This rich man hires a maid without knowing that she is her own daughter, abandoned since birth. It was early in the morning in Pierre Claire’s big house, where the sun struck the windows as if to wake secrets long buried. Maman Abé, the housekeeper, walked briskly, adjusting the curtains, shouting at the young gardener who had once again forgotten to trim the hibiscus.
That day, a taxi stopped in front of the large gate. A young woman got out, holding a small bag in her hand. Her name was Awa. She had come from far away, from a dusty village by the river where people still washed in the river and where children ran barefoot through the fields. She had not dreamed of working as a maid, but life sometimes drives the feet where the heart does not want to go.
And then it was Father André who had sent her with a letter and a firm recommendation. She is serious, clean, polite. Take her. That was what the letter said, the one Maman Abé had placed before Madame Kan. When Awa entered the house, she was struck by the silence that reigned there. A silence of silver, cold, suspended like a breath held for years.
Madame Kan barely looked at her. Can you cook? Yes, madam. You sleep where you are told. You speak when you are spoken to. You do not make useless noise. Has that been explained to you? Yes, madam. She turned her back on her. Thus the beginning was sealed. Awa settled into the small room near the laundry room. A windowless room with a metal bed and a crooked wardrobe.
She carefully placed her bag there and, at the very bottom, wrapped in a knotted handkerchief, a small red pearl necklace. She never wore it in public. It was a memory, an object without a clear explanation. The old woman who had raised her, Maman Sira, had simply told her: “It is all I could save the day you arrived. Keep it. One day perhaps, it will be of use to you.”
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