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“I don’t know anything about it, Monsieur.”

“Talk or you’ll regret it.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Two men came down from the platform on which the table stood and loomed before Cécile.

“Talk,” one of them said.

“I swear I don’t know anything.”

“You want a beating? Huh!”

One of them tore off her blouse and grabbed a bundle of leather straps that lay on the table.

“She doesn’t know anything, she doesn’t know anything,” Simon yelled.

“Tell them, Cécile,” I begged. “Tell them what you know.”

“I don’t know anything,” Cécile said.

“Fine. I am going to loosen your tongue. You’ll see.”

He shoved her to her knees and struck her. The straps marked her flesh with long red streaks.

“No! No!” I couldn’t stop yelling.

“Let him kill me,” Cécile shouted to me.

“No! No!”

“I won’t be able to live after all of this. Let them kill me!”

Two patrol members had to hold me back. I had rushed at them like a lion. They twisted my arms and I fell to my knees.

“Cécile, think of your mother,” I begged again, “tell them what you know.”

“I don’t want to live anymore, I don’t want to live anymore,” she sobbed.

“You bastards,” Simon shouted.

And he leaped on one of the men and hit him in the head with his handcuffed fists.

“Shoot him,” ordered the patrol member who had remained at the table with the commandant.

“I am French, I invoke my flag,” Simon protested.

“We shit on your flag,” one of the men answered. “You struck law enforcement personnel.”

“My embassy will be notified. You’ll have to answer for my death.”

“You were conspiring against the security of the State.”

“You’re lying There was never a conspiracy.”

“And the petrol bombs? Where did they come from?”

“They’re no more threatening than firecrackers, they’re stuffed with rotting cotton and clairin. I demand to be transferred to Port-au-Prince and allowed to contact my lawyer.”

“Hah! Hah! Hah!” one of the patrol members sniggered. “He thinks we have time to waste. How many days did you stay locked up in the shack with the conspirators?”

“I repeat, there was never any conspiracy,” Simon roared.

“Let him be,” said the commandant, who seemed preoccupied by an inconvenient thought. “Let’s take care of these two first.”

“Come with me,” said one of the men. “See these goodies? They will make you as soft as a woman’s hand.”

And, tearing off our shirts, he burst into hideous, demonic laughter.

“Look at that, thin as a rail. You won’t be able to make it through an hour of torture. Commandant Cravache, give me the studded whip.”

“I’m the only guilty one,” I cried. “I made the weapons myself while they were both sleeping.”

“Who were you trying to set on fire?”

“The devils,” I responded.

“What devils?”

“The ones who invaded the town.”

“He’s a mad fool,” Simon yelled. “Don’t you understand that?”

“I wonder which one of you is best at playing the fool?” the commandant replied.

He came down off the platform, grabbed some kind of pliers off the table and dangled them before me:

“I will tear out your flesh, I will flay you like a hog, but you will talk.”

“I’m the only guilty one,” I repeated.

“Who were you after?”

“The devils.”

The commandant smashed my face with the pliers and blood ran down my cheek.

“You’ve already been beaten with a stick, right? That can be tiring for the person doing it, but this”—holding the pliers under my nose—“is a game that can last for hours. It is reserved exclusively for little plotters such as yourself. Tie him to a chair!”

Two men rushed over, grabbed me and bound me to a chair. The commandant held out the pliers to the patrol member who was still smiling in his seat, saying to him:

“Go ahead, Sataneau, do the honors.”

And the man took the pliers and came toward me. He was very small with a somewhat elongated head and slanting eyes framed by large pointed eyebrows. He smiled and his lips revealed brilliant white, pointed teeth. The face of the man leaning over me suddenly blurred, melting before my very eyes into a blinding metallic plate.

I bowed my head,