Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity by Tully Catana

Author:Tully, Catana [Tully, Catana]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-09-24T18:30:00+00:00

In the evening after Patrick retired, I looked for my Marian Anderson record, a relic from my childhood that without being looked at or listened to in decades, had wandered with me over borders, through countries and continents. I lit the candles on the table, poured myself a glass of wine, and relaxed into the cushions of the sofa as the diva began her rendition of Schubert’s Lieder.

With the music, memories of childhood returned, of cool, rainy afternoons, when at teatime we sat in the living room listening to music while resin cracked in the fireplace. How old was I then? Was Vati still alive? I think so. I must have been older than eight, younger than eleven. I still remembered every word of the poems written by Goethe, Heine, Chamisso, put to music by Franz Schubert: Nineteenth century German Romantic poetry interpreted by a magnificent, Black American singer. My mood grew melancholic, as I felt surrounded by ghosts of the past. Then, of all people, Madame Goudere again reappeared, like a barely audible, long forgotten tune.

I was seven when Mutti told me the wife of the Haitian ambassador had invited us for afternoon tea. Like everyone in Haiti, Mutti explained, the Gouderes spoke French. They lived on Sixth Avenue, a short walk from our house. I was surprised to see the ambassador’s wife. Her skin tone was lighter than mine but darker than the servants. I guess Mutti had seen no need to tell me the Haitians were dark. I didn’t quite know what to make of an elegantly dressed dark person, and couldn’t keep from staring at Madame because I thought she was beautiful. It had not occurred to me that people her coloring could be good-looking. She saw the world through large, slightly slanted dark cocoa colored eyes and wore her curly raven hair gathered into a loose chignon in the nape of her neck. Her movements were naturally relaxed, and it seemed to my young mind that she slinked when she moved; she slinked like a slender Abyssinian cat. I can still feel how that embarrassed me. She was sophisticated and friendly in a reserved way. What she did not do was fuss over me when she met me. I was accustomed to hearing people compliment Mutti on my looks, my curtsies, my poise. So, right away I considered Mme. Goudere stuck up and didn’t quite like her.

The Gouderes fired everyone’s imagination, including mine, and I came to think of Haiti as a legendary, fairy tale place where pomegranates, persimmons, and kumquats abounded - not that I necessarily knew what they were. Nothing anyone said in our house or elsewhere about the French-speaking Caribbeans escaped me: How Mme’s French couture dresses must have cost the ambassador a pretty penny; how beautiful their dark twin babies looked in their perfectly ironed white batiste and lace clothes; how funny it was to see the roles reversed: European nanny for Black children. And then, the Parisian high-wheeled double baby carriage… No one had one like that because parading babies around was not what people did.

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