She hugged him closer. “You sound so bitter.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I be? You know and I know it’ll change with time. We’ve both been through this crap before.” Bat put his arms around her. “You’re a woman, and, Little Sister, you are hot. I may be your brother, but that doesn’t mean I have to be stupid about things like that. You want that man, get him. You want that job, get it. Do it.”
She pressed his head against her chest. “I want that sheepskin first. Then we’ll see what happens. We’re just going to mark time for a little while, okay, Brother?”
She felt him nod. “Sounds fair. Family time, what we can get.”
“Absolutely. Then I’ve got to check my finances, too.”
“Sell the car.”
“I will. But I only have a little cash reserved. I’ve got to check my assets.”
“Got a job as a manager for New England Transit. I’m fixed. I can lend you some.”
“Good. I might need it. Don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I’ll do something, I promise.”
• • •
A few days later the telephone rang. Bat answered it. “Howard residence.” He listened, and then said, “Yeah, Bat, Jean-Baptiste, that’s me.” A smile started to appear on his lips. Then he said, “Yes,
sir
,” and pressed the phone receiver against his shoulder. In his best Sergeant Major’s voice, he boomed, “Dr. Roth on the phone wants to speak to Dr. Howard! Front and center,
Doctor
!”
Bishou took the phone receiver from him as her two younger brothers galloped down the stairs. Her father appeared from a corner, looking delighted. Maman wheeled herself in from the porch, looking happy.
“Dr. Roth? Is that you?”
Roth was laughing. “I told the Sergeant Major to make it loud and clear. You’ll get your letter in a few days, but I thought I would phone. Will you be able to make it back here the first Saturday in August, for the Conferral of Advanced Degrees?”
“You bet I can,” Bishou replied. “I’ve got to dig up a gown, don’t I?”
“I’ve got it here,” Dr. Roth replied. “Your doctoral gown has already been paid for — by a tobacco subsidy.”
“Oh, I will be damned,” said Bishou. “Not Gray Jackson.”
“No, Louis Dessant.”
“Louis Dessant?”
“He left the money with President Lanthier before he went back to Réunion Island. The president delegated that little chore of purchasing it to me. Of course, I had no problem, because I knew where I got mine. Come and look us up when you get here. We’ve got your costume.”
“Are you serious?”
“Just come. Third-ever woman doctorate, the place is alight. Expect to be the highlight of the season, Bishou.”
“You and me both, Dr. Roth. I’ll be there. See you the day before, probably.”
“All right. You know the way. We’ll see you then.”
She hung up, stunned. Her father hugged her. Her mother bade her bend down for a kiss. Bat wrapped his arms around her and asked, “What was that about a gown?”
“Doctoral gown. Mine’s already been paid for,” she said slowly.
“By the university?” Bat asked.
“No. By the tobacco people. By … Louis Dessant.”
“As in Dessant Cigarettes?” her father asked in surprise.
“
Oui
, as in Dessant Cigarettes,” Bishou replied slowly.
Smiling down at her in his arms, Bat told her, “You may have to go thank him.”
“
Oui
, I think I do,” Bishou answered.
Bishou was wearing her “academic uniform” of white blouse, dark below-the-knee skirt, stockings, and sensible high heels when the ferry
Mauritius Pride
docked at the Port of Saint-Denis. She had been through customs at Orly, and these were overseas French departments, so “
Douanes
” was not an issue. She had never understood how anyone could love the scent of the ocean. To her, it always stunk of diesel fuel and dead fish. Then she smiled and chided herself.
Don’t run it down, it’s Louis and Etien’s island
.
Disembarking was bedlam, as bad as a Greyhound bus station in Washington D.C. It was noisy and bright. Passengers got on and off the ferry, cargo was being loaded and unloaded, and plenty of onlookers of all races and nationalities — Africa, India, China, France — gathered around.
This must be the excitement of the day,
she thought.
