Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [115]
At last they came around the brow of a hill, where the path leveled out above the sea. Daspir saw that they had maneuvered outside the deep pocket of Le Cap’s harbor; what lay below them now was open ocean. Here there was a pleasantly cool breeze, and he opened his coat and loosened his collar the better to profit from it. His sweat turned chill as it dried on him. They were descending now, picking away down the zigzag path. Immediately before them a village unfolded in terraces cut into the cliff wall: little clay houses fenced in by cactus and surrounded by a few cornstalks or vines of potatoes or beans.
A small dog rushed to the cactus fence. Doctor Hébert shouted over the noise of its yapping, in that language which sounded to Daspir like French, though he could not comprehend a word of it. The dog circled and dashed at its boundary. Presently the door of the little case sagged open on its leather hinges and a white-haired old man came stooping out onto the packed earth of the yard, leaning on a crooked stick.
“Konpè mwen,” the doctor called cheerfully. “Ki zwazo ou gegne jodi-a?”
“Gegne zwazo, wi,” the old man croaked. “Gegne zwazo anpil, anpil. M’ap montré’w tout zwazo sa yo.” He limped forward on his stick and unfastened a string across a gap in the cactus, which symbolized a gate. “Vini, vini.” He beckoned, leading them farther on the trail, where it wound into a crevice better protected from the sea wind. Here the plantation was more considerable, and there were more of the little cases running backward toward a freshwater stream that trickled down the rock. A gaggle of mostly naked small children had joined their rear, silent and awestruck by the presence of strange whites.
The old man led them to another enclosure, without a house or a dog, but more tightly fenced than the others and overarched with trees like a bower. Within, a number of wing-plucked crows and parrots hopped on the ground, and some smaller birds were shut in cages made of bamboo splints, which hung from the branches overhead.
“How does he get them?” Daspir said at large.
“With snares,” the doctor turned his head to say. “For the smaller ones he makes a kind of bird lime.”
The old man raised a crow on his forefinger, and showed how it could curse in both French and Spanish. Isabelle made a moue of mock distaste. The children who waited outside the fence poked each other and giggled at the bird’s coarse talk, all but one little girl who was staring mutely at pale Héloïse. The old man lifted one bird after another; all could pronounce a phrase or two, but there was no great difference of vocabulary. Daspir cast his eye over the cages; there were pigeons, doves, a lurid green-and-orange parakeet, but nothing resembling a canary.
“Have you no birds that sing?” Isabelle said finally.
“Madame, these are birds who speak,” the old man said. “Any bird of the forest may sing.”
Isabelle peered through the bamboo at the little parakeet. Seeing her interest, the old man opened the cage door and laid a finger behind its claws. Reflexively the bird stepped backward onto the new perch, and the old man drew it out through the opening. The parakeet revolved its head to look at Isabelle with one eye and then the other.
“Comme tu es belle,” it suddenly squawked. How beautiful you are!
“Oh,” said Isabelle, coloring slightly as she pressed her fingertips against her lower lip. She turned to Daspir. “What do you think?”
“Madame Leclerc cannot fail to be charmed by such a sentiment,” Daspir said. “Though it is more properly due to yourself.”
They made their way back by the same path, the parakeet’s cage strung to the wooden cross of a donkey saddle.