Monique was obliged to accept Franchesca’s request. “Of course you can stay with us.”
“Oh … okay … when are you going back? I’ll have to get ready … I’ll travel back with you, okay?”
A million thoughts darted back and forth in Franchesca’s head. What career would she pursue in the city? She had always been impressed by the floral arrangements at marriage ceremonies. She was sure that she could make celebrations even more festive. She would need to find a floral shop that was willing to take her on as an apprentice. Throughout the summer, Franchesca’s thoughts would transport her to the city where she imagined herself in a tidy little shop, designing magnificent arrangements for wealthy, cheerful clients. She would be well paid for her talent and her work and would send money back for her family. There would be money to hire peasants to help raise cattle or goats. Not yet conversant with banks in the city, she imagined those domestic animals as her only logical investment. Once this dream took root, it kept repeating itself with variations.
Monique led Franchesca to believe that she was delighted. But, in her heart, it was bad news. The room she shared with her mother and sisters in Delmas 33 was tiny. Already, there was not enough space. Whatever would they do with Franchesca? However, if she told Franchesca the reality, she feared that the news would spread through Varettes like a hurricane. Everyone would be talking about the bankruptcy of her family in the city. So she kept up the pretence that things were going well. Peasants believed that the move to the capital would be for the better. Any migrant who disabused them of that risked exposing himself or herself as a loser. It was easier to keep up the pretence. And so the makeup, clothes, and hairstyles — superficial signs of success and affluence — hid the reality of life in the city.
The day arrived. Franchesca packed her bag and waited in great anticipation for her new life in the nation’s capital. She prepared provisions that would last them awhile in the city. Together, they climbed aboard a taptap and headed through the mountains.
In Delmas 33, Monique and Franchesca disembarked from the taptap together. Monique immediately walked ahead of Franchesca, not wanting to be available for Franchesca’s questions. In fact, no questions were asked and no answers required. Monique knew that Franchesca was seeing the reality of Port-au-Prince. The narrow alleyways. The crowded slum. The garbage. And not a trace of green.
They arrived at her new home. It was nothing like she had imagined. It was a drab little room of porous cinder blocks under a roof of sheet metal. Although the blocks had been laid years earlier, they had never been plastered. As a result, the rain had driven holes in them. The walls were weak from lack of resources to finish this tiny box of a room.
As she entered the room, her cousins and aunt were trying to figure out what they would eat, since there was nothing in the house and they had no money. When Franchesca entered with bags of food from Varettes, she was greeted as a conquering heroine. Her cousins rifled through the produce as if it was all a great luxury. This was the stuff that she carried on her head every day and that she resented for giving too hard a tone to her muscles.
Monique immediately went to a corner of the floor and fell asleep. Franchesca began to prepare the produce for dinner along with her cousins and aunt.
“Where can I get some water?” she asked. It seemed a mundane question. In Verettes, she could fill her buckets at the spring whenever she wanted to bathe or cook.
“The water is just about finished. We should have bought some, but we ran out of money.”
Buy water? But if you need water to live, what sense could it make that her cousins were telling her that they had no money for it? It was clear that there was no spring in this neighbourhood. But what did all this mean?
Her cousins were too ashamed to ask a peasant newly arrived from the countryside for a few gourdes to buy water. But, without that water, no one would be cooking the rice that came, like Franchesca, from Varettes. Finally, she asked directly, “How can I get some water?”
They lied a little about money that was owed to them that had not come. If Franchesca had five gourdes (13 cents US), they could get enough to fill their needs for the evening. They would, of course, repay that tomorrow. In reality, they would not repay that or any other gourde they took from Franchesca.
As her cousins went out to buy the water, Franchesca tried to get her head around her new life. Why was she so ignorant about all of this? If she needed money for water, what would she do when the few gourdes she had saved for her new life were gone? What would happen when the provisions were gone? There were no fields and trees here.
