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“By God,” the doctor muttered, “I tried to tell you to keep quiet. To give this kind of news to such an excitable man without preparing him, just madness!”

“Lord! Lord!” was all Laurent could say.

My mother ran up in her nightgown and began screaming as well.

“Stay calm, Madame Clamont,” Dr. Audier said. “He’s just passed out, that’s all. Consider the child you are carrying.”

And turning to me:

“Claire, take your mother back to her room and send Augustine here with a basin and some towels.”

Despite several bleedings, my father died the same day. Six months later, my mother gave birth to a little girl as white as Félicia. She held her out to me and said: “Raise her, my daughter, like your father raised you, and take your sisters under your wing to keep them from sin.” Three years later, she died as well, of an unknown disease that Dr. Audier was inspired to call … lassitude.

In the meantime, one morning the American Marines arrived on our shores, taking control of the police station, the Customs House, the Public Works and the Sanitation Department. They dismissed some and appointed others. They built a new hospital, dug new gutters and cleaned up the town. All the “little soldiers” disappeared, as did the district commandant and his bicorne hat. They were dismissed for reasons of health and were replaced by others selected by a low-ranking American officer according to their physical build. We also learned that there was to be a new police force. This was an occupation, with all the humiliations and benefits an occupation brings for a poor, undisciplined, indebted people, their strength sapped by all of its internecine struggles. Dr. Audier flatly refused a position as head of the new hospital. M. Bavière and M. Duclan, mayor and prefect respectively, submitted their resignations. All those on the payroll of President Dartiguenave’s government23 were lumped together by our nationalists and labeled “dirty collaborators.” The years went by. Some died, others were born. The Syrians reinstalled themselves in our town, and little by little we got used to the khaki uniforms worn by the Americans and our policemen. We familiarized ourselves with certain American expressions like “goddamn” or “son of a bitch.” Then there was the uprising: the Marchaterre Massacre,24 the student strike, and finally, in 1934, the withdrawal of U.S. forces. Students returning from Port-au-Prince told us how they witnessed, with tears in their eyes, the restoration of our flag over the barracks built by Leconte, where it hadn’t flown since 1915 … But let’s return to what my life was like during that stretch of time.

And so one day I suddenly found myself the head of a family with about sixty acres that had been saved by some miracle from my father’s costly ambitions. Right away I faced countless difficulties. I was only nineteen years old and I now regretted that I did not go with my father to the fields more often. However, to imitate him and to prove my competence, twice a week I got up before my sister, whom I left with Augustine, mounted my horse and galloped to Lion Mountain. Papa Cousineau, the voodoo priest, had died a few months before my mother did and his hut was sealed forever. Unlike my father, I was neither feared nor respected. The 540 acres he had sold to pay for his electoral campaign had come into the hands of black peasants who now worked for themselves. With my ridiculous reserve and coldness, I confronted Alcius, Louisor and a few other peasants whom we hired during harvest. I would give orders, squint at processing equipment I knew nothing about, and return home convinced of the futility of my visits. The first year, Louisor brought me a meager sum of money that he assured me came from the sale of the coffee, and I accepted it without protest. The second year, I received a much smaller amount. The price of coffee had gone down, he told me, and I only owned sixty acres. Was he trying to discourage me until I gave up my land to him for a pittance?

“At that