Love, Anger, Madness

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  “You,” he says to me, “are a pearl among women.”

  It’s been a month since I added anything to my journal. I have had neither the time nor the desire. My life is so full! I have a son and a man. My door is open all day long to Jean Luze. Why would I need an outlet? I live fully.

  ***

  Félicia is four months along and her morning sickness is getting worse instead of better. She is wasting away even as her belly grows larger. Her cadaverous appearance is hard to look at. Dr. Audier gives her daily injections because she throws up the little she eats. She kicked out Jean Luze from their room the other day because she claimed he smelled of tobacco. Is she also allergic to love? Abstinence will make him easy prey.

  Annette comes to the house almost every day. She is splendid in her maternity blouse. Triumphant, she continues to torture Félicia.

  “Poor sweetie,” she cries out, kissing her, “you look so awful! It’s a crime! Your husband shouldn’t get you pregnant!…”

  This in the presence of Jean Luze.

  With mimicry impossible to reproduce she recounts Eugénie Duclan’s wedding. She imitates the pharmacist’s stiff walk and Eugénie’s childish posturing.

  “And she had the gall to wear a crown of orange blossoms in her hair. It just made her look even older. Nothing draws one’s attention like contrast. What a dreadful display! At that age one should have the decency to have a simple wedding.”

  Youth is pitiless, and with good reason!

  I saw Dora Soubiran fall. She was walking with legs spread apart, a basket on her arm; she stumbled on a stone and fell. I ran down the stairs. I gave her my hand in the middle of the street and walked her home. Calédu happened to go by just then. He stopped. I did not look at him. Eyes glinted behind drawn blinds. Charles Farus stood behind his counter with his eyes wide and his hand over his mouth. Several beggars blocked our way.

  “Let us through!” I shouted at them impatiently.

  I led Dora inside her house and we stayed there a long time stirring up old memories.

  “Watch out for the commandant,” she whispered suddenly, “watch out for him.”

  “I will come back every day,” I replied firmly.

  “Watch out for him,” she repeated.

  Suddenly she began to shiver as if she were cold.

  “With each blow, he would yell: ‘snobs, you bunch of snobs, mulatto snobs, I’ll make cripples of all of you, you snobs…’”

  She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

  “He hates us! Claire, he hates us!”

  The cause of this hatred is beyond her: she has never understood much about politics and her suffering is of the most useless, most unfair variety that Calédu has ever inflicted on anyone.

  The whispers from behind the blinds followed me home. Why was I afraid? And how little effort it takes to be rid of that feeling!

  “Do you remember,” she said to me the next day, “our wonderful evenings together in the old days, back in those beautiful days? We would eat what we liked, weren’t afraid of anyone, and we were happy.” (She lowered her voice.) “He may have crippled me but my soul has no master save the Lord, the Lord alone.”

  Her stubbornness made me smile.

  “I won’t hang my head before him either anymore,” I promised.

  “They’re constantly spying on me, Claire!” she continued. “Night and day, they’re tapping on my door, it’s unbearable! They’re watching me as if I were a ringleader. Look…”

  She opened the doors to the backyard: behind the fence beggars standing on tiptoe were trying to figure out what was going on inside her house.

  “They’re all armed,” she whispers. “I’m going to flee to Port-au-Prince. I have already written to friends and told them everything.”

  “To whom did you entrust your letter?”

  “To Madame Camuse. She promised to get someone reliable to deliver it for me.”

  The beggars posted in the street followed me to my door with their eyes. Two of them even escorted me. Was it out of weakness or fear that I opened my bag and gave them money?

  Can it be that I am the most cowardly of all the women here?

  ***

  Somewhere in the sky there is a ring of stars. I can’t sleep. Intense and mysterious is the night! It resembles my inner life. A few stars play hide-and-seek. I see them run and chase each other in a corner of the sky. A luminous dot under the trees on the street awakens my curiosity. Someone is still there smoking and walking alone. I recognize Calédu’s silhouette. He can’t sleep either. I feel like running up to him to dig my nails into his eyes and drag him blind and bleeding along Grand-rue.