After the feast from Verettes was finished, Franchesca was tired and ready to sleep. But her cousins and aunt kept eating as though they had been waiting for food for some time. Franchesca asked her aunt where she could sleep.
“As you see, there isn’t much space. You will have to move the pots and the rechau,” they said, pointing to the plates and utensils and dirty pots and cuttings and peelings strewn across the floor that doubled as a counter top. Once cleared, that would be her bed.
After a week, Franchesca’s provisions were finished. She had imagined that they would last much longer, but since there were several mouths to feed and nothing else in the house, they went fast. With the provisions finished, her relatives started to resent her presence. The food she had brought was forgotten once their stomachs were empty. At that point, she began to shed tears and couldn’t stop.
“What are you always crying about?!” they complained. “Stop it!” That didn’t help.
Looking for an escape, she asked Monique if she knew of a family looking for a maid. She knew how to do laundry, cook, and take care of children.
Monique explained that finding a job was not easy. “I’ll find you a koutche. That’s someone who knows what is available and should be able to help. If he finds a household looking for domestic help, he’ll let us know and you’ll have to pay him a fee for his referral.”
A week later, the koutche replied that he had found a family that was looking for a maid, not far away. Franchesca was happy. A little good news helped to resuscitate her dream. The koutche drove her to a family with five children originally from Gros Morne. Since the husband was a policeman and his wife worked at the Ministry of Culture, neither could stay home to care for their children. The matron offered Franchesca the job, but for a very small salary. Because of her situation, Franchesca was obliged to accept.
It was a live-in position. Compared with her aunt’s tiny room filled with her cousins, Franchesca now had more space. She even had her own small bed. She would get up early in the morning to prepare breakfast for the kids before they left for school. Then she would start the laundry. Because of the mud and dust of the streets, the children’s clothes needed to be cleaned each day.
Doing the laundry in Haiti means sitting on a cinder block or a little bench in front of a large plastic tub, soaking a special bar of soap in water. Women soak the dirty clothes and rub them between their wrists and forearms, tossing soapy water on them. They work around each article of clothing until they have cleaned it all, focusing special attention on any stains, of course. It is far more efficient than a washing machine that just stirs clothes in soapy water, and easier on the fabric. For hours, they continue the same movements, bent over the tub until they feel the strain in the small of their backs. Franchesca’s back became sore because of this daily chore. She was not used to doing the daily laundry for seven people, but she continued because that was her job.
She used to return to her aunt’s house on the weekends. As she was no longer living there, she was welcome to visit. They often asked to borrow money. That was difficult for her, since she earned almost nothing. Besides, none of the small loans were ever repaid.
One day, a young man named Fédrik visiting the household where she worked took notice of Franchesca. He began to court her. She was afraid to respond. She had been warned that the young men of the capital could not be trusted. But,
as he shared his goal with her of going to the Dominican Republic to establish a martial arts school, she came to believe in his sincerity. She learned as well that he was a cousin of Mme Bolivar, her boss and the head of the household.
She took Fédrik to meet her aunt. Often, the young men of the capital reject the customs of the peasants. They don’t like the tradition of meeting the parents. In the countryside, the criteria are clearer. But in Port-au-Prince, the young men are seldom sure of their futures and often have unstable pasts. It is unpleasant to present yourself before a court when you have no defense and you know the verdict will be negative.
Fédrik opened a little part of his heart to answer the questions of Franchesca’s aunt, not wanting to give too much away. In most cases, he confined himself to “yes” or “no.” His guarded answers led Franchesca to question him. What were his real intentions towards her?
Since Fédrik was also not certain about Franchesca, he proposed that they go to Bourdon to meet his mother. When he asked her, Franchesca understood for the first time that he was serious. In Bourdon, she was impressed by the way that his mother spoke of him. Franchesca declared openly that she wanted to build a family with him. Now, they both started to think along the same lines.
chapter thirteen
BECAUSE OF THE DAILY HUMILIATIONS in Lakou Trankilite, I didn’t want to stay there. It was better to go back to Delmas 19. The food in Delmas was uncertain, however. I would need to eat. Also, I was increasingly on the bad side of the Catholic brothers. Why? Lots of reasons.
