LA CITADELLE

Cheeko always wants to know what country a tourist person is from, what he is doing in Haiti and so on. It’s my job to find out these things.

“You speak like Tant Elizabeth,” I say to the one wearing the wide brimmed hat. “Are you from Canada?”

“No, I’m from England,” he replies. “Rick and Mike are from Canada.” Rick is heavy and is riding Wanga, who is the biggest and strongest of the horses. Wanga is taking his time going up the path, walking slowly with his head low, one ear back and one ear forward. Cheeko walks behind him with a small leafy branch, twitching it near his tail to keep him moving. Mike is straight and long. He is riding Bonbon, who is strong but only thirteen hands high, so Mike’s feet dangle close to the path. Bonbon moves along without much coaxing. Gustaf walks behind him with his branch, just in case. The one who is from England is riding Zanj. He is sitting stiffly in the saddle and holding the reins with both hands. Zanj’s belly is rounded so she looks a little fat. But she is fat with the foal inside her, not with food. You can see the scratches and marks on her back haunches where Wanga has bitten her. He’s a bully and eats most of the food that Cheeko puts out for the three horses. I told Cheeko that Zanj needed her own pile put to one side, but he just laughed. I walk beside her and whisper in her ear. Come Zanj, it’s only five hundred more steps to the stream. Then you can have a rest.

It’s exactly eight hundred and sixty-three steps from the school to Henri and Françoise’s house. I counted them once when Gustaf hurt his ankle falling out of a tree and I had to go to school on my own. When I was passing by Lulu’s house that day, she called out and asked me to help her bring in the washing. Lulu lives in a little house right next to the road which goes up to La Citadelle. She is blind since she was seven years old and has never been to school. I watched her as I helped her to bring in the washing that day. She whispered to herself as she walked around her yard. Anytime I tried to talk to her, I would have to wait until she got to the door of her house before she would answer me. Sometimes I wanted to shout out. “Careful, Lulu, you are going to hit the mango tree,” but then she would turn and step carefully around it before I had the words out. When we were finished she explained to me how she managed. When she was very ill her mother sent her to Grann Louise to try for a cure. Grann Louise tried many medicines but said the sickness was too deep. She would never see again.

“Lulu,” she said, “You must learn to see the world through the tips of your fingers, through your nose and your ears and through your brain which is still healthy.” For six months she picked coffee berries and sorted them by touch and smell. Some people say Grann Louise just used the girl to do her work, but Lulu says that Grann Louise taught her many things. How to count and how to map things out in her head. Example, to get to the outhouse; take five steps to the right of the front door, then twelve steps to the left as far as the neem tree. Spread your hands out at the neem tree and you will feel the leaves of the coffee bush growing beside the outhouse. Run your left hand along the side of the bush as you walk and keep your right hand directly out in front of you. Three steps from the end of the bush and you will touch the door of the outhouse. You will smell it too!

When I left Lulu that day, I thought it would be a good thing for me to know the number of steps from the house to the school, in case I ever went blind, because then I could still go to school even if Gustaf hurt his ankle again. So on my way back I counted eight hundred and sixty-three steps, which you walk in the pattern of a backwards S.

“Do you know, Tant Elizabeth? She’s from Winnipeg,” I ask the two called Rick and Mike.

“We’re from Toronto,” said Rick. “It’s a long way from Winnipeg. How long has your aunt been living in Canada?”

“Always, except when she came to St. Georges. She’s a teacher. What are you?”

“I’m a lawyer. Do you know what that is?” I blush and shake my head.

“I do,” Gustaf pipes up. “It’s someone you give money to when you don’t want to go to prison. Cheeko’s brother needed one last year when he cut up the man with his machete. But he didn’t have no money, so he went to prison.”

Gustaf knows many things. Not just school things. Street things. When we came back to Haiti after Manman died, I had forgotten everything. This is because I was too young when we left. But Gustaf, he remembered. He showed me how the tap-taps work, how to saddle a horse, how to tell if a coconut is ripe or not. I think about St. Georges and the people I miss. I miss my friends Kayla and Larissa and swimming at Turquoise beach. But mostly I miss Manman and Tant Elizabeth. Before Manman got ill, she would comb and braid my hair. She would sing to us at night and take us to church every Sunday. It was very scary for me to see her ill. She got so thin, her clothes all became big and loose on her. At night she would sweat and get fever and chills. Sometimes she would call me in the middle of the night to help her get to the outhouse. Once when she called out, I found her on the floor. Her night dress was wet with her sweat. When I touched her hand, it was cold and damp. She leaned on my shoulder to help her get up.

