Love, Anger, Madness_ A Haitian Trilogy - Marie Chauvet [89]
He drank from despair. He died from despair. How could God, if he existed, hold that against him? And what right did the grandfather have to judge? Maybe she should just see him as a foolish old man and forgive him. At the beginning of her marriage, she had almost loved him. She had come to his house, trembling with emotion, daughter of an alcoholic who died under atrocious circumstances, as everyone knew. He had given her a piercing look and she lowered her head very humbly. His gaze seemed to say: “Don’t think you are honoring us with your presence, mulatto girl. Your father was nothing but a mulatto alcoholic and I went to school with people like him at the Saint-Martial Seminary.” He wasn’t kind, she had soon understood this. He was created in the image of a God of his own senile invention, a God he threw in your face at the worst moment, like blows from a club, savoring every twitch and heartrending cry. At times she could feel his forever-accusing eye, and she had come to understand that there would never be any love between herself and that God. Where was the grandfather’s God? Why hadn’t He already done away with injustice and bloodshed?
She lifted her head and noticed their neighbor on the right, Mme Saint-Hilare, an impotent old mulatto woman who had her chair positioned in front of her window so she wouldn’t miss out on what was going on in their house. If God exists, could it be that He spies on His creatures the way this old woman does? she wondered. She waved to Mme Saint-Hilare, who quickly lowered her head, pretending not to see her. It’s like we have the plague now! she realized, as her heart jumped in her chest. “Necessary trials!” she whispered, imitating the grandfather’s sententiousness. “Sadism!” she added. With that God you only earn your stripes through suffering. And the grandfather used to say that misery awaits those who have known happiness on earth! What could this demanding God want from His creatures? Oh, no! She wanted nothing to do with Him. She dreamed of another God, full of compassion and love, who would have pity on His creatures, would spare the innocent and punish the guilty. In solitude she had learned to pray in her own way, and at times a kind of peace would descend upon her, the sudden and mysterious comfort that comes from the certainty of divine protection.
She went up to check on Paul, who had locked himself in his room, and as she passed by the grandfather’s room she stopped to listen.
“Saints in heaven,” he was reciting.
“Chase away the demons,” the invalid said in response.
“Saints in heaven.”
“Smite the demons.”
Now she could hear their voices reciting the Pater Noster. She knocked on the door to her son’s room. He made her wait before letting her in and greeted her from under his sheets.
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No … why?”
She put her hand on his forehead and felt him burning.
“Yes, you are, you have a fever.”
“Ah … that’s what I thought. My mouth feels ashy.”
He sat up, grabbed the books lying on the bed and held them out to his mother.
“Lie down,” she said.
“No, it’ll pass. I don’t want to stay in bed anymore.”
“Being a little sick isn’t the end of the world,” she answered in a willfully abrupt manner. “Go on, stay in bed. It’s probably the flu.”
He obeyed her, sulking, and she tucked him in and sat beside him.
There was noise in the yard that could be heard through the window. Someone on the other side of the stakes barked out orders that were followed by a whistle blowing and the crackle of bullets. Paul sat up nervously.
“It’s nothing,” the mother said, “stay in bed.”
“Who were they shooting at?”