One day, a few Americans came to visit the hospital. They had already visited from time to time. They had promised Rodriguèz and Rènel to send some things to help them pass the time: a DVD player and films, Nintendo games, and so on. But the boys never received them. When the Americans came this time, Rodriguèz and Rènel asked me if I could interpret for them to find out whether or not they had sent the things they had promised. The blan said that they had sent them and also wondered why the patients hadn’t received anything. They decided to talk to the brothers. They called the brother superior and asked whether the things that they had sent had been distributed. He replied that everything had been shared with the patients. The brother asked if the boys were saying they hadn’t received them. The Americans lied, saying that they didn’t know.
The Americans made some promises to Rodriguèz, Rènel, and Zakari. One said that he would deliver the stuff personally. I don’t know if the brothers had seen me speaking with the Americans and probing the irregularities in the distribution of gifts. But, soon after, the brothers met to decide which patients were ready to leave. I was still really sick. Zakari had a friend among the brothers who told him that I was first on their list. I wasn’t surprised to hear that, because I knew already they didn’t like me, not only because of my interpreting for the Americans. There had also been the episode with Jeff.
Jeff was a patient of fourteen years old from Site Solèy. He was asthmatic. His mother was dead. He lived with his father who had no job and no money. He couldn’t care for Jeff. He brought his son to the hospital with two goals: to get Jeff food and to treat his asthma. Normally Jeff lived with his father, but from time to time he stayed overnight in the hospital. I chose Jeff for a friend, even though he was sometimes disruptive. I identified with him. I too had lost my mother when I was about his age and Dad had trouble feeding us.
One day, the Sisters of Kindness, who manage a hospital in Delmas 31, wanted to celebrate the anniversary of their establishment. They were from the same congregation as the brothers who ran Lakou Trankilite. They told the brothers to prepare all the sick in Lakou Trankilite for the celebration. The sick, me included, thought that the brothers would take us to Delmas 31 to the sisters’ hospital, which was much bigger. The brothers prepared everyone, shaving our heads. They bathed us and changed our uniforms and we waited in the court. We assumed we were going. But they had already left without us. Only the brothers went to the celebration. Around eight o’clock, the Sisters of Kindness brought the Brothers of Kindness back.
They brought a cake with them to share with the patients. We were back in our rooms when we heard the announcement to go to the dining room. We all went. Jeff told me he didn’t feel well. Maybe he was having an asthma attack. A brother started to cut the cake for each patient. Jeff returned with his father. His father would stay overnight sometimes with Jeff. When Jeff got to the table, the brother had not yet finished cutting the cake. He got angry at Jeff for not being there earlier. He told Jeff that he wouldn’t give him any cake and that he didn’t want him in the hospital. He told him that his father could take him away. A quarter of the cake remained, but the brothers had already started to pack it up to take away. The brother then prohibited anyone from sharing his cake with Jeff. I decided to disobey the order and to share mine with Jeff.
When the brother saw that Jeff was eating, he thundered, “Who gave their cake to this guy?!”
All the sick remained in suspension. They knew it was me, but they didn’t want to denounce me. I raised my hand and said that I had. He asked why. I just said that I couldn’t eat it all. But then I added that Jeff had left because he wasn’t well and that the brother was still cutting the cake when Jeff returned. In other words, I tried to defend myself and inculpate the Brothers all at once.
He told Jeff’s father to take him away. He should have taken his anger out on me. But he sent Jeff away instead. I knew the problems that Jeff’s father was having. It was another of many burdens. In any case, the next morning, Jeff and his father had to leave.
