He raised his voice and we trembled even more.
“Hush!” Dr. Audier said in his turn, with a glance to the porch.
“You have to protest, respond to this with a demonstration, face the danger together. They would never destroy an entire town. These murders, these tortures, are meant to terrorize you. But let one person here lead an uprising and the other side will tremble…”
“You don’t understand anything,” Dr. Audier said laconically, softly resting his trembling hand on Jean Luze’s arm.
Mme Audier was weeping and blowing her nose loudly.
Jean Luze opened the door of the living room with a gesture of unconcealed anger and went out. We saw him help Joël Marti carry Jacques’ body away, holding the feet awkwardly.
***
Jacques is dead. He was buried today. A few poets came out of their holes and carried his coffin to the cemetery in silence, heads lowered. Policemen and beggars were posted along the route. Violette followed the cortège with some flowers in her arms. As for the others, myself among them, we stayed behind locked doors, sitting quietly at home.
Jean Luze shows contempt in his eyes and in his smile. He can’t forgive our cowardice, reproaching us for it in every visible way. Each expression is a slap in our faces.
“Are you really that afraid to die?” he asked that evening of Dr. Audier, who accepts these insults in the detached manner of an experienced old man putting up with an impetuous son.
“You still haven’t understood a thing,” the doctor replied. “Fear is a vice that takes root once it is cultivated. It takes time to recover from it.”
Jean Luze shrugged.
“Who can boast that he has never been afraid?” he shot back at Audier. “At least you have been spared from war. As for me, I bear its mark on my body and soul forever.”
His eyes darkened. He was reliving the pieces of his life he preferred to keep to himself.
“But don’t you find hatred between compatriots to be even more horrid?” the doctor asked softly.
“What do you think France went through in 1789?” he retorted. “And let me stop you before you say that our cutthroats fought for an idea, for an ideal. What does all your suffering amount to? Maybe the goal escapes me. That’s why I’m afraid to put myself forward, to side with one party against another. Where does this hatred between you come from?”
“It is the end result of a long sequence of historical facts,” Dr. Audier declared, combing a hand through his white silky hair. “The hatred became swollen and toxic, and had to be punctured in the end like an abscess.”
“Without a scalpel?”
“You always need a scalpel to drain an abscess,” Dr. Audier added. “I am seventy years old and I have lived through plenty of things in this country. Our past is full of rebellions, we have seen days beyond description during which everyone, like the musketeers of old, demanded revenge for the least insult. Weapons were lightly drawn and men braved death just as lightly. I am more or less the last man of a dead generation. Maybe we deserve what we are going through.”
“Do you feel so guilty that you would just casually absolve those who persecute you?” Jean Luze asked.
“My dear young man, I have enough experience to know when to keep quiet and to keep the full range of my thoughts to myself.”
“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry”
“Don’t apologize. You are not so much curious about what I think, but about what could have brought us to hang our heads and resign ourselves.”
He opened the door of the living room and studied the street.
“Look!” he said. “Calédu is rounding up the poets. They dared pay their respects to an executed suspect and he’s using the occasion to get these so-called conspirators. Well, and take a look here: Monsieur Long is standing in front of his factory. He’s watching as if he were a mere spectator. And yet I wouldn’t be surprised if he was intimately involved.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating somewhat?” Jean Luze asked, skeptical.
“Look at things a bit more carefully and I am sure you’ll see I’m right,” Audier answered.
Félicia smiled, more serene than ever.
“He’s crazy,” she later explained to her husband, “his wife said so. In times like these, many of us need a scapegoat to excuse our own cowardice. The only guilty ones are these blacks who have been sent here to make us submit. They only associate with Monsieur Long because they hope to make money. As if money were everything!”
“Oh my wife, my dear wife,” Jean Luze said, “you are such a sectarian!”
“What do you expect?” she said to him, “you can’t snap your fingers and erase the mark of your entire upbringing.”
