Waiting for the Waters to Rise

by Maryse Conde

  On Saturdays we walked to Ducul, a small coastal village where we prayed, sang hymns, cleansed ourselves, asked forgiveness, and drove out demons as we bathed in the sea dressed in white albs. It did me a lot of good. Sometimes I saw Papa and Maman smiling at me from the gates of Heaven. As for Reinette, she categorically refused to partake in these pilgrimages and called them monkey business. She said we were frustrated and disoriented because of the chaotic political situation in Haiti and we needed to be engaged politically.

  “We must be the mouth of those calamities that have no mouth,” she claimed—an expression I suspected she had borrowed from one of her numerous readings.

  Only such an “engagement,” she said, would give a meaning to our lives. She herself served as an example and campaigned in all kinds of organizations: for human rights, in defense of democracy, for ending arbitrary arrests and the sentencing of political prisoners, to name just a few. All in vain, needless to say.

  One evening she came fidgeting in front of me. “You know, Papa wasn’t simply Jean-Claude’s physician like everyone thought. Because of their close relationship, he was also his confidant and advisor for all the tricky situations. In July 1980, for example, he was the one who had that guy from Cuba, Nestor Tibois, arrested. It made headlines. Nestor Tibois was supposedly a Communist who urged the sugarcane workers to go on strike. They arrested him, tortured and then executed him. Papa was an assassin. Like Jean-Claude. Like François Duvalier. Like Trujillo in the Dominican Republic. Like Batista in Cuba. The Caribbean produces the worst kind of dictators because our people are too passive,” she concluded learnedly.

  I can’t say whether this theory was right or not. Besides, I couldn’t give a damn. My entire body was boiling at the way she had insulted our father. I could have let fly and slapped her for what she had said. I preferred to turn my back. From that day on I stopped speaking to her. I passed her by like the sea rolls over a reef, without even looking at her. My attitude must have tormented her since night after night she would dash into my bedroom and start talking to herself.

  “Face the truth,” she often begged me. “Why can’t anyone bear the truth? The past is past. You’re not responsible for Papa’s crimes and his clique of profiteers. What counts is that you lead another life.”

  Other times she would spout on about one subject or another. One evening she announced straight off, “I want to change my name. I can’t go on being called Ovide. I’m too ashamed.”

  I choked. How could you be ashamed of your parents’ name? Wasn’t their name a treasure to be worshiped? Our parents had adored Reinette during the short lapse of time they had lived with her. I can remember how overjoyed Papa was.

  “Look how lovely she is. We’ll call her Reinette, which means Little Queen, just as your name Estrella means Star.”

  One evening she shouted, all excited: “I’m in love. It so happens I’ve met a boy, nothing like your vulgar militiaman, believe me. His name’s Léo Saint-Eloi. Do you know who he is?”

  Of course I knew! Léo Saint-Eloi was a journalist working at Radio Liberté, fresh off the plane from Cuba, who within a few weeks had become the darling of Port-au-Prince. Ironically, he belonged to a family of mulattoes, one of the most conservative in Haiti and former friends of the Duvaliers. But he boasted that he had broken all links with their ideas. It was rumored that in Cuba his only job was playing the bass guitar in the orchestra directed by Che Guevara’s son. That didn’t prevent him from playing the great revolutionary—and attacking the President. He claimed the President had dampened every hope, that he was rotten and worse than Papa and Baby Doc.

  Reinette pranced about my room proclaiming, “It was love at first sight. We knew we were right for each other. We dream of living together, for what’s the point of marrying in a country like ours where death lies in wait at every step you take. I’ll never get married.”

  The news was even more surprising since in Haiti Blacks and mulattoes were hardly made for each other and seldom intermarried. Intrigued, I had my future brother-in-law investigated. I learned he was a first-rate womanizer. There was no counting the number of women he had promised to marry. More importantly, I learned that a growing number of people disappointed by his private behavior distrusted him politically.

