Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [21]
She’s literally suffocating.
“And yet you receive the commandant in your home,” I said to her.
She cast a worried glance at the door and lowered her voice:
“I never invited him,” she confided, “he came on his own. They are shockingly shameless.”
She is wearing a long-sleeved gray dress that falls to her boots. She takes a few small steps, clutches the cameo dangling on her chest at the end of a long chain, raises her head toward the French ancestor who stares back at her sternly and, changing the subject, says:
“I’d rather not do the display at all!”
She tidies her bun of white hair, pinning it atop her pretty and distinguished face, and changes the subject:
“I have heard from Frantz,” she informs me. “There’s a chance he will come visit me soon. I am sorry he didn’t marry you, believe me, because I’m somewhat afraid of this foreigner. Even though I have traveled, it’s surprising how provincial I am still. I’m at home only in my element … He seemed to find you charming, and that you were, my girl, that you were.”
She talks about me as if I were dead.
“Do you know my son is becoming a leading expert in the medical profession? And with his marriage to Mademoiselle Dechantre, he won’t have any trouble establishing himself in France.”
She struts, straightens her shawl and hands me a photo:
“Look how pretty she is,” she tells me.
She is indeed pretty, and much younger than I.
“So how are things at home with Félicia’s husband?” She adds, “I find him a bit … distant … a bit … strange …”
“Jean Luze is a perfect husband,” I answer dryly.
“Take it easy! So quick to get your knickers in a knot when it comes to him! In any case, he will give Félicia beautiful children … I think of your parents … This match would have made them so happy. I hope Annette will also make a match worthy of the name she carries.”
And passing as usual from one thought to another:
“Any news from poor Dora Soubiran?” she asks point-blank. “Seems like they maimed her. Have you seen her? I’m still waiting for things to settle down. Eugénie Duclan has seen her. In secret, but she did see her. She has nothing left down there … It must have been awful. She told Eugénie she saw her own flesh fly as Calédu whipped her, lying on her back, legs spread open, held down by four prisoners, four filthy beggars to whom he then offered her … I’m seventy-five years old. I have seen revolutionaries walk into this town, bandits; I’ve witnessed bloody battles, lived through civil war, but never, you hear me, never have I felt as evil and foul a curse hovering over this town as I feel it today …”
From the house next door, a plaintive voice swells, then cries out with effort. I prick up my ears to listen.
“It’s Jacques Marti,” she tells me, abruptly interrupting herself. “He’s been quite delirious since yesterday.”
“Hot, so hot, I’m burning up,” the voice intones. “God has opened the gates of hell upon us. Flames pour from the sky and Satan is among us. Beware! oh my brothers …”
“Shh … Be quiet,” whispers another voice. “People will hear you.”
The madman cries out.
“I see Satan, I see him, there he is, right there in front of me, spitting fire. So hot! I’m burning!”
“Bah!” Mme Camuse sighs, adjusting the shawl around her thin shoulders, “he’s hot, I’m cold. It’s a matter of age and temperament. Poor Joël! He’s been trying to calm him since yesterday but it’s no use. It’s hard to have to take care of a madman at his age.”
She stares at the door, suddenly afraid:
“I hope Jacques’ words won’t be misconstrued,” she whispers to me.
She shivers and wraps her arms around her chest.
A dull, rhythmic thumping resounds from above.