Staggering Steps
I panic when I think I might have absorbed a dose of anxiety strong enough to remain in my body. A month after the earthquake, I’m still sensitive to the slightest vibration. Is the information rooted in my mind or my body? I’d like to know what triggers panic: my head or my body? The other evening, I was eating with friends when I felt something. A slight vibration at first, then it grew in intensity. Unbelievable: the other people just went on with their conversation. I was about to make a dash for the door when I realized the guy next to me was tapping his knee against the table—a nervous tic. Once, when I was on the fifteenth floor of a building downtown, I had the very strong feeling that everything was going to collapse in a matter of seconds. When I looked out the window, I was sure the building across the street was moving. The more solid a place seems, the less confident I am. Just now, as I was writing those lines, the chair moved. All rationality fled my body, and I was alone with my panic. And what about the people whose nightmare still continues? I’m talking about the ones who didn’t have the means to leave the island. I can’t imagine what it’s like to walk upon ground that has already betrayed you.
The Pivotal Moment
This event will have repercussions as important as those caused by the declaration of Haitian independence on January 1, 1804. At the time of independence, the Western world turned its back on the new republic and it had to enjoy its triumph alone. That was the destiny of a nation that had just left behind the long, black, suffocating tunnel of slavery. The West refused to recognize its emergence onto the world stage. Europe and America alike turned their backs. Mad with solitude, these new free men devoured each other like beasts. Ever since, the West has pointed to Haiti as an example for anyone who wants to free himself from slavery without its permission. The punishment has lasted for over two centuries. You will be free, but alone. Nothing is worse than being alone on an island. And now every eye turns to Haiti. I picture an enormous door slowly turning on hinges of darkness and light. A pivotal moment. During the last two weeks of January 2010, Haiti was seen more often than during the previous two centuries. And it wasn’t because of a coup or one of those bloody stories mixing voodoo and cannibalism—it was because of an earthquake. An event over which no one has any control. For once, our misfortune wasn’t exotic. What happened to us could have happened anywhere.
The Desire to Help
In the streets of Montreal, I can measure the depth of emotion set off by Haiti’s misfortune. People seem moved to their very souls, as if the city were as one with Haiti. I went home and saw those inconsolable faces again on TV (always in close-up). Nurses rushing off to help the injured, children raising funds by any means possible (selling their art and putting on shows) and delivering it to humanitarian organizations, amateur and professional musicians sending the totality of their proceeds from their concerts to orphanages, suburban rockers with Mohawk haircuts wearing T-shirts with “I Love Haiti” printed on them, journalists who want to adopt the children they hold in their arms for the camera, giant benefits like in the days of “We Are the World” that raise dozens of millions of dollars in a single night, Hollywood stars who sell their party dresses and buy food with the money, big names from the movies who use their personal airplanes to ferry in medicine, doctors who operate until they’re exhausted. Not to mention anonymous individuals who want to act, but discreetly and modestly. But where is all this energy going? And where is all the money ending up? People want to help so much that they don’t try to find out the answers. The sadness on their faces alternates with the will to really do something. And do it personally. Haiti has barged into their private lives.
The Return
My sister called to say that Aunt Renée had died. I bought a plane ticket to Port-au-Prince for the next day. I moved from the virtual to the real. From the TV bombarding me with images to reality into which I sink like quicksand. My heart stops as we land. Loads of American planes on the runway, as if the country were occupied. Out of the window, I see blue tents just about everywhere. People won’t stay in houses that might be dangerously weakened. If they have to sleep inside, they leave their doors open and their belongings close at hand. They’re ready to run at the slightest alert. The fear of being caught in their sleep by a strong tremor has made them as nervous as a sprinter waiting for the gun in the race of his life. It would be too simple if they had to worry only about saving their own lives, but there are kids, the sick, and old people. The city’s eyes are red from lack of sleep. Still, I expected the population to be more impatient. But here I am, in a city of calm.
The Last Doctor
I watch my mother putting the utensils back on the shelves. The tablecloths in the drawers. The baskets, blue and pink plastic, carefully lined up on the counter. She insists on doing the household chores even though she has a wound on her right leg that won’t heal. Her doctor died in the earthquake, and she needs a new one fast. It’s not easy, since everyone wants an appointment. People injured in the earthquake have priority, especially those in danger for their lives. Last month, so many arms and legs were amputated that could have been saved in other circumstances. Now, people are afraid of this bush medicine where everything is done at top speed. At the beginning, there weren’t enough drugs, especially antibiotics, and doctors feared gangrene like the plague. A good number of Haitian doctors became unavailable; their own families needed their help. Then there were the ones who were injured or killed. What can you do but turn to Jesus, the only real doctor, as my mother says, whose clinic is open day and night. It’s remarkable that Haitians aren’t cursing God for this endless river of misfortune. Are they too weak or too resigned to find the energy to shake their fists at the sky? They do it sometimes, in their way. My sister told me that one of her girlfriends, who used to go to mass with her every morning, hasn’t gone since January 12. “Why not?” my sister wanted to know. “It’s up to Jesus to come and visit me—he needs to ask forgiveness.” That made everyone laugh but my mother.