It all had a very African tone, which she rather liked. It had been that way in Mauritius, too, although the actual twelve-hour ferry ride had been quite peaceful and mellow. One could get a drink at the bar or play cards and chew the fat in a card room. She thought she had spotted a few constant travelers — men and women who worked the ferries, not as paid employees. She could guess how Carola Alese got her start, and the low railings showed easily how she was able to replace an excited mail-order bride on her way to meet her millionaire. Bishou was careful not to talk with strangers about where she was going, and she stayed away from the railings. It was only good sense.
The sky was a beautiful blue. The sun was warm and bright.
Even if I don’t get anything out of this trip but a strengthened friendship and a nice job refusal
, Bishou mused,
I’m glad I did it.
Bishou had asked around the ferry, and had learned that the most visible hotel from the dock, the Harbor Hotel, ought to be avoided. The purser had given her a card for La Pension Étoile — Star Hotel — a couple of blocks from the dock, along with road directions to it. Without asking, the purser had also told her the story of Louis Dessant, and the criminal who had ruined him.
“But he has been fortunate,” the purser said, “if you can call a man who’s done time and rehabilitated himself fortunate. He still has friends, a business, and a place where people think well of him. Ah, well,” he added, in typical French fashion, “
toujours l’amour
. I don’t think too many men will hold that against him.”
“And the women?” she had asked with a smile.
“The women? Mademoiselle Bourjois — the sister of the true bride — rides this route at least twice a year, on the anniversary of her sister Celie’s death, to warn other young women of the evils of this place. She is so very Paris, the old, mean Paris.
Vous savez
?”
Bishou nodded; she did know.
“But other women, they take autobus rides near the factory, just on the hope of seeing the poor, desolated man.
Par Dieu m’en faire
— pardon, Mademoiselle!” he said, as she started to laugh at the French obscenity. “I forget, your brother is a soldier, you’ve probably heard worse.”
She thought of Bat now, recommending a backpack over a heavy suitcase, and insisting she get back into shape before this trip. Bishou stumped firmly up the cobbled streets, blessing him for his foresight. In the distance, she saw a blue star on a sign and guessed that was La Pension Étoile ahead.
It was. She stepped inside a cool, white lobby, where two genteel middle-aged ladies stood at the desk, signing in some other new arrivals. She waited until the current (and apparently well-known) customers were taken care of, and then stepped up to the counter.
“
Bonjour
, Mesdames,” she said to them in French, passing the card across the counter. “Monsieur Martin of the
Mauritius Pride
recommended you highly.”
“Ah,
bonjour
, Mademoiselle?” There was a question in the tone.
Bishou smiled her acknowledgment. “
Oui
, Mademoiselle Howard. I am
étrangère
here, a visitor.”
“Ah. Welcome. And what brings you to our lovely island?” asked one lady.
“I wanted to see it, because I have heard so much about it. I am also applying for work, at the university, while I am here.”
“Oh, how exciting!” the other lady said. “Are you a secretary?”
“No, a teacher.”
“Oh, Mademoiselle. I do not wish to disappoint you — our university is just starting, so I could be mistaken — but all those teachers will be college professors, you know, not schoolteachers.”
Bishou gave them her gentlest smile. “Actually, I am a college professor, too. Docteur Bishou Howard, professeur de littérature, Université de Virginia de l’Est, des États-Unis.” It was the first time she could remember introducing herself that way, especially in French.
“Oh, goodness!” the ladies exclaimed, or words to that effect. “A woman! And an American! Here!”
“Don’t say anything, though. It could be bad luck. You know how job applications are.”
They probably didn’t, but they nodded sagely. Then it occurred to them they hadn’t even filled in a hotel form for her yet, and got to work. She paid for three days, cash.
Their porter, an elderly Creole, insisted on taking the backpack for her. Upstairs, she tipped, half what she would pay in Paris but double the rate here; he smiled broadly and touched his hat. Stowing her backpack in the room’s wardrobe, she stopped him to ask a question. French was the school language, so even the oldest Creoles spoke it, although badly. “Where do I go to catch the bus?”
“Don’t Mam’selle want nice taxi?”
“No,
mon ami
. Mam’selle wants to see green trees and smiling faces, and go slow.”
The smile got broader. “You go down to Missy’s bodega, take a left out here and two blocks down. Corner store — you know?”
“
Oui
. I know bodega.”
