Published in 2018 by the Feminist Press
at the City University of New York
The Graduate Center
365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406
New York, NY 10016
feministpress.org
First Feminist Press edition 2018
Copyright © 2014 by Gerty Dambury
Translation copyright © 2018 by Judith G. Miller
First published in 2014 in France as Les rétifs by Les Éditions du Manguier.
All rights reserved.
This book was made possible thanks to a grant from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.
This book is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.
This work is published with support from the Centre National du Livre, France.
No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First printing January 2018
Cover and text design by Suki Boynton
Cover photograph by Meena Bhandari, courtesy of IPS North America.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dambury, Gerty, author. | Miller, Judith Graves, translator.
Title: The restless / Gerty Dambury; translated by Judith G. Miller.
Other titles: Rétifs. English
Description: New York, NY: The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2018. | Originally published in French as Les retifs (Paris: Les Editions du ManGuier, 2014). |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017015491 (print) | LCCN 2017025484 (ebook) | ISBN 9781936932078 (E-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Collective memory--Fiction. | Guadeloupe--History--20th century--Fiction. | Guadeloupe--History--Autonomy and independence movements--Fiction. | France--Colonies--Guadeloupe--Fiction. | Political fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Political. | FICTION/Coming of Age. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PQ3949.2.D27 (ebook) | LCC PQ3949.2.D27 R4813 2018 (print) | DDC 843/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017015491
To my mother
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
Prologue
The Warm-Up
The Waltz
The First Figure: Pantalon
The Second Figure: L’été
The Third Figure: La Poule
The Fourth Figure: Pastourelle
A Conversation with Gerty Dambury by Judith G. Miller • October 15, 2016
ABOUT THE AUTHOR & TRANSLATOR
ALSO BY FEMINIST PRESS
ABOUT FEMINIST PRESS
Prologue
We are in Guadeloupe, an overseas department of France. It is 1967.
After the failure of preliminary talks between management and the construction workers’ union, work stoppages begin erupting throughout Pointe-à-Pitre on May 24, 1967. Serious negotiations commence at the Chamber of Commerce. On May 26, the discussions fall apart again because of the obstinate refusal of one group of owners to raise wages even though certain managers have proclaimed their willingness to cede to the workers’ demands. A crowd gathers in front of the building where the negotiations are taking place, and the situation degenerates quickly. Pierre Bolotte, the French-appointed governing prefect of Guadeloupe, orders the police to fire on the demonstrators, and around three in the afternoon, the first shots ring out on La Place de la Victoire. The barely repressed anger turns into violent confrontations at the city’s center. Extra troops of “red kepis” are dispatched to Guadeloupe, and these French soldiers crisscross the city all throughout the night, shooting and arresting people without warning or warrant.
The exact number of people killed remained in question until 2016, when the documents concerning this event were finally declassified and a new report was published. The original count was five dead. Somewhat later, the unofficial statistic, the one released by the authorities, rose to eighty-seven. With the release of the documents, we now estimate that over one hundred people were seriously wounded or killed.
THE WARM-UP
1.
Émilienne is seated on her small bench, the one that actually belongs to our mother.
The small one for doing laundry in the courtyard.
The child has taken over the bench, the courtyard, even the night.
She is waiting for her father—our father.
She’ll wait all night long if she has to. She won’t cease her vigil until he comes home.
Not worth trying to chase her away. No way, not a chance.
That child has been worrying us for three days now: sudden tears, mood swings, a whole armory of whims.
She’s put us through the wringer, and today, just as our city is descending into riots no one saw coming, her attitude is, frankly, pushing us over the edge.
This afternoon, in the streets of Pointe-à-Pitre, gunshots followed billy-club blows, bodies of the dead and wounded formed a path right up to the hospital just north of our house, and the child was right there in the middle of it.
She disappeared for the entire afternoon and didn’t go to school.
What was she doing? Where on earth did she go and why? We’d certainly like to know!
She returned home unharmed, and for that, we thank God. But now, one whim has replaced another.
She’s set up shop in the courtyard, refusing to leave until our father explains to her how in 1967, on May 26, a massacre was able to happen and especially . . . Especially why her schoolteacher has disappeared.
Yes, that second explanation is the most important to her.
To think about her sitting on that small bench all night long, in the dark—and of course she won’t let one of us sit next to her—well, it’s not reassuring.
All those shadows and unhinged souls wandering around at night will slip into the courtyard, no question about that.
We’re sure of it because the child enjoys holding strange conversations with shadows we don’t see.
Up until now her whispering made the whole family smile.
To us it was merely a child’s game.
But now, here she is speaking to the dead, people we recognize perfectly, as if this afternoon’s butchery had awakened from the depths all those who’d been sleeping. Émilienne is speaking to our old neighbor Nono, who exited the world of the living some two years ago.