“Help me, Marie, cherie.” Her voice trembled. She tried to smile when she saw the fear in my eyes.

“Manman, what’s up?”

“Bad fish for supper,” she said. But Gustaf and I never got sick.

This is how I spend my time as we walk those five hundred steps to the stream, thinking about Manman and Tant Elizabeth. When we reach the stream Cheeko sends me on to find some fresh oranges for the tourists. I run on to Lulu’s house to see if she has her orange basket out by the gate ready for sale. It’s uphill all the way and my heart is pounding by the time I reach Lulu’s house. She is sitting beside her basket stringing necklaces together from dried seeds.

“Bonjour Lulu.” I stop and take a breath. “I need six oranges for the tourists and three for Gustaf, Cheeko and me.”

“Bonjour, Marie. Tell the tourists that these oranges are very sweet. They cost ten gourds. Take some necklaces with you, Marie, to sell for me.” She stretches out her hand, holding up three necklaces. They are very pretty. I take the oranges and bundle them in my dress. I put the necklaces around my neck.

“I will bring you the money, Lulu.” I run back down to the stream. They are waiting for me.

“Kouri, kouri!” Cheeko says. He’s in a hurry because he wants to have the tourists back by three o’ clock. I give them each two oranges and then one each for Gustaf, Cheeko and me. They peel their oranges as they ride the horses and throw the skins into the bush. I peel my orange and give the skin to Zanj. Her muzzle is soft and she pushes my hand gently with it and knickers softly when she smells the orange peel.

It takes us another hour to get to La Citadelle. The road is paved with cut stone. Stone cut by slaves freed after the French left. Henri says that La Citadelle is the eighth wonder of the world and proves that Haitian people are just as smart as the French or anybody else. Grann Louise says it proves that black men are just as stupid as white men to build a fortress up in the sky and kill thousands of their own people doing it. Sr. Thérèse says that it’s part of our history now and must be preserved so that future generations will know of our past struggles. The trees on either side of the path help to keep it shaded, but as the sun climbs higher in the sky it finds the crack in the trees and heats up the stone. All the peyizan that live along the roadside spread their coffee berries out to dry. When we get to Lulu’s I collect the money from the one called Rick and stop to give it to her.

“Mèsi, Marie. Did you sell any necklaces?” I still have the three necklaces around my neck.

“I forgot. Pardon Lulu. I try later and catch you on our way down.”

I have to run to catch up to them again, but not very far because the horses are getting tired and have slowed down. Zanj is panting. Her sides go in and out rapidly and a trickle of sweat runs down her flank. The man kicks her in the belly to move on. I run up behind her and quickly shake my branch close to her tail. You cannot see La Citadelle until you almost hit it. The road is twisty and winds back and forth across the side of the mountain like a lazy snake in the sun. The trees and bush crowd in around the path. The tourists are laughing and talking to each other, sometimes joking that perhaps there is no Citadelle, that it’s just a “tourist trap.” But when the road curves around one of the foundation walls and the huge stone blocks can be seen between the trees they start to go quiet. Gustaf, Cheeko and me look at each other and smile. Cheeko nods his head and his lips curve into a downward, knowing smile, that around the next corner those tourists are going to really see something. Even the horses get excited and start to speed up. They know that around the next corner is a nice little place beneath the shelter of the fortress wall where they will get a chance to rest.

                                                                                        ~~~

Cheeko finds a place to park himself and the horses. Me and Gustaf stay with the tourists and walk with them up to the main entrance. They pay for us all to enter. As soon as we get inside a guide comes up to ask if they need assistance. He speaks to them in French.

“No Comprennez,” says Rick. “These children are our guides. They speak English.” The guide snorts. He is disgusted.

“What does a tifi and a tigason know about La Citadelle,” he mocks at Gustaf and me in Creole.

