Island on the Edge of the World

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “All of them? How come they haven’t planted anything else?”

  “It is complicated. It is something that has been happening for many years.” Mackenson passed a bottle of water to Bea in the front seat. “The mahogany was cut for furniture, and later for fuel. It is a big problem now. There has been flooding and drought, and with erosion it is difficult to plant new crops.”

  They climbed further, to where the fields turned vertical, striped from side to side with rows of crops. If you squinted, you could make out the farmers, like tiny ants crawling among the plants.

  “And then, there were the Mapou trees.” Mackenson pointed to a broad, green canopy off the side of the road in front of them, supported by a brawny trunk that seemed to rest on long, twisted fingers that clawed at the dirt. As a child, he had been taught by his grandmother about the mighty trees, how one must respect and worship the Mapou as a symbol of the power and strength of the Haitian people.

  “Oh, I’ve seen one like that!” Charlie said.

  “The Mapou trees were cut down by the church people.”

  “Why?” Lizbeth asked.

  “It was during rejete, the campaign against superstition,” Mackenson said. “The Mapou is the sacred tree of Vodou, the link between the spirit world and earth. It is a meeting place for the living and the dead, and sometimes ceremonies are held right around the tree.”

  “Magnificent,” said Bea.

  “He was having one chopped down. Up on the mountain.” Charlie slowed the car to a crawl to get a better look.

  “Jim?” Bea asked. “Figures. It’s just like him to force folks to go against their own beliefs. The power in the tree probably scared the bejesus out of him.”

  “Your stepfather?” Lizbeth asked. “What did a little old tree ever do to him?”

  “Nothing a sane person would take as a threat. I tell you, that man is pure evil, through and through.”

  “You do not need to worry.” Mackenson reached his arm forward and patted Charlie’s shoulder from the back seat. “This man’s power is not that great. The Mapou trees are strong. They will never go away.”

  21

  Bea wished that she could still see. It was the first time she’d truly felt that way since her eyesight started to fade years ago. At home, in Carmel, she could picture exactly what everything, and everyone, looked like, down to the last detail. After all, she’d lived there practically all her life. What was left to wonder about? But here in Jacmel, from the way Charlie and Lizbeth were describing it, there was plenty she’d have loved to be able to experience with her own eyes.

  “It’s kind of like New Orleans,” Charlie told her as they parked and exited the car. “Wrought iron balconies, crazy-tall arched doorways, and pillars. Lots of brickwork. Old mansions, but kind of crumbly.”

  “Those are the houses where the coffee merchants lived, and stored their coffee,” Mackenson explained. “And it is ‘crumbly’ because it has not yet all been fixed from the earthquake.”

  “And look!” Lizbeth said. “Bea, there’s a woman holding a live chicken upside down, by its feet. Swinging it back and forth just like a handbag. And she’s got pineapples on her head.”

  Charlie took Bea’s arm and led her across a bumpy street. Cobblestone, by the feel of it under her feet.

  “You okay, Bibi? Should we go check in to the hotel and save all this for tomorrow?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m on my second wind after that lunch.” They’d stopped outside of town, at a fancy hotel with an outdoor restaurant hanging over the Caribbean. Bea could have stayed there all day bathing in the sea breeze. The only bad part was that now she couldn’t get the stupid song that had been playing over the PA system out of her head. We are the world, she heard herself humming as Charlie helped her up the curb.

  “So many shops!” Lizbeth said. “Why, there’s one little crafts store after another. Just look at all these pretty things!”

  “Jacmel is a city of artists. The cultural capital of Haiti. There is also a music and film school here,” Mackenson said with pride.

  “It sounds amazing.” Charlie steered Bea to a shady spot away from the street.

  “You want come inside?” came an accented male voice from inside a doorway.

  “No, thank you.” Lizbeth paused. “I mean, yes,” she corrected herself. Bea heard her rustling through her bag. “We’re here looking for someone. A girl with a child.”

  Mackenson repeated her words in Creole.

  “He says he does not know her,” he told Lizbeth.

