LATER

Tante Rose was excited to see us, nearly jumping for joy as she embraced each of us.

Tante Rose is not married and she has no children. Two young nurses who work with her at the hospital rent rooms from her. There is a young man who looks after her house when Tante Rose is not at home, as well as a woman who cooks for her and washes her clothes. That woman, Esther, has a daughter, Nadine, who is about my age and who lives in the house, too. Nadine is her mother’s shadow and helps her with everything.

Whenever I am in Tante Rose’s house, I always think that if Manman moved to the city to work, it would be like that with her and me. She would work in someone’s house and I would help her with her work.

Even with the workers and renters, Tante Rose has two rooms left for us. The room I am sharing with Manman has a soft bed. Moy is staying in a smaller room near the living room.

Unlike Papa, Tante Rose is not interested in leaving Haiti. She has her work, which she likes very much, and she enjoys her house, which she had built piece by piece, room by room, over many years.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 29

I went up on Tante Rose’s roof this morning. From the rooftop, you can see a lot of the capital: the seaport, the presidential palace, the markets downtown, and even the airport.

In the afternoon, Tante Rose took us to Champs de Mars to see a karate movie Moy wanted to see. I liked some of the fights in the movie because they seemed like a dance.

My favorite part of the outing was after the movie when we happened on a concert near the national palace. The music was full of guitars and drums, and there was a line of women dancing on the stage as they sang the choruses.

Tante Rose and Moy danced together in the back of the crowd. Moy likes Tante Rose a lot. When they are together, it is as though they are the same age: Moy acts a lot older than he is and Tante Rose acts a lot younger than she is.

I am beginning to like Port-au-Prince.

LATER

We call Papa on the telephone at Tante Rose’s house. A big treat for us. Talking to him and having him respond almost in the same breath.

Papa’s voice sounds so warm, like heated milk with cacao when he says, “Celiane.”

I say, “How are you, Papa?”

“I am well,” he says. “How is school?”

“School is fine,” I say.

I was still tongue-tied when I gave the phone back to Manman. I plan for so long about what to say to Papa, but put him on the phone and what comes out, anyen, nothing.