The Energy of Things
In this city, people bring everything outside every day. Since every house is also a store, in the morning they set out the merchandise on the sidewalk. When evening comes, they bring it all back in. They even bring in the counters on which the merchandise is displayed. It’s amazing to see how many things can be stowed in a tiny house. In the empty streets at night, all you come across are large skeletal dogs.
A Feminine Universe
It took four heart attacks to kill Aunt Renée. The woman looked so frail, but she resisted and fought till the end. She always did her exercises until she was physically unable to. Nothing that happened in the house escaped her radar. Often, in the afternoon, she would sit on the gallery with my mother. Now my mother seems more fragile than ever. Over the last years, I’ve lost three of my four aunts. Of the women, only the youngest is left, Aunt Ninine, and the eldest, my mother. I told Aunt Ninine that a duel was brewing between her and my mother, between the youngest and the oldest. My joke turned Aunt Ninine gloomy. Of all my aunts, Renée was the most secretive.
The Guilty Party
My sister, my mother, and I slept on the gallery. Last month, the women were sleeping on mattresses in the yard. They suspect that’s what finished off Aunt Renée. That, and the lack of care. Before the earthquake, medicine was hard to find. When you went to the hospital, you had to bring your own. In this country, you don’t go there until the pain becomes unbearable. Otherwise, you don’t consider yourself sick. It’s better not to be sick if you can’t pay for the medicine. That way, you go from being in good health to being dead. Illness is a luxury you can’t afford if you don’t have the means. So you die without ever having been sick. Death is always sudden. Since that kind of death has no scientific explanation, it becomes mysterious. Finally, we have a guilty party: the earthquake. On its slate, besides all those who perished in the rubble, we should add everyone who died from lack of medical care. The months following the event were so hard t
hat people died of hunger and cold. The nights weren’t warm enough for frail constitutions. Like Aunt Renée’s.
On the Gallery
Yesterday evening, my mother’s face was dark with sadness. Her foot had swelled up again. I put her legs on a pile of pillows and went and sat on Aunt Renée’s narrow bed. My mother closed her eyes. She’s not afraid of pain; immobility is what frightens her. She’s never stood still in her life. I did what I do every time: I slipped a 100-gourde note under Aunt Renée’s pillow. My mother opened her eyes, saw me, and smiled. The last time I was in this room with Aunt Renée, my nephew came and got her for her bath. She lay light and smiling in his arms. Once so prudish, she wasn’t afraid to be seen naked. I heard voices. My female cousins had arrived to discuss the funeral. We sat on the gallery. Should there be a mass in Creole, French, or even Latin? My mother came out and joined us. One of my cousins insisted on Latin because it’s more prestigious. But the choir was quickly rejected because it’s too expensive. We decided a soloist would do just as well. There’s one woman who sings very well, but her price is out of reach. One of my cousins went to school with her younger sister. We quickly gave up on that idea because, ever since she’s become a star, the TV follows her everywhere. Impossible to imagine a camera at Aunt Renée’s funeral—she who, all her life, avoided making any noise at all. My sister thought that discussing these kind of details was too painful when people were still searching for their families in the wreckage. One of my cousins replied that the earthquake didn’t kill Aunt Renée, and that my sister shouldn’t mix things up. My mother, her eyes still closed, began to murmur Aunt Renée’s favorite prayer: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” I remember the intensity with which Aunt Renée would say “and delivereth them.”
A Young Christ
A large portrait of Christ on the gallery. It hung in my brother-in-law’s school that collapsed in the earthquake. While he was transporting everything he could save in a truck, the portrait dropped onto the street. Someone found it and took it home. A passerby told my brother-in-law what had happened and pointed out the person’s house. It took a lot of negotiations to get the portrait back. My mother has always liked this particular portrait of Jesus with his clear eyes and little pink mouth. Wavy hair cascading to his shoulders. His well-tended beard, strangely split in the middle. The index finger of his right hand strokes a flaming heart girdled by a crown of thorns. A soothing light forms the background. My mother looks that way every time she sits on the gallery.
The Street-Corner Prophet
Just about everyone wakes up together in Port-au-Prince with the early morning sun. I go and brush my teeth in the yard. A light breeze carries an aroma of coffee. My sister wants to go food shopping, and I go along. People still greet one another like before, despite the trials of daily life. They sleep next to their houses. I see tents everywhere. A group of young students chatting under a tree. Everyone else hurrying to work. The camp on my left occupies a soccer field. Already sweating, adults emerge from the tents, holding the hands of their children swathed in colorful uniforms. Well-groomed, white socks, and polished shoes. Two men prepare to cross the street with a mattress on their heads. My sister slows to let them go by. This is new, I say to her; people never used to brake for pedestrians. My sister smiles. Red light. A man next to the car is shouting: we haven’t seen anything yet, the end of days is near. Only the blind can’t see the signs. A man walking by asks him ironically what the next step is going to be. A tsunami, he says very seriously. But before that, he adds, we’ll have another earthquake two times stronger and three times longer than the last one, and it’ll knock everything down and help the tsunami wipe out all trace of our existence here. This land doesn’t belong to us. We’re just renters. The owner lives upstairs, he says, pointing to the sky. And he’s disappointed with our behavior. Instead of thanking him, all we do is fornicate and backbite. We don’t have to pay rent; all he asks of us is to recognize him as our Lord and God. Instead we’re too busy worshiping the Golden Calf. A few people stop to listen to him, mostly women. Green light. The car pulls away, leaving the prophet to gesticulate under the lamp post.
