Free A Wedding in Haiti by Julia Álvarez Page B

follows my lead in everything but ordering. She’s no vegetarian, and she must be starving. Homero translates the menu for all of us. The dishes sound very French: lamb with prunes on a bed of couscous; rabbit in a burgundy sauce; grouper with a puree of potatoes and a garnish of mango; a crepe topped with vegetables sautéed in butter, the sole vegetarian option.
    Piti orders the goat and looks over at Eseline, no doubt thinking she will follow suit. But Eseline insists on the grouper, a surprising choice, given that grouper is a saltwater fish, and she has lived all her life in a landlocked area of rural Haiti. Even Piti questions her. Is she sure she wants the fish? Eseline nods, without hesitation. Maybe, she once ate fish when she visited Gros Morne, or she has heard of it and would like to taste it. A food associated with travel, excitement, a world beyond her life in Moustique. I recall arriving in New York City as a ten-year-old and feeling that way about grilled-cheese sandwiches and apple pie à la mode. This is what TV families ate. My husband would say that, as a vegetarian, my culinary tastes have not advanced much since then.
    Part of my frustration with not speaking Kreyòl is that I can’t talk with Eseline about all that is happening to her. (Just as I’ll never know Madame’s story for lack of French.) What does Eseline think of this place? Why did she order the grouper? What is she feeling? She has been stony-faced all day, uttering only a handful of words, mostly in a whisper, directed solely at Piti. More troubling, she seems disinterested in her beautiful baby. Recalling the parting scene with her sister and the long carsick ride, I imagine Eseline is still in shock. So many drastic changes have come her way in the last twenty-four hours.
    But she perks up when the fish arrives. A quick study, she easily negotiates both fork and knife, eating up the uncharacteristically (for French cuisine) large portions on her plate. The table falls silent, everyone busily, happily eating away. Periodically, Bill and Homero break the silence, exclaiming over their wonderful dishes.
    After finishing our main course, Eseline and I forego dessert and head upstairs, leaving the men behind. Our eyelids have been drooping, and Ludy is fast asleep in my arms. Outside her door, I wait for Eseline to unlock it before I hand her the baby. But instead, she takes her baby and hands me the keys. Suddenly, it strikes me: Eseline probably has never had to unlock a door before. Once she is safe inside her room, I go next door to mine and after a quick brush of the teeth and splash of water on my face, I hit the bed. I fall asleep instantly—that deep, profound sleep of childhood, before the worries set in, when you waded into bed and soon were in over your head.
    Some time later (an hour, fifteen minutes?), I hear Bill enter the room, or at least I think it’s Bill. (I once read an unbelievable tabloid story about a woman who sued a man for making love to her “under the pretense of being her husband.” He had stolen into her bed one night as she slept so soundly that she claimed she could not tell the difference. After this night in Haiti, I can believe this woman’s story.) So deep and restful is my sleep that I forget about tomorrow’s border crossing, the mosquito bites that might bring on malaria, the coffee we drank that was made with water that might not have been brought to a boil or boiled long enough.
    In my humble, culinarily compromised estimation, this soporific, lightening-of-the-load effect is why wine was invented. I can just imagine what Madame Myrième and her chef son would think of my opinion.

August 21, going home
Breakfast at Hôtel Les Jardins de L’Océan
    I love waking up by the sea. The ocean is so much like the waters of sleep that the day ebbs into your dreams before your eyes are even open.
    First, you smell it: a salty, nostril-flaring smell as if the earth itself is giving off perspiration.