Lay it down.
A breeze played over her bare legs and she let her feet dig into the white sand.
* * *
When the sun had dropped lower in the sky, knots of children came along and fed themselves into the waves, splashing and laughing. A young man came down the beach wearing a peaked woven hat with a wide brim, a beat-up old guitar over his shoulder. It was Marbeille’s son Abel, the one who had caught her when she fainted earlier that day. It surely didn’t seem like the same day, but much longer ago. He nodded to her and smiled, took a seat on an overturned rowboat and began to play. Some of the splashing children gravitated toward the music and danced together on the sand. The sunset colors tinted Abel’s white shirt and black skin with touches of rose. His hands fluttered like moths over the strings of the guitar, the children danced, and the music floated between the waves.
One of the boys, bare-chested and in short trousers, squatted near Abel, watching him play. A boy perhaps the same age as Gerard. He looked over at her for a curious moment, a strange woman he’d not seen before. She saw his dark eyes briefly, then he turned his face back to the music.
The sun sank into the sea and the sky stretched overhead dark blue. A single star appeared and hung over the black sea. An old lullaby of her mother’s came to mind, and she sang to herself, as she had on a dark night years ago, though it was different now. The breeze a light hand on her cheek.
* * *
Eleanor woke before dawn and slipped on the linen gown. Her back was stiff from her first night ever sleeping in a hammock, but she felt lighter and refreshed.
Marbeille was up, lighting the stove and throwing out yesterday’s coffee grounds. They had arranged that Abel would accompany Eleanor to the village of the man with the pipe, and from there she would go with the man’s wife to see the quimboiseur, Old Silas, the last living apprentice of Mémé Abeje. Marbeille gave Eleanor a mesh bag to hang across her shoulders, in which she had placed a number of small round fruits and a tattered silk parasol. At Marbeille’s instruction Eleanor had gone to a shop near the café the afternoon before to purchase a sachet of tobacco and a bottle of rum, to bring as gifts. The shopkeeper accepted American silver, and used a scale to reckon the pricing. Eleanor placed the rum and the tobacco in the mesh bag, carefully so as not to crush the fruit, and set out with Abel on a narrow road that snaked up into the hills.
In less than an hour they reached a small village and the home of the man with the pipe. His wife looked to be a contemporary of Marbeille, but did not quite have her outgoing manner. The elder lady led a small brown donkey on a rope, laden with two large sacks, and they continued on a smaller road, farther into the mountains. The sun was up now, with a heavy heat rising from the thick greenery on either side of the path, while hidden insects whirred, and birds called. Eleanor was grateful for the parasol and the little fruits that she shared with her companion, who smiled at her now and again, but kept mostly silent.
After perhaps another hour they arrived at a cluster of huts with walls like woven baskets, and approached one that had a pigpen, several chickens strutting around, and a large mango tree with small green fruit that draped over the thatched roof. A woman that looked to be Eleanor’s age in a colorful dress and red headscarf stepped through the open doorway and the three women exchanged greetings. Eleanor’s companion explained her presence there, and then with a wave continued up the path with the donkey. She would be back later for their return journey.
The woman in the red headscarf introduced herself as Sidonie. “You have come to see Papa Okun?” she asked. Eleanor had learned that Old Silas was also called this way. Sidonie had such a lively, fresh face Eleanor did not think she could be the wife of an old man.
“Is he your father?” she asked.
“My great uncle,” said Sidonie. “He is just sleeping now, but we will have a talk with him later. It’s lucky you came now. We don’t know how much longer we will have him with us.” Sidonie told Eleanor that Papa was mostly blind now and had suffered a sudden paralysis in the last rainy season that left him unable to walk or speak clearly. She said Papa’s relatives took turns caring for him, and that it was an honor to do so, because in his long life he had cared for a great many people.
