A dark spot appears on the crotch of his pants. The crowd laughs, plugs their noses and insults him more. Fénelon stammers and speaks like a child. Snot and blood flow from his nose. They tell him it hasn’t even started.
And then someone comes with a rope. They tie it up like for the pigs they hang from the top of the trucks. When the machete cuts his right shoulder, there was nothing else he could do. Fénelon falls, and in his fall he hits the feet of a young peasant, who, with a blow of his boot, breaks his shoulder blade. His sight blurs completely. Just in time for Fénelon to see the blade of the machete that cuts off his foot. His flesh, his bones, his skull, and his heart are nothing but a bloody pile in the mud. The earth herself seems to drink his blood.
“Let him have it.”
Then three men run for a tire. The mechanic grabs a block of cement which he drops with little thought on Fénelon’s skull.
The crowd moves in on the corpse and, unable to end the rampage, insults Fénelon. The mechanic slides a used tire around his body. The smell of gasoline rises and soon, too, that of the body and the tire as they burn.
The news reached Ermancia a few hours later. Ermancia collapsed for days to mourn her son, letting herself go like someone drowning in water, gulping the salt of her tears. Letting herself be gnawed by the vermin of the sweet and terrifying memories of this son. Yes, terrifying memories. Muddled and mixed up without end…She doesn’t move for hours, frozen like the the corpse of the son she loved no matter what. Out of a mother’s blind and unjust love. “Why Fénelon,” she repeated to herself. “Why him and not Toufik and not Tertulien? Why my son? And only my son?” The death of Dorcélien, a few days later, burned alive with his tire collar firmly attached to his neck, strengthened her bitterness and rage against the world as it was.
Ermancia would have faded away, like a drawing that gets erased, had Dieudonné not given her four grandchildren: two sons and two daughters. She died in peace a few years after the birth of Cétoute, the very last one. Cétoute resembled Olmène as two drops of water do each other. The resemblance did not replace Olmène’s absence or Fénelon’s death. But the resemblance consoled her.
34.
Often, in order to forget that in Anse Bleue life puts two anchors at your feet, I came to the shore to watch the waves build up and fall apart, to breathe through each of my pores, and to soak myself in iodine and kelp, the acrid scents of the sea that leave a strange bite on the soul.
Even when the sea became that gleaming plate, spread out on the horizon, I left the burned inlands to look at her until I blinked, until I was blinded.
Even when the nordé thundered three days and nights in a row, I listened in order to be turned upside down, her voice shattering the rocks, I tasted her salty breath on my face, again and again.
And then one year, October came to an end, my childhood with it. I knew it, too, when a wound, unknown to me until then, bled the afternoon before the hurricane. I felt very funny. I was hot. I was cold. At the sight of the blood flowing down my thighs, I leaned over to see the source of this injury. After that day, my sea dreams were disturbed by the distant sound of high heels, very beautiful, well made-up women, like on the television in the school principal’s office, Headmaster Émile. I now know how boys are made. I also know the prominent thing planted right in the middle of their bodies. I know I have a body made to fit theirs…
I love the sea, its mystery. Watching the sea, I always thought that I would one day bring up the entire array of those who sleep in the hollowness of her womb on beds of algae and coral. Those in the waterways, their ocean route to the distant Guinée with Agwé, Simbi, and Lasirenn escorting them.
My father said that all the voices of the Ancestors and the Dead, even those who arrived in the holds of ships long ago, still blow in the ocean forest, sometimes ascend to the surface of the waters like words mixed with the night. In the holds, one could not tell day from night. None of us knew whether the ship was heading toward the horizon or if it was about to sink into the depths of the water. We didn’t pinch our noses because of the vomit and didn’t even avoid the defecations. A cry, a song, and tears, came to pierce the uninterrupted murmur of hundreds of men, shoulder to shoulder.
My father said that sailors, not knowing how to distinguish dreams from exhaustion, lost their minds. He often said that boats were sailing toward death, believing it was on the horizon. A spot tossed on the fury of the waves, burnt by salt, struck by the sun to the point of vertigo. The men saw a flock of birds pass in the sky, and thought they heard in their cries the voices of Lasirenn, Agwé, and Labalenn. They were going to die with the sun in the other half of the sky.
Mother and Cilianise, they were convinced that I could see what the others did not see. That I had the gift of vision. But I was only looking for the face of Olmène, my grandmother, to fill the void between me and the dark matter of the world. And I believed in her appearance, and I still do. As I believe in the mystery of the Immaculate Conception, in the seven faces of Aunt Cilianise’s Ogou, or in the fact that every body immersed in water is pushed upward…At school, Headmaster Émile took three long days to explain it to us. I believe in all this and much more.
Dieudonné wanted Abner, Éliphète, Altagrâce, and I to go to the little school in Roseaux and later to the big school in Baudelet. He hadn’t had the chance. I, the last, took advantage of their progress and stayed longer than the others at the big school. But Abner remained longer than any of us. I remember one day he even came back from night class given by benevolent people whose names he did not tell us. Two months later, he proposed that our father Dieudonné enroll in a literacy course.
