ABSTRACT
Through the cane field, across the irrigation ditches, and past the dissipated banana grove, a few strides this morning and then the white road whose tail coils over Morne Cabrite to the gray North runs under your feet toward Port-au-Prince. Let Monsieur Polinice limp along under the baggage! A fat black woman beats a little gray ass where his ears and raw tail peep out from her bulk, and this morning she must be properly greeted, “Bonjour, Commère Bobo, ba’ m’ ti goute, s’il vous plaît.” You hope she will hurl mangoes at your head, but your pronunciation is bad, and on the road she speaks to no strangers. She has beaten her donkey fifty miles across the mountains with a load of mangoes for Port-au-Prince market, and she carries her shoes in her hand like a dignified woman on business.