Sidonie asked Eleanor to wait a moment and went inside. She came out of the hut with a large basket of dried bean pods and led Eleanor around the back to a stand of shade trees, the smallest of which was covered in white and yellow flowers. Eleanor stepped closer to the tree, recognizing the distinct shape of the blossoms. There were five fleshy white petals, arranged just so, with deep yellow centers. A frangipani. She remembered from the drawings that decorated the publicity materials of the Orchestra. Sidonie knelt down beside her with the basket and commenced to shelling beans. Eleanor sat too, to help.
“What is this tree?” Eleanor asked.
“We call this arbre de couleuvre,” said Sidonie. Snake tree. “At night it releases its fragrance, though you can still smell it now.” After a moment of quiet shelling Sidonie continued. “We make many medicines from this tree, from the leaves, the blossoms, the bark. It cures ailments of the skin and blood, the bowel and fever.”
“Papa Okun has taught you this?” Eleanor asked, and the other woman nodded.
“Every plant has its spirit, its guardian,” Sidonie said. “The flower of the snake tree also teaches us. It is love long in absence.”
“Love long in absence,” Eleanor murmured.
“We love our flowers here, you know,” said Sidonie. “Our island is not only called Martinique, but also Ile aux Fleurs. And it also is called Pays des Revenants.”
The country of those who return. Things were known by so many names, Eleanor mused. Frangipani or snake tree, Old Silas or Papa Okun. Even she herself had been called in different ways, Eleanor, El, Nora, chère.
Coughing was heard from inside the hut.
“I will just check on Papa,” Sidonie said, rising. She was gone for some time. Eleanor finished the shelling and then just sat, wondering if she should go in too, but before she could decide Sidonie emerged and said, “He is ready to see you now.”
Eleanor followed Sidonie into the hut, where the figure of an old man lay in a hammock. His head, covered in a thin white stubble, appeared large atop his shrunken body. Sidonie knelt down on a mat beside him and motioned for Eleanor to do the same.
“This is Eleanor, Papa,” she said. “The granddaughter of Mémé’s niece.” The old man reached out a wizened hand to Eleanor and she took it in hers. His grip was firm and the fingers long. He must have been much larger in his younger years, and strong. With great effort he spoke a few garbled words.
“He says he doesn’t see with his eyes now,” said Sidonie, “but he sees with his heart.”
There was more of the garbled speech and Sidonie interpreted.
“Papa says the spirits are very pleased you have come to pay your respects. He says your ancestor was a powerful healer. She was a mother to him, and a great teacher.”
Eleanor knew nothing of spirits, they were no more real to her than fairy stories, but she felt a presence in that small room, as if the frail old man were a towering giant. Not fearsome, but somehow very big. She felt an electricity in his hand that still gripped hers, akin to the way she sensed the music inside an instrument. Yet he was already tiring. He said something else and then closed his eyes, catching his breath.
“He knows your grandmother,” said Sidonie, “because Mémé has told him about her. She was called Ayo.”
“My grandmother was called Hetty,” said Eleanor, wondering if perhaps he was mistaken.
He spoke again, and Sidonie said, “Yes, he remembers from a letter received by Mémé long ago. The child’s parents called her Ayo, their word for joy.” There was a long silence, during which Eleanor wondered if the old man had fallen asleep, but he spoke once more.
“Papa will offer you a blessing now,” Sidonie said. She went to retrieve Eleanor’s bottle of rum from
the chest by the front doorway. After removing the cork with a thin knife she spilled a few drops in each corner of the hut, murmuring something Eleanor couldn’t make out. She struck a match and lit a small bundle of dried herbs that smoldered in a clay dish, giving out a fragrant smoke. She fanned at it with her hands and set it on the mat beside Eleanor.
Eleanor closed her eyes a moment. She heard a faint humming sound—the old man was singing. She saw herself riding a train alone in wintertime. She saw the tiny, familiar, wet body of a newborn child. Jack’s crushed hands wrapped in plaster, Alma weeping. Now another newborn child, drawn away from the body of its mother, and a man crying out. Strong arms lifted Eleanor, and held her. She heard a voice from ages ago murmuring her name. Her mother, younger than she could remember.