Down at the very end of Grand-rue, in that miserable back alley full of old rickety shacks, mothers wept as they watched their sons being handcuffed.
The days went by. The people’s misery grew. To each his own lot. Selfishness becomes our way of life. We wallow in cowardice and resignation. Here I am, more than ever in love with my sister’s husband, and I want to think of nothing else but this love. It is turning into my refuge, my consolation. Félicia is again so sure of herself, so confident in her man, that she embraced Annette on her birthday. They gave her perfume and rice powder. Drench yourself in perfume and powder, I’m not afraid of anything anymore, Jean Luze’s smile seems to say. We’ll see.
These last few days, I have seen Annette lie in wait for him in vain, at the top of the stairs, in the living room, by the door of her room. He has managed to foil her schemes without even noticing them. She does not know what else she can come up with to seduce him. Yesterday, she came out of her bedroom in a bathing suit she made herself and, under the pretext that she was unable to close the bra, she placed herself in Jean Luze’s capable hands. She met with a friendly tap on the shoulder and the following words:
“There you go!” was the entire outcome.
I hated him at that moment. I felt as if all this trouble was for nothing.
He is more elusive than ever. His attitude is outrageous by its very excess of correctness. You had me once, but I won’t fall back in your nets, he wants Annette to understand. This is neither a game nor flirtation on his part. In one fell swoop, he has swept memory clean. What is desire, then, if it cannot be rekindled once it’s been satisfied? How would I handle being pushed away? Was life trying to spare me until now by keeping me away from these kinds of disappointing realities? Am I provoking it by desperately throwing myself into an adventure with no exit? My feelings for this man have taken so much space in my life that I can’t free myself from them. Nothing seems to move him. It could make a woman lose her mind. Annette had Bob kiss her right before his eyes to provoke him. He gazed at them with sweet indolence, like an angel, which was worse than a slap in the face.
Bravo for Father Paul! Bravo for Eugénie Duclan! It rained yesterday. A torrential deluge that lasted four hours. The weather hasn’t improved since. Fat dirty gray clouds hang like rags in the sky. We wade through the mud puddles like pigs. The potholed streets have become ponds. The indifferent ship loads the wood piled high on the pier. Business on that end is booming. M. Long, red as a rooster, manages the operation himself. The peasants have faces like whipped dogs. They sulk and hold out their hands for their payment as they look away into the distance at the devastated hillside. Huge white patches have spread on the mountain like leprosy. Immense rocks stick out of its sides like gravestones. They stand there, dressed in union blues, barefoot, their halforts [10] across their shoulders, faces twisted with displeasure.
“Our land is finished,” one of them says. “We cut down too many trees.”
“I said don’t do it! Don’t do it!” cries another. “We should have created a coalition and refused all offers. But black hill folk [11] never stick together. They are weak with the white men and the bourgeois. Here comes the rain again and our land is finished. The American is getting rich and the others with him. They are all against us.�
��
The mayor and the prefect accompany M. Long to the office, a small building with the following inscription: LONG & CO., EXPORT CORP. This is where Jean Luze spends long days bent over paperwork. He knows all of their secrets. Senior accountant, such is his title, and he keeps track of the numbers, his handsome face bent over their books.
No one suspects him. He’s a white man. And a white man can only side with M. Long. He hears them talking. And he learns a great deal from the time spent with them.
I watch for Jean Luze from my windows. It is four and he should be returning from work. I’m holding the paper knife he gave me yesterday, saying:
“You spoil me, so I’ll spoil you too. No, it’s true, you’re a grand girl. Look at this, it’s from Mexico. It’s a dagger. One of the best. Something to remember me by.”
“Are you leaving?”
“One never knows!…”
He’s not happy. How can we possibly hold on to him? If he leaves, what will become of me? How do we change things here? For the first time in my life, I shall redouble my efforts toward the common cause. I will transform this place into the piece of paradise he has yearned for.
