Haiti Noir 2 Page 6

  My friend Michel was coming over to eat in my new house with a few friends. I hoped that one of these days Michel would finally say something to me that had no connection to our childhood. I suppose that Michel, who used to pull my hair when we were kids, had plenty of reasons for carrying on with another woman these last few months. But I should not even be thinking about that. I left the old man to his dreams and set out for the market.

  * * *

  They ate as if dying from hunger. I could have served them bitter herbs and they would have found them delicious. They loved my house right away. They loved its polished wooden floors and its clean-smelling pink curtains. Actually, the rascals from the night before had forced me to wash the entire house.

  Michel’s friends left around midnight. He decided he would stay, and go back to town later. I didn’t want him to leave. Was it the cool night or the singing pines? As I became more relaxed, my strict and severe nature, which sometimes made me seem too distant, fell away. He said things that made our childhood memories evaporate.

  I was happy. We were happy. After he left, I closed my eyes and fell asleep on the living room floor while dreaming about love.

  The next day, the bad joke from the previous night was repeated and in spite of my good mood, I had to get angry. I had no intention of spending my life cleaning the floor. When I got outside, I grew still angrier. During the night, all the stones on the path had been thrown on the lawn, on the little flower shoots, on the little balcony, and there were pine branches scattered around the house. This time, it was too much. I lost my patience. No, I didn’t want to play this game. Who did they think I was? I had a hard time believing that the old man could be the instigator of such a bad joke. I decided to go talk to him so he could help me find those who were responsible.

  To my great surprise, he refused to help me, announcing to me, with that calm I always found so impressive, that the young people in the neighborhood would have never done something like this. They wouldn’t have set foot on the yellow path after sunset for anything in the world. I hadn’t thought of that. And yet it was true. But in that case, who was responsible? He had no idea, and even eliminated the people from nearby towns, for the house’s evil reputation was well publicized. So I had to clear up this business all by myself, the old man warned me, repeating this over and over. He started up again with his spirits and devils. I was becoming exasperated. “Spirits shout,” I said, “they howl, pull your toes, bite the tender flesh of newborn babies, but they don’t ravage gardens and they don’t flood your floors.” He did not reply. I was wasting my time. Very well, I would play detective tonight.

  * * *

  That evening, though, I was in town with Michel and his parents, who wanted me to stay over for a few days. Immediately taking charge, Michel did not think it was smart for me to sleep alone in my little house, so I left it, without having cleared up the mystery of the floods. And then I had to go back to work. Somewhere in the city after an exhausting day, I would think back to the way the air smelled there, the feel of the fog on my skin at daybreak, when I had strolled in the little woods and gardens under the mocking but friendly gaze of the peasants. I was hoping that the old ougan would take care of everything while I was away and, moreover, that I wouldn’t be gone for too long.

  Michel had decided that we should get married at the beginning of July. That’s when he usually took his vacation, and I was free then too. Michel decided everything. We finally had the big talk I was afraid of. He didn’t want to hear about me going on business trips all the time and refused to understand that stocking the store made those trips necessary. He wanted me to stop working, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. After all, there was plenty of time for children. When the children come, I said, we’ll see. I was already being somewhat sly. Michel looked at me with his ironic smile. He knew me too well to be fooled. Meanwhile, we had to think about our wedding. I was actually trying to get out of it—well, to be honest, I don’t like to organize things. Michel was adamant about spending our first night in the white house though. There was even talk of us living there full time. On this, we agreed. But that argument about my work kept coming back. Michel seemed to have forgotten about our long friendship, and in the name of love, he wanted to run my life. Since he knew I was both patient and stubborn, he must have suspected that eventually I could get him to agree to anything, so he was being proactive. We agreed on one point only: to live in the white house year round.

  * * *

  I continued to travel through the country for two months. I had forgotten Kenscoff. I came back to town just a month before the great beginning—or the great ending, depending on how you see it, but for women, it’s well known that it is the beginning, as they will know what real life is like only through marriage, and I must be like all women.

  When I got back the craziness began. Michel’s mother, like a good future mother-in-law, insisted on preparing the festivities herself while, for her part, my mother took on the role of mother of the bride.

  I didn’t protest. I let myself get dragged into pastry shops, to the dressmaker’s, to the printer’s for the wedding invitations (ugly as sin), to all the city stores, where they picked out everything, from shoes to panties. If only I could have given in to my apathy. Michel was on the to-do list. They wanted to teach me how to choose the clothes he liked, explain to me how to organize his books, the secrets for happiness, the best recipes to keep a man home—forgetting or refusing to admit that I wanted a different kind of life and that I had known Michel since first grade. But I let myself go along with it and they were happy.

  I would be lying if I said that the month went by quickly. True, I was waiting for July, but I felt nervous, feverish, and the more the days went by, the more I had to control my impatience, and hold back my usual urge to scream. I was waiting for July essentially because I couldn’t stand those preparations anymore. I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. As for Michel, he was calm and he couldn’t understand why I was exasperated. Then I would remember my mute adolescent rages during our discussions. When he ran out of arguments, he tried to aggravate me, so he wouldn’t look bad. And he would burst out laughing when I would refuse to let myself get angry and flash him an innocent smile that never fooled him. That’s how Michel is. He can anticipate my tantrums, figure out when I’m lying, and most of all he knows how to turn my anger to his advantage. Was I happy? I don’t know. I didn’t ask myself that question. What I really think is that I had put a blindfold over my eyes so as not to go mad with rage.

