Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [159]
“Leave me alone, you,” I cry impatiently.
“What’s going on?” Simon asks.
“He thinks I imitate you when I speak.”
“Bah!” says Simon. “So you got no dough, eh?”
He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a gourde.
“I swiped it from Germaine before I ran off! Bitch. She doesn’t often leave money lying around.”
“What’s happening now?” André asks him.
“Oh, it’s dead calm. Torrential rain, a fire, that was plenty. You saw it from here?”
“What?”
“The fire.”
“Don’t talk about it, or else Jacques will …”
“He was that scared?”
“But we were all scared,” André confesses, “weren’t you?”
“I saw plenty worse during the war in 1940. It’s easier to go up a ladder to rescue a little girl from a burning house than it is to deal with German bombs, I can tell you that much.”
“You rescued a little girl?” Jacques asks, lifting himself on an elbow, eyes shining with curiosity.
“They lost their heads and were all climbing at once. So, I screamed, ‘You bunch of morons, can’t you see the ladder’s about to collapse?’ And they jumped to the ground. The little girl, the Bérenger girl, you know her? She was on the balcony, crying and holding out her arms, and her parents, who were at a party at Madame Fanfreluche’s, were running like mad, their fat bellies bouncing up and down. So, I climbed up and got their daughter down for them …”
“I’m feeling sick,” Jacques suddenly says.
His black face has turned ashen.
“He’s sick again,” André says, panicking.
“You probably gave him too much to drink,” Simon declares, “and what’s more, it stinks in here. What’s in the chamber pot?”
“What you generally find in a chamber pot,” I reply.
“Well, it really stinks. Let’s open the doors and tidy up a little.”
“What if they come!” André exclaims fearfully.
“Who?” Simon asks.
“No, don’t open, don’t open anything,” Jacques begs.
And he crawls up to Simon and grabs his feet.
“What’s the matter?” Simon asks.
“He’s afraid,” André answers, “and so am I. René’s the only brave one. He even made Jacques drink the syrup.”
“What is he talking about?” Simon asks me.
“He’s reproaching me for not having respected the syrup left as an offering to the loas”
“What rubbish! My poor André! You who’ve read so many books!”
“What do books have to do with the gods of black folk?”
He shivers, his teeth chattering.
“So, are we going to open these doors or not?”
“No, no,” Jacques implores.
He clasps both of Simon’s feet, lifts his head and collapses.
“For the love of God!” Simon cries out. “Now he’s passed out.”
He picks up Jacques and slowly rolls him on his back.
“He needs air. Let’s get some fresh air in the house while he’s out of it.”
“No,” André begs in turn, “I’m cold. Jacques hasn’t lost consciousness. He’s sleeping. I know him. He’s my brother, isn’t he?”
“Ah, well then, deal with this yourself. What are the three of you plotting? No politics for us, that was our vow and we should respect it … Lordy! Either you look like a bunch of conspirators or I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He grabs the bottle of clairin and sucks down several gulps one after the other.
“Brrr … I saw them disembark. They’re inspecting the area. Would you believe me if I told you that it’s not worth getting your knickers in a twist?”
“So why are they here?” André asks.
“To occupy themselves. Fuck them, I say.”
“They probably won’t go after whites,” I say.
“Fuck them, I say,” Simon repeats.
“Shh!” André hisses.
“What’s the point of burying oneself alive? If they’ve decided to fuck with us, they’ll fuck with us.”
“Not if they think we don’t exist,” I say.
“Chickens!” Simon explodes.
“No, careful,” says André. “You can’t be too careful with them.”
“Well then,” Simon cuts in, “enough about them … I wrote a poem, a masterpiece. About Haiti the beautiful, the pure and warm, about its drums and black women, its body and soul. I’ve fallen in love with this island. In love, love, you hear me?”
“Shh! …” says André.
“Haiti, Haiti!” Simon hums, paying André no mind. “I’ll never set foot in France again and if they have another rotten war,