The Farming of Bones_ A Novel - Edwidge Danticat [45]
“But your daughter loved the first soldier who strolled through your garden—”
“Love cannot always be explained,” Papi said, his voice filled with a desire to understand. “I have seen this before. Your man, he believes that everything he is doing, he’s doing for his country. At least this is what he must tell himself.”
“He’s a good man, Papi,” the señora said.
“If you say it, I must believe you,” Papi replied. “I’m going for a stroll now.”
“Take Luis with you,” Señora Valencia said.
“No, no,” Papi said. “This I do alone.”
25
The valley’s dust storms bring me joy. The dust rises in funnels from the ground and sweeps down the road. Like a sheet come undone from the clothesline, it makes its own shadow, along with the birds that circle above, trying to spot the humans cowering with their heads mashed into their chests.
In dust storms, I always imagine there are people walking ahead of me, people I cannot see, but whose forms I hope will emerge again once the air is cleared.
I see my mother and father and myself. I am with them, a child who still must hold a hand to walk, a child who must look up to talk, to see all the faces. After the storm has cleared, I find myself with my hands raised up, in motionless prayer, as though some invisible giants were guiding me forward, my face tipped up towards the trees covered with a veil of white loam.
26
Doctor Javier came by later in the afternoon to examine Rosalinda. Juana was in the pantry while Luis swept the yard outside.
Doctor Javier seemed tired, his high shoulders drooping as he entered the house.
“Please listen to me,” he whispered in Kreyol. “You must leave this house immediately. I have just heard this from some friends at the border. On the Generalissimo’s orders, soldiers and civilians are killing Haitians. It may be just a few hours before they reach the valley.”
It couldn’t be real. Rumors, I thought. There were always rumors, rumors of war, of land disputes, of one side of the island planning to invade the other. These were the grand fantasies of presidents wanting the whole island to themselves. This could not touch people like me, nor people like Yves, Sebastien, and Kongo who worked the cane fields. They were giving labor to the land. The Dominicans needed the sugar from the cane for their cafecitos and dulce de leche. They needed money from the cane.
“Is Pico here?” the doctor asked.
“He went to the border,” I said.
“Oh the border,” he said, as though this was the final sign he needed to confirm his tale. He was trying to make me see the truth in the pellets of sweat on his face, his knotted brows and hurried gestures urging me to trust him if I wished, believe him if I could. He had many more people to speak to besides myself.
“Will you go?’ he asked.
I wanted to have had more warning. I needed to know precisely what was true and what was not. Everything was so strange. What if the doctor too was part of the death plot?
“I cannot leave my man and his sister,” I said.
“A large group is crossing with me tonight,” he said. “We have two trucks. I can make a place for them. We’ll gather in front of the chapel. I’ve already spoken to Father Romain and Father Vargas. They are celebrating an evening Mass for Santa Teresa. It is almost her time. We will make it seem as if everyone is coming to Mass.”
I knew nothing about this Santa Teresa. Perhaps it would help me to know more about these saints that Juana adored, that this whole valley seemed to adore. Señora Valencia appeared in the long corridor leading to her room.
“Why do you whisper, Javier?” the señora asked.
“I didn’t know if your daughter was sleeping,” the doctor said. “If she was, I did not want to wake her.”
“My daughter is a deep sleeper,” the señora said proudly. Then she turned to me, with her fingers