  I look after Félicia like a mother. I kneel down to make her drink her soup. I am at her feet…

  I always thought that one would become generous if one became rich by chance, but I’ve learned that plain happiness can make you good as well. Everyone has his own idea of happiness. Suffering has made me modest, so for now I am content with life’s charity. I even tremble at the thought of getting too ambitious, for fear of spoiling everything. Félicia’s presence is so negligible that it doesn’t bother me. I treat her like a sick child. How could I be jealous of this wretch? I am Jean-Claude’s mother, really, just as I am Jean Luze’s wife. This idea brings me so much joy that I would like to share it. I would like to play the Beethoven concerto at full volume. I want to set the house ablaze with music. Félicia impatiently asks me to lower the volume; the concerto annoys her. This brings me back to earth. She does exist. She is between us. Right now, she is listening to Gisèle Audier’s gossip. The woman chatters like a magpie.

  “Me, my dear,” she says, “I am against all these women who disregard the prescribed laws of society and claim to be independent. Lately, it seems like anything goes, it’s disgusting. In the old days, it wasn’t like that. We’ve let our youth off the leash. They’ve become depraved. I would never name names but I know of very young girls who won’t say no to anything. You’ve probably found out by now what kind of life Jane Bavière leads. It’s appalling. She entertains men after nightfall. Many have been seen going there. Who are they? We don’t know that yet. No one has recognized them. They come at night and knock on her door. Eugénie Duclan saw them one evening. So has Madame Camuse. Maybe she invites the prefect, and the commandant. She won’t be able to keep her secret for long. The entire neighborhood is watching her. Oh! But we’ll learn their names soon enough! It’s just like what happened with the Grandupré girl. You know, I was the first to see that she was sneaking into Old Mathurin’s house, the old pervert. I told the whole neighborhood and Madame Grandupré beat Agnès until there was blood.”

  My God! How I would like the right to slap her to make her keep her mouth shut! And how mean they are, despite everything that’s happened…

  It was barely five in the morning and Jean-Claude woke earlier than usual and was crying in his crib, when there was a knock at my door.

  I opened up and Jean Luze came in.

  “Why is he crying?” he asked me. “Is he sick?”

  “Our little gentleman has probably soiled himself and wants to be changed.”

  He leaned over the crib at the same moment I did and our heads touched.

  He smiled and lifted his face to look at me.

  “Settle down your son,” he said.

  “My son!”

  My emphasis must have struck him because he quickly straightened.

  “Isn’t he? Claire, isn’t he?”

  He must have been affected by my loosened hair, the neckline of my dressing gown revealing my cleavage, because he exclaimed as if he were seeing me for the first time:

  “You look awfully good like this!”

  I was busy changing Jean-Claude.

  “You look awfully good like this!” he repeated. “You must have been a splendid girl, and I wonder why you didn’t make a life for yourself. Dr. Audier mentioned those complexes, but I’m still skeptical. Perhaps you were disappointed in lov
e. It’s none of my business,” he went on despite my silence, “but I think you have everything it takes to make a man happy. Claire! Are you listening to me?” He took Jean-Claude in his arms and fell on my bed:

  “That godmother of yours, she never answers your question,” he added. “That’s how she discourages nosy people.”

  Barefoot, in pajamas and on my bed, he unsettled me so much that I could barely look at him. I went to the kitchen to look for the child’s bottle and when I came back I found him smoking and thinking, lying beside the baby.

  “Are you so unhappy with your lot?” he asked me.

  “Why do you ask me that?”

  “You look a little desperate sometimes…”

  “Me!”

  “Yes, you. And now you’ve fallen into the habit of sacrificing yourself, and people take advantage. It’s not fair…”

  I bristle at his pity and interrupt him.

  “All of that doesn’t matter.”

  “But of course it does.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders in a friendly and affectionate way.

