Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [163]
“It smells like a prison around here,” Simon wakes up and exclaims.
“Maybe it’s the chamber pot,” André answers, rubbing his eyes.
“Prison! It was so filthy!” Simon says again. “I would rather deal with an army of devils than go back there.”
“Don’t talk about them,” André advises quietly.
“About whom?”
“The devils,” André answers.
“But where are they? Your devils. You haven’t told me yet.”
“Don’t joke about them,” I caution him.
“We’re old friends, aren’t we, René? I’m not used to holding back anything from you. So! These devils of yours, me, I don’t believe in them. I’m an atheist, don’t forget that. And an atheist accepts neither the idea of God nor the devil.”
“This is not the best time for blasphemy,” André whimpers. “We’re already in debt to the loas since René touched the syrup, so don’t force God to turn from us as well.”
He traces a large cross on his chest and sniffles.
“I am not trying to hurt anyone,” Simon says. “To each his convictions. But that syrup, if you would permit me, I’ll lap it up in front of you without leaving a drop.”
“Don’t touch it,” André yells.
“Pass me the bottle of clairin and calm down. I will drink it only if you permit me to do so. And, one way or another, you will. Me, I don’t know how to live without eating and I’ll be hungry soon enough.”
“You’re drinking all the clairin” André protests.
“Say what you will, but this is the good life,” says Simon, lying down on the floor. “Even if it stinks, this is the good life. Too bad it smells a bit like jail. The bastards! They almost had our hides! Things like that could make you go crazy. Do you remember how they woke us up with kicks one day and told us we were going to be executed? And that other time when they amused themselves by slapping us and making us crawl naked on all fours like dogs. No doubt about it, they persecute poets here. Even French poets. They have no regard for foreign nationals. It’s our ambassadors’ fault; they land on this island like Robinson Crusoe … Do you remember what the commandant said to me when I protested and threatened to invoke my flag? He said, ‘Shut your dirty trap, white trash, or I’ll make you swallow your teeth along with your tongue.’ No respect for me, a French citizen marooned here of my own accord, who boasts and sings Haiti’s praises in poems that may be published one day throughout the four corners of the world … As a matter of fact, we never did recover from the commandant’s blows. But probably the most vicious were the ones who were helping him. Never seen anything more diabolical than the expression on their faces!”
“Be quiet!” André yells.
“Why? We are locked up. No one can hear us. This is stupid! … Poor Jacques getting hit in the head by one of them! Bap and bap and bap until his nose and eyes were bloody. What’s wrong, René? I’ve never seen such a grin on your face! Why are you looking at me like that? You’re scaring me. You look like a wild beast. Get a hold of yourself, my friend!”
“I don’t like to hear you lie,” I whispered furiously “You’re talking about things I don’t remember. If Jacques had indeed been hit in the head, how could I ever forget that?”
“I don’t remember much either anymore,” André admitted sadly, voluptuously scratching the scar on his forehead.
“What scheme are you two hatching? Or are you trying to make me think I’ve gone completely nuts? You, André! Where did you get that scar?”
“I don’t know, I don’t really know … I fell, I think, when I was little, just like that …”
“Like that, really!”
“And anyway, leave