The Roving Tree. Elsie Augustave
Pépé guided us toward a man in a pastel yellow guayabera and white pants. He stood before me, seemingly anxious. Unsure of what to do, I extended a hand. He flashed a nervous smile, and when he embraced me I could feel his heart race. As he lead us out of the crowded airport, beggars reached out with bare, ashy hands.
Perched on top of a hill in an elegant suburban neighborhood, Brahami’s villa stood behind a garden of tropical flowers and palm trees. Pépé’s mother sat on the veranda, fanning herself with a newspaper. She looked beautiful in a sky-blue, spaghetti-strap dress. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, her delicate features glowed, and I admired her striking beauty and regal frame.
* * *
Pépé and I sat by the pool at the back of the house, under the mild late-afternoon sun. “I’m sorry I talked to you the way I did when you came to my room last night,” I told her.
“It’s okay. I know you were upset.” She smiled graciously, though there was sadness in her eyes. “I’m going to join Cynthia in the pool,” she announced, as she stood and walked away.
Left alone, I thought about the fact that in just a few hours I had lost a mother, discovered my friend was my half-sister, and met an estranged father. I gave in to the sun’s warm caress and dozed off on the lounge chair, exhausted from my emotional upheaval and lack of sleep.
About an hour later, Brahami’s footsteps on the gravel woke me. “May I join you?” he asked, taking the seat where Pépé had sat earlier. We glanced at each other for less than a second, and an awkward silence engulfed us. “I owe you an explanation, but I don’t know where to begin,” he said.
My eyes roamed over his tall frame, looking for his biological traits that I might have inherited. I suddenly felt self-conscious about staring shamelessly. I continued to silently observe him, and stared into his expressive, deep brown eyes.
The complexity of my feelings took me to an unfamiliar place. “You don’t have to explain anything,” I told him, assuming a detached tone. Dad’s voice rang in my mind, urging me to keep an open mind, reminding me that I needed to engage in a conversation with Brahami, to find out about his relationship with my mother.
“What was she like?” I finally asked, turning away from his 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.”