She also whispers to Uncle Justin, “Come on in, Uncle Justin.”
And we tremble.
We also hear our little sister speak to ma-commère or “Mademoiselle Pansy,” one of our neighbors, a scorned homosexual, dead as well.
You can be sure all these folks will add their two cents to the turbulent events of May 26.
After all, someone has to make sense of it.
Someone’s voice ought to give clear shape to this story, a story that should be told the way a caller calls out a Caribbean quadrille, in which each of the figures gracefully follows the preceding one:
First, pantalon
Second, l’été
Third, la poule
Fourth, pastourelle
We need a strong caller with a powerful voice, so we will be that caller—us, Émilienne’s eight brothers and sisters.
We’ll give the floor to the one who should speak, just as though speaking were dancing.
We alone will decide how many steps to the right or left each one can take. We’ll
decide when a dancer or a group of dancers need to leave the floor to make room for the next, or at what point a musical instrument will take up the story or add its sounds to another’s melody in order to emphasize a phrase, mark a refrain, or signal the moment to change rhythm.
No, wait! We’ll leave the signaling of the tambourine to Émilienne! Let her be the one to call out the changes, to play the tanbou d’bas that accompanies our square dances.
You say there’s never before been a group of callers in a square dance?
Never seen until now, you say!
Then we’ll innovate.
And every musician, dancer, or character—depending on whether you think we’re in a novel or a dance—will become an interpreter.
We’ll start with the waltz. A slow waltz, a good start, an introduction.
Let’s innovate! And let’s hand the waltz over to the child.
Because, you see, who better than Émilienne to get all this going?
She’s still surprisingly calm after everything she’s been through.
And she’s always had this quirkiness, an obsession with repeating the same phrase over and over again, like a special mantra: “I have no name. I have no face.”
We even used to wonder if the child wasn’t a little crazy.
But maybe, maybe, she really does live in another world.
THE WALTZ
1.
Papa is coming.
Mama said he’s on his way. That’s what she always says.
(But today is different, isn’t it, Mama?)
I’m seated, alone on my bench. I’m waiting for Papa.
(I have no name. I have no face.)
I’m waiting for him to ring the bell at the entrance. Today, all the doors are closed, and locked. Papa can’t get in without ringing.
Papa has disappeared.
On La Place de la Victoire, I saw people running every which way. I heard people screaming.
(Mama, can I come sleep next to you?)
Oh no, I don’t want to sleep next to Mama. I don’t want to finish the mint drop, the one she always gives me when she’s already sucked on it, when it’s flattened out and fragile. The one that breaks on my tongue. I’m too big now.
I want to stay by myself in the courtyard and wait.
My bench is unsteady and hard. My bottom’s sore and it’s dark outside. Night has fallen.
Papa is on his way. Mama said so.
I’m waiting for Papa. I’ll wait for him all night long. He’ll come home and he’ll ask me, “What does my little princess want to tell her Papa?”
I’m going to tell him that everything that has happened since Wednesday morning has made me sad.
I’m going to tell him that my schoolteacher, Madame Ladal, has disappeared and that no one wants to tell us where she is.
I’m going to tell him that it was a white man in a suit who scared her. I don’t know why.
I’m going to tell him that I played hooky today and that I saw fighting at La Place de la Victoire.
Mama said I could have been killed, but it never felt like that.
Maybe Papa will know if I risked my life.
Maybe Papa also risked his life. Maybe he’s already with my other friends—Nono; Hilaire, who some people call Pansy; and all the others.
Maybe they’ll tell me if they crossed his path today.
THE FIRST FIGURE: PANTALON
1.
Wednesday, May 24, 1967. We arrive at our school’s courtyard. Our teacher, Madame Ladal, lines us up. “We’re going to our classroom a little early today. I ask you to sit down calmly.”
We climb the stairs to the first floor without making any noise. We enter the classroom, we get settled, and then two people come and stand in front of the door: the principal (with her smooth wig sliding over her head) and a white man in a suit.
The white man shakes hands with Madame Ladal and says to us, “Don’t mind me, children. I didn’t come here for you.”
The principal backs out of the door. (Did you see the little frizzy curls under her wig?)
Our teacher usually tells us when we’ll have visitors: Tomorrow someone is coming. He has things to teach us. But she didn’t say anything about this one.
He’s come but he has nothing to teach us. He isn’t standing next to her while we whisper. Usually that’s how it goes: We whisper, we laugh, and then we calm down and listen to the adult who talks to us. We discuss everything he says, and then after, during break, we talk some more. Especially in order to make fun of him . . .