A Star in Town
We continue driving down Delmas. My sister points out the Internet café where the surfers were found crushed to death in front of their screens. Not far from there, rescuers found a girl sitting quietly, as if she were waiting for someone, except that she had an iron bar sticking through her body. I glance at my sister, who’s doing everything within her power to act relaxed. Her eyelids blink rapidly, and she rubs her temples. I wonder how much longer she’ll be able to hold out. On the way back, she stopped to buy water. I picked up a newspaper. On the front page, abundantly illustrated, there’s a story about the Hollywood stars who have come to Haiti. I have no idea how someone must feel, stepping into this kind of setting, surrounded by cameras. They’re doing it to help out. The idea is to attract a new clientele. People who are acquainted with the Third World and those who have a soft spot for suffering in faraway places have already been solicited. Now they’re trying to reach the readers of gossip papers that describe the heartbreaks of the stars. The people who’ve had enough of seeing victims on TV. Show them famous politicians and movie stars instead. What has my sister worried is the brief article that predicts gasoline shortages because of the strike in Venezuela, our only supplier. The Dominican Republic is ready to help out, but how long can they last? Further on in the story, there’s a warning that prices are going to go through the roof. My sister wants to get back home and park the car.
The House across the Way
I’m sitting on the gallery. My mother slipped a pillow behind my neck and patted my shoulder. I drift toward sleep. Kids are playing soccer next door. I hear their laughter. The shrill voices of the street vendors. The joyful shouts when a goal is scored. The big house across the way that used to block our view fell down. The woman who owned the house was pulled out from underneath the stairway. Her son was part of the rescue team. She spent her whole life slaving away in New York to be able to build the place. She showed up every December and added a room, then went back to work in May. From the gallery, my mother followed the progress of the work as the years went by. It’s strange that the house, the envy of the neighborhood, was the only one that didn’t hold up. Now we can see the mountains it once hid. All day long, people speculate on why some houses stood the test while others, right next door, collapsed. Some people believe that Goudougoudou (the name that the poorer parts of town gave the earthquake, since this was the sound people heard) acted intentionally. A new god has been born. Not in the sense of a god who punishes; he’s been named to give him an identity. The way it’s done with hurricanes.
Aunt Renée’s Funeral
We were all ready early since, as family members, we have to be at the church before everyone else. My mother is elegantly dressed, with a slight smile that worries me instead of reassuring me, which is what she wants to do. I help her into the car. She taps me on the shoulder to thank me, which she never does. My sister tried in vain to get her to eat something before going to the church, since right after the funeral we’re driving to Petit-Goâve to bury Aunt Renée in the cemetery there, where she’ll join her sisters and brother. My mother decided not to listen to anyone today. She wanted to spend this time with her sister. Watching her, so serene, I sense she’s caught up to her somewhere in their childhood. My mother sat up very straight in the church. A determined look in her eye that I hadn’t seen for some time. Instead of crushing her (when Aunt Raymonde died, she denied the fact so completely that I thought she’d lost her mind), Aunt Renée’s death has had the opposite effect. The celebrant had a reassuring presence too—he was Aunt Renée’s confessor. Over the final months, he would come to the house to give her communion, Sunday morning after the last mass. He’s from Petit-Goâve as well and, naturally, he’ll be accompanying us there. I spotted relatives I thought were dead. They
gave us news of our extended family. We lost several members to the earthquake, people I didn’t know. The church is full. I’m surprised that Aunt Renée, who never left the house and was bedridden the last twenty years of her life, could have known so many people. I’m told that they too lost family in the earthquake, and now they’re attending the funerals of people they don’t know to pay tribute to their own dead. Once mass is over, they come to offer their condolences. We could have offered ours. We have all lost someone. My mother is holding up well. She stands straight, and her eyes are steady. I don’t dare touch her for fear that her scaffolding will collapse. My sister goes to get the car; she’ll pick us up in front of the church. We start out for Petit-Goâve. Improvised camps line both sides of the road. I can’t imagine what will happen when it rains. Some areas haven’t been affected at all. But even in those places, people don’t seem to be doing much better. When it fell, Port-au-Prince took the rest of the country with it. Now comes Tapion Mountain. Petit-Goâve is just on the other side. We’re running very late. People have been waiting for us in the little cemetery, near my grandfather’s old still.
The World is Moving Around Me Page 6