  I only exploded when I discovered, by chance, how much the wedding lunch would cost. I was looking at a caterer’s estimate and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I even pretended that I was looking at Haitian gourdes instead of the typographic dollar sign that was insulting me with its snakelike face. Our respective parents made it plain that it was none of my business. It was my future husband’s business, and Michel was okay with it. When I spoke to him about the lunch, he argued that this was a unique occasion and that we had no choice but to invite all these people this one time. Our parents were the ones paying for it anyway and it made them happy. My whole year’s salary—and I knew very well that my salary was high compared to the majority of people. It was none of my business. So I forgot. I even forgot the figure. I swear. I can’t remember it anymore. The invitations, the wedding—in reality, I took care of nothing. I merely went along with it. But on the day of the wedding, I couldn’t bear the hypocritical good wishes, the allusions to my luck, the smiles produced for the occasion. Who cared about our possible future unhappiness, about those arguments which might destroy our relationship?

  Once the ceremony was over, I only wanted to escape to the white house, to a happiness that would have to be built on day by day. And the rest? The rest is my business, Monsieur, the rest is of little importance to you. If you missed the most beautiful, memorable wedding of the year, my mother can show you the twelve albums, not to mention the photographs that haven’t
been organized yet.

  Yes, I will go on, but I don’t feel like telling you about those moments of happiness. My love, our happiness . . . At last we were in our white house, alone.

  I couldn’t sleep. Through the window, I could see the night. I had just spent wonderful moments with Michel. I was lying next to him. I had just been born into our life. I was me. I was him. The night was growing lovelier, sweeter, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Next to me, Michel had a face I did not know but would learn to love, with those reflected moonbeams in the corners of his eyes. His lips were in another world, too far from me, and I had yet to discover that impermeable face which could disappear at every flutter of his eyelashes. I kept my eyes wide open so as not to miss a minute of his sleep. I wanted to decipher the dreams behind his eyelids, find his gaze under his closed eyes. The moon was making me jealous by throwing light reflections and shadows on his cheeks. I shouldn’t wake him. I was hungry. I couldn’t fall asleep and I was hungry, so I left the room quietly and went down to the living room, where . . . Oh, leave me alone . . .

  In the living room, there was a slight noise that only the silence of the night and the isolation of the little house allowed me to discern: the sound of rain, no, of droplets falling regularly onto the floor. And all of a sudden, clearly, “Lage n tanpri. Kite n ale!” Please let us go!

  Not tonight! I was sick of it. Who could have known or guessed I would come downstairs? Who could be spying on me in the dark? Perhaps they thought they would frighten me, but I was afraid of nothing. I had no reason to be afraid. Just one cry and Michel would hear me. But I didn’t want to wake him. I would deal with this all by myself. I was determined to hurt those nasty people. Armed with a very big, very heavy clay vase, I explored the house. No one. The zinnias were swaying gently in the garden to the same monotonous rhythm as the murmur of the wind in the pines. What was really odd was the way the stones in the path were arranged. You’d think it was Morse code. It was nice out and the moon was lighting up the garden. I was not afraid that no one was there. Just for fun, I tried to decipher the code. Still the same strange plea: “Lage n tanpri.” Please let us go.

  I was to untie them and let them go. I was curious. I shouldn’t have been. Because of the night, perhaps, or the moon? I could sense, because of the sky, that the white house held a secret. Somewhere in the night something was calling me. I was dreaming with my eyes wide open. Zinnias, pine trees, and stones of the path, what do you want me to do? Is the moon an accomplice? The garden is sad. I mustn’t, but I love you. I have no fear. I will help you. Say straight out what you mean. I am a little girl again. I can’t understand things easily. I was singing. I was dancing. I could recreate ancient rites that my body was discovering in the depths of time. I was becoming the most mysterious of all the mysteries of the earth. The stones, in answer, wrote that they could not reveal everything to me. If I was sincere, I had to free the pink curtains and put them in front of the door, then all would be explained to me. The pink curtains. I was in an unreal, marvelous world. I felt relaxed and fearless, and I did what I had been ordered to do.

  The curtains rose up and disappeared. Nothing could astonish me anymore. Besides, it all happened so fast. I went on singing melodies awhile longer, melodies forgotten long ago. My childhood was coming back to me. I was dancing. The wind was urging me on; the pines accompanied my melody. The zinnias took up the chorus. I wasn’t dreaming. I know I wasn’t dreaming. That night they poured out tales for me that no one would ever hear again. Dawn was about to break. The pine trees told me I was expected in the living room.

