A Wedding in Haiti by Julia Álvarez Read Free Book Online

stay for a few more weeks. Afterward, he can return with his family by bus or however it is one gets to the border from here.
    But that is the problem, Piti explains. Why, he wants to go with us. The journey is long and rough. The ride in the air-conditioned cab of our pickup, even though crowded, will be so much easier on the young baby and on Eseline, who has never traveled far in a vehicle.
    Later, of course, we will understand why Piti was so insistent on going with us. Years ago, we helped him acquire his passport, so he can travel easily back and forth. All he has to do is purchase a visa. But Eseline is another story. She has no passport, and since the marriage license won’t be issued until two weeks after the wedding, no proof that she is married to Piti. But Bill and I are Americans, people of means. We will figure out a way to cross his family. Piti does not say any of this to us now. In fact, when I question him about documents for his wife and child, he assures me that all these arrangements can be made at the border.
    I decide to follow the then current policy of the US military toward gays: Don’t ask. Don’t tell . Piti has made these crossings multiple times. He must know this plan can work; surely he wouldn’t be exposing his young wife and child to danger and trauma. The less I know about these transactions, the better off we all will be, since, as people have often told me—starting with my mother, when I was a naughty child and would try to lie my way out of a punishment—my face betrays me.
    But what about Eseline? “Shouldn’t you talk this over with her first?” I say, sticking up for the female’s right to decide.
    “Tomorrow she is my wife and must do what I say,” Piti explains, matter-of-factly.
    “Piti!” How could the sweet boy I fell in love with years ago utter such a sexist comment? “You must talk it over with Eseline,” I insist. Piti gives me a perfunctory yes-mom nod. I have a feeling the talk will not be the kind of conversation I am thinking of.
    After we say our farewells, our group sits down at the table in the front room. No dinner seems forthcoming, so we unpack what’s left of our snacks by the light of two candles. As we uncork the wine, our host appears bearing a pot of steaming rice, followed by Jimmy with a bowl of bean sauce, or so we think, though there’s not a bean in sight. Charlie returns with a third pot of spicy goat’s meat swimming in gravy, which Bill claims is the most delicious goat he has ever tasted.
    I don’t bother to ask how many times he has tasted goat, but it’s definitely not a staple of our Vermont diet, which tends to be primarily vegetarian in deference to me. I try a mouthful of the rice, avoiding the brown sauce, as I’m not sure what’s in it. Dessert is some Hershey’s Kisses that were lying around in our kitchen in Vermont since last Halloween. I was about to throw them out, but Bill intervened. “Save them for the trip. They might come in handy.” Indeed, in this part of Haiti, where nothing is thrown away, they taste delicious. “The best stale Hershey’s Kisses I’ve ever tasted,” Bill jokes.
    Soon after our meal, we brush our teeth under a spangle of stars and dive under our mosquito nets: Homero in one bed, Eli and Pablo in another, and Bill and I in the third one. The night is comfortably cool since we’re up high above the dry basin where Bassin-Bleu lies. Remembering that hot, dirty hotel, I feel doubly grateful.
    I fall asleep, wondering if Piti has made it home. What has Eseline said about their sudden departure tomorrow? According to Piti, Eseline has only traveled as far as Gros Morne, a little south of Bassin-Bleu. Again, from my high school French, I know gros means big, but I don’t recognize morne . Maybe something to do with mourning? It is precisely what I imagine Eseline is feeling as she receives the news that tomorrow she and her baby will be borne away by a new husband, who doesn’t even bother