But that seems like so little of a concern, now. I may not know myself, but I know the loneliness of love. I know what toll forgiveness takes. I know that the world is too big to be knowable.

I have learned to swim. Emmanuel taught me at first. But I learned how to float myself. The water carries you up, even when you think you are too heavy. When I float like that, I think of you and your ledgers, I think of where you go when you order the world in your mind, and I think I am ever closer to joining you there. I wish you could see your Libertie, floating in cool water so blue it seems God would drink it, staring up at the sky. When you are worried for me, when you are scared for me, when you wish to know me, think of me like that.

Mama, I am coming to you. I will be there maybe even before this letter arrives. When I deliver these children, I will rest for as long as I can and then I will come to you. The Graces have already agreed to help. They have left me their cut of the last leg of this tour, they have left it with a ship captain in Jacmel’s port, and when I am ready, I am to find out when he next sails to New York, and he will harbor me and my children.

I will miss this country. I think it is here, more than anywhere else, that is my home. But I cannot stay. What a horrible thing in this world, to know your home and also know you can never live in it. I will tell you what Emmanuel has done, or rather, what he chooses to continue to have done, when I am home with you again. Emmanuel is a man who I do not think is all bad, but he does not have a big enough imagination to imagine me free beside him. I have already forgiven him for it, though.

I will carry to you my two children. I will wear their swaddling clothes as my own skirts. We will see you again before this world turns in another new direction. We will, at least, turn together.

I learned a new saying here today. Nou bout rive nan jaden an. We have almost reached the garden. My friend Ti Me says it to me as she measures my belly, how far it is dropped, when I am ready for birth. But I think of it as my song to you, my mother, when I see you again.

Love,

Libertie

THE BOY WAS at my breast first. He drank, and every time I tried to look in his eyes, he closed them tight. But when I looked away, I felt him watching me. The girl, she did not want my eyes. She watched my mouth. She watched my lips form shapes and my tongue vibrate as I sang to them. I watched her watch the invention of music. Right there, I invented it for her. Being a mother means being someone’s god, if only briefly. This is known, I think. But they are my gods, too. They are my country now.

Emmanuel,

Know that I have left you because I love you. I cannot stay, though, in a house that is built on silences. I cannot pretend, as Ella does, if she is even pretending anymore.

I believe you are a strong enough man to follow. I believe you can hope for more.

I love you, I do. I love Haiti, I do. I love you enough both to leave you and hope for more.

Do you understand?

Can you follow?

Remember when I told you of Ben Daisy and how he drowned for love? And you said, in flirtation, that he and I belonged to Erzulie. Ti Me also told me, in her careful way, that I am Erzulie’s, that I will always be unsatisfied, that the beauty of this world will never be enough for me and I will always long for the other side of the mirror, the more perfect world.

But I wish for a different story, I think.

So when you come to me, tell me this one. The one you told me about the water where I learned to swim. Remember the story you told me, about the pools? You said that water did not belong to us. Not to the colored people of Haiti, not to the Negroes, certainly not to the whites who caused the soil to run with blood. No, you said they belonged to Anacaona first. You said she was a Taino queen, who ruled the land here when Columbus came. She was beloved because she could sing. She could sing her people’s past, she could sing her people’s present, she could sing through all the way to her people’s future. She led her people in revolt against the world that was descending, revolt against the world that said it was the only world possible.

The Spaniards tried to break her. They gave her the choice of death, or to be one of their wives, trapped in lust. She chose death. She went to her end with pride, even though they hanged her.

She revolted, and you said that we could still hear her cries in the water there.

That is what you told me.

When you come to find us, because I believe you will become a strong enough man to follow us, this is the first story I want to hear from your mouth, the only one I will want to hear in your voice for quite some time.

I think you can break free. I believe you can. But I cannot do it for you. You have to do it yourself. I don’t know if I, myself, am free. I hope to be. Our children are already, and I leave you now to keep them that way. I leave you to keep their sovereignty intact. But do not think that you are now alone. I promise you—we are waiting for you, in the new world.

Your

Libertie

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are so many people who helped me bring this book into the world. First and foremost, I would like to thank my agent, Carrie Howland, who believed that this book was possible and pushed me to write the proposal for it. I would like to thank my editor Kathy Pories, Betsy Gleick, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Michael McKenzie, and the many others at Algonquin who have so enthusiastically supported the creation of this work.

I would not have been able to complete this manuscript without the support of many generous and unexpected grants. The National Endowment for the Arts, the Whiting Foundation, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, and the Hodder Fellowship at Princeton University all provided me with the material support necessary to complete this novel. I am forever grateful and humbled to be the recipient of these fellowships. In particular, I must thank Meredith Moss Quinn at Radcliffe and Tracy K. Smith at Princeton for your support and belief in my work. Tracy also graciously connected me with a homeopath, Wanda Smith-Schick, who shared invaluable information with me.

While working on this book, I have had the good fortune of meeting so many artists and writers who inspired me, who had conversations with me, who shared with me how they saw the world and helped expand my understanding. I also had the good fortune of continuing my conversations with so many friends. This made writing less lonely and made me a better thinker. Thank you to Ja’Tovia Gary, Min Jin Lee, Lauren Groff, Mira Jacob, Bill Cheng, Tennessee Jones, Alexander Chee, Simone Leigh, Madeline Hunt-Ehrlich, Lana Wilson, Naomi Jackson, Nicholas Boggs, Tana?s, Naima Coster, Kerry Carnahan, Evie Shockley, Andra Miller, André M. Carrington, Kinitra Brooks, Megan Mayhew Bergman, Cara Blue Adams, Mike Scalise, Margaret Garrett, Rebecca Sills, Ilana Zimmerman, Phillip Williams, Tanisha C. Ford, Molly Brown, Jessica Grose, Sheila Pundit, and Deb Reck.

I was very nervous to write about Haiti—a country I admired but that I am not from. I was scared of writing something untrue, and so I had to read and talk with as many people as I could to try not to do so. Thank you to the historians Brandon R Byrd, Kate Ramsey, Wynnie Lamour, Kendra Field and Malick Ghachem, who answered my questions and shared so many resources.

In particular, thank you to the historian Orly Clerge, who answered my questions about visiting Haiti and provided so many resources. Thank you to Edwidge Danticat and Sharifa Rhodes-Pitts, who did the same. Thank you to Patrick Sylvain, who provided expert Kreyol translations.

Thank you to Rob Field and the staff at Weeksville Heritage Center, who provided me with access to the oral history recording that inspired this novel. My time working at that historic site changed my life and I am forever grateful to those who work so hard to preserve that legacy.

Thank you to Nicole Davis.

Thank you to my family—Ariel Greenidge, Kirsten Greenidge, Kerri Greenidge, Ron Nigro, Katia Nigro and Hunter Nigro, David Dance, Suzanne Dance, Tyron Dance, Kwame Dance, Eric Davis, Candice Corbie-Davis, and Fidel and Che Corbie-Davis.

And thank you to my daughter.