Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [141]
“Looking for Jacques.”
“Where is he?”
“Left two hours ago. He jumped out the window and I haven’t seen him since.”
“The devils might have caught him.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Did he not also predict in one of his poems that the time of the devils would come?”
“My God!” André says, putting his hands together.
And he kneels to recite a prayer.
The devils opening the gates of Hell
Will escape by the thousands
Black, red, sparkling with weapons and gold …
a voice outside recites. We listen carefully attentive and curious.
Nature herself would if she could
Hide in a shroud of mourning
Death glides to our door without warning …
“Jacques!” André hollers.
He rushes to the door and I block his way.
“No, André.”
“Jacques!”
I put my hand over his mouth, grab his shoulder and push him against the wall.
“Look, I say.”
The devils, a dozen of them, escort Jacques, who walks slowly and indifferently among them, declaiming his poems.
“Do you see them?”
“Who?”
“The devils. They are all around your brother. Circling around him. Pushing him ahead.”
“Where?”
“There, at the corner of Grand-rue.”
“So he might get killed?”
“Something strange is going on.”
“What?”
“Devils though they are, it looks like they sense they are in the presence of a greater force, something that seems to overpower them.”
“I see Jacques!” André cries out. “People are cheering him on!”
“Those are the devils!”
“They’re going to kill him, René, they’re going to kill him,” André sobs.
“Do you see them?”
“No. But I am sure they’re going to kill him.”
I run to get a bottle of clairin that I had completely forgotten about, since no Haitian poet can drink and toast unless he is in good company. I pour two glasses and lift mine:
“To the defeat of the devils,” I cry out.
“Shhh!” André motions to me.
I point to the crucifix lying on the floor and abruptly pour the clairin down my throat. It sets my stomach ablaze like a torch.
“May God and the loas protect us,” André says.
I’m completely euphoric. André’s presence and the heat of the clairin spreading in my organs lift my courage and I feel capable of confronting a whole army of devils. In the blink of an eye, a crackle of bullets destroys my vague attempt at audacity.
“They killed him,” I say to André.
“Why did you say that?”
“Didn’t you hear the sound of the firing squad?”
“No.”
“You’ve always been a bit hard of hearing. Listen to the bullets! …”
“They killed him!”
“Alas!”
“Let me leave. Let me go get his body.”
“So you too can get killed!”
I force him to drink his clairin, helping him hold the glass to his lips wet with tears.
“He was only twenty” he laments.
“Drink, drink.”
Night falls. I look around through the wall. Nothing moves. Dimming its lights, the sun dyes the clouds orange and shrimp pink. And the clouds deserting the sky gather voluptuously around the sun, which suddenly abandons them and disappears behind the sea.
We slept only an hour or two on the floor. At dawn, I was already flat against the wall, drinking up the least signs of life from the town like a starving man. Nothing stirred. All around, immutable nature seemed to mock our anguish. I listened to the nightingales modulating their clever trills. They were singing perched on a palm tree. While the fronds of the palm tree swayed in the breeze outside, in my room I was suffocating from the heat. Oh! To be able to just get out and run with open arms to the beach, fill my lungs with air, throw myself in the salty water, dive in without taking a breath, to drown! …
“Is there no one in the streets?” André asks me.
“No. Not a breath of life. It’s a siege. Either we turn ourselves in or we die.”
“Do we have what we need to make some coffee?”
“The coal and the gas stove are at the other end of the yard. There are two of us now. One of us will keep a lookout and the other will go get them.”
“What if they catch us?”
“We’ll be careful. Stop shaking. You’ve already crossed yourself a hundred times since you’ve been here. There’s no more time for prayers, only action.”
His face is drenched in