One afternoon, my father came in with a pencil, a book, a notebook under his arm, and named Altagrâce his teacher. For months we listened to Altagrâce, who had him repeat in front of the hut: “M-A-N, MAN, G-O, GO, MANGO.” Despite the laughter of the children who, in the early days, formed a joyous and curious circle around the hut, chanting the alphabet with him, Abner helped our father keep going. And my father learned to decipher the beautiful secrets of words. I was even surprised by him once or twice, when he wanted to go faster than the speed of light, to invent new words, like his children before him. He seemed so fragile that one night, out of my love for him, I wept. But I was already on the other side. I was in a foreign land.
Abner has a quick mind. His intelligence, Abner uses it to tell us as soon as possible, before any of us, what to do. In all circumstances. Perhaps he doesn’t even formulate the answers in his head. They are there, in his blood, waiting.
35.
After all these years of struggle, of persistence, of resistance, the party of the Destitute ended up with the wind in its sails. So much so that on the day when the prophet, the leader of the party, was to visit Baudelet, we woke up in the night and went into the streets with torches, hearts beating. We were led by a curiosity entirely new to us. For once, we wanted to know.
We are among the first and we sit in the rows close to the platform. If the most zealous were the militants of the Petite Église, the most numerous were the beggars, the idlers, and especially the young, who would have done anything to be there. We had goose bumps, our eyes shined, our lips quivered. The others, those who had not been touched by grace, said to themselves that if they could not get dressed, wear proper shoes, or eat their fill, at least they could afford an exceptional spectacle, and a free one to boot, that, who knows, might offer some entertainment. The crowd was fascinated and shouted the name of the prophet, and we shouted it with all the strength of our lungs “Profit, papa, chief nou.” Cilianise had stuck a picture of the prophet to her chest, as had her two sons Fanol and Ézéchiel. Oxéna and Dieudonné lifted their arms to heaven at the prophet’s every word, he who skillfully blended the the honey with the piment-bouc, the sharp blade of the knife with the softest down. We greedily swallowed the words coming out of this mouth, which, like ours, said everything by saying almost nothing at all. How strong he was, the p
rophet! The parable of the stone that flowed softly in the water and was going to have to know the pain and suffering of the one who burns in the sun concluded the meeting in an apotheosis.
After the meeting, the crowd slowly dispersed. Some of them, like Cilianise, cried out their joy alone or in groups. Some of the youth improvised a band with drums and vaccines and everyone began dancing like at the carnival. Others advanced in silence, like Oxéna. Some, like Dieudonné, tried with difficulty to sober themselves up a little more with each step, to return to their senses. Many, like Fanol and Ézéchiel, did not want to free themselves from the intoxication the prophet had thrown them into. All of us struggled to return to the pettiness and monotony of our daily lives. Something had narrowed our gaze. Burned our blood.
And we wanted to hold onto this thing as long as possible. And we fostered it, despite the dead and the wounded, until the prophet was in the Palais National. But once in the Palais National, the prophet had turned into something that looked uncannily like the man with a black hat and thick glasses. The legend that the seat was cursed held true. It was enough to sit on it to be mounted by a lawless, faithless god. As the months passed, the resemblance became even more striking. The mask no longer hid the face of the man with black hat and thick glasses. The prophet departed and returned under American escort. With the second occupation, the peace that was not peace merged into a war that couldn’t hatch. We had no more dokos to take refuge in. Even the dokos in our heads had retreated. We were even more naked than our ancestor Bonal. Gran Bwa Îlé seemed powerless to guide our steps. The disaster became banal.
Like many of those who had made a fortune under the man with a black hat and thick glasses, Madame Frétillon became untouchable and a made herself an indispensable advisor to the prophet. Go figure! The powerful Madame Frétillon multiplied her earnings again, while her brother, Toufik Békri, got secret security protection from the Palais. They gathered round the great banquet tables for feasts and left us with our dreams of pebbles that would glide in the freshness of rivers running through green groves. When Madame Frétillon returned to Baudelet under the cover of the Church of the Poor, to organize a big prayer meeting, we asked ourselves the same questions that Orvil had upon Bonal’s death, the same questions that Ermancia had upon Fénelon’s. Questions about the hunter and the prey, those who crush and those who are crushed. About those who are poor from the start and will remain poor until the trumpets of Judgement Day resound. But we closed our eyes and prayed and sang with a fervor that amazed the authorities who, though new, were also old. We prayed with lumps in our throats and the taste of the dream in our mouths, a ginger candy that refused to dissolve.
Dieudonné returned to the bread oven and worked twice as hard, searching for the wood that left charred skeletons of trees at the top of the hills each day. He deserted the land and his outings to sea became less frequent. Yvnel grew upset with the thankless land he was breaking his back over, under a sun that stabbed at his back with lashes of fire. Philomène, on the other hand, no longer sewed, she liked to kneel, her fingers in pain from rosaries done with the charismatic nuns, praying for the help of Notre-Dame du Perpétuel Secours, the patroness of Haiti.