I’m playing my last card. Tonight is the ball in honor of Annette’s birthday, which was three days ago. For this, I have overcome my repugnance and made the most awful concession. The commandant, the mayor, the Trudors and their son Paul, who is home on vacation, will be among our guests. I think I may have shaken Calédu’s hand without realizing it.
Many guests, Corrine Laplanche among them, were already in the living room when Annette made her entrance in a blue dress that revealed her shoulders down to her back.
In my opinion Corrine Laplanche is as distinguished as any society lady. Pretty in a tasteful, long-sleeved dress of white crêpe, she leaned toward me to say:
“I am Corrine Laplanche, Élina Jean-François’ daughter. My mother often spoke of you. You were schoolmates, I think.”
I shook her hand with a smile.
“Who is that?” Mme Camuse asked me while teasing the pleat of her black taffeta blouse.
“The daughter of a schoolmate: Élina Jean-François.”
“Jean-François! I once knew a blind man of that name who delivered our poultry and pigs. Is that the same family?”
“Yes.”
“Oh that Annette! Unbelievable! I suppose one can either give in or stay home. Cattle breeders and rastaquouères [12] in our living rooms! Now I’ve seen it all…”
The remark conjured up an Annette I’d never before imagined, a brave rock-slinger leaping over the barricades with the agility of youth.
This is what I thought as I looked at them: Mme Audier, Mme Camuse, Eugénie Duclan were gathered near the table to better stuff themselves with cakes. Augustine, white apron around her plaid dress, came and went among the guests, eyes lowered, anonymous and ageless. The young people chatted and danced, the girls in long dresses, the men in dark suits with roses in the buttonholes. Calédu stood out in his khaki uniform. Where was he concealing his weapons? In my little corner I felt frightfully old and out of fashion, and I tried with terrible force of will to forget myself and identify myself wholly with Annette. I saw her offering her cheeks for friends to kiss, receiving presents, drinking Rum Russians. She was only doing it for him. This was exactly what I wanted from her. He sat beside Félicia on the sofa smoking. She was rapt, immersed in his affection. The harmony of their life together was there for all to see. Would they prevail? After her third rum, Annette danced with the son of the prefect, a handsome and rather elegant dandy who plastered his black cheek onto hers. With this she began flirting in a way that appeared to leave Jean Luze completely indifferent. She then danced several times with Calédu. I was astonished to see him execute the latest merengues quite gracefully I think he searched me out in the crowd, just before he approached.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Clamont?”
Why Miss? Has he really become so Americanized since keeping company with M. Long?
“Thank you, but I don’t like to dance,” I answered coldly.
“With me, you will.”
And, wrapping an authoritative arm around me, he twirled me until I was dizzy. His hands seemed to possess such prodigious strength that I felt like my whole body was locked in a vise. I tried to free myself. He tightened his grip. Our two bodies intertwined and seethed with hatred. Suddenly I stopped short and his feet awkwardly caught mine. I tore my hand from his.
“Tired?” he asked to save face.
But the look in his eyes belied the worldly smile playing on his lips, and I understood that only then had he realized the extent of my hatred for him.
“I have heard, Miss Clamont,” he whispered wickedly, “that in the old days a bloody incident took place up there on your land, on Lion Mountain. So it seems you and I both have killing on our conscience. Mine doesn’t bother me much. Does yours?”
Once again, he danced with Annette. Keeping his eyes on me, mouth against her ear, he whispered words I could not hear and the ninny listened smiling. He then danced with all of our guests, pretty and ugly alike. He seemed to pride himself on his uniform, on his position of authority, which easily opened doors no matter how tightly sealed. The worldly executioner in full! His murderer’s hands wrapped themselves around ladies’ waists, shook the hands of others. We were humoring him, hoping to be spared! I turned my eyes away so as not to betray myself, but this performance of his, shoved in my face, in my own home, had reinforced my hatred and contempt…
Toward midnight, Annette was drunk enough to demand that Jean Luze dance with her. He begged off, then, encouraged by Félicia, he accepted. Once again, there he was holding her in his arms. I focused my attention on this graceful vision and found in it a version of the hatred the commandant inspired in me. I scrutinized Jean Luze’s impassive face. Forgetting herself, Annette closed her eyes. I suddenly saw her grab his head in order to kiss him on the lips. He drew away quickly, and stared at her unsmiling:
“Are you out of your mind?” he said.