The white guy sits at the back of the class. We turn around to look at him. “Pay no attention to me. I didn’t come for you. I’ve come for your teacher.”
The other teachers walk past our shutters with their students. We can see them through the slats. They slow down and look at Madame Ladal. Madame Desravins winks at our teacher, who’s trembling a little, but she smiles back.
The man grabs the notebook that belongs to Maryvonne, the queen of ink blobs. “Please, sir, not my notebook!” she says, smiling. Maryvonne always smiles.
She tries, she really does, but she can’t manage to “discipline her dip pen.” That’s what Madame Ladal says. Maryvonne smashes her pen on the page; the nib separates and bends, catches on the paper. Maryvonne grabs the pen with her fingers; she frees it and tries to make it stand straight. She has ink everywhere, on the table, on her fingers, on her dress, on her cheeks, everywhere. We make fun of her, and she gets angry. It’s always the same. Poor kid.
Maryvonne keeps on smiling, but the man shakes his head as he looks at the unlucky girl’s notebook. He moves his head a little, like this: from left to right, from left to right. I see he’s very, very angry, so I close my notebook. I get up, I hand it to him and say, “Sir, you’re scaring Maryvonne.”
“Mademoiselle Émilienne, please go back to your seat.” (Why is my teacher being so formal with me?)
The lesson goes on. My teacher smiles a little. Her smile is proud and courageous, a little sad too. We answer gaily. We know all the answers. Her thirty-two students.
“Raise your hands, children.” Our teacher is perfect, and we’re happy.
The white man in the suit is sweating so much that he takes off his jacket. His shirt is wet under the arms. If he had asked us, we would have told him not to sit at the back of the class. It’s not a good place to sit.
At our school, the wind blows in from the sea. So you should always pick the desks near the balcony, unless the teacher has made you sit somewhere else. Which is what she does. She starts by putting the best students at the desks near the balcony and she ends with the worst in the class near the window facing the street. She makes us change places from time to time. It depends on how hard we’ve been working, on whether we spend too much time watching what’s going on in the street instead of listening. But we want the desks near the balcony, not to look at the sea but to take advantage of the wind blowing through the branches of the big mango trees in the courtyard outside. A nice little breeze, like the one at home that comes fluttering through our neighbor’s palm tree.
We’d really like to tell the white man this; we try to signal to him to change places when the teacher isn’t looking, but he says, “I haven’t come for you.”
We’re not supposed to speak to him. We’re not supposed to bring him our notebooks. We’re not supposed to pay attention to him. So we forget him. We work the way we always work, and at the end, after math, spelling, and history, Madame Ladal has us sing: “Manman’w voyé’w lékol, blaw-la-ka-taw, pou aprann I’ABCD.” We sing. How we sing! “Your mother sends you to school to learn your ABCs. Tra la la la tra la.” We sing with the fear of God in us, as Mama would say!
It’s a song we learned when we went to Amandiers Beach on the school bus. We had huge gourds filled with rice and covered with checkered towels and containers of lemonade and big mats so we could spread out on the beach. (Papa, you were the one who made the road that goes to the beach, right? That’s w
hat I told Madame Ladal.)
We keep on singing and the other classes leave their rooms before we do. The other teachers come to watch us sing. We can’t stop ourselves. We’re too happy. The teacher smiles and the man, the white guy, looks really surprised. It’s true, we’re usually not allowed to speak Creole at school.
The man puts his jacket back on. He’s going to take our teacher somewhere. She follows him, very serious, very solemn. During recess our teacher disappears. With the white man in the suit. They divide us up to go into other classrooms.
(But what’s happening?)
Madame Desravins tries to reassure us, “Your teacher is being evaluated, children. She’ll be back, but right now the examiner has to talk to her.”
2.
She’s already refusing to do what we say!
We’re talking about our neighbor Nono, who left this world two years ago, in 1965.
With her ninety-eight years of life on this earth, old Nono thinks she has priority to tell a part of this story.
She wants to be the first one to speak. Otherwise, she’s threatening to disappear. And what she says, she does. She claims she’s the accordion of this orchestra and that she’ll play her part until the end because she knows more than anybody else here. That’s why she thinks no one else has the right to speak before she does about Émilienne: “She’s my child, she is.”
Throughout her life she repeated that phrase, even if there’s no shared blood between us.
She thinks of herself as a member of the family: “A good neighbor is often worth more than a bad relative.” That’s what she said when she was alive, and she still thinks it. “It’s my duty to protect that little girl!”
Up till now, we thought that was our father’s role, that he was the only one who could calm our little sister’s nerves.
And she hasn’t stopped asking when he’ll come home. Next—if he really will come home. After that—why wasn’t he coming home?
The Restless Page 1