The Farming of Bones_ A Novel - Edwidge Danticat [105]
I thought that if I relived the moment often enough, the answer would become clear, that they had wanted either for us all to die together or for me to go on living, even if by myself. I also thought that if I came to the river on the right day, at the right hour, the surface of the water might provide the answer: a clearer sense of the moment, a stronger memory. But nature has no memory. And soon, perhaps, neither will I.
I heard something flap out of the water, like rice rising and falling on a winnowing tray, the tiny husks separating from the grains. A shadow slipped out of the stretch of water before me, a ghost with a smile on his face, his cheeks grainy from the red-brown sand, his eyes bright red like the inside of a flame.
It was the professor, with his three layers of clothing padded with drenched straw, the river dripping from him as he stopped for a moment and stared blankly at my face. He sucked in his breath through his nose, perhaps taking in a few tiny sand grains with the night air as he did. He scratched his tangled beard, then continued down the riverbank, his foam sandals flopping between the sand and the soles of his feet.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the fog, the dense mist of sadness inside his head. Would the slaughter—the river—one day surrender to him his sanity the same way it had once snatched it away?
I wanted to call him, but only by his proper name, not by the nickname, Pwofese, the replacement for “crazy man,” that he had been given. I wanted to ask him, please, to gently raise my body and carry me into the river, into Sebastien’s cave, my father’s laughter, my mother’s eternity. But he was gone now, disappeared into the night.
I removed my dress, folding it piece by piece and laying it on a large boulder on the riverbank. Unclothed, I slipped into the current.
The water was warm for October, warm and shallow, so shallow that I could he on my back in it with my shoulders only half submerged, the current floating over me in a less than gentle caress, the pebbles in the riverbed scouring my back.
I looked to my dreams for softness, for a gentler embrace, for relief from the fear of mudslides and blood bubbling out of the riverbed, where it is said the dead add their tears to the river flow.
The professor returned to look down at me lying there, cradled by the current, paddling like a newborn in a washbasin. He turned around and walked away, his sandals flapping like two large birds fluttering damp wings, not so much to fly as to preen themselves.
He, like me, was looking for the dawn.
Acknowledgements
Mesi Anpil, Mucho Gracias, Thank You Very Much …
This book is a work of fiction based on historical events. Many dates have been changed, some events altered for narrative flow. Most of the inaccuracies or other place and time inconsistencies can be explained in that fashion. As to any others, please forgive the reach of my artistic license.
I am extremely grateful to the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund for the great honor, and support of its writer’s award, which allowed me the time to write. The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund and The Barnard College Alumnae Association for the travel grants that got my research started. To Ledig House International Writer’s Colony for a month’s shelter. To Julia Alvarez, so generous with time and directions, to Lionel Legros (and SELA) for source suggestions and documents, to Jonathan Demme for the gift of many out-of-print books and papers. And to Archibald Lawless for the ongoing loan of an amazing office and a precious heart, I will always be grateful.
My most heartfelt thanks to Ambassador Bernardo Vega, Madame Jeanne Alexandre, Nicole Aragi, Myriam Augustin, Patricia Benoit, David Berry, Joanne Cams, Angie Cruz, Francis Cruz, Jacqueline Celestin-Fils-Aime, the late Jean Desquiron, Junot Diaz, Pierre Domond, Lionel Eliel, Jean Paul Fils-Aime, Melanie Fleishman, Laura Hruska, Juris Jurjevics, Michele Marcehn, Caroline Marshall, Sheila Murphy, Kareen Obydol, pigeon voyageur, and Dr. Michel-Rolph Trouillot.