The Roving Tree. Elsie Augustave

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.

      The streets of Bel Air, with their peeling, crumbling houses, were quite noisy. Brahami was impressed by the shrieks and cries of street peddlers that rose in crescendo, inviting people to purchase food staples such as ground corn, rice, and salted pork. “Min-bel-mayimoulin-diriblan-mayi-sinmak-min-soupoudre-e-e-e,” said the voices that reached the walls of nearby houses. Listening to the musical sound that translated a unique cultural reality, Brahami realized he had never paid attention to those ambulant merchants before he left for Paris and that being away for so long made him more appreciative of them.

       Women hurried through rundown gates to make purchases. People sat on porches and carried on with their everyday activities. A young girl sat between the legs of an older one on a low stool, having her hair braided. A woman bent over a sewing machine, and next to her, loose cigarettes, mint candy, coconut cakes, and grilled peanuts were set up to be sold. At other places, men cut each other’s hair. Boys played with colorful marbles. Passersby stopped to exchange bits of friendly conversation. Some sat alone with their thoughts; others gossiped.

       Brahami parked his jeep next to three women who were carrying empty buckets to a public water fountain. They stopped to talk with another woman, sheltered under a cloth tent, who was selling cooked rice and beans and goat stew. She kept clean enamel plates and spoons in a wicker basket on one side, dirty ones on the other. Brahami listened to their conversation.

       “How’s business today?” one of the women asked.

       The vendor fanned herself with an old straw hat. “Half of the rice is gone. I’m hoping I won’t have to take the rest with me tonight.”

       “Do you know what happened to that girl who lives inside this alley here?” another woman asked, pointing to a chipped metal gate that was open. “We heard her scream a little while ago. What was the beating about this time?”

      “Adye!” the vendor cried out in pity. “The poor thing has to clean the place, do the laundry, and wash the feet of the lady of the house for scraps of food.” She sucked her teeth and continued to fan herself.

       A man walked up to her to buy a plate of food. She served him a small piece of goat meat on a sea of rice and beans. He ate his meal on a wooden crate a few yards from her.

      “The poor girl was on her way back from the fountain. She was right there.” The vendor pointed to a street corner. “A schoolboy pushed her, and the water fell from the bucket she carried on her head, and she had to return to the fountain. When she came back to the house, the woman beat her with a rigwaz because she took too long. You know how much that dried cow skin hurts!”

      “Oh yes,” said another woman. “I used to get my share of it when I was a restavèk.”

      Brahami peered through the opened gate and watched the restavèk, an unkempt, undernourished servant girl, no older than eight or nine. She wore a torn, faded dress that hung limply below her shoulders. He felt even more pity when he saw that her face was badly burned, which made him ponder the question he had often asked himself in Paris when he flirted with Communism: could Marxism be the answer to Haiti’s color and class division?

      * * *

      Two years after they were married, Darah went to France to seek medical treatment that she hoped would put an end to her infertility. One evening after supper, Brahami and his high school friend Georges sat on the veranda. After Hagathe had brought the rum punch that he had requested and was no longer in sight, Georges exclaimed, “What a bel nègès! A true black beauty!”

       “You’re talking about the maid?”

       “You mean you haven’t noticed?”

       “Not really,” Brahami lied. Although he had fantasized from time to time about having sex with her, he had, thus far, managed to brush away the desire.

       After Georges left he helped himself to another drink. At the sight of Hagathe putting dishes away, he stopped at the doorway of the kitchen. She was startled when she became aware of his presence.

       “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I just came for some water.”