She bowed her head just as I did.
From that moment, nothing mattered to me anymore. There I was in my corner, incapable of thought, incapable of desire, half-dead with depression and despair. I saw people walking, heard them talking, all of it in a dream. Nevertheless, for a brief instant I caught Calédu’s eyes on me; I rose and left our guests for my room, double-locking the door in my rage.
***
I couldn’t sleep a wink. On account of what Calédu said. Who told him about us? Are we losing our pride and our solidarity to such an extent that we betray one another out of fear? Who was so indecent as to stir up the ashes of the past? To resurrect after so many years the bloody incident at Lion Mountain? Don’t they realize they are giving our enemies ammunition against us? Ammunition they will use to humiliate, shame and force us to capitulate even further. As for me, nothing will make me bow my head. I will never yield. Even if they club me, even if they torture me as they did Dora, I will hold my head high. I alone will never give in. I refuse to make my peace with this. I refuse to get used to this. I would rather stand with our old dodos and acquiesce to Mme Camuse though I dislike her behavior. Did they have to appoint such hateful and spectacularly criminal people to reform our backward little town? We’re on, Commandant! Whatever you may think, you are up against a strong opponent. Our hatred is mutual. Bless this love that imprisons me, praise be to Jean Luze the Frenchman who enthralls me so much that nothing matters apart from my love. You may be all bluster strutting about like a walking arsenal, but I’m smart enough to hide my game and look harmless to you. And therein lies my strength. I am patient, whereas you, like all fools, are impulsive. I wrap myself in the dignity of an old family line, as I nurse my serpent’s venom. You spread your cruelty, I know how to hide mine. You bite, I sting-stealthily, my eye trained by a bourgeois education, imbibed like mother’s milk, which makes me the most cunning of enemies. I wait for my moment. Because for now, love
saves me from hatred.
Every evening, Annette comes home from Bob Charivi’s store more or less drunk. No matter how much I pull on the bridle, she completely escapes my control. I stopped by her room during her absence and saw a bottle of sleeping pills on her table. She drugs herself to sleep. I slosh about blindly in the darkness of my thoughts. I frighten myself. Seeking distraction, I pay a visit to Mme Camuse. I find her in bed, Eugénie Duclan by her side.
“It’s nothing,” says Mme Camuse, “a bad flu.”
At her request, I run out to get some turpentine at Charles Farus’, and we rub it on her back and chest. She then clamors for cat’s-tongue tea, [13] recommending that I close my eyes when I pick out the three leaves to boil, as prescribed by local superstition.
“A terrible epidemic is upon us!” Eugénie Duclan sighs. “The rain will not cease. God has heeded our prayers, but the sun cannot dry our puddles. Yesterday, six children died of typhoid-malaria. There is no more medicine at the hospital and no nurses either.”
Mme Camuse shifts in her bed.
“We must pray, call upon our blessed dead to help us, our land is in agony,” she tells us.
She turns to me and takes the boiling tea.
“Claire,” she says to me, “have you been to your parents’ grave? It looks abandoned! I can forgive Félicia and Annette for neglecting it; they barely knew them, but you… the eldest daughter…”
How is this any of her business? Does she think I’m still the pushover she once knew? I kiss her and take my leave without responding.
“You’re upset with me?” she asks. “I saw you come into the world, your mother was my friend and my son once loved you. How can you forget this?”
No, I have forgotten nothing. My memories are intact but she will know nothing of them.
“I am not upset, Madame Camuse.”
Eugénie Duclan stares at me with veiled malevolence.
Love, Anger, Madness Page 7