The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

force himself more than once to listen to the man’s words. It became clear to Jean-Philippe as they spoke into the darker hours that the world was a much larger place than he had imagined. The man spoke of the govern- ment, and recent, growing violence and unrest in small towns, as well as political events that Jean-Philippe did- n’t know of. He did not know whether and what to believe of the man’s words, but the man’s earnestness drew Jean-Philippe in, and he watched as the edges of his face moved in the firelight. They carefully watched him eat a meal of rice and pigeon peas flavored with parsley, salt and bits of a small onion. “I hope you have understood what I said,” said the man the next morning as he tied his sleeping roll on to the motorbike and checked the fluid levels in the motor. “I won’t say I know the future, but I think things have begun that will not pay heed to one man, certainly not you up here.” He waved at Bibou and Marie as he started the engine and rode out of sight. “D o you think that man is proud of what he does?” Jean-Philippe said to his wife, as they lay together that night, unable to sleep. “He is a believer,” she replied. “One who thinks he can bend the world to his own will.” Jean-Philippe thought of his father and mother. It had been a long time since he had last seen them. They had taught him that your life was something you earned. Earned by believing, resisting and fighting for your own soul. Slightly ashamed, Jean-Philippe thought of how Titide had not fought for life, and had died slowly. The boy had not responded to the minis- trations of his wife, or to the remedies given by the healer in Desmoulins. Near the end, Jean-Philippe had turned his back on his second son and waited. Death had come quietly in the mountain air, and he buried Titide quickly beneath the tree, relieved. He found himself wondering how it was possible that he and his father, who had spoken so infrequently to him as a boy, and who had watched him leave Cap-Haitien without so much as a deep breath, had turned out so much alike. He was shaken by what had passed with the chimeres, and now more so by the words of the American. What could they possibly know? What did they know of Haiti, a land that gave so little? What did they know of permanence? “I, too, am proud of myself,” he said to his wife after a long silence, but he was not sure if she was asleep. I n the morning he gathered the little money they had and walked to where his wife sat shredding parsley with her fingers. “Go to Quanaminthe and try to cross into Dajabon. You should buy as much food as you can carry as soon as you arrive. Find a safe place across the border.” He put the money into her hand. “But the child —” “Take them with you,” he replied curtly. “What if they have closed the border?” “There are many places to cross,” he said impatient- ly, knowing this to be both truth and a lie. “Ask. Someone will show you. The children are useful for this. People will want to take care of them.” He knew, however, that if the Dominicans had closed the border it was already too late. She knew as well. “And what will you do, without us?” A man stands only on his own feet, not the feet of others, he thought. He looked over at Marie and Bibou, smiling at each other as they drew faces and ani- mals in the dirt. How easy. How easy life was, when the smiles of your children reflected your smile, and gifted you something of yourself. When children could give you the confidence of past generations and future generations. “This will end soon,” he said to his wife, thinking of the first time they met in Cap-Haitien, when the out- line of her hipbones peeked from above the wrap of her skirt as she walked down the street, looking for sweet basil and onions for the evening meal. Even then she had stood up to him, challenging his advances, making him feel undeserving in one moment, and welcome the next. Jean-Philippe picked up his rifle, aware of his wife’s eyes on him as he buttoned the jacket of his uniform. He walked over to the door of the guard post, turned to face Haiti, straightened, with a slight bend in the knees, and allowed one hand to cross into a comfortable posi- tion in the small of his back. Soon after, he felt his wife and children start their walk down the hill toward Quanaminthe. Some noise sounded in the valley below his post. He prayed that the border was open. He did not watch them go. ■ F O C U S 36 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U N E 2 0 0 5