MARTINE
By Kimolisa Mings
Copyright 2012 Kimolisa Mings
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Table of Content
Parte 1
Parte 2
Parte 3
Parte 4
Parte 5
Parte 6
Parte 7
Parte 8
Parte 9
Parte 10
Parte 11
Parte 1
It was the start of a new semester at Oakland Community College and Martine Carter was on her way to her first class of the new academic year. As a junior professor in the Foreign Language department, she had the pleasure of teaching college students her native tongue, French. Hopefully, this class of students would be as interested in the foreign language as her last class.
Upon entering room 305, she put on a bright smile and surveyed the room. As expected, the jocks were present, taking the mandatory Humanity course. The hopeful romantics were here, taking the course because French was supposed to be the language of love. There were also the "regular" students, probably taking the course so they can speak the language when they travel around Europe during the next summer break.
Only one student stuck out to Martine, a young man with a light complexion, but it was his features that caught her attention. They were so familiar, but she never saw this individual before. Why did he look so familiar?
Pushing her thoughts aside, Martine went into professor mode and introduced herself to her class, French 101.
"Bonjour et bienvenue à Francais Un Cent et un. Je suis votre professore, Pro. Martine Carter!" she began. "I like my students to be immersed in the French language so I will be speaking French most of the time. It is my aim for you to become accustomed to hearing the language and in turn speak it. To start, we will be introducing ourselves by answering two questions."
Martine turned to the black board and wrote the questions. Pointing at the first question, she said, "Comment vous appellez vous? What is your name?" Then she pointed to the second question and said, "D'ou etes vous? Where are you from?"
She turned back to the class and answered the question, "Je m'appelle Martine Carter. Je suis de l'Avignon, France." Pointing at the first student in the first row, she asked "Comment vous appellez vous? D'ou etes vous?"
As the young woman answered her questions, Martine reached for her roster and found the student's name, checking it off. One by one, she asked each student the two questions written on the black board and checked off their name on her roster. Soon it was the turn of the mystery student.
"Je m'appelle Alain Bouvier. Je suis de l'Avignon, France," he said in an impeccable French accent.
This took Martine aback. Yes, he was on the roster, but by his last name and his obvious command of the French language, she wondered why he was in her class. She never would have expected a student claiming to be from her small hometown to be taking her French class.
She stared at him for what would have been too long because the room became very quiet and some of the other students were beginning to fidget nervously. She turned to the next student and continued the exercise, trying not to think about Alain and why he was in her class.
Upon completing the introductions, Martine taught the class how to ask someone their age and what they are studying. She then put them into pairs where they would ask their partners what their names were, where they were from, how old they were and what they were studying. Unfortunately, the period ended before she got the class back together, so she asked them to remember their partners and make notes of their answers for the next class.
As the students exited room 305, Martine made notes on how the class went and where she had reached in her class plan. When she looked up from her paper work, she noticed that Alain was still in the classroom, still seated at his desk.
"Is there something wrong, Alain?" she asked.
"Non, professore."
"Is your next class in this room?"
"Non, professore."
"So why are you still here, Alain?"
"Parce que de toi," Alain answered timidly.
This took Martine by surprise, forcing her to stand, hoping that it would put her in a dominating position. As all his answers were in French, she continued to speak in the language of her birth.
"Why are you here for me?"
"Because I wanted to meet you," Alain replied. He looked out of the window, but Martine wondered if he was seeing the students and teachers crossing the courtyard. "Doesn't my last name sound familiar to you? I'm sure you met my parents at least once, Brigitte and Henri Bouvier."
At first the names did not sound familiar, but then Martine started to remember. Their faces flashed across her mind and all she saw in her mind's eye were a young, white couple holding a little newborn boy with pale skin, but the tips of his ears were dark.
"Why did you give me away, Maman?" Alain was now looking at her, a sole tear had streaked down his cheek.
Martine started to walk to him, intending to embrace him, to wipe away the tear, to tell him that she thought about him every day of his life, but students started to walk in. The next class was to start in five minutes. This was not the place for an emotional reunion between a mother and son.
She returned to her desk at the front of the room and retrieved a scrap of paper and a pen. She quickly wrote down her address and directions, then beckoned Alain to the front.
"There is a lot we have to talk about, so come for dinner at my house. This is the address and the directions. Come for 7 o'clock," Martine said to Alain while giving him the scrap of paper.
He nodded and left the classroom while Martine put away her paperwork, her fingers trembling. Throughout the workday, her mind returned to the young, French man. At times, she would space out in the middle of a class exercise. If anything, the students now knew how to say "I'm sorry".
Parte 2
"Who is this student? What is so special about him? You never invite students to dinner, Maman, so why did you invite this one? Where is he from? Was he born near here?...." Sophie went on and on, interrogating her mother as she ripped into a head lettuce. Bianca, brooding in the corner, rolled her eyes as she cut up some tomatoes.