  Now cloaked in love, Reinette’s behavior became even more irritating. She spent hours on the telephone warbling with her Léo. Of course, she never brought him home. She was too ashamed of us! I confess I had never dreamt for a moment what she was up to. One evening she turned up with a wicked glow in her eyes and feverishly explained her project.

  “Léo and I have elaborated a series of radio programs which will go down in history. It will be called Memory Erased. It’s a great title, isn’t it?”

  As usual, I didn’t say a word. She continued.

  “The first program will be devoted to Papa.”

  I thought I had misheard and got my tongue back to yell. “To Papa!?”

  “Yes!” She drew up a chair, sat down, and slowly explained to me as if she was talking to a child. “I’ve got a huge number of documents I’ve picked up over the years: unpublished material that people have never heard of, the hidden side of an exciting period of history that we are going to reveal.”

  I went out of my mind. “Leave Papa alone!” I cried, and hurled myself on her and grabbed her throat.

  I would have killed her if Tonine hadn’t dashed in upon hearing such a commotion. She managed to separate us with great difficulty. I was like a madwoman. I shouted I was going to get a kitchen knife to slash her throat. She left in the middle of the night, terrified. A few hours later she returned with Léo to pick up her belongings. I saw him for the first time: a very white mulatto, looking like the portrait of a young Victor Hugo I had seen in a book. The same angelic look, but his words were by no means angelic: “Bloody witches! You dared to threaten Reinette! Just wait. We are going to denounce you over the radio and the crowd will come and stone you like they stoned Jean Ovide.”

  Thereupon they left and I never saw them again.

  The very next day Léo Saint-Eloi solemnly announced the launch of a series of programs he had prepared with “firsthand information provided by the daughter of a Duvalierist.”

  How could they both be stopped from doing any further harm? How could we prevent these vipers from spitting their venom? I’m asking you to believe me. So many stories have been told about me. They’re not true. I swear what I’m telling you is the absolute truth. I’m the woman of a single man, even though there have been times when I have taken my pleasure with others: with that fat pig Roro, for example.

  You should know that in this dull life of mine I came to bask in happiness, perhaps the greatest happiness there is, that of falling in love and being loved in return. One fine day Henri Christophe appeared in my dreary life in order to transform it into something like a fairy tale, into a scenario more exciting than those movies in the cinema where I worked. When I first brought him home, Tonine was none too pleased. She said he was too black. He could hardly read or write. He was a worthless child and no doubt exploited when he was little. Then Tonine’s heart melted. You can’t help liking Henri Christophe. Reinette, of course, refused to shake his hand or speak to him, but he didn’t care a damn. He even laughed about it.

  “Your sister, we should call her Miss Revolution!”

  You’ll hear a lot of bad things about Henri Christophe. First, they’ll tell you he’s an impostor who has nothing to do with his ancestor, the late emperor. Complete lies! Henri Christophe I fathered four boys with a poor slave girl called Myrtille whom he forbade to set foot in the Sans-Souci Palace, where he held court. Was he ashamed of her? Did he want to protect her from all the intrigues? We will never know. The fact is that when Henri Christophe I died, she killed herself. Henri Christophe II descends from his first son. They’ll tell you he deals in drugs and weapons: it’s true. That h
e drinks: it’s true. That he gambles and wins and loses large sums of money: all that is true. But nobody needs to be perfect to be loved. Otherwise love would be a reward and not a miracle. The important thing is that Henri Christophe II has a heart of gold. I have never met someone with a heart like his. He has a personal score to settle with suffering and misery. There’s no counting the number of schools and dispensaries he has had built. At Jérémie, his hometown, he had built the Lycée of Human Rights, where every year they award the Prize for Democracy. It may sound naive but the older students are asked to reflect on the philosophy of famous men like Tocqueville, Montesquieu, Che Guevara, or Robert Badinter. Henri Christophe II is strong yet gentle, so tender and so cheerful. When I met him, he had just come back from Washington where he had remained with the President as his bodyguard. He dreams of returning to live there with me.

