Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [108]
“How long has this been going on?”
It took her a moment to understand.
“When did you start drinking?”
She got up slowly, her eyes still filled with the spectacle in the yard, and looked over at this man she had forgotten buried under the sheets, his head resting on a pillow.
“I’ll keep doing it,” she said dryly. “I’ll keep doing it.”
“You will die like your father. Wasting away from drink.”
“You have to die from something.”
“Spare your children at least.”
“My children! What children? They are already dead. Don’t you know that? Don’t you see that?”
“Quiet!”
“What’s a drunk mother to them after what they’ve been through? They couldn’t care less. Rose already stinks of death.”
“Quiet!”
He jumped on her and grabbed her by the throat.
“That’s it! Kill me! Kill me!”
He loosened his fingers and noticed their livid faces in the mirror.
“My God!” he whispered, imitating her inadvertently.
They went back to bed, each pulling on the sheets as if they could separate themselves from each other that way. In the distance, the crazed barking of a dog broke and accentuated the horrible silence. A slight gust shook the trees and fresh air flowed into the room along with the strong smell of the soil and the trees.
She heard the stairs creaking, footsteps on the landing whispering and the closing of the grandfather’s door. But she didn’t budge. And if there’s such a thing as fate, she told herself, then what can I do about it? Let things run their course, wait, let others act, then wait a little more. In other words, resign myself. I can’t do anything, nobody can do anything. That’s the really hopeless part about it. Should I fold my arms and wait? Or fly off the handle and end it all? In any case, choosing will resolve nothing. Caught like rats in a trap.
She thought she saw the father’s shoulder tremble, and fixed her eyes with curiosity upon this body so close to hers. What would he do if she suddenly touched him?
With that thought, she could see herself again when she was twenty, in her wedding gown, kneeling before a priest blessing their joined hands. Meaningless gestures but, when they were young, gestures that seemed to guarantee a future full of happiness. Her illusions had faded one by one and in the void carved out by their loss, old age slowly traced its way. The illness that would keep old age from overstaying its welcome made its presence felt, and she watched for it now without dread and even with a certain desperate complicity! Will I die at their hands or will I be good and dead on my own soon enough? she wondered again. Will my eyes be the first to close or will life force me to watch my children go in the ground one after the other, even though I already have one foot in the grave? Would she play such a dirty trick on me? A dying mother outliving her loved ones! My existence hangs by a thread, I know that, and yet I may have to see them all die. Sinking into her sweat-soaked pillow, fingers clutching the left side of her chest, she lay still and listened to her groaning heart and thought: We think we can fight back, but that’s all wrong. Rose and Paul don’t know it yet. They’re too young and don’t know it yet. They convince themselves otherwise out of pride. They tell themselves: we’re fighting back, we’re doing something, we’re making decisions, but they’re just drunk with their own words. There was a time when I too was drunk with my own words. But that’s over. I’m not moved by illusions anymore. I’ve come to be sufficiently acquainted with these criminals to learn that you can’t fight fate. We’ve been delivered over to their hatred, bound hand and foot. Utterly lost. Every last one of us. Rose dishonored! And Paul fixing his own demise! … No, I can’t go on living knowing all this and unable to do anything to save them. My God! My God! … If only I could leave it all in Your hands! To feel Your presence when misfortune