Free A Wedding in Haiti by Julia Álvarez Page A

emphatically. So I switch to Spanish. Another adamant head shake. No Spanish either. “ Votre ami, Madison Smartt Bell,” I say in desperation, playing my last card. Again Madame Myrième shakes her head. She does not know anyone by that name.
    Once again, Homero comes to the rescue. Some years ago, he was sent to France on a three month coffee-analysis course. Although it’s now a little rusty, he used to be fluent in French. He pronounces Madison’s name so it sounds French. Madame’s face opens up. She repeats Madison’s name so it sounds even more French. Of course, she has rooms for us.
    Madame directs one of the porters to show us what’s available for our approval. Is she kidding? Clean rooms with bathrooms and hot water, electricity, a ceiling fan, an air conditioner, cable television, and a French chef down in the dining room. Of course, we’ll take them! Bill hands over his VISA—Madame will accept credit cards from the English-speaking world: eighty-five dollars per room, continental breakfast included. We follow our porter with his fistful of keys, each one attached to a wooden bar with the room number carved in it. On the second landing, Bill and I pick two side-by-side rooms, so that Piti and Eseline can be next door. We’ll be able to help with the baby as well as with any instructions on using the facilities in their room. Given the way they’ve been glancing around, big-eyed, I have a feeling that neither has ever worked the buttons on an air conditioner or cruised the channels on a cable television with a remote control.
    We agree to all meet down at the restaurant ASAP, as the porter has informed us that it closes at nine, fifteen minutes from now. Bill quickly showers and heads downstairs to the restaurant. I’ve told him to order for me. I really don’t care what it is, as long as it’s vegetarian and preceded by a glass of wine. A tall glass of white wine. As I’m undressing, I realize what I’ve been smelling on my clothes: champagne from the baptism Bill gave the whole congregation in trying to uncork the bottle. Another reason Madame might have been looking askance at me: I reeked of alcohol.
    Once I’ve turned the shower off, I hear the baby crying next door. Poor Eseline, I think, needing to relax and recuperate. The crying goes on and on, finally turning that corner from the wailing of hunger to the shrieks of rage. I dress and hurry over—the door is unlocked—to find the baby on top of the bed all alone. Just then, Piti comes running into the room. It turns out that down on the main floor, Madame heard the baby crying—I said she didn’t miss anything—and went over to the dining area to inform the parents.
    “Piti, you left the baby alone?” I’m ready to give him a parental lecture, but I look at his round, worried face and think, Give the poor guy a break. He has already had a hard day, including scoldings from six predicators and a pastor. Besides, he is a new father, having just met his baby daughter a couple of weeks ago. What does he know about raising kids? Even Eseline, who has a four-month lead on child-rearing, thought it was okay to leave Loude Sendjika alone, with no pillows barricading her in the center of the bed and with the door closed, so they couldn’t even hear her crying.
    Piti and I go down to the restaurant together, the baby in my arms. Madame looks up, and I can see it in her eyes: she still hasn’t figured out our story. But then, I haven’t figured out hers either. How did a middle-aged French woman end up in Cap-Haïtien with her son, the chef?
    For now, she has closed the record book and has a fresh drink before her. Maybe she has had a long day herself.
    “ Bonsoir, Madame,” I say. She nods in reply as I pass by.
Why wine was invented
    Everyone in our party is already seated at the table and served with drinks, tinkling with ice. I find my spot beside Eseline, who seems baffled by the amount of dinnerware and silverware before her. She