  “Let’s leave the misfortunes of Haiti behind us,” he tells me. “Let’s leave for the USA. Washington is a garden city, a green city. In springtime, the Japanese cherry trees blossom pink all along Massachusetts Avenue. In the fall, the leaves turn every shade of red.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Washington? What would we do there?”

  “There are loads of drugs in the US,” he laughs. “I wouldn’t be at a loss for work, I’ve already got my connections!”

  The President and Henri Christophe adored each other, like father and son. But we never talked about it. We never discussed politics. I hate politics and the violence involved. It’s politics that killed my parents. It’s because of politics that I grew up without Papa or Maman. When Reinette told me about her idea for a series of radio programs, I cried my heart out. It was Tonine who advised me to ask Henri Christophe for help. To do what exactly? I don’t dare imagine. I therefore told Henri Christophe. He kissed me and begged me to stop worrying myself about all that. He would take charge of things.

  Less than a week later Léo was gunned down, dead in the middle of the district of Delmas. His body, beaten black and blue, his head pierced by two or three bullets, had laid about all day long amid the garbage and the dust. It was a horrible sight. At nightfall, his parents came to pick him up under the cover of darkness. Like that he wouldn’t roam eternally, at least that’s what we believe. It caused a genuine shock in Haiti. In a complete turnaround, the same people who once believed him to be a poseur, even an impostor, began to sing his praises. They recalled how brave he was to criticize the President day after day in his editorials. An American moviemaker came from Hollywood and, without asking anyone’s permission, made a documentary called Grand Reporter, a naive hagiography which would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so pitiful. Everyone accused Henri Christophe of the crime. He was said to have acted on orders from Tonine and me, in order to please me in particular. I asked him outright and he said it wasn’t him. IT WASN’T HIM. What had happened? Perhaps the President had given orders to someone else to assassinate this journalist whom he couldn’t abide. Perhaps this bastard, Léo, had other enemies. A woman? I don’t doubt Henri Christophe’s word.

  Tonine and I were stupid enough to attend Léo’s wake. We believe you should respect death when it passes. People took it to be a provocation. There were crowds at the Saint-Eloi’s place, where the corpse, which had been patched up as best they could, was on display. Reinette lorded over it like a tearful widow and pretended not to see us. The others either whispered and stared at us as if we were criminals or else ignored us. What disgusted me the most was the hypocrisy of these bourgeois who treated us like pariahs, as if my parents had been the only Duvalierists in the country. As if they had never benefited from this regime’s generosity.

  A few weeks later, Reinette, who lived at Léo’s, disappeared. We looked for her everywhere. The Saint-Eloi family even hired the services of a private detective specializing in the murky practices of kidnapping, which had begun to flourish. In vain. Reinette had probably fled the country like so many others had, by every possible and imaginable means: by boat or by raft, and by plane for the luckier ones. Very quickly, the rumor circulated that she too had been killed by us and that we had got rid of her body out of revenge. If you have news of her, keep it to yourself. I want nothing more to do with her. She did us too much harm.

  And that’s where we stand today. Henri Christophe is suffering torture. First of all, when the foreign powers ousted his beloved President, he swore he would bring him back. He raised gangs of young rebels like himself and practically divided the country in two. But he hadn’t counted on the savagery, the treachery, and the traps of the Americans. They have decimated his troops and sworn to bring about his downfall. Today, all that’s left for him is to surrender his arms and disperse his remaining men. All I ask him is that we retire to one of our palatial residences to finish our lives in peace—and this is the one I prefer. But he tells me he has one last act to accomplish. The interim president was the close, inseparable friend of the ousted President. According to Henri Christophe, he was hand in glove with the Westerners, who had his beloved President exiled. He wants to punish him for his treachery. How? I dare not imagine.

  There is one thing I would like to add before concluding. Forgive me if I sound so brutal.

  I’ve noticed the way you have been looking at me and I know what that means since I am all too familiar with men’s ways. I will never be yours. Nor anyone else’s. My love is reserved for one man only. And on top of that, I don’t like physicians, they are the civil servants of death.

