A Rendezvous in Haiti by Stephen Becker

Author:Stephen Becker
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504026932
Publisher: Open Road Media

Later she heard the swirl and gurgle of a flowing stream, and they turned off the trail, halting at a cluster of huts festooned with vines and blossoms. One of the Haitians called, “Ohé, la femme!” Already villagers had loomed in doorways. Naked children goggled or hid their faces. A stout woman emerged from one hut, folded her arms, and considered these signs and portents. She dismissed the Haitians and animals, concentrating on the two blancs. She wore a dark blue cotton tunic, and her breasts were huge.

“B’jou, maman,” said the rider, and dismounted. Creole flew past Caroline like a flock of doves; she grasped it on the wing, and understood a bit. “This woman must start the day, maman, even as you and I. Take her to the water, will you, and bring her back? We could use a meal, too. The sun is long up.”

“Slowly, slowly,” the woman said. Men emerged too, and gaped; other women, many children. A cock crowed. Caroline heard no drums; even in Port-au-Prince distant drums had pulsed; but this morning was cool and pleasant and silent, the hush so perfect that a drop of water falling on a stiff leaf echoed like a gunshot. The village stood in a long glade, and among the huts chickens pecked and jerked. The huts wore roughly conical roofs, and smoke hovered.

The stout woman advanced to the cart for a closer view of Caroline; she reached out to touch the pale cheek, and clucked.

Caroline slurred French: “Yes. Please take me to the stream.”

The woman said, “Eh! Who is this now? Was she talking about the stream?”

One of the muleteers said, “You heard, maman. She speaks white French.”

“I understood, I understood. And who are you all and why should we give you food?”

The white man said, “We’ll pay. If one could get on with it, and talk later?”

“Ah, pay.”

“That’s better,” a male villager said with stern dignity.

“Shut up,” the woman said. She smiled at Caroline, stretched forth a plump black hand and said, “Come with me now.”

Caroline rose carefully; her head no longer ached and none of her limbs was asleep, but she was dismayingly aware of her nightgown, purchased chez Worth, scooped low and ruffled at the neck, and cut daringly high at the hem, with an echo of the ruffle not more than four inches below the knee. Useful antidotes to fear: hunger and modesty. She clutched the gown properly to her, but disembarking from a wagon demanded exercise, even acrobatics, and she was light-headed.

For the first time, Caroline set a bare foot on Haitian soil. The ground was damp: a recent shower.

She shot a dark glance at the sombrero’d man: he was expressionless, emotionless, his eyes like blue crystal: he might have been blind. Again dread plucked at her, twanged. She descended, and took refuge with the stout, very black Haitian woman.

The woman’s hair was short and woolly, her face fat and round, her small black eyes unreadable.

“Please,” Caroline whispered, “take me to the water,”

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