Mama.
The smell of broken earth filled her nostrils, the smell of a grave, of birth blood. The ringing sound of an earthen pot striking stone and shattering rushed her ears, the first cry and the last.
And then the sound of music, a piano, a melody she had never heard but that moved her heart, and she saw that a young man played, a young man with hair combed in minute dark waves. He was dressed in a suit, and held a thin cigarette in his lips, and his fingers moved over the keys so gracefully.
Step by step the melody played on, until the notes reached her, as if knocking on a door.
Eleanor opened her eyes.
She was there in the hut with Sidonie, and the old man, Papa Okun.
She still held his hand, but his grip had relaxed and his breathing had become rhythmic. Sidonie gently took his hand from Eleanor and laid it over his chest. He was asleep. She motioned for Eleanor to follow her outside again, and back to sit under the frangipani. Sidonie picked up the basket, the shiny red beans now separated from their husks.
“I must tend to some chores now,” she said. “Why don’t you rest awhile.”
Eleanor did suddenly feel remarkably sleepy. The grass was soft and welcoming and she lay down, with her arm folded under her head.
She awoke when Sidonie touched her shoulder.
“Sister,” she said, “it’s time to eat something. Madame will come for you soon.” She held out a bowl of yellow porridge and stewed vegetables. Eleanor sat up and took the bowl. The handle of a flat wooden spoon stuck up from the middle.
“How can I thank you?” Eleanor asked. “You and Papa Okun.” She still did not know what to make of these events, of the blessing, but she sensed it was terribly important. She felt as though she had been passed from hand to hand, ever since disembarking and fainting into Abel’s arms.
Sidonie smiled. “It is a great gift for Papa to offer a blessing to one of Mémé Abeje’s bloodline,” she said. “The Island Mother has brought you here, and this is an honor for us all.”
“The Island Mother?” asked Eleanor, baffled once more.
Sidonie shook her head and smiled again.
“Have you not felt her?”
* * *
Eleanor had one last evening on the beach near Marbeille’s café. In the morning she would take a steamboat back to Trinidad, to rejoin her company. Abel did not come with his guitar, he was needed elsewhere. But the children came again to splash and play.
As she watched she felt Mémé’s gentleness, and Mama’s boldness, very close by. Something inside herself had been ripped away. The feeling was raw, but open. She felt new.
Behind it all there was a great stillness. And out of the stillness arose a new clarity, fully formed, that after Trinidad she would return home, not to New York but to Montreal. She would face her family, and she would see Gerard.
On the heels of that, she thought of Hig. Suddenly she missed him dearly. Of all the people close to her, she knew no finer than he. If it was possible for her to make a life with another, it would be with him. But she would have to make one more journey before she could know for sure.
* * *
In the summer of 1901 Eleanor Rougeaux traveled by train to her native city, where she had not set foot in more than ten years. The Hudson River Valley was green and brilliant, Lake Champlain wide and sparkling. Eleanor had now been to so many places on the globe, but never was she more full of anticipation than she was now, about to see her home again.
At last she stepped off the train at Central Station. Two old folks, a man and a woman, thin and with white hair approached her.
Papa.
Auntie.
Accompanied by a tall young man, her baby brother Dax.
Dax carried her trunk, laden with gifts, to the old buggy drawn by a new horse. The old house was smaller than she remembered, even though it was emptier. Only Papa, Auntie and Dax lived there now, three people where eight had once filled the rooms. The wooden furniture was all the same, but the curtains were new and the sofa had been reupholstered. Auntie’s many potted plants took up more space than they used to.
Dax brought Eleanor’s bags up to the bedroom she and Melody had once shared.
“I better get back downstairs,” Dax said. “Auntie will give me a hiding if I don’t help her with supper.”
“You cook?” Eleanor was still getting over the shock of seeing him so grown.
“Don’t laugh,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Auntie doesn’t understand about women’s work.”
“Lots of cooks are men, you know,” she said. “Outside the home.”
