important things included Fignolé, my brother, my son, my gift. And there was me.
Three years before Fignolé was born, Mother slapped away the man whom I see rarely, whose mistress she had been for a while and who is none other than my father. She courageously sought to support us in life, the three of us â Angélique, herself and me. She mended clothes, prepared pots of jam and made several return journeys to the Dominican Republic to sell cheap trinkets. A few dollars from Uncle Thémosthène, who had moved to Little Haiti, Miami, made it easier to make ends meet at the end of the month. And then one evening, against all expectations, Onil Hermantin, a man who, from time to time, had offered her consolation against the tribulations of ordinary life, asked her to marry him. To the great surprise of everyone, she accepted. She let down her guard before a man who was offering her a roof over her head and a ring on her finger. She was mistaken. But tell me, what woman, however strong she may be, would not want to be consoled once in her life? Tell me. This arrangement did not last long enough to leave its mark on her, but enough to sicken her like the smell of rotten fruit. A few months after the birth of Fignolé, Mother recovered her status of free woman with a relief she did not try to conceal. Mother had a husband and many lovers, but no man ever possessed her. None of them was her lord or master. They hardly shared their fleeting relief. They did not teach her much but a few techniques in bed. Gave her nothing but a few dollars. Mother is not one to buy the peace of a home by selling her soul.
She left the house, taking with her a little money, enough to keep herself for barely four days, the two bags containing our clothes, her three children and inside herself the certainty that she was coming out on top. Aunt Sylvanie helped us to move into a single room, damp and dark, at the end of a seedy passage. We three children all slept on a mattress on the floor behind a curtain cut from coarse cloth. It may have been only a room, but Mother wanted wherever she lived to be her own; she would not be accountable to anyone. At that time, when Mother offered food to the loas it was often Erzulie Fréda, Erzulie the beautiful, Erzulie the tender, who would possess her. After demanding all, the spirit would leave her lascivious and reassured.
One day, between moon and sun, when we had not eaten all day, a shadow appeared behind the drawn curtain. I let out a cry of fright. I was at that age where I still believed in creatures lying dormant in the legends or awaiting us in our dreams. Holding her nightshirt over her breasts, Mother placed her lips on my brow and whispered that one of them had come to visit us. I soon believed them capable of a thousand wonders as we ate better during the days following their furtive visits.
Without having to dress in revealing clothes, without swinging her hips, sometimes without having to make the slightest gesture, Mother could attract men. She was surrounded by a perfume of eroticism, of which she herself was not aware. She exuded sex like other women exude boredom. There were lovers who, some days, would listen to her talking before delighting her body. I always saw her make these men feel as if they were unique, and they believed her. And the light she radiated held them fast without them being able to do much to get free. Once under her spell, they were caught. There was no-one like her for drawing out the simplest words and giving them music, mellowness or resonance. I never heard a woman ask a man âWill you have a coffee or a finger of rum?â with such sweetness. Mother had no idea of this sweetness that flowed from the depths of her wide eyes, from her voice of caves and expansive distances that constantly exhorted them to follow, from her violet, flower-like lips. She had no idea of the subtle invitation of her ample hips. However often I have delved into the
Three years before Fignolé was born, Mother slapped away the man whom I see rarely, whose mistress she had been for a while and who is none other than my father. She courageously sought to support us in life, the three of us â Angélique, herself and me. She mended clothes, prepared pots of jam and made several return journeys to the Dominican Republic to sell cheap trinkets. A few dollars from Uncle Thémosthène, who had moved to Little Haiti, Miami, made it easier to make ends meet at the end of the month. And then one evening, against all expectations, Onil Hermantin, a man who, from time to time, had offered her consolation against the tribulations of ordinary life, asked her to marry him. To the great surprise of everyone, she accepted. She let down her guard before a man who was offering her a roof over her head and a ring on her finger. She was mistaken. But tell me, what woman, however strong she may be, would not want to be consoled once in her life? Tell me. This arrangement did not last long enough to leave its mark on her, but enough to sicken her like the smell of rotten fruit. A few months after the birth of Fignolé, Mother recovered her status of free woman with a relief she did not try to conceal. Mother had a husband and many lovers, but no man ever possessed her. None of them was her lord or master. They hardly shared their fleeting relief. They did not teach her much but a few techniques in bed. Gave her nothing but a few dollars. Mother is not one to buy the peace of a home by selling her soul.
She left the house, taking with her a little money, enough to keep herself for barely four days, the two bags containing our clothes, her three children and inside herself the certainty that she was coming out on top. Aunt Sylvanie helped us to move into a single room, damp and dark, at the end of a seedy passage. We three children all slept on a mattress on the floor behind a curtain cut from coarse cloth. It may have been only a room, but Mother wanted wherever she lived to be her own; she would not be accountable to anyone. At that time, when Mother offered food to the loas it was often Erzulie Fréda, Erzulie the beautiful, Erzulie the tender, who would possess her. After demanding all, the spirit would leave her lascivious and reassured.
One day, between moon and sun, when we had not eaten all day, a shadow appeared behind the drawn curtain. I let out a cry of fright. I was at that age where I still believed in creatures lying dormant in the legends or awaiting us in our dreams. Holding her nightshirt over her breasts, Mother placed her lips on my brow and whispered that one of them had come to visit us. I soon believed them capable of a thousand wonders as we ate better during the days following their furtive visits.
Without having to dress in revealing clothes, without swinging her hips, sometimes without having to make the slightest gesture, Mother could attract men. She was surrounded by a perfume of eroticism, of which she herself was not aware. She exuded sex like other women exude boredom. There were lovers who, some days, would listen to her talking before delighting her body. I always saw her make these men feel as if they were unique, and they believed her. And the light she radiated held them fast without them being able to do much to get free. Once under her spell, they were caught. There was no-one like her for drawing out the simplest words and giving them music, mellowness or resonance. I never heard a woman ask a man âWill you have a coffee or a finger of rum?â with such sweetness. Mother had no idea of this sweetness that flowed from the depths of her wide eyes, from her voice of caves and expansive distances that constantly exhorted them to follow, from her violet, flower-like lips. She had no idea of the subtle invitation of her ample hips. However often I have delved into the
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