They were in the kitchen helping their parents make dinner, or as they would put it, used as child labour to prepare a meal for their overlords. Martine checked on the pork chops in the oven while James, her husband, took out the dishes and utensils.
"I think that's enough lettuce and tomatoes for the salad, girls. Take these and set the table," James said. Seven year old Sophie jumped off the stool she was sitting on and grabbed the utensils, disappearing into the dining room. Her older sister, Bianca, was not as boisterous, took the plates and followed Sophie. James shook his head as he watched her departure, puberty had definitely changed his eldest daughter.
With the girls gone, he turned to his wife, "So why did you invite this particular student, Martine?"
"He's my son," she answered as she stared at the pork chops, afraid to look at the man she loved more than her own life. It was only when no reaction came that she looked at James. "I was young, I thought he loved me but he just wanted to sleep with a black girl. I was sixteen and I had just moved to France from Haiti to live with my aunt a year before. It was so hard adjusting, making friends. Then he befriended me and I fell hard for him. He was the first, I gave him my virginity. The condom was old and I got pregnant. I thought he would be there for me, for the baby, but he wanted nothing to do with us. I was so disappointed that I was in a state of denial and by the time my aunt noticed, I was too far gone. We decided on putting the baby up for adoption. We found a couple who couldn't have kids on their own and when the baby was born, I gave it to them."
It was like flood waters bursti
ng through a damn and by the end of her explanation, Martine was exhausted. She sat heavily onto Sophie's stool and rested her head on her crossed arms on the counter top.
James was speechless at first, then he was bombarded by questions, but he chose to comfort his wife. He walked over to Martine's slumped form and embraced her, lifting up her tear streaked face to look at him. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he had to know.
"It was a mistake and I was ashamed. I wanted to leave it in the past and I didn't want to mar what we have," replied Martine.
"Well, the past has come looking for you, Martine. What do you want to do about it?" James queried.
"Honestly, I don't know. I guess it depends on what he wants, why he came looking for me. If you were me, what would you do?" she asked.
Before James could answer, the doorbell rang. Martine stared at James and James stared back, and they listened to Sophie running to the front door. As she answered the door, her parents snapped out of their short lived trance and prepared themselves to greet their dinner guest. James putting the meal in their serving dishes as Martine went to the bathroom to make herself more presentable.
Parte 3
On the other side of the front door, Sophie found a tall man with a fair complexion that reminded her of her best friend Joanne who had a black father and a white mother. The man had full lips and a straight nose and he looked very nervous.
"Hi! You must be Alain, Maman's student. I'm Sophie. Come in," she said moving to the side so Alain could enter the foyer.
As he crossed the threshold, a tall man with dark skin entered from a room on the left, an equally dark teenage girl came in from a room on the right.
"This is my dad, James Carter the third and my sister, Bianca," Sophie continued by way of introductions.
"How about you two go on and finish setting the table and I'll show Alain around," James said, hoping the girls didn't notice how much the young, French man looked like their mother.
When the girls were gone, James turned to Alain, extending his hand, "Welcome to our home, Alain, I hope you didn't have any problems finding the house."
"Uh, no sir, the directions were very clear," Alain said as he shook James' hand.
"Let me give you the grand tour," James said leading the way to the living room.
It was when they had entered the kitchen that Martine made her appearance.
"Hello, Alain, I'm sorry I wasn't able to greet you when you arrived, but it looks like James is doing a great job showing you around," she said as she awkwardly hugged her first born.
"Bonsoir, Maman, oui, oui, monsieur est......."
"No, no, Alain, English only, I may be from Haiti by way of France and teach French, but at home, we only speak English. It would not be fair to my family if we spoke French. Okay?" Martine said, her eyes pleading him to understand.
"Okay, Maman," Alain conceded. "Your husband has been most kind; he even told me I could play the piano in the living room sometime."
"You play the piano, Alain?" Martine asked.
"My mother sent me to Madame Truier to learn. I was not her favourite student but I turned out to be her best," he replied, smiling at the memory of the old woman scolding him.
"Well, you must play for us after dinner," James said just as Sophie came skipping in.
"The table is set, dinner is ready," the exuberant girl took Alain's hand and led him into the dining room with her parents a few steps behind.
"Daddy usually sits there, Maman over there and you get to sit next to me over there," Sophie said, pointing out the seating arrangement. Bianca was already seated and everyone else took their seats.
The dinner went by pleasantly. The conversation flowed from one topic to another, brushing on almost everything except the topic of what had brought Alain Bouvier to the Carter household. The family laughed at Alain's escapades in his small French town and Sophie regaled him on her own adventures while Bianca mumbled when they tried to bring her into the conversation.
Just as they were polishing off their dessert of apple pie with ice cream, James remembered that Alain was to play for them after dinner. "Girls, we are going to have a treat. Alain is going to play us a little something on the piano."
Sophie lit up and whipped around to look at Alain, "Really, Alain? Are you going to play something French? I'm learning to play now and Bianca plays but she has not played in ages," the little girl went on and on.