  “You have a hard time accepting things, Claire,” he went on, “and you live in a state of perpetual revolt. You’ll end up miserable all your life, like me. I’d like to help.”

  “You!…”

  The word came out of my mouth like a scream.

  He dragged a few puffs from his cigarette without looking at me.

  “You are like me,” he added, “I see it more and more every day. I happen to know the reason for those lines in your forehead. You have to forget Calédu, you must calm your sense of outrage. Do you know what happens to people like us? Do you know what they can expect?”

  And in a halting voice, as if he was pulling the words out of himself, he said:

  “I was only eighteen when I went to fight against the Germans. My father died the year before and I left my mother and sister back home. We were poor; they needed me. I only had one desire: to kill Germans and avenge us. I left and was dispatched to the trenches, into the thick of the fighting. A cold rage kept me going and I slaughtered Germans at point-blank range. I kept track of how many in a notebook, and in four years I killed about fifty. I was gravely wounded and sent to the hospital clutching my own guts, dying. Back home, I learned that my sister and my mother were both dead, and I found work far away from my country, seeking in vain to forget and to heal my soul. I had done what everyone calls my duty, but to this day I am still convinced that the war robbed me of my mother and my sister, who both died of anguish and poverty…”

  “There won’t be another war,” I said.

  “So I guess you don’t keep up with what’s going on in the world, my dear Claire!” he replied. “If my country ever fights Germany again I know that I will give up my wife and son. Nothing could stop me from leaving, nothing.”

  He remained quiet for a while, then, throwing his cigarette out the window, he seemed to make a visible effort to control his emotions.

  “Well, let’s set aside that wretched conversation and take care of this little cherub. As they say so well here, God is good, and there will be no war.”

  He tried to feed Jean-Claude. Two little hands greedily closed around his.

  “My little guy! My little guy!” he said, happy.

  They belong so much to me that I feel like crying with joy No one will ever take them from me.

  Sentiment rules the world. Cynics swear otherwise until one day it finally catches them. We are all in search of that “grain of sand” that will reconcile us with ourselves. Even those who are jaded end up dragging their boredom all over the world in the same hope. I have even forgotten about Calédu and his people. Jean-Claude and his father are healing me. I have recklessly broken the dikes. I’ve cupped a hand over my own “grain of sand.” I have transferred to these two beings all the love that was in my heart. Hatred has left me. I keep out everything that could distract me from this wonderful feeling.

  Yesterday while Annette was there, Jean Luze needed a book in order to discuss it at greater length with Joël Marti. He looked for it in the library to no avail and called me over to ask about it.

  “I can’t find that History of Religions I left here.”

  “That book is in my room,” I felt obliged to admit.

  “In your room?” he said, surprised. “Are you reading it?”

  “I’m rereading it.”

  He looked at me skeptically.

  “No.”

  “You’re surprised I read-do you think I’m an idiot?”

  My tone was so bitter for once that he looked at me as if he didn’t know me.

  “Here’s your book,” I said, giving it to him. “In one piece.”

  “Come now, Claire. It’s not a reproach.”

  There was so much gentleness in his voice and eyes that I felt ashamed I was so defensive.

  He held me by the shoulder and leaned in to give me a friendly kiss, but I quickly pushed him away.

  “What a chip on your shoulder!” he said, and pinched my cheek.

  “Nice, Claire,” Annette cried out with a burst of laughter. “You play mommy to his son and wifey with him!…”

  Fortunately, she didn’t see the look of hatred I gave her. No, you imbecile, I’m not playing. I am mother and wife in everything but name. Might you be jealous of me for once? You took the ground out from under me once without my being able to say even a word in self-defense. I pushed you into Jean Luze’s arms on purpose only to test my power. He will never love you. Do you get it? Never. Keep telling yourself that my role seems merely secondary. I exist only for him, anyone can see that. Or would you like me to prove it to you by making advances to him too? I am still superior to you in that respect. Our intimacy often invites me into scenarios worthy of you, but I decline. I don’t wish to seduce him like some manipulative sex kitten. I want more than his body. I am demanding and picky. I know that certain kinds of conduct would be unforgivable in a woman my age. At forty you can persevere, but it’s too late to make your debut. At least, that’s true more or less. I know this and I am patiently biding my time.