I spoke to them all night. I told them that Lakou Trankilite was not where life began, it was rather where it ended. I encouraged them both in their future. I had received 1,000 gourdes ($25.44 US) from friends from church. When the morning arrived and they were preparing to leave, Jeff had an asthmatic attack. He couldn’t control his breathing. He was three-quarters dead. I tried to assure his dad. I gave them the 1,000-gourd note and asked them to return 500 to me when they could. After they left, I just sat there thinking about them for hours. Suddenly, Jeff’s dad returned to the hospital. I was happy to see him, but the news that he brought was that when they returned home, Jeff was already dead.
I felt guilty. If I hadn’t offered to share my cake with Jeff, he and his dad wouldn’t have been evicted from the hospital. All I had offered them was a few empty words about how everything would be fine. And now, just hours later, Jeff was dead. How would his dad afford a funeral? He couldn’t feed Jeff and care for him in life. Neither could he in death. I had nothing else to offer. He returned the 500 gourdes to me. I told him to keep it. I knew how expensive the funeral of a child could be. I tried a few more words of encouragement. But what can you say?
After that, I passed a number of days with my heart elsewhere. I wondered what I could do to leave a trace of me behind in the hospital. From time to time, new Brothers of Kindness would come to the hospital for training. Their job was to give needles, injections, medicine, change bandages, and so on. They came from all over the world. They found employment or meaning by working at Lakou Trankilite. What motivated them?
Some would try over and over to find a vein to give an injection. One brother just couldn’t manage to give an injection. A patient tried to explain how to do it, what vein to use and how to insert the needle. But the foreign brother wouldn’t take instructions from a Haitian patient. There was a class structure that those above wanted to keep in place. Everyone entered the hospital according to his place in that structure. The poor sick Haitians had to remain on the bottom rung. The foreign brothers wanted to guard their place. If they too were poor, the same as the patients, then there would be nothing to distinguish them. I think that many of them, in their home countries, might have escaped the fate of the paupers in Simon by joining their “charitable” order. Maybe they were honoured for their choice of vocation. But there was no spirit of charity. They needed us more than we needed them. We would happily have given up our
poverty. Would they have given up their place on the ladder to see that happen?
There was another brother who came to replace the brother superior. He spoke English and Spanish. He wanted to get to know the sick in our room, but unfortunately he couldn’t speak to them. I tried to speak to him. We could speak together in English. He would look for me to ask me how to say this or that in Creole. That made me feel almost at ease with this brother. He needed me and so I felt useful. Mostly, he wasn’t too proud to admit that I could be useful.
I still dreamed of leaving. But I wanted to have a profession before I left.
I asked him whether, if I left the hospital, he would be able to pay for a course for me so that I could get a diploma in English. He said that when it was time to leave, he would see about whether they could arrange something. He said I should choose the school and return with the information. With that promise, I was ready to leave that day. I asked my friends in the hospital. They said to wait to be sure that I was cured, because if I left before I was cured, not only would they never take me back, but even the members of my family would be blacklisted from the hospital. I decided to take their advice and not leave until I was discharged. After a few weeks, I felt almost well enough to leave. But the new director had not decided if I was ready to go.
During the two days that they changed bandages, local people came to the hospital for treatment. That was good publicity for the hospital. Serving outpatients from the neighbourhood reminded everyone that the hospital was active. It was also helpful for the local sick.
Also, local Haitians sometimes were engaged by the hospital to help the brothers. They weren’t paid, but they professed an interest in entering the Brothers of Kindness. They sought to escape their poverty in the same way that the brothers had. They slept in Lakou Trankilite and helped with a number of jobs, including taking care of the patients. There were also two patients in the hospital who found a way to help the other patients, transforming themselves into health providers. They were very efficient. I too wanted to help the brothers bandage the local people. Unfortunately for me, the same day that I was put to service helping them, the brother who was in charge of all staff saw me. In front of all the local people, he said that he had not authorized me to treat people. I was humiliated and returned to my room.
Rocks in the Water, Rocks in the Sun: A Memoir from the Heart of Haiti Page 13