  And so it went as they canvassed one long street, shop by shop, showing Senzey’s photo, looking for someone who might have seen her, someone who might know if she were here. Everyone asked if they wanted help, disappointed when the help they needed did not involve learning the price of a painting or having a fragile purchase wrapped up for travel. Lizbeth was disappointed as well. Nobody seemed to know who Senzey was. Bea knew the others had to be as hot and sweaty as she was, and frustrated as hell. But, when they were nearly at the end of the street, one of the artisans gave them a tip. Go ask Martine, he told them. She knows everyone. All the girls.

  He pointed them toward her place, around the corner and two streets away. Bea picked up her pace to match that of the others, her arm entwined in Charlie’s. But when they reached the spot they were looking for, the group came to a dead halt. The gallery was closed, the door locked.

  “There is a phone number painted on the door. I will call,” Mackenson said.

  They stood under the relentless afternoon sun as he dialed. Bea could feel her energy flagging, but there was no way in hell she was going to be the cause of them giving up now. She leaned against the concrete wall, its surface rough and cool through her thin cotton tunic.

  “We will come back tomorrow,” Mackenson said after a brief exchange on the phone. “She will be in her gallery then.”

  Bea heard Lizbeth sigh.

  “Come,” Mackenson said. “Let us walk back this way, by the water. It will be cooler.”

  Bea could feel the air turning sticky as they neared the sea, the sound of waves lapping at the shore a soft caress to her ears.

  “Oh my god, it’s beautiful!” Charlie cried out.

  “What? The water?” Bea asked.

  “No. Well, yes. But also the mural. Bibi, it’s fantastic. A long wall that runs all along the boardwalk, covered with mosaic.”

  Bea squinted behind her thick glasses, but all she could make out from where they stood were some blotchy patches of color.

  “Let’s go look,” urged Charlie.

  Up close the splotches just looked bigger. But Charlie was in heaven. “This is amazing!” She described tiled flowers and birds and beach scenes and ocean life. “There’s a huge Mapou tree, and a mermaid, blowing a golden trumpet. What’s up with that, Mackenson? I see mermaids everywhere around here.”

  “That is La Sirène—the mermaid goddess of the sea. There are many stories about mermaids in Haiti, but the one I was told was that when the slaves were brought over from Africa, they were kept in the bottom of the ships, where it was wet and damp. It was dark, and they did not know where they were going. They believed they came here under the sea, and that it would be the mermaids who would guide them back home, to the promised land of Africa, when they died.”

  Bea ran her palm along the wall, trying to see if she might be able to make out the shapes by touch. Some tiles were square, some pointy, some nearly round, but there was no way she could see the full picture with her hands.

  They walked, slowly, back to where they’d parked. Bea, hot and tired, was ready to leave. But apparently there was a problem, in the form of a little dog that had sought refuge from the heat in the shade underneath their car.

  Charlie was reluctant to shoo him away. “Poor thing. It’s too hot for him out there in the sun.” Bea could hear her granddaughter clicking her tongue at the animal from the sidewalk below.

  “Ale!” Mackenson urged the d
og in a gentle voice. “Go!”

  They drove to the hotel they had booked, along the coast toward the outskirts of Jacmel, in silence.

  There they were greeted by the clamor of more dogs—definitely large, Bea thought, from the sound of Lizbeth shouting over the racket of their barking. “What the heck are those things up on the roof? Looks like a couple of wild hyenas, fixing to eat us for lunch.”

  “I think they’re Dobermans,” Charlie said.

  “Well, whatever they are,” Lizbeth said, “I’m not getting out of this car until they’re leashed and penned up and given something to chew on besides my leg.”

  “Hello!” came a greeting from the direction of the barking. “Welcome. I will be right down to check you in.”

  Mackenson began to unload their bags as Charlie helped Bea out of the back seat.

  “Do not mind my four-legged friends,” the man said, in a vaguely European accent, as he approached the car. “They are very friendly. Unless you are an intruder, of course,” he laughed, sounding to Bea like one of those villains in an old cartoon.

