He looked at Simon and was surprised to see that the old man’s face was grim. He wanted to ask him what was wrong, why he was sad when there was reason to celebrate the entry of three new souls into Christ’s Church; but he knew this was not the time to ask questions. He knew Simon was thinking of his own arrival in Haiti, his own baptism into the Christian faith.

* * *

The congregation swayed and moaned, but Toussaint remained still and silent, lost in his memories. He had always been a solitary person, reluctant to show any emotion in public. He always remained calm, he kept a clear head, he never let anyone know about his private thoughts.

“Toussaint!” He was so startled by the sound and the intrusion that he cried out and began trying to cover himself. “Toussaint, what were you doing?” It was Simon. He stood at the edge of the shade trees, staring at him, watching him writhe with shame.

“Nothing,” Toussaint mumbled.

Simon came closer. Toussaint sat stone still, his eyes half closed, the lump in his pants still large.

“It’s not like you to lie to me, son.”

Toussaint kept silent. He knew there was no way to deny it, no way to excuse it, no way out for him.

“Have you done this often?”