He calmed down and settled into the table with Ghislaine. But he remained so bitter about the cost of coffee in this place, he looked at Ghislaine as if she set the goddamned prices here. In an abrupt I’m-all-business-and-I-haven’t-got-all-day tone, he practically growled it out, “Okay, tell me what’s up. What’s going on?”
Ghislaine was taken aback by the transformation of her sympathetic knight into a plain standard-issue, foul-tempered, officious cop. Nestor could see it in her face immediately. Her eyes were now wide with fear. She seemed to be struggling to keep control of her lips—and Nestor experienced a deep rush of guilt. Patience on a Monument, smiling at Grief—in the form of… an overpriced cup of coffee!
Timorously, oh so timorously, Ghislaine said, “It’s my brother I’m worried about. He’s fifteen, and he goes to the Lee de Forest High School.”
“Sssweeeeeer,” Nestor exhaled through his teeth, creating a soft whistling noise. ::::::Dios mío… a nice polite fifteen-year-old white boy from a good family, going to de Forest. I hate to think what that poor kid’s been through. I don’t know which of them’s worse, the negro gangs or the Haitian gangs.::::::
“You know de Forest?” she said.
“Every cop in Miami knows Lee de Forest High School.” He made a point of saying it with a sympathetic smile.
“Then you know about the gangs,” said Ghislaine.
“I know about the gangs.” Another faceful of sympathy and kindness.
“Well, my brother—his name is Philippe. He’s always been a nice boy… you know, quiet and polite and studious—and he played sports last year in junior high.” ::::::Those big innocent eyes of hers! The very look on her face makes me ashamed of myself. A cup of coffee was all it took.:::::: “If you saw him today,” she continued, “you’d think he belonged to some African American gang. He doesn’t, I don’t think, but his entire demeanor says he does… the baggy pants worn so low, it makes you think, ‘One more inch and they’ll fall off’… and the bandanna around his head with ‘the colors’? And he swaggers in a certain way the gang members walk.” She rocked from side to side in her chair in pantomime. “And the way he talks! Every sentence begins with ‘man.’ It’s Man this and Man that. And everything is cool or it’s not cool. He’s always saying things like, ‘Okay, man, I’m cool with that.’ Any one of those things would drive my father crazy. My father’s a teacher, a professor of French literature at EGU. Oh, and I forgot the worst thing of all—my brother’s started talking in Creole with his new ‘friends’! They consider that very cool, because they can insult a teacher right in his face! The teachers have no idea what they’re saying. That’s what started all the trouble at de Forest in the first place! My father won’t allow us to speak Creole in the house. Philippe’s been picking it up from other students at Lee de Forest.”
“Wait a minute,” said Nestor. “Creole is Haitian, right?” Ghislaine nodded yes… very slowly. “So you’re saying… your brother is Haitian?”
Ghislaine expelled a deep sigh. “I had a feeling”—she stopped and sighed. “I guess I might as well explain everything now, because it’s all part of it. Yes, my brother is Haitian, and my father is Haitian, and my mother was Haitian, and I’m Haitian. We’re all Haitians.”
“You’re… Haitian?” said Nestor, not knowing any better way to put it.
“I’m so light skinned,” said Ghislaine. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
Yes, it was… but Nestor couldn’t think of any tactful way to talk about it.
“There are a lot of light-skinned Haitians,” said Ghislaine. “Well… not a lot… but a fair number. People don’t notice us for that very reason. Our family, the Lantiers, are descended from a General Lantier, one of the leaders of the French forces that first occupied Haiti in 1802. My father did a lot of research into it. He’s told my brother and me not to bring up the subject… about being Haitian, I mean. It’s not that he’s ashamed of being Haitian, not at all. It’s just that in this country if you say you’re Haitian, people pigeonhole you right away. ‘Oh, so that’s what you are, a Haitian.’ That means you can’t possibly be this… or this… or capable of that or some other thing. And if you tell people you’re French, they’re just not going to believe you, because they can’t imagine anybody born and raised in Haiti being French. But that’s what