  They were there. Seated, dignified, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t help recoiling. The smaller of the two began to speak and his voice resembled the music of the pines, the rolling of waves in the night when no noise on earth interrupts their melody. I realized that the spell was in my curtains, which had kept these two beings prisoners in the walls of my house, and it was their tears which had been soaking my floor at night. Who they were I do not know, but they were not devils, for they did not harm me in any way. They even thanked me for having freed them, and as they were getting up to leave, the elder asked me if I wanted to make a wish. They would grant me what I wanted most. I said happiness with Michel forever and I could read in their eyes the joy of being able to give me more than money, more than power, the things people would usually ask for.

  After the customary salutations, which I politely imitated, they left while the wind was gently dispersing the smells and time was resuming its course. Upstairs, Michel was sleeping. I had to go up to him. I had glimpsed, between those two curtains, a love that I was going to keep. I went back to the bedroom and saw he was no longer in our bed. I thought that he had awakened and, seeing that I was no longer next to him, had gone down to look for me in the rooms of my little house, few as they were. But he was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared. Yes, I swear to you, Michel had disappeared. I beg you to believe me. He was no longer there. No, I’m not crazy! This house is mine, isn’t it? And my curtains—where are my curtains? I used them to do what? You’re sick, all of you! That’s not true. He disappeared. And why are the stones of the garden in that order, or rather that disorder? What? Someone could have dragged . . . And who’s that “someone”? No, I’m telling you, Michel has disappeared. I want to go find him. Besides, ask the old ougan, he’ll tell you the house was strange. He saw it too. No, that’s another lie. I saw him. I spoke to him yesterday. But leave me alone, can’t you understand that I’m in pain?

  Michel has disappeared.

  ORESCA

  BY PAULETTE POUJOL ORIOL

  Source Diquini

  (Originally published in 2001)

  Translated by Nicole Ball

  Oresca! Oresca! Oresca!

  The residents of the Source Diquini district had been calling the man at the top of their lungs for over an hour.

  He was a kind of patriarch for the whole area. At least six and a half feet tall, with his broad shoulders, large build, booming voice, and eternal walking stick in hand, he had real influence over the whole neighborhood, mainly because of his healing powers as a ougan, which everybody respected. He was also very much feared for his violent fits of anger.

  Ordinarily rather calm, he became enraged whenever something was not to his liking or when somebody was rude to him. Then he would fume with rage, launch furious blows right and left with his stick, threatening to beat the culprits and screaming violent curses at them.

  His personality was all the more remarkable in that unlike most of our neighbors and in spite of modern trends, he still wore the traditional outfits of our peasants: blue denim pants rolled up over strong calves sparsely covered with thick hair; huge feet in comfortable yellow leather sandals that looked indestructible; a large overshirt with folds that amplified his size even more; a braided strawhat adorned with pink and green pom-poms hanging at the ends of little strings. His attire was completed with the koko pòv pipe planted between two rotten stubs of his chipped dentures and, of course, a multiple-use tumbler tied to his cord belt.

  In this outfit, he looked so completely like an authentic peasant of times past that he seemed dressed up for a folk dance.

  His shack, built on a large piece of land, stood at the foot of a hill overlooking a small backyard where he raised—not very profitably—pigs, baby goats, and poultry that he only sold to special clients. His eggs were the best in the neighborhood, but Oresca would never agree to sell anything to those fresh youth who dared to defy him and make fun of the way he dressed.

  The way he was, huge, loud, violent, he made people tremble and he was undoubtedly the uncontested master of the area.

  We lived in the district and had started a small orchard which was blooming, as grapefruits, mangoes, and guavas were already appearing on our well-groomed trees. We checked them every day to follow their progress. They would probably turn out less tasty than the fruit we could have bought at the market but they were our very own creole productions, gr
own in our own garden, and we insisted on eating them ourselves, or at least having a taste of them from time to time.

  Except that the neighborhood kids, free as air and great virtuosos with the slingshot, left us with no chance of ever being able to pick a fruit, even a half-ripe one. So someone talked to Oresca about our problems as novice growers. He came very early one morning, pipe in mouth and angry-eyed, to offer his services against those impertinent youths. We didn’t want to give him permission to beat anyone with his imposing punishment stick made of gaiac wood, but he assured us that he knew other methods just as efficient.

  He then disappeared from our horizon. We had almost forgotten about him when he showed up one Saturday morning carrying the straw haversack that never left his shoulder, doubled that day with a jute bag. Both of them were loaded with what at first appeared to be coconuts.

  Out of that load, he took three dozen small hollowed-out gourds to which he had attached bright red ribbons and he hung them on our healthiest fruit trees. The hanging of those red ribbons and gourds, along with a few incantations, protected our trees more than any squad of vigilantes could have done. Oresca has been gone for a long time now, yet he still watches over our trees even though the gourds and red ribbons are no more.

  It’s not to reminisce about that flamboyant peasant and how he saved our fruit that we are telling this, but rather for the strange way the story ended.

  Oresca oh! Oresca!

  Oresca, a man well along in years and a ougan to boot, was quick with his stick. He would get easily offended by boys insolent and roguish enough to attack him.

  One day when he had fallen asleep under a mango tree after enjoying his dish of ground corn and his little shot of tranpe, some young bullies came up to him, broke his pipe, ripped his large strawhat, and stole a couple of chickens and a few eggs.