  -

  “WHEN CAN I bring you Anaïs?” Babakar heard himself ask.

  Estrella aroused him to such an extent he didn’t know what he was saying. He sensed too that Estrella was not at all interested in her niece and had no intention of caring for her. He was not mistaken. She made an evasive face and explained, “I loathe children, smelling of urine and Bien-être Eau de Cologne. I’m determined never to have one. And anyway, tomorrow at dawn Henri Christophe and I are leaving for Johannesburg. He’s going to see his mentor, the one he calls his father. As soon as I get back, I’ll get in touch.”

  She now seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. Regretfully, Babakar took his leave. For years his blood hadn’t flown so ardently, so impatiently. He burned with an irrational desire to stay with her and see her again. As he walked back along the corridor, Tonine loomed up in front of him. She stopped, grinning sardonically.

  “So, Reinette has had a child?” she inquired in her deep, cavernous voice.

  “Yes, a girl,” he replied, trembling irrationally with fear.

  “When are you going to bring her for us to see? Estrella must be longing to meet her.”

  The glow in her eyes and the expression on her doleful face contradicted her kindhearted words.

  “She’s going to call me as soon as she gets back from South Africa,” Babakar stammered, panic-stricken.

  With a pounding heart, he walked across the park and bumped into a group of heavily armed individuals, probably bodyguards, rallying around a young man, barefoot, his shirt wide open and a red bandana tying up his dreadlocks, which were the russet color of tobacco leaves. The stranger gave him a friendly smile and introduced himself quite naturally.

  “I’m Henri Christophe, direct descendant, or whatever people say, of the Emperor Christophe.”

  So, this was Estrella’s companion. Babakar was nauseated to find him so charming.

  “Have you visited the Sans-Souci Palace?” Henri Christophe asked, taking Babakar familiarly by the arm.

  Babakar apologized. He had so much work that he had little time for leisure. And also, people had told him that this part of the country was dangerous. Hadn’t it virtually seceded?

  “A load of crap! Dangerous for whom?” Henri Christophe thundered. “For the Americans and their lackeys. In this land of cowards and flunkeys, everyone surrenders to the diktats of the West. But we, we dare say NO, and defend what is dear to us. I’ve heard a lo
t of good things about you,” he continued. “Apparently, you have an orphanage in Saint-Soledad and you’ve taken over the Mother Teresa Center which that mulatto abandoned. You come from Africa, they tell me?”

  “I come from Mali,” Babakar replied. “My family is originally from Segu.”

  He surprised himself by speaking with an unintentional pride. But it was obvious that the name meant nothing to Henri Christophe.

  “Would you like to work for us?” he asked. “We need men like you.”

  “What could I possibly do?” Babakar laughed. “I only know how to deliver babies.”

  “I don’t believe you. What I’m trying to do is restore our youth’s confidence in themselves. Your example would be an inspiration. Come back and see me, I beg you. Tell me about Africa. Africa has always fascinated me.”

  What Africa do you want me to tell you about? Babakar thought to himself. There are hundreds of Africas. You wouldn’t like mine, suffering and martyrized by meaningless wars.

  A 4x4 was waiting to drive him back to the Alexandra. Although his fright had settled, he remained with an aching heart. He had once again suffered a rebuff from an Ovide girl and her deadly charm. First Reinette, now Estrella.

  All around him the night was the color of ink and the car’s headlights lit up the twisted trunks of trees like frightened animals.

  The Alexandra was illuminated like an ocean liner on departure. The sounds of an orchestra indicated a dance was being held in the great living room. Movar was smoking with his back to the window while Fouad was skillfully dancing a merengue with Myriam.

  Babakar walked up to Movar and said angrily, “Where were you all? Where did you go?”

  By way of reply, Movar shook his head solemnly and started up the same old refrain. “Moun sa yo pa bon moun. Ann kité zon sa a.”