Breath, Eyes, Memory - Edwidge Danticat [27]
DIEU SI BON proclaimed the letters on the van's front plate. God is good indeed. Otherwise, my daughter, Brigitte, and I would have never made it this far.
"A wonderful trip, pa vrè?" asked the driver, as he unloaded my suitcase.
"At least we arrived," I said.
"It is not my fault, lovely star, if we rocked a little. There are dunes and ridges on the road that I did not put there."
"I am not blaming you for those. On the contrary, I am very grateful we've arrived safely."
"All my trips have not been safe. You must be an angel. You bring good blessings. I have been in a ravine or two in the past."
"And your passengers?"
"I would hope they are in heaven."
He peeled a white T-shirt off his chest. Sweat rolled in dancing ripples from his neck to his belly. His skin was a bright chestnut, like mine and Brigitte's.
"You hot too?" he asked.
"It's dangerous for a woman to undress in public," I said.
"Still, I would love to see if you look like a goddess naked. Is there any way you can be persuaded?"
"Mwin, I am a married woman."
"I see that," he said, pointing first to my wedding ring and then to my daughter. "She is as perfect as you are, the child."
"Ou byen janti." You are very kind.
"I find your Creole flawless," he said.
"This is not my first trip to La Nouvelle Dame Marie. I was born here."
"I still commend you, my dear. People who have been away from Haiti fewer years than you, they return and pretend they speak no Creole."
"Perhaps they can't."
"Is it so easy to forget?"
"Some people need to forget."
"Obviously, you do not need to forget," he said.
"I need to remember."
An old hunchbacked lady walked over to pay her fare. He straightened out the dirty gourdes and counted them quickly.
She walked to the back of the van and pointed out her load of sorghum to a sweaty teenage boy. The boy had a bouret, a handcart made out of two tires and a slab of plywood. He had a group of helpers, younger lads with dust-crusted feet. A young boy followed them with a kite. He ran ahead, tugging the kite string, trying to force it to fly above his head. The old woman nearly tripped over the kite as it crashed to the ground.
Brigitte stirred in my arms. She opened her eyes, fluttered her long eyelashes, and then closed them again. A mild breeze rustled the guava trees that now lined the unpaved road. The breeze swept the soil from the hills down to the valley, back to my grandmother's home.
Brigitte opened her mouth widely, stretching her lips to their limits as she yawned.
"I think Mademoiselle needs to eat again," the driver said.
He was looking across the road, at a woman sitting in a stand that was the size of a refrigerator. She was plump and beautiful with a bright russet complexion. She had a sky blue scarf wrapped around her head and two looped earrings bouncing off her cheeks.
It was Louise, Man Grace's daughter. At the window in front of her was a row of cola bottles.
"While you wait for your people, would you like something to drink?" asked the driver.
"I could drink an ocean," I said.
"If Mademoiselle over there is selling an ocean, I will surely buy it for you."
The female street vendors called to one another as they came down the road. When one merchant dropped her heavy basket, another called out of concern, "Ou libéré?" Are you free from your heavy load?
The woman with the load would answer yes, if she had unloaded her freight without hurting herself.
. . .
I sat in the shade of a crimson flamboyant tree, at the turn of the forked road. Brigitte quickly tightened her lips around the bottle of milk that I gave her. She sucked the warm liquid as though she hadn't been fed for days.
A few Tonton Macoutes climbed into the van and settled in the empty seats to eat their lunch. The steaming banana leaves and calabash bowls were in sharp contrast to their denim militia uniforms. They laughed loudly as they threw pieces of grilled meat and small biscuits at each other.
"I have a pig to sell you," whispered a voice