Margaret smiled and nodded. “I’m happy to meet you.” She spoke to the spirit in French.
“I’m a nèg of Ayiti Toma. I don’t speak fancy like those people from the city,” Papa Guede said. “These women here, including my horse, were trying to hide us spirits from you. They thought we would not know how to behave around white people. That’s why I came uninvited.” Papa Guede broke into boisterous laughter, inviting everyone to do the same.
“Papa Guede, you are too much!” Lamercie said with a chuckle.
Papa Guede ignored Lamercie and turned to Margaret. “Bèl famm, beautiful woman, they show me no respect. They would never talk to Papa Ogoun that way,” he said and rolled his eyes. “O-revoi-la-société.” He then dismissed himself as abruptly as he had come.
* * *
A day later, Margaret touched Hagathe’s shoulder, leaned close to her, and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m here at the Lord’s mercy,” Hagathe said with a faint smile. “Thank you for everything you and your husband have done. I wouldn’t be alive without you. Doctors in this country don’t even look at you if you cannot pay in advance. Mèsi anpil, thank you very much. I’ve decided to let you take Iris with you,” Hagathe mumbled as tears filled her eyes.
“I will take good care of her.”
“Wait until she’s an adult before bringing her back here; wait long enough for that Tonton Macoute to forget her,” Hagathe said, as she turned her head away and closed her eyes.
“Get some rest,” Margaret advised and started to leave the room.
Hagathe opened her eyes. “I would like for Iris to keep her name,” she uttered in a feeble voice.
Margaret turned to face Hagathe again. “I will do as you wish.”
* * *
A young marine in his early twenties led John and Margaret to an austere room where the official flag of the United States of America hung high on a rod in a corner. A picture of the first Catholic to occupy the Oval Office decorated the otherwise bear walls. The consul, a tall middle-aged man with a full head of curly black hair and a mustache, informed them that they had to file papers with local authorities because François “Papa Doc” Duvalier wanted the names of all Haitians who wished to travel outside the country to go through a special screening process. The Winstons reluctantly left the air-conditioned room to brave the heat as they went from one office to another before coming to the desk of Dieudonné, who looked vaguely familiar, probably because of his resemblance to Jésula.
He invited John and Margaret to sit on folding chairs across from his desk, where they had a full view of a black-and-white photograph of Papa Doc in a black suit and a tall black hat, hiding behind thick glasses. Dieudonné asked his secretary to read the papers out loud because he did not have his reading glasses. His mask of indifference disappeared when he heard Hagathe’s name.
“What are your plans for the girl?” he asked in a throaty voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the couple.
“We promised her mother to give her a good education,” John said.
“Why are you doing this?” Dieudonné’s resonant voice filled the room.
“We love children, but we can’t have any of our own. We have already adopted a girl in the United States and we would also like to adopt Iris. We have become fond of her and her mother wants her to have a better life,” Margaret told him.
Dieudonné leaned forward on his chair. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an art collector and gallery owner. My wife is an anthropologist.”
“I see,” said Dieudonné, even though Margaret believed that he had no idea what their work entailed. All the same, he looked impressed.
“I’m here to study Haitian culture,” Margaret added. “A friend of ours introduced us to a loving family in Monn Nèg. That’s how we got to know the child and her mother.”
Dieudonné remained silent with a frown on his face. His features gradually relaxed before giving way to a smile. He summoned his secretary back to the office. “Make sure all the necessary papers are on my desk no later than tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
We have not passed that subtle line between childhood
and adulthood until we have moved from the
passive voice to the active voice . . .
—Sydney J. Harris
On my way to visit Wayberry, the college that I had chosen, I thought about the story that Mom had shared about my birth mother, Hagathe Odys. I imagined her being proud of my achievements and, for the first time ever, I wondered what my life would have been in Monn Nèg.
At this point, I was anxious to begin a new life. My past suddenly became an insignificant parenthesis and I realized I was now in a totally different frame of mind.
A valley of green foliage sheltered the institution from the outside world. Hours after we met, I followed my roommate to the student cafeteria for dinner. She was from West Hartford. Her family background was no different from that of the kids at the private bilingual school I had attended in Westchester. As soon as I entered the large room, I spotted two tables where the black students sat and spent the rest of the evening thinking about my plan to sit with them.
The next morning, I told my roommate that it was okay to leave for breakfast without me. Later, filled with anticipation, I entered the cafeteria and walked to where the black students were sitting. Standing behind an empty chair, I asked the students, who were chatting and laughing, if I could join them. The looks on their faces made me feel like I had said something foolish. As I was thinking about walking away, welcoming voices uttered “Of course” and “Sure.”
“So, how does it feel to be a college freshman?” one of the girls asked.
Again I became nervous, thinking that because of my awkwardness, she knew I was a freshman. I mumbled something that I don’t recall. Felicia Thompson introduced herself and the other students at the table. She must have sensed my uneasiness because she went on to say, “There are just a handful of us here and we all know each other. You look too young to be a transfer student, so you’ve got to be a freshman.” Her unpainted lips were well-lined, and the roundness of her cheeks suggested kindness.
I relaxed a bit and was trying to think of something to say when Felicia told me I should get my breakfast because they would stop serving soon. When I returned to the table, she engaged me in conversation. I learned that she was from California and majoring in anthropology.
“No kidding,” I said. “That’s my major.”
“Is that right? I’ll have to tell you who’s who in that department. But right now I’ve got to run. Be sure to come to the Black Students League party this evening.”
On my way back to my room, I thought about the few dances I had attended in middle school. The girls usually danced together and the boys ran around playing games that we thought were silly. When Cynthia and the girls I hung around with in high school started dating, I stopped going. A few times they had tried to find a date for me, but that never worked; not even with the boy I liked