Heading South

by Dany Laferriere

  “So what’s she doing now?”

  “Nothing . . . Since then she seems unable to leave the island . . . Every time she gets ready to go, something prevents her from getting on the plane . . . Jacqueline tells me she’s really questioning everything about her life in Paris. She doesn’t know whether she wants to go back there or not. Voodoo gods can change your whole existence. They’re not much different from the gods of other religions, except that they act directly and instantaneously. You get the answers to your questions right away.”

  “God, you seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I took some courses in it a few years ago, in the ethnology department, with Dr. Louis Mars . . .”

  “You never told me that! Look, she’s leaving. What does she do for a living?”

  “She works for a big Paris daily. Travels a lot. Writes trendy novels. Goes to museums, galleries, Paris boutiques, you know the kind of thing, but now she finds all that so vapid. Well, she isn’t the first. I knew an Englishwoman once who came here and more or less the same thing happened to her. She didn’t think she was interested in men, came here from London on vacation with her husband and kids, the whole shebang, and completely lost her head over the first farmer she ran into. She decided to move in with him . . .”

  “You know some strange people, don’t you? You should write a book . . . It would be a laugh . . .”

  “I’m only warning you, my dear, that this isn’t a country one leaves easily. Look at me. At first it was still possible, but after just two years it was already too late. This place is like quicksand: the harder you try to get out of it, the deeper you sink.”

  Christina is watching a green bottle fly as it tries every possible way to drink from her glass without drowning. Finally it lands on the water’s surface with its tiny feet. Madame Saint-Pierre stares fixedly in front of her. The two women sit for a long time without speaking.

  THE WAITER HAS just placed a dozen chicken thighs in a small wicker basket on the table. Christina signs the bill. June comes in. She greets her mother and Madame Saint-Pierre, wraps several pieces of chicken in a napkin, and begins to move off.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got an early game . . . Can you pick me up later at the Circle?”

  “No, dear, I have to run a few errands before meeting your father.”

  “My father! Who knows where he is now?” she says, with a knowing look.

  Christina lightly bites her lower lip. Madame Saint-Pierre spears a chicken thigh and begins biting into it, which helps her pretend not to have heard June’s remark. The girl gives her mother a hug and says goodbye to Madame Saint-Pierre as she heads for the door.

  “Christina, you don’t seem well . . . What is it? Is it June?”

  Jacqueline Widmaier and her young musician say hello in passing.

  “June has been constantly irritated for some time now.”

  “Christina, don’t tell me she’s pregnant!”

  “No! What are you trying to do, kill me? . . . No, it’s all because of this boy we have working at the house . . . I don’t know what to do about it . . .”

  “What are you saying? You mean, with a servant!”

  “Well, I try to tell myself, he’s also a man, and if he’s the one she’s chosen to be with . . .”

  “No, I can’t let you do that! It’s not possible!”

  “Don’t worry about June, Françoise. She may seem timid, but she’s got a will of iron. If I tell her not to do something, she plunges right into it.”

  “I know, Christina, but she’s your daughter . . . She can’t have a love affair with one of your servants. It’s just not done!”

  “It’s my fault . . . I’ve never spent enough time with her. We raised her completely without guidelines. Our time in Port-au-Prince has always been a kind of holiday. When we’re in New York we’re in a totally regulated world. Everything is organized. It’s a complete jungle. I spend all my time telling June not to smile at strangers in the subway, to look out for this and be careful of that . . . And then, we come to Port-au-Prince. We find this wonderful villa in a beautiful part of town. Nice people invite us to dinner every night. I let my guard down. I’ve raised my daughter like a savage. To her, a man is a man.”

  “People here are very attuned to that. What does Harry say?”

  “Are you kidding? Harry’s so impulsive, he’d probably kill the young man.”

  “So why not just fire him?”

  “You know, I’m really afraid of what June would do . . . She’s totally capable of going with him. At least this way I have a bit of control . . . I still haven’t even talked to her about it . . . Sometimes I tell myself that all this fuss about social class is a load of crap . . . Why would it be better if she was sleeping with some little idiot who had a name? In any case, I don’t make such distinctions. To me, everyone here is the same. They’re all Haitians. What difference does it make if it’s this one or that one?”

  “You know, deep down you’re a racist.”

  They both laugh. The waiter brings the bill. A little back-and-forthing over who will pay it. This time, it’s Madame Saint-Pierre who wins. Suddenly the atmosphere becomes cheerful. Which suggests it’s time to leave. There is a lag in the conversation after all the usual subjects are exhausted, all the week’s secrets gone over. When the heaviness of life has been replaced by the lightness of adolescence.

  “I think I’ll take up tennis again.”

  “I’d really, really like to get a new life. Don’t you ever feel as though there’s another life waiting for you somewhere out there, that you’re not quite in the right house, or the right social class . . . ?”

  “Or the right century . . . I’ve always dreamed of living in the Renaissance . . . The balls, the brilliant conversation, the arts, the great patrons, Venice . . .”