  Honesty is a truly difficult thing to learn! Besides, where does honesty begin and where does it end? In obvious bad faith, I refuse to see myself clearly. Certain thoughts, once born, are to be regretted as much as certain words. Sometimes, in my feverishly imagined love scenes, I get panic attacks. This panic is often triggered by the sudden memory of my father, who is whipping me with his belt. If Jean Luze were to burst into my room just then and take me in his arms, I would struggle, cry out and defend myself as if my life were threatened. Do I just like the idea of love? Have I not willingly chosen this unreal situation because I feel unable to go all the way? This is my challenge. I am going to belong to Jean Luze. He alone can help me. I have to know what I am made of.

  More and more I have the feeling that my imaginary affair with Jean Luze is an ersatz substitute I have chosen on purpose because of its power and corrosiveness. How much longer will I be able to fool myself?

  He’s mine, this kid I didn’t carry in my womb! I have made his first pants. He crawls around on all fours and stands with some help. He has eight teeth that came in without too much trouble. He is a stout little guy, very lively, and welcomes his father by holding his arms out to him. Although I keep whispering it to him, he hasn’t managed to say “mama” yet. I want to be the first he calls by that name. His presence in my room seems to soothe my feelings. His innocence is so disarming and his purity so contagious that I even feel shame when I am naked in front of him. That is why yesterday I burned everything that reminded me of the past, the doll, the pornographic postcards, etc. I am done with these old substitutes. I am nothing but mother and wife. I have moved up a notch.

  “Call Jean for me,” Félicia sometimes asks. “I am so sick I don’t have the strength to love him.”

  Without jealousy I watch him sit beside her and kiss her hand or stroke her hair. I have never caught him touching her as if he were i
n love with her. Despite himself, he treats her like a sick child. He pities her, not me.

  “It’s the pregnancy,” he says to comfort her, “you have to wait a bit. It will be over soon. You’re already four months along…”

  Such tenderness!

  “Jean is nothing but an ethereal being,” Annette told me yesterday. “I bet he’s a shabby lover. I would definitely cheat on him if I were his wife. And I am grateful that life has worked out the way it has.”

  I don’t believe a word of what Mme Audier and Father Paul say about Jane. Even though Félicia frowns on it, I visit her and Dora regularly. Dora and those crazed eyes of hers! Jane, stooping over her sewing machine, working late into the night, and seeing no one but me! I will never abandon them again. Jane’s son often talks to Pierrilus, the one-armed beggar who sleeps under our veranda, the only one beaten by Calédu for complaining-he dared ask for his wages-but probably not the only one to hate him for his smug indifference to their plight. Does he think it’s enough to arm them against us, is he so stupid as to believe this will comfort them as they starve?…

  Félicia keeps getting worse. She is skin and bones. I forbid myself to think of her death; but she looks too much like a woman condemned. How often I have done away with her in my mind! I did so to give flight to my dreams, to stuff myself with illusions. What perfect crimes, what unmitigated betrayals we store up in ourselves! Only deep within do we have the courage to really live, and that’s a good thing. I am the one who dresses Félicia, the one who feeds her. She has been handed over to her worst enemy. Today, Félicia threw up her soup. She can’t keep anything down. Jean Luze came home just as she suffered a mild fainting spell, during the course of which she lost blood. Jean Luze left to get Audier and came back alone.

  “What do we do?” he asks. “Audier’s not home.”

  Félicia is pale as a corpse. Jean Luze is kneeling by her. He calls her name, then runs off again. Félicia seizes on this as an opportunity to faint again. I rush to the medicine cabinet to get a bottle of alcohol. I return to find Félicia moaning. Where is Jean Luze? I don’t want to be alone with her. Finally, the door opens and Jean Luze walks in with Dr. Audier.