  “How do they know the difference?” asked a shaky-voiced Lizbeth.

  The man didn’t answer. Bea flinched as a tuft of whiskers tickled her hand. “It’s all vibes, Lizbeth. Dogs know things,” she said as she held out her palm for a lick.

  Perhaps it was the salty air, or the beckoning sea breeze, but all Bea knew was that she yearned for the touch of the Caribbean on her toes. After a quick stop at their hotel room, Charlie slapped a straw hat onto Bea’s head and walked with her across the road to do just that.

  “Careful,” her granddaughter warned as they picked their way over detritus strewn across the sand—palm fronds and coconut shells, mixed with plastic bottles and other trash, all making the journey seem more like an obstacle course than a walk on the beach. But closer to the shoreline, Bea could feel the sand turn smooth and damp, left clear by the sweeping of the tide. Here, it felt as pristine as any beach in Carmel. But the water, she thought as it finally came to greet her feet, was much more welcoming, like a warm bath with Epsom salt after a day of hard work.

  “Stay put,” Charlie told her. “I see a couple of chairs.”

  Bea remained blissfully at the shore, her feet resting in two little pools churning with the mellow tide.

  “Bracelets? You want bracelets? Look and see.”

  The surround-sound echo of a gaggle of young boys startled Bea. “No thank you,” she said. “I have plenty.” She shook her wrists toward them, her own bracelets clattering like shutters in the wind.

  “Blan needs bracelets.”

  “No money.” She gestured toward her pockets with open palms.

  “Only three dollar,” one said. “Very cheap.”

  “I’m sure they’re lovely,” she answered. “But no.”

  “We have more. Look.”

  “I said no thank you.”

  “Lady, you need bracelet. Very nice. Look.”

  “Please!” Bea said. “No money. No dollars. No gourdes. Nada. Understand?”

  “Two dollar.”

  “Not going to happen. Now go.”

  “Two dollar. Very cheap.”

  “Give us some money.”

  Bea forced her lips into a scowl and pointed a bony finger toward the loudest in the group, shaking it like a stick. “Wap konn Jòj!” she shouted. “Wap konn Jòj!”

  Charlie arrived by her side, and the boys turned their attention to her. Before she knew it, Bea felt her granddaughter’s hand slipping band upon band onto her already crowded wrist.

  “Mèsi. Very nice. Have a good evening!” Charlie said as the boys scattered. “What was that about? What were you yelling?”

  “Wap konn Jòj. You will know George.”

  “Who the hell is George?”

  “Hurricane. A bad one. It means ‘don’t mess with me’.”

  “Where did you learn to say that?”

  “Stanley. He told me it works wonders.”

  “A bit harsh, don’t you think? Poor kids were just trying to earn a bit of money.”

  Bea shrugged her shoulders. “It worked, didn’t it? No harm done. I just wanted some peace and quiet, that’s all.”

  Charlie positioned two plastic chairs at the shoreline, putting Bea directly above the tide, her feet sinking into the wet slush below.

  “You know, you’re going to have to go back up there,” she said, her eyes closed, her face tilted up into the sun.

  “Where, Bea?” her granddaughter asked with a sigh.

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Do we have to, Bibi? I thought you wanted peace and quiet.”

  “I’ll get enough of that when I’m dead.” Bea straightened in her chair. “I’m serious, Charlie. Something’s going on up there, and I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Of course something’s going on up there. People living in filth, working literally like slaves, while she sits like a queen behind her white picket fence.”

  “You know that’s not who your mother is, Charlie. Not deep down.”

  “How can you say that? She’s bought into that asshole’s bullshit hook, line, and sinker.”

  “Well, she’s obviously susceptible to the man, or you’d have never ended up in the jungle in the first place.”

  “Exactly!”

  “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

  “Who said anything about that?”

  “I did.”

  “So what, she’s been brainwashed or something? That’s what kept her from leaving—what let her go on with her life as if she didn’t have a daughter at all?”

