesn’t know all these relatives
who have stepped out of another age.
Or this town drowned by the rain.
Or this cemetery where his father will be buried.
In Brooklyn it’s hard to imagine Baradères.
In every cemetery there is
a large black cross by the gate.
And an empty grave that belongs to no one.