  “You know, I used to know a girl at university. Couldn’t have been more of a wasp if she tried. Very Manhattan. She came down here before I did. We wrote to each other. When Harry was posted here I wrote to her right away, and she was the one who urged me to come. I’ve been trying to see her ever since I got here. I was told she didn’t stay in Port-au-Prince for long, she went up to Artibonite, it’s a province . . . of rice paddies.”

  “I know. My husband was an agronomist.”

  “That’s where she met a peasant farmer, and ever since then she’s lived in this village with her husband and son . . . growing rice. Can you imagine? This was a girl who spent all her time in museums, went to the theatre, to concerts, all that. I’m truly impressed by people like that, who can make such huge changes in their lives. A hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround. Can you imagine doing something like that?”

  “It’s true there’s something about this country . . . Maybe it’s the voodoo, I don’t know. Anything can happen. You get the feeling you’re walking among gods.”

  “Don’t turn around just yet, Françoise.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a thin young man who’s been watching you for several minutes.”

  Françoise freezes.

  “Where is he?”

  “Near the door.”

  She looks, then turns back.

  “It’s him,” she whispers.

  “I thought it might be.”

  Françoise squeezes her napkin in her fist to stop her hands from trembling.

  “You’re shaking, Françoise! Good Lord! And with all these people here! This is not a good day for such antics . . . You go to the washroom, I’ll go ask him to leave.”

  A sharp cry: “No, are you crazy or what?”

  Heads turn. She immediately lowers her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Christina . . . I’m the one who’s crazy.”

  “So I see . . . Let’s think about this calmly . . .”

  “I’m going.”

  “No, wait . . . I’ll come with you . . . In your state I’d be surprised if you could make it across the room . . .”

  Traffic


  THE HIBISCUS HAS been practically empty for the past two hours. There’s no one in it except Albert and two young, uniformed waitresses. The tourists have all left. Ellen is the last to leave the hotel (her face set, wearing sunglasses and a small black dress). Albert drives her to the airport. They maintain a weighty silence during the drive, which Ellen breaks only when she has passed through immigration. She is curious about a remark the inspector made to her.

  “He said, ‘A tourist never dies.’”

  Long silence.

  “What did he mean by that, Albert?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, madame.”

  “For once, will you call me Ellen? Please?”

  After a pause, Albert at last looks at the tortured mouth that has been speaking to him.

  “Be seeing you, Ellen.”

  “Goodbye, Albert.”

  He observes the stiffness in her neck. She doesn’t like where she’s going, he can see that. In a sense, it’s her past that awaits her.

  SAM AND MAULéON have been in a secret meeting all morning. Sam is a vulture, only seen when something has already died. Without wanting to make too much of it, Mauléon knows that in this case, what has died is the dream that kept him from caving in when he lived in New York. Today, his dream is a putrid corpse. Which is why he’s had Sam in his hair for the past two days. And today the man’s made an unacceptable offer. Mauléon tries to stave him off, but Sam has him by the throat. There’s no way out. If he turns the offer down, he could lose everything and go to jail (the only option left to him). He feels his brain being constantly bombarded by a stabbing pain. Then, suddenly, the pain lifts. It’s as though he’s stumbled into the eye of the storm. A heavenly peace settles on him. He hears divine music. And for half a minute his strength comes back in full force; he sees that there is still a way he can hang on to the Hibiscus. Which, of course, in reality, is pure fantasy.

  “You’ll see, Mauléon. It’ll take a while, but I’ll get this place up and running again. I told you the hotel business was volatile. You can’t blame yourself, you made a superhuman effort . . . I’ll have to change the name of the place, as you know. I’ve been thinking of an English name, the Yellowbird. It’s the title of a great little folk song Harry Belafonte made famous a few years back. What do you think? I can’t keep your staff, either. I’ve already got too many people working at the Marabout. On the other hand, I need a reliable man around here. And the only one who fits that description is you. I’ll be spending most of my time at the Marabout’s casino for the next few months, and I’ve got this little nightclub in Delmas that’s sucking me dry right now. You’ll be my right arm here. I know you, Mauléon, and I’m convinced you’re a man of your word. What do you say?”

  “Thank you, Sam,” Mauléon says, with a knot in his throat, “but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do . . .”

  “Surely you’re not going back to New York?”

  “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure of anything anymore . . .”

  “Don’t lose faith, Mauléon . . . You’re like a rock to me . . . Take my offer . . . We’ll come to terms and I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Hearing him, Mauléon smiles to himself. He knows the old shark will never add so much as a dollar to his offer.

  “Well, you know, Sam,” he says, “one owner should never work for another owner . . . That’s what the judge told me . . .”

  “What judge?”

  “Judge Mauléus. My father.”

  “Ach, Mauléon, your father’s days are long gone . . . It’s not like that anymore. The country’s changed. A man’s got to survive. And he can’t if he doesn’t have a job. There’s nothing wrong with working for me. You’ve worked for enough people in New York.”

  “Sam, you know, this land has been in our family since Independence. General Pétion conferred the development rights to it on one of my ancestors. And here I am, selling it. But there is one thing I’ll never do, and that’s work on this land as an employee. I will not be a subordinate on Mauléus soil.”

