Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [24]
Each morning, the Syrians open their stores to reveal displays that have been restocked by the American freighter. Their customers are Calédu, M. Long, the prefect, the mayor, and the few of us who can still afford the luxury of a few ells of fabric. M. Long’s boat supplies them duty-free, people say, because the inspectors have been bought. What’s more, they have also acquired American citizenship, though they barely speak a word of English. “It’s a gang!” Dr. Audier protests, but more and more weakly. With eagle-beak noses pointing from their crafty faces, the “Arabs,” as the common people call them, smile and take root in the country. Jacques Marti predicts their departure.
“The Syrians will throw their sacks on their backs and start on foot for their homeland. Famine is upon us,” he screams, while pacing down the street in big off-balance steps. “We will walk on our knees and we will eat the rocks on the road. Satan rules the town and God has turned his face from us …”
Calédu is getting annoyed. Mme Camuse is right. He will soon accuse Jacques of subversive activity and will have him locked up. He doesn’t like preachers of misfortune and this one is playing his part as only a madman can.
People quickly peer through their blinds.
Everything here happens on the sly. We hide even when we speak.
“Go on, go on, Jacques,” they hiss softly, “tell us about Satan, tell us what he’s like.”
And to their great joy he screams and gesticulates:
“Big, tall, black, with horns, enormous horns, that’s how he is. You be careful, brothers!”
Laughing children surround him.
“Jacques! Jacques!” they cry, throwing stones at him, “are you crazy? Tell us if you’re crazy …”
He runs straight to the police station, and Violette, a prostitute from the stinking back alley, blocks his way.
“Go home,” she advises softly. “That’s better now.”
She takes his hand and he lets her. He seems very happy to walk arm in arm with her.
“Hey there,” Mme Potiron cries out and smacks her rear, “you found yourself a woman, business is good!”8
Her whole body shakes in vulgar laughter.
Behind the blinds of my window, I stare at Violette. She is young. She is beautiful. She is free. She spits on us and she is right. I would switch places with her right now.
Leaves are falling from the trees, dancing and swirling in the air before landing flat on the ground. Insomnia has gotten me used to the living breath of the night. I distinguish the sound of each insect or lizard, the movement of each star, every quiver of the earth. I am naked in my bed, damp with sweat, palpitating with desire. A man’s arms hold my body prisoner. He takes me. Is it possible that, a moment later, nothing of this remains? Not a scrap of memory. Oh! The loneliness of suffering! I get dressed and I tiptoe to Annette’s room. She is weeping in the dark. I knock. A voice hoarse from weeping asks who it is. I answer and she opens. I’m no trouble, I am the big dolt, life has rolled off my back without leaving a trace. She starts weeping again in my presence, then says to me:
“What do you want?”
I look at her without a word, then she throws herself on my shoulder.
“If you knew, Claire …”
Be quiet! Don’t waste breath talking, I was telling her in my mind. I know what you feel and I share it. The soul is cumbersome. It wants to meddle in everything. It creates bonds to torture us. Memories are ghosts, at least those that mark us. You are like a flower battered by the wind. I want it to carry away your vulgar joys and lift you into a great deadly whirlwind …
“I want to die! I want to die!” she suddenly cries out, with a passion that stuns her.
She rests her haggard, questioning eyes on me. My words have come out of her mouth. How tired she looks. How this love is wearing her out! Her morale is