“Plenty,” says Gustaf. He straightens his shoulders and sticks out his chin when he answers. “Sr. Thérèse, teach us lots about La Citadelle and Tonton Henri, he teach me plenty too.” When the guide hears Henri’s name, he becomes more respectful. He knows we speak the truth and that Henri knows La Citadelle well and that he was named after Henri Christophe who built the fortress in case the French ever tried to come back.

“Be reasonable. This is my livelihood,” he says to Gustaf. “I can assist you.” Gustaf shrugs his shoulders. We bring the tourists to the artillery batteries named Marie-Louise and du Roi. The guide follows us. The cannons and cannon balls are everywhere.

“See, that one there,” says the guide. “It was captured from the Spanish. Look at its seal.” He points at the coat of arms stamped into the metal of the huge cannon. The tourists bend over to examine it. Gustaf explains in English what the guide has just told him. “It took three months to haul it from the sea port up Pic La Ferrière and into La Citadelle.” Gustaf translates. The tourists are impressed. Another cannon has the seal of Louis XIV stamped into its bronze casing. Gustaf invites the tourists to inspect how the block walls are constructed.

“They are stuck together with limestone, molasses and cow’s blood,” he tells them.

“Fascinating! Imagine, cow’s blood and molasses. How did they think of it?” asks Rick.

“This was a common way of making mortar for the construction of medieval castles in England,” says Robert (the one from England). “Probably learned the technique from the French.” Everyone is ignoring me. As if a tifi has nothing worthwhile to say for herself.

“Look up at Coidavid battery,” I say, pointing across the courtyard to the tallest of the battery towers. “It’s 130 feet high. Some people say they see the spirit of Henri Christophe on the top of the prow at night.” They laugh. But Gustaf and the guide don’t laugh. They know that Le Roi Christophe was a great man with great magic. They will not show disrespect to his loas. We go into the museum room and the tourists spend a lot of time reading the plaques. There is a large tapestry on one wall. It tells the story of how Henri Christophe came to power. He was first a baker for the French Governor. The tapestry shows him taking bread out of the oven. Then he became a leader during the slave revolt. Next he is in his general’s uniform commanding the new Haitian army. Then he builds a beautiful castle at Sans Soucis at the base of the mountain. There is a picture of La Citadelle which he built with the help of all the freed slaves. Then one Sunday he gets a stroke while attending mass. The last picture in the tapestry shows him on his bed ready to shoot himself with a silver bullet. People say it’s because he was afraid that his enemies may capture him now that he was feeble. The tourists seem very pleased when we leave the museum. The guide stays close as we head for the exit. He is waiting for his tip. He reminds Gustaf. Gustaf looks at me and nods.

“It is customary to give the guide a tip,” I say to Rick. This is a phrase that Sr. Thérèse taught me – how to be polite but direct with the tourists. They don’t always understand our ways. Rick gives the guide some money. I don’t know how much, but he seems pleased enough. When we get back to Cheeko and the horses, he is waiting and ready to go.

The clouds are starting to gather over Pic La Ferrière. Soon they will settle over La Citadelle. I can feel the cooler air moist against my skin. A little chill runs down my back and I shiver. Wanga and Bonbon are in a hurry to get down the mountain. They’re both switching their tails and tossing their heads. It’s easier on the way down, but if they are not careful they might slip on the steep sections of the road. Zanj’s ears are pricked but her eyes look weary. She picks her way carefully down the mountain. Robert looks at his watch.

“It’s two forty-five. We will never be down by three,” he says. He starts to kick at Zanj, but I put my hand on his leg and shake my head. I point to her belly.

“Foal inside,” I whisper. I don’t want Cheeko to hear.

“Oh, stop worrying,” Mike says. “The driver will wait for us and so will our plane. It’s a company charter.” Robert gets off Zanj and starts to walk.

“Up you go little girl,” he says to me and lifts me into the saddle. I lean forward and pat Zanj on the neck.

“Don’t worry, Zanj. This little tifi doesn’t weigh very much and she won’t kick at your foal.” Then I remember the necklaces and ask Robert if he has a sweetheart. He says he doesn’t but that Rick and Mike have.

I ask them for one dollar Haitian for each of the necklaces so that they will have a gift to bring home to their sweethearts. They give me three Haitian dollars and let me keep the third necklace for myself. I am very happy. I can give it to Françoise when I get home and maybe she won’t be so mad at me for ruining my good red dress.