Altagrâce helped Cilianise to the store and, together as two accomplices, they took care of every detail to prepare the service for the wedding of Cilianise and Ogou. As he had learned from his father, who had learned from his grandfather Bonal, Dieudonné fasted, lay down right on the ground in order to hear the heart beat of the earth, and abstained from words and flesh in order to prepare for Ogou’s arrival at this extravagant wedding.
36.
Aunt Cilianise’s marriage to Ogou was the most beautiful party of my childhood. Aunt Cilianise had smoldered with her love for Ogou for a long time. A long time. Right next to her couch, she had a framed portrait of Saint James the Great, sitting on his white horse, saber in hand, on the attack. She loved the image of this man. Brave. Courageous. Strong.
Faustin, Fanol and Ézéchiel’s father, had fallen dead beside his mistress on his return from Miami. He was spent and had given all his savings to Cilianise, who knew how to wait him out. Then after his death, Aunt Cilianise no longer wanted a man of flesh and blood. While waiting for Faustin, she had nourished her taste for absence. And Ogou had filled that void.
Aunt Cilianise had invested heavily in this union: her red dress was magnificent and the altar for Ogou was sumptuous with food, drinks, and bright red handkerchiefs surrounding machetes. The service dragged on because Ogou was playing with Aunt Cilianise’s patience, and for three hours she did not move from her chair in front of the altar, beside an empty chair. Her patience was pure. Aunt Cilianise knew that god was a capricious lover. Then she waited. That would be her role. To wait. She had already discarded her mind, like too small a piece of clothing. She went, mad and naked, on a path known only to herself. I did not realize it until later. Too late. And at my expense.
Dieudonné was shaken several times by a slight tremor. Possession took him by surprise and he resisted each time by closing his eyes, hitting his forehead with his palm as if to wake up. To return to the surface of his own consciousness. He lost his footing, staggered, got back up with the help of Fanol, then of Yvnel, and held on. All around, the singing and drums had already begun the couplets to call the bridegroom. He demanded the bottle of clairin. He sat down and kindled the fire. His trembling grew so violent that Dieudonné was thrown down, legs and arms in the air. And then, in an entirely opposite movement, he stood upright like a palm tree, his eyes staring at the void. The songs rose in intensity:
M’achté yon bèl manchèt pou Papa Ogou o
Yon boutèy rhum pou Ogou Féray o
Yon mouchwa rouj pou Papa Ogou o
I bought a beautiful machete for Ogou
A bottle of rum for Ogou Féray
A red scarf for papa Ogou
Ogou assumed the posture of the warrior marching, grand gestures with his arms. A young hounsi held out the sacred machete and tied his red handkerchief around his neck. He demanded a dry clairin and a cigar. Then he paced the room, whipping his machete around in all directions, warding off an invisible danger and dozens of opponents. And then, suddenly, he froze, remembering why he was there. Obviously he was looking for the bride. Someone in the crowd said to him: “Papa Ogou, your bride, she is here. Right there. Turn around.”
Ogou sé ou min m
Ki min nin m isit
Pran ka m, pran kam
Ogou, it’s you
Who brought me here
Be careful, be careful
Ogou joined Cilianise on the chair in front of the altar, and Julio, le Pè Savann, who had succeeded Érilien, was the formal officiator. Cilianise promised to receive him as a woman receives a lover and put a ring on her finger.
Aunt Cilianise’s wedding reconciled Anse Bleue with its old dreams. Those of always. The dreams where the promises of fresh water from the streams poured into rivers which, with all their power, threw themselves into the sea as far as the afterlife.
Since then, Ogou has occupied the center of Aunt Cilianise’s life. “Ogou gason solid oh,” she liked to coo, touting his strength. Sometimes she smiled alone at the absent, her only companion, her friend, her lover. The most faithful, the sweetest, the bravest. She smiled at this bust of fog which she preferred to any man’s flesh. She no longer traded except for with the Mysterious, the Invisible, the Angel, the Saint. She waited for him some evenings, dressed for a ball, perfumed for bed. She was waiting for him in the violent happiness with which one receives a husband. Ogou left her after every reunion, his absence like a voluptuous blanket. Aunt Cilianise never knew how to talk about it. She said nothing. She laughed. Ogou had tied her tongue. Had taken possession of all her words of pleasure. Her past, present, and future words.
I wondered later if, to put it simply, if this wasn’t cause for celebration. And I, Cétoute Olmène Thérèse, loved Aunt Cilianise’s lust for an absent man a hundred times mo
re present than all the others. Perhaps it was because no one as perfect as Jimmy had come to her that she had chosen Ogou. The first time I saw Jimmy, I thought that.
Mother and Altagrâce shunned all the services and had chosen the narrow door of virtue with the charismatic sisters, blistering their fingers and kneeling on the steps of the churches. Me, I was tearing myself up in wanting Jimmy. I played at pretending to push him away with as much vehemence as he sought me. His gaze palpated me like I was a ripe fruit. I subjected him to a Lenten fast. A long Good Friday. Dry bread and water. Which of us is the prey? And the hunter? I don’t know. I try a game that I do not know. A game that enchants me. Sitting at the entrance to the Blue Moon, Jimmy looks at the world with his eyes half closed, his chair turned backward. And it always starts with a downpour in a dust storm.
Moonbath Page 15