Mornings Safara weeds the endless rows of pea-

like shrubs. Evenings she stews the plants in

vats. In three months, she learns many French

phrases. Pardonnez-moi. Bonjour. Je m'appelle

Safara. Je suis esclave. Les mains sont bleues.

Je suis fatiguée. J'ai faim. Je voudrais vous

plaire. J'ai faim. She bends over her pot, smells

the acrid odor of indigo.

One day, in the forest by the sea, Safara strays

from the path. She bends to pick up a pale green

fruit. "Arrêtez! Stop!" a stranger shouts at her,

waves his arms. "Cet arbre-ci est poison. La

peau, l'estomac, tout sera enflammé si vous

mangiez ce fruit." "Ce n'est pas une pomme?"

"No, this is the manchineel tree." "Monsieur,

comme vous êtes gentil." "Drop it. Drop the

fruit!" She releases her grip. He rushes to her.

"Open your palm. Come, we must find oint-

ment." She frets. "Hush now."

He takes her burning hand, leads her toward the

house. "You care about me," she says. "Sh! Any

decent person would help you." He has kind hazel

eyes and brown fly-away curls. "What is your

name, child?" he asks. "I'm not a child." "How

old are you?" "Thirteen, and you?" "Don't be

insolent. I'm nineteen. Now run tell Sidoine what

happened."

That night before sleep, Safara chants softly:

"`Grégoire,' `You cannot call me Grégoire. You

must call me Monsieur Soissons.'"