“Yeah, outside,” he said, ducking out the doorway. “See you in a little.”
Eleanor sat down on the bed. It didn’t seem real yet, being there, and she couldn’t see even one step ahead. Eleanor would be reunited with her sister and other brothers, and all their children, and then with her other aunts and the cousins. Mrs. Allison, her old choir director, was gone now, as were a number of Eleanor’s relatives, but she would see firsthand how life was going forward without them.
* * *
How changed everyone was, and how much the same. Children had grown into adults, adults had aged, new children had been born. Melody was married, expecting her fourth child already. The family held a picnic in a park by the Canal Lachine her first Sunday afternoon. Eleanor knelt on a blanket with Melody, shoulder to shoulder as they always used to work, uncovering dishes and slicing pie when she heard someone say, “Ross and Tilly are here!” She stood up, her heart pounding.
Her brother and his wife approached. He carried a small child, their youngest, and Sarai, their oldest, now a big girl of twelve, held the hand of a younger girl. Ross approached Eleanor and embraced her. “My, oh my,” he said.
“Tilly,” Eleanor said, holding out both her hands. Mathilde clasped them in hers and looked into her face.
“You haven’t changed,” Mathilde said. “But you look so fine I would not have known you.” She introduced her children.
Ross looked around. “Gerard!” he called, waving.
One of a cluster of boys at the canal’s edge separated himself from the group and ran toward them. “Mama!” he said, skidding to a halt and looking up at Tilly, “ Paul has a fishing rod and they think he caught something. Can I go home and get mine?”
“Not now, son,” she said, smiling, brushing off his white shirt and short black pants. “Meet your Aunt Eleanor.”
The child turned toward her. He had his father’s mouth, and his light coloring. And her eyes.
“How do you do?” he said.
“Very well, thank you,” Eleanor managed, “it’s so very nice to meet you.”
Eleanor watched him all that afternoon, sneaking glances so as not to stare.
She saw him tumble with the other boys. Saw him lift up his little sisters when they fell. Saw him put away more pieces of blueberry pie than anyone else.
* * *
Not long ago her brother Albert had acquired a spinet piano, something from a junk heap, and Dax had helped him restore it. When Albert could he taught his children, and Dax brought Gerard, who was immediately fascinated. Gerard’s older cousin Elodie, Albert’s first child, had already taught h
im everything she knew. Whenever he was over at his Uncle Albert’s he played, even little songs of his own creation. Very soon into Eleanor’s stay they had a little group assembled of her nieces and nephews to meet at Albert’s home for informal piano lessons. Albert’s wife Genevieve came into the parlour now and again to tell the smaller children to hush and pay attention. Once in a while she suggested a hymn and they all would sing it.
Gerard, Eleanor quickly noticed, had a remarkable ear, and clever fingers that seemed to do whatever he wanted with hardly any practice. One afternoon they sat together on the piano bench while Eleanor took him through the scales. The other children, grown tired, had gone off in search of other amusements and now it was just the two of them.
“Did you know I’m an orphan?” Gerard said suddenly, keeping his eyes on the keys.
“Yes, I did,” said Eleanor.
“Do you know where I came from?”
Eleanor froze. Oh, what could she say? She couldn’t lie. Nor could she tell him anything. That was up to his parents. She teetered on the edge of danger, but a moment later he rescued them both.
“I came from Toronto,” he said. “Papa told me.”
“I see,” said Eleanor.
“I want to go there one day and see what it’s like,” he said.
“That’s a fine idea,” she said.
“I want to see New York too,” he declared. “Mama told me you went there to study music, and that’s how come we never met you before.”
“That’s right,” she said. And then she ventured, “Would you like to study music at school? When you’re older?”
He frowned, keeping up the scales in excellent time. “That all depends,” he said. “Do they make you eat greens in music school? Because I hate greens.”
Eleanor laughed. “When I was at music school I ate a lot of potato salad. And beans.”
“Okay, then,” Gerard said, “yes, I would like to go there.”
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