The Roving Tree. Elsie Augustave

      Chapter 6

       We cannot erase the sad records from our past.

      —A. Maclaren

      She sat slouched on the steps of the student hall terrace, eating a strawberry ice-cream cone; seemingly enjoying the New England Indian summer. She reminded me of a little girl the way she licked the ice cream dripping down the cone.

      I had just returned to campus that day, ready to begin my junior year. I walked over to her, eager to welcome a new black face.

      “So, you’re the new Haitian on campus. I have wanted to meet you ever since I heard you would be coming here. I even thought of sending you a letter over the summer, but I didn’t get around to it.”

      She looked puzzled. “How did you know there would be a Haitian on campus?”

      “Before the start of summer vacation, the president of the Black Student League receives a list from the dean’s office of incoming black freshmen. I was born in Haiti. I even went to the admissions office to see a picture of you. Right now I’m going to check my mail. When I come back you can tell me about your first days on campus. Also, we must talk about Haiti.”

      * * *

      It didn’t take long for that opportunity to present itself. About a week later Pépé came to my room, sat on the floor with her back against the wall, and faced my twin bed that was covered with Indian fabric.

      “The way your eyes light up when you smile reminds me of my father,” she said. I noticed, at that moment, that the dimples on her cheeks made her face even more pleasant.

      “I don’t know much about my natural parents,” I said sadly. Even though I hated myself for encouraging pity, I felt compelled to tell her my story. “My mother sent me to the United States with my adoptive parents when I was five. She told them I shouldn’t return until I’m adult.”

      “Why not?”

      “Something about a Tonton Macoute,” I said, flipping through a stack of albums, recalling the story that Mom had told me.

      “When you go back to Haiti, you should talk to my father. He can tell you a lot about Haitian politics.”

      “Is he a politician?”

      “An armchair politician,” she said, laughing and stretching out her legs. “Are you in touch with your mother?”

      “She can barely read and write, and of course she has no phone. No one in Monn Nèg does. But we send her Christmas cards and pictures.”

      “Do you miss her a lot?”

      “I did at first,” I said, thinking about her picture that ended up in some unknown location.

      “What’s your major?”

      “I have a double major: anthropology and dance. And you?”

      “American literature.”

      “How did you learn English?”

      “I studied at an American school in Haiti.”

      “How many years?”

      “I went to the Union School from first grade on. You have so many books on Haiti,” Pépé commented as she read the titles on my bookshelf.

      “My godfather gave most of them to me. I bought the others at a Haitian bookstore. I read many of them this past summer.”

      “I see a lot of books about vaudou.”

      “Knowing about vaudou will help me to understand the Haitian culture 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