Alain simply smiled and waited for her to run out of steam. "Well if it is alright with everyone, I have three pieces I can play, but I would need a little time to play a bit to warm up," he said.
"Okay, girls, clear off the table and stack the dishes in the sink, Honey, go with Alain to the living room and I will get the coffee and hot chocolate and set them up in the living room," Martine said as she stood.
As James listened to Alain play a couple keys on his mother's old piano, Martine was setting mugs on a tray to take into the living room.
"Mom, is Alain related to us?" Bianca asked as she set the last of the dishes on the counter next to the sink.
"Why do you ask, B.?" Martine asked trying to sound casual.
"Well, he kinda looks like us and some of his mannerisms look like yours," Bianca was now leaning on the counter, looking at her mother.
"I guess this is the best time to tell you. Bianca, Alain is...."
"Maman, Bianca! Alain is ready, come on!" Sophie had burst through the kitchen door, interrupting Martine.
"Okay, okay, Bianca, take that tray with the creamer and sugar and I'll bring out the coffee and hot chocolate," Martine said a little too brightly. She was a bit relieved that she was interrupted, but she knew she would still have to tell her girls about their brother.
Parte 4
When Martine walked into the living room, she found it was dimmed with only the lamp by the piano on. Sophie sat on the floor on her favourite pillow and Bianca sat on one of the armchairs. Alain sat at the piano and James sat on the coach. She placed the tray on the coffee table and doled out the mugs to her family, then she curled up next to James, sipping her coffee.
Seeing that everyone was settled and their attention was on him, Alain began to play a lively tune. "This was my favourite song to play when I was younger. It always made me feel happy when I felt sad and lonely," he said. It was so lively that Sophie started clapping in time.
When that song ended, they all applauded their dinner guest who started to play a new song. This song was a bit more somber and before long, James and Martine recognized it as "God Bless The Child" by Billie Holiday. Martine looked at her daughters and then at Alain who was staring at her as he played. "God bless all my children," she thought as she smiled at her son.
Once again, the song ended and the Carter family applauded. "This song I wrote for my maman, I promised myself that when I found her, I would play it for her. Excuse my singing voice," Alain said as I started playing a lazy melody. Then he began to sing.
The song was of a young boy who felt so alone and wanted his maman's touch, embrace and love. By the end of the song, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
"That song was beautiful, Alain. You know a song is great when it moves people to tears," James said. "Have you ever considered going professional with your music?"
"Ah, um, well no, sir, not really. Most times, it's just me and the piano when no one's around," Alain replied, his face colouring.
"Well, think about it, you are good," James said with conviction.
"Well, girls, Thank Alain for giving us a private concert and it's off to your rooms, I know you still have homework to get done," Martine said, wiping the last of her tears away.
"Thanks, Alain," Sophie and Bianca said in unison.
Just as she was about to leave the living room, Sophie turned back, "What about the dirty dishes?"
"Don't worry, I'll take care of them," Martine replied.
James stood as Sophie left, "Well, if you will excuse me, I have a few papers I have to re
view for work. Thanks for playing and it was a pleasure meeting you, Alain." James reached out and squeezed Martine's arm and left the living room. He wished he could stay and give her support, but he knew she had to do this on her own. Martine had to confront her pass.
Parte 5
For the first time since that morning, mother and son were all alone, and a nervous silence descended over them. It was broken by Alain, nervously plunking keys, experimenting with a melody.
"What is that you are playing?" Martine asked.
"A little something I've been composing," he replied. "You didn't answer my question earlier."
"Why did I let you go?" Martine sighed. "Where do I begin? Basically, I was young and I would not have been able to give you the life you deserved. You deserved a mother and a father, not to worry if you would eat that day, to have a roof over your head, warm clothes in the winter and opportunities I could not give you. Alain, your life would have been so hard if I kept you."
"But I would have been with you," he whispered. He stopped playing and turned fully to Martine, "Do you know how hard it was to be the odd one out? Not being black, not being white, then when I go home, my parents not knowing how to console me. I wanted, I needed to see someone who looked like me. I wanted you."
Martine got up, walked over to Alain and embraced him. She felt the tension in her son's body unravel and melt away. "I thought about you every day of your life. There were times, I wanted to undo it all and take you back..."
"Then why didn't you?" Alain interrupted.
"Because I knew I was being selfish. I knew I could not give you what the Bouviers could give you. It would have been mean to give the Bouviers a beautiful boy and then rip him away from them," Martine responded. "Were the Bouviers bad to you, Alain? Did they treat you badly? Would it have been fair to take you away from them when they have been so kind to you?"
Alain shook his head, "But I needed you," he whispered, "I need you." He pulled away from Martine, tears running down his face. "I needed my maman." Frustration was written across his face.
Abruptly, he stood up and started to pace around the living room. Martine sank down onto the piano bench, following Alain with her eyes. "Maybe I should not have come," he said at last stopping in his tracks. Then he walked to the living room entrance, stopping when he got to it.