  “All you Haitians, you’ve got too much pride. That’s what keeps you from getting ahead . . .”

  “I can’t argue with you there. At my age, people don’t change, Sam . . .”

  Sam laughs heartily. A fat cat’s laugh.

  “Well, then, let’s shake and be done with it . . . You’ll always be welcome here . . . Will you have a drink with me?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “But it’s a significant occasion.”

  A beat.

  “All right, I’ll have a small one . . .”

  “Albert!” Sam calls out suddenly. “Bring me two glasses and a bottle of rum . . .”

  HARRY COMES IN with a group of young Haitian women, all friends of Tanya’s. They gather at the far end, close to the water, where they can get their legs wet when a large wave comes in. They laugh as they take off their shoes.

  What we are seeing is a kind of revolution. Instead of a crowd of white, middle-aged women clustered around a young, black Adonis, we have a clutch of young, black women accompanied by a white man of a certain age.

  A waitress comes up to them.

  “We’ll have the grilled meat, lots of it, and a bottle of ‘saddled-and-bridled.’”

  The young waitress isn’t quick enough to hide her astonishment. “What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

  She starts to laugh. Harry smiles. The girls around the table cry out shrilly every time a wave comes up to their ankles.

  “Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

  “No, sir . . . It’s just that I didn’t know whites knew about ‘saddled-and-bridled.’”

  “I’m Haitian.”

  The young waitress laughs again. Tanya turns around sharply, as though stung by a wasp. Harry is flirting with the little tramp. That’s the problem with whites, you have to watch them all the time. They can’t seem to get it into their heads that there is also a social hierarchy among blacks. Waitress, heiress, it’s all the same to them. An all-inclusive racism. Everyone is equal and everyone is welcome. When in fact they’re not interested in anyone.

  “I’m thirsty,” Tanya calls to the waitress. “Go get me a Coke . . . Go, go, what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m going to take everyone’s order at the same time.”

  “What? What are you telling me? I tell you I want something, and you tell me I can’t have it? You go get me a bottle of Coke, and then you come back to take their orders.”

  “Well,” Harry cuts in, “it would be simpler if . . .”

  “You!” Tanya says to Harry. “Your job is to pay.”

  Harry shuts up. The waitress goes back to the bar.

  “Never do that to me again, you hear? . . . Are you with me or with her? Because I can leave right now if you want, but as long as I’m sitting at this table, I’ll make the decisions, not her . . .”

  “You Haitians are so hard on each other.”

  “And you Americans aren’t? When your wife’s at the Bellevue Circle, is it her or the waitress who gives the orders? Would you have the nerve to try to pick up a waitress if your wife were there?”

  But now Tanya realizes her mistake. Men like Harry are always trying to pick up waitresses, right under their wives’ noses. It’s their favourite sport. Harry’s laugh puts Tanya back in a good mood.

  ALBERT IS STILL totalling the bar receipts when the inspector comes in.

  “So, that’s it?”

  “Yes, sold this morning,” Albert replies without looking up from his precious maroon ledger.

  “I just saw Sam . . . What about you?”

  “Going home to the Cap. My mother is getting on. She’s been living with my sister since my father died. I’ll take her back to her own house. It needs some work done on it. Roof needs repairing. And I’ve still got a few old friends down there.”

  “You guys from the provinces, I envy you . . . You can always go back to your childhood . . .”

  “Maybe, but I feel
like my life is here in this hotel . . . If I hadn’t come here, I thought of becoming a sailor. I love the sea, foreign countries, languages. That’s something I really like . . . When you come right down to it, this hotel has been the boat I didn’t take . . . Where are you with your inquiry?”

  “Everyone’s gone home . . . And I’m not in Criminal Investigation anymore.”

  “Who took your place?”

  “André François. You know him, he’s the one who . . .”

  “I know him well . . . So where are you now?”

  “I’ve been sent to help out Yves Nelson at the Department of Commerce. I’ve worked with him before, he’s a good man, but I’d rather spend my time conducting inquiries. The chief said to me the other day that I’d be happy conducting inquiries until the whole force went bankrupt. Really, I don’t know what he meant by that, because I only earn a small salary and I pay most of the expenses of an inquiry myself . . .”

  “Will you take a glass of rum? It’s the last time I’ll be able to offer you one . . .”

  “Of course . . . Here’s to you, old brother . . .”

  The inspector studies the golden liquid in his glass for a long time. Night is beginning to fall. A red sun slides gently into the Gulf of Gonâve.

  “Did you finish your inquiry?”

  “What do you mean by finish?”

  “Did you arrest anyone in the end?”

  Silence. The inspector’s glass is refilled.

  “Now that you mention it, no. I never found out who was guilty . . . It’s hard when you hold an inquiry meant solely to find a guilty party. I met a lot of guilty parties in the course of my inquiry, but none of them were the one I was looking for.”

  “Did you arrest them anyway?”

  “No . . . it’s against my code of ethics. I know there are other inspectors who find things out along the way, but I have a problem with that . . .”