Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [325]
The figures on the waterfront were diminished to the size of puppets; yet Paul could make them out quite clearly from where he stood. There was the mayor Télémaque, and Madame Isabelle and Tante Elise, both women holding huge bouquets of flowers. Apart from them, among strangers, stood his mother, holding the hands of Gabriel and François, while Sophie and Robert and Héloïse stood by. At this distance Paul could not see Nanon’s face but he knew her eyes would be slightly downcast, for she never looked directly toward a center of attention, and showed pleasure only by the slightest curve of her wide lips.
Another moan of joy from the crowd, as Madame Leclerc’s slippered foot touched the ground and she came up standing from the litter. A green speck rode on one of her fingers; she cupped it with her other hand. Paul realized that it must be the bird Madame Isabelle had given her. That would be a triumph for Madame Isabelle. And indeed, Madame Leclerc went to her first of all the group and kissed her cheeks, then turned to bury her face in Tante Elise’s flowers.
Paul looked farther out over the long oval of the harbor. Besides L’Océan, which had delivered Madame Leclerc, there was another new ship on the moorings: La Cornélie. He had no idea what its presence signified, but he took note. In the time of his orphanage, he’d learned to remark the arrival of every new boat, which might mean propitious times for begging.
He’d meant to give his letter to the breeze that always blew here, but now . . . Behind him, a few charred timbers were all that remained of the roof of the church. The walls had mostly survived, though smoke-stained and cracked by the heat. No fire burned here today, except the sun.
Behind the church another path tracked down the hill among little cases and ajoupas that also had not been burned. Paul went that way, the letter crumpled in his hand. A hen and her chicks scrambled up from a dust bath and scattered out of his way as he passed. Where the trail went through the hûnfor, a few of the shield-shaped panels of woven palm that enclosed the area had been set aside. Paul walked into the sense of safety he’d been seeking; the feeling washed over him like warm water. There were no drums today, no dancing. The place was given to ordinary use. Paulette and Fontelle were laying out wet clothes on the rocks to dry, and among them Paul recognized a few of his own garments and some of his mother’s. Somewhat more to his surprise, he saw that Madame Claudine lay sleeping on a mat on the western edge of the peristyle where the palm panels threw a little shade; he knew she frequented this place, but this was the first time he had ever seen her with her strange eyes closed.
What drew him now were the small fires flaring from the mouths of several cup-sized iron pots, arranged around the poteau mitan: in each a blue flame set within an orange one, like the pattern of a feather. He moved toward the pots, confident now, stooped, and held his letter to the nearest flame. The paper blazed up all at once. Just when it would have scorched his fingers, he rose, twisting away from the pots, and released the wafer of ash into the wind.
“Sa w’ap fé?” The vast figure of Maman Maig’ filled the portal of the kay mystè. Behind her, the small red and blue squares of cloth danced on their strings. What are you doing?
“Mwen voyé youn let pou pè mwen,” Paul said, unabashed. I am sending a letter to my father.
Maman Maig’ seemed to find nothing strange in this reply. “Vin’ pal’ou,” she said. Come here so I can talk to you.
Paul approached, and Maman Maig’ took his head into her enormous, cushiony hands. Often she would do so when they met, and no matter how much he had grown since their last encounter, her hands always contained his head completely. He had the feeling that she could remold all the bones of his skull