Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [20]
“My dear! Unbelievable, this fainting fit of yours!”
Félicia smiles. Soon, she will be able to lie on the chaise longue and return to working on the layette of her future son.
“And where is the lovely Annette …”
“She’s in her room,” Félicia answers.
Her voice wavers imperceptibly, but she controls herself. Gisèle Audier moves on to the subject of the tree felling that started yesterday.
“They have sold an extraordinary quantity of precious wood. I have heard that Monsieur Long will pay them a good price.”
“Jean thinks it’s bad for the coffee business.”
“And Jules is furious. But the truth is that he could never stand the Americans. He claims they are responsible for everything. I guess it all goes back to his hatred for the Occupation. The Occupation killed your father, and it made a paranoid maniac of my husband, who now sees the hand of the State Department everywhere, even in our worst political events. It’s really becoming an obsession.”
She laughs.
For a moment her words resurrect the ghosts of my father and his partisans. I can see Laurent, Justin Rollier and all the dead enter the Cercle l’Étoile, founded by the late M. Camuse, where, in a very different time, one after the other, the three sisters had made their debut in long silk gowns. The Cercle was ransacked by beggars on Calédu’s watch, and by now they’ve taken over the place. On that day, Mme Camuse nearly dropped dead of indignation …
Jean Luze plays a record in the living room. The notes penetrate me as he listens to them. My senses begin to vibrate so much that I rush to lock myself in my room. The sound explodes like a scream and then lingers in a caress. The entire house is suffused with it. What a hymn to life, this work born from suffering! …
In order to keep up appearances, I continue to attend mass regularly and receive communion every month. Father Paul hears my confession.
In order not to destroy the myth of the unblemished old maid, I admit to venial sins only. I keep the so-called mortal sins to myself. That’s between me and God. I will accept punishment bravely, no matter how terrible. I will appear before Him, pointing a finger at Him. I will be the one to accuse. I don’t care, everything may be perfect up there, but on earth, what a mess! I will tell Him what’s going on down here. I will open His eyes. In the meantime, as I have for the past twenty-five years, I will be one of the twelve Daughters of Mary at the procession for the Feast of the Virgin. Dressed like her, in a white dress and blue belt, I will escort our Immaculate Lady and carry her banner. With Father Paul’s help, Eugénie Duclan will launch her crusade to the Lord. This is the beginning of a series of processions, supplemented with songs and prayers, meant to move the heavens to pity and call on us its holy blessing. Father Paul has written a hymn: “May God make the rain descend upon us, may He wash this town of its sins. Mercy! Mercy! …”
Mme Camuse would never dare adorn her devotional display without my help. It’s a question of habit. She greets me with exclamations of joy:
“I knew you would never let me down. You’re so loyal. This time I would like a display representing a place in paradise where we’d have a saint wreathed in flowers. But who will be the saint?”
She simpers like a coquettish old cat and in a convincing voice declares:
“It will be you.”
“Me!”
“Yes, you’d make a great saint.”
“A much younger girl would be better,” I suggested, frightened to see her so attached to this idea.
“A younger girl, sure. But which one?”
“The prefect’s daughter.”
“The prefect’s daughter!” she exclaimed. “Oh no! What are you saying? That awful little negress! Look, and this is just between us, I can lower myself to make certain concessions, but not that far. People