“Bus stop too. Driver be Armand, this time of day, good fellow. Tell him Joseph sent you, give him cigarette maybe.”
“Does he like Dessants? That’s all I’m carrying.”
His smile got even broader. “Everybody like Dessant. This his island.”
“That’s what I heard,” she agreed with a smile. “
Merci
, Joseph.”
“You teach a few words American?”
“Thank you, Joseph, you are kind,” she said, in English.
“Thank you, Mam’selle, you are kind.” He grinned, touched his cap, and left.
Bishou tucked her room key in her pocket and strapped her purse firmly across her shoulder. Then she followed directions to the corner store. A Creole woman worked busily behind the counter.
“Cigarettes?” asked Bishou.
“What brand?” the woman said busily.
“Dessant,” Bishou replied, as if that were obvious.
The woman stopped, and grinned at her. “Sorry if I was rude, Mam’selle.”
“You weren’t. Are you Missy?”
“
Oui
, I am.”
“Joseph at Pension Étoile said this was the best store in town.”
Missy grinned, showing some missing teeth. “He should. He owes me money.” The woman grinned in pleasure as Bishou laughed at the joke. Quickly she took Bishou’s bills, and gave her change. “Now, what else can I do for you, Mam’selle?”
“Tell me about the bus. Where it goes, when it comes.”
“I’ve got a schedule here.” She slid one across the counter. “You can keep that.”
“
Merci
. I just want to ride around and see things.
Je suis étrangère
.”
“A good plan, in a new place.” Missy nodded. “You come from Mauritius?”
“
Oui
.”
“And before then?” Missy was distracted by the appearance of another customer, then by the beep of the bus. “Autobus, Mam’selle. This is what you want.”
“
Merci
,” said Bishou, running outside before Missy could ask any more questions.
Now she saw what Louis meant about Réunion buses. This bus had sort of a roof, but there were seats all around the outside, too, and its top speed was probably ten kilometers per hour, downhill. She followed the lead of the others, paid the driver, and found a seat. She sat inside the bus, near him, though.
“Are you Armand?” she asked.
The driver replied, “Joseph sent you?”
Bishou dumped a few cigarettes into her hand, and passed them to him. He grinned with delight.
“He said, Armand likes those Dessant cigarettes, Mam’selle, so give him some. And he will tell you everything you want to know.”
Other passengers around them, mainly Creole but some French, watched and smiled.
The driver grinned again and shifted into gear. The bus was not quite as loud as a lawnmower, but moved at about the same speed. “Where do you want to go, Mam’selle?”
“I just want to see some of the region, and come back to Missy’s.”
“Just right,” said the driver. “That’s my route. That makes it a three-hour trip,
d’accord
?”
“
D’accord
,” she nodded. By then, it would be almost nightfall, a good time to get back to the hotel and try to sleep.
Joseph pointed out museums, banks, the retail area, and libraries as they started through town. “And those buildings over there, that’s the new Université Française de l’Océan Indien, our own university,” he said proudly. “Just started about five years ago.”
“I’m going to go there when I get older,” said a little Creole boy in the opposite front seat. His mama brushed his hair with one hand.
“I think that is a good plan,” Bishou told the little boy. “Then you can learn much, and maybe work in a business like a bank or publishing house.”
Her acceptance of the little boy made a difference in the atmosphere around her. This went from a silent bus to a bus full of quiet conversations, as they talked with the strange woman. Mainly, as Joseph pointed out more landmarks, they elaborated on his description, even if it was just to say “I was baptized in that church.”
There were no suburbs in Saint-Denis — one moment you were in the city, the next you were riding down one-lane dirt roads, past occasional farms.
Joseph pointed. “That’s the Dessant Cigarette factory over there.”
“I saw tobacco fields all around us,” she commented. “It’s big.”
“
Oui
. Monsieur Dessant is a rich man.”
“But a nice man,” another woman interrupted. “So is Monsieur Campard, his partner.”
“And they are
réunionnais
,” said a man.
“Oho,” said Bishou. “That is it, is it not? They are family. Family protect their own.”
Everyone within hearing range started to laugh, some almost sheepishly.