Part 8 (2/2)
”I am ready for a real ring,” I said.
”You want to get married?”
I nodded.
”But we have to do it now,” I said. ”Right this very minute.”
”Without a priest?”
”I don't care.”
I was bound to be happy in a place called Providence. A place that destiny was calling me to. Fate! A town named after the Creator, the Almighty. Who would not want to live there?
Three.
Chapter 13.
Great G.o.ds in Guinea, you are beautiful,” the driver said as he stopped under a breadfruit tree in the middle of the sheds, stands, and cl.u.s.ters of women in the open marketplace.
I lowered my head and pretended not to hear, but he persisted.
”I would crawl inside your dress and live there. I can feed on your beauty like a leech feeds on blood. I would live and die for you. More than the sky loves its stars. More than the night loves its moon. More than the sea loves its mermaids. Strike me, thunder, it's no lie. We do not know one another, I know. Still I must tell you. You can be the core of my existence. The 'I' of my 'We.' The first and last letter of my name, which is 'Yours,' your humble servant and transporter.”
It was a stifling August day. The sun, which was once G.o.d to my ancestors, slapped my face as though I had done something wrong. The fragrance of crushed mint leaves and stagnant pee alternated in the breeze. Body-raking soka blared from the car radio as pa.s.sengers hopped off the colorful van in which I had spent the last four hours.
The sides of the van were painted in steaming reds, from cherry scarlet to crimson blood. Giraffes and lions were sketched over a terra cotta landscape, as though seeking a tint of green.
I wouldn't have gotten the coveted seat next to the driver had it not been for what he termed my ”young charcoal-cloaked beauty.” Otherwise, I would have been forced to sit with the market women, their children, livestock, wicker baskets, and the flour sacks that s.h.i.+elded their backs from the sugar cane stalks.
DIEU SI BON proclaimed the letters on the van's front plate. G.o.d is good indeed. Otherwise, my daughter, Brigitte, and I would have never made it this far.
”A wonderful trip, pa vre?” asked the driver, as he unloaded my suitcase.
”At least we arrived,” I said.
”It is not my fault, lovely star, if we rocked a little. There are dunes and ridges on the road that I did not put there.”
”I am not blaming you for those. On the contrary, I am very grateful we've arrived safely.”
”All my trips have not been safe. You must be an angel. You bring good blessings. I have been in a ravine or two in the past.”
”And your pa.s.sengers?”
”I would hope they are in heaven.”
He peeled a white T-s.h.i.+rt off his chest. Sweat rolled in dancing ripples from his neck to his belly. His skin was a bright chestnut, like mine and Brigitte's.
”You hot too?” he asked.
”It's dangerous for a woman to undress in public,” I said.
”Still, I would love to see if you look like a G.o.ddess naked. Is there any way you can be persuaded?”
”Mwin, I am a married woman.”
”I see that,” he said, pointing first to my wedding ring and then to my daughter. ”She is as perfect as you are, the child.”
”Ou byen janti.” You are very kind.
”I find your Creole flawless,” he said.
”This is not my first trip to La Nouvelle Dame Marie. I was born here.”
”I still commend you, my dear. People who have been away from Haiti fewer years than you, they return and pretend they speak no Creole.”
”Perhaps they can't.”
”Is it so easy to forget?”
”Some people need to forget.”
”Obviously, you do not need to forget,” he said.
”I need to remember.”
An old hunchbacked lady walked over to pay her fare. He straightened out the dirty gourdes and counted them quickly.
She walked to the back of the van and pointed out her load of sorghum to a sweaty teenage boy. The boy had a bouret, a handcart made out of two tires and a slab of plywood. He had a group of helpers, younger lads with dust-crusted feet. A young boy followed them with a kite. He ran ahead, tugging the kite string, trying to force it to fly above his head. The old woman nearly tripped over the kite as it crashed to the ground.
Brigitte stirred in my arms. She opened her eyes, fluttered her long eyelashes, and then closed them again. A mild breeze rustled the guava trees that now lined the unpaved road. The breeze swept the soil from the hills down to the valley, back to my grandmother's home.
Brigitte opened her mouth widely, stretching her lips to their limits as she yawned.
”I think Mademoiselle needs to eat again,” the driver said.
He was looking across the road, at a woman sitting in a stand that was the size of a refrigerator. She was plump and beautiful with a bright russet complexion. She had a sky blue scarf wrapped around her head and two looped earrings bouncing off her cheeks.
It was Louise, Man Grace's daughter. At the window in front of her was a row of cola bottles.
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