  “I’m just saying I think there’s more to this than we know.”

  Bea saw Charlie’s shadow shift as she stood.

  “Why do you defend her, Bibi? You don’t think I saw those letters come back to you, all sealed up? You don’t think I noticed the look on your face every time someone asked about her? I hate her for that.”

  Bea turned toward her granddaughter, her hands gripping the cracked plastic arms of the chair. “This isn’t about me, Charlie. It’s about you. You can’t live the rest of your life carrying around all that hurt you have inside. A woman needs her mother.”

  “Tell that to your daughter.”

  “I tell you Charlie, something is wrong. I’m worried.”

  “Cut it out, Bea. Don’t try to use your worry to save me. I don’t need saving.”

  Bea heard the sound of a small stone bouncing across the water.

  “Honestly, Bea? Sometimes I think it would be easier if she were just dead.”

  “Charlie! How can you say that?”

  “All I mean is that, instead of all this shit we’ve been going through, we would instead have been sad, grieved, and it would be over with. One, two, three.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Charlie.”

  “I know.”

  Bea listened to the water lapping at the shore. She felt her granddaughter’s arms embrace her from behind.

  “I know,” Charlie repeated. I’m sorry, Bibi. I think I’m going to take a walk. You okay here?”

  Bea nodded. “I’m fine.”

  With the gentle waves tickling her ankles like a soft massage, Bea felt herself drifting off under the evening sun. She had no idea how long she’d been out when, suddenly, she was startled awake by someone removing her hat.

  “Charlie?” she asked, her hand flying to her head.

  “They’re doing braids, Bibi. I just had mine done. See?” She took one of Bea’s hands and ran it across her scalp. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “Oh no, not me.” Bea reached to retrieve her hat.

  “Come on, Bibi. They’re such cute little girls. And it’s cheap. Only five dollars. Imagine what you’d pay for that at home.”

  “I wouldn’t pay for it at home. And I’m not going to pay for it here. Braids? Me? Ridiculous.”

  “It’s my treat. Seriously, what’s the harm? I can always take it out later.�
�

  “Why don’t you just give the girls the money, and skip the braids?”

  “They’re trying to earn their money, Bea. What kind of a lesson would that be? Just do it. It’ll be fun.”

  Bea sighed as four small hands began to play with her short locks. She could feel the girls fumbling, and heard them giggling. It wasn’t long before Charlie was laughing as well.

  “What? What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “They’re just having a bit of trouble.”

  “Well, they can stop, you know, if it’s too much of a challenge for them.”

  “No, no. It’s all good,” Charlie assured her between chortles.

  Now Bea started to giggle too, imagining herself looking like an old, wrinkled, white version of that rapper, Snoopy Dog or whatever his name was. She couldn’t help herself. It was a funny image. This made the girls laugh even harder as they tugged gently at her hair. Which made Bea laugh even harder as well.

  The girls suddenly stopped, and started talking. They seemed to be having a consultation on the sand.

  “You should help them, Charlie,” Bea laughed.

  “Me? What do I know about braiding?”

  “Bèl … granmè … blan … kaka … cheve” were the only words Bea could make out from the girls’ conversation.

  “What are they saying, Charlie?” she asked, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

  “I don’t know. Something about the pretty grandma and her white shit hair, I think.”

  And there they sat, four hairdressers, sharing a moment that, in truth, needed no translation. Just another day behind the chair, Bea thought, as she listened to the welcome sound of her granddaughter’s laughter rolling across the sea.

  22

  Charlie was happy to be alone. She sat on the patio outside the sliding glass doors of the hotel room, basking in the night air with an unopened book by her side, savoring the solitude.

  At dinner, Bea and Lizbeth had both been particularly energized, Lizbeth howling at Bea’s account of the girls and the attempted braids, Bea getting Lizbeth all pumped up about the possibility of finding her grandchild the next day. When Franz, the hotel owner, showed up with a trio of giant, twitching langoustines dangling from his fingers, the two of them practically squealed.