Love, Anger, Madness

by Marie Vieux-Chauvet

  “Shit! I missed him,” he said out loud.

  The Gorilla had thrown himself on the ground. He saw the man crawling to the balcony and immediately bullets flew past his ears, followed by the furious barking of dogs. He fled the bushes, listening to the gunfire as it faded. Around him, nothing moved. He saw all the lights dim one by one, got back in the car and returned home, where he locked himself up in his room.

  Two hours later, he heard Rose groping her way upstairs, not daring to turn on the lights.

  There’s nothing left but to finish her now, he thought, picturing her again on that bed. Why all that light on her drawn and quartered body? I need to finish her off, for my sake, for her sake, for us. He sobbed, biting his pillow with all his teeth, lying in bed with his clothes on, refusing sleep.

  At dawn, he left his room and cautiously went downstairs, avoiding Rose and the others. He filled up the tank, drove like mad to Carrefour and stopped in front of Anna Valois’ house.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monsieur Florentin Douboute (aka the Boxer)

  6 rue de l’Enterrement

  En Ville

  Monsieur,

  You are about to be duped. Meet me at the office of Notary X at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, at which time twelve bills of sale will be drafted to the benefit of your boss. I’ve noticed your strong face and build. I am certain you will know how to defend yourself and demand the reward that should by all rights be yours.

  A just man, who wishes you well

  Sitting at his desk, Louis Normil sealed the letter, telling himself: Who would have thought I would be able to hold my own one day, howling with the wolves! Taking his hat, he excused himself before his colleagues and went to post the letter. On the envelope he scrawled the address in misshapen letters in an unrecognizable hand.

  At lunch, he hid behind a door when M. Zura came by, and left the office alone to go to a meeting he had set up with the men in black.

  “Until tomorrow, then, see you at the notary’s,” he said, clinking glasses with them.

  The next day, at exactly eight o’clock, a remarkably distinguished-looking mulatto received them in an air-conditioned room, furnished with clear but subtle taste. Distracted, he played with a huge signet ring on his left ring finger. Louis Normil had been sitting across from him for ten minutes and hadn’t once been able to make eye contact.

  “I see,” he said, after listening to Normil, “you wish to sell land that once belonged to your father. You are currently in possession of papers that show you have the right to dispose of said property through an inter vivos transfer? Is that correct?”

  “Yes. This land is situated on the Turgeau heights and is of untold value. In all, I have a dozen lots planted with fruit trees, at an estimated value of a thousand dollars each. This gentleman,” he said, indicating the Gorilla, “is the only one who didn’t balk at my asking price.”

  “He’s an expert in these matters and is quite aware that you could get a lot more than that,” the notary added in a neutral tone, “but in times like these times, a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush.”

  The Gorilla cracked his long hairy fingers with growing impatience. He scowled at the notary and said:

  “Get to it. I have no time to waste.”

  “All is ready, Commandant, I’ve seen to everything in advance.”

  The notary frowned slightly, put on his glasses and opened a folder.

  The title of commandant, which the notary had slapped onto the little man, startled Louis Normil, who couldn’t help staring at the decorations hanging on his black shirt. The notary smiled at that and stubbornly kept his eyes down.

  “And are there actually any buyers who are hesitant?” he asked without changing his expression.

  The Gorilla took a wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to the notary. The latter counted them, and then held out the folder:

  “Sign here, if you would, Commandant.”

  The eleven other uniformed men were talking among themselves at the other end of the room.

  “Gentlemen,” Louis Normil said as he got up, “I don’t mean to pressure you, but I swear you’re passing up a terrific opportunity to become property owners in one of the nicest parts of the country.”

  They rushed over all at once, grumbling, put down their money and signed.

  “There now, that’s done,” the notary said with a sigh of relief. “It’s all for the best. Gentlemen, you’ll come by again to pick up the deeds to your property.”

  “That’s all?” the Gorilla asked, standing up abruptly.

  “That’s all, Commandant,” replied the notary.

  “Why not give us those papers right now?” one of the buyers asked shyly.

  “Because, simply put, they are not ready,” the notary answered. “Come, come, gentlemen, let’s not be so suspicious. Look at how your own boss has every confidence in us.”

  “Fall out!” cried the Gorilla, stiff as a post. The men in uniform stood at attention with their heads down. The notary then took the fat wad of bills and handed it to Louis Normil.

  “Goodbye, sir, goodbye Commandant, always at your service, Commandant,” he said, carrying himself like an actor onstage.

  Putting the money in his pocket, Louis Normil tried to make eye contact with the notary and saw that his amused and sardonic glance was now fixed on the Gorilla.

  “Who is he?” Normil asked the Gorilla once they were outside.

  “Oh! A great man, a most worthy gentleman. My father was once his servant. Now he is at my service. He has the reputation of never betraying a professional secret, and thanks to him I’ve closed quite a few deals.”

  “Deals like this one?” Louis Normil asked with an innocent smile.

  “Like this one,” the Gorilla answered cynically. “One has to make a living, right? But to go back to the notary, he’s a masterly fellow. Smart, very smart, and he knows where the bodies are buried. One of these days, I fear he’ll regret having been so accommodating.”

  Louis Normil shuddered.

  “Should I return the money to you?” he asked, putting his hand in his pocket.

  “Are you crazy?” the little man nearly screamed. “Wait until we’re in a safe place. Here’s my car. Come.”

  As he opened the door, the Boxer, who had been waiting in the area, put his hand on his shoulder and said:

  “I guarded that land day and night. I want my share.”

  “Take your hand off my shoulder,” the Gorilla cried in fury as he shook free and reached for his weapon.

  The Boxer took three quick steps back and with the skill of a cowboy, took out his gun and fired. The Gorilla collapsed.

  My work here is done, Louis Normil told himself. And, taking advantage of the general panic, he made his way through the crowd and disappeared.

  The most urgent thing was to put the money in a safe place. So he went home and this time hid it in the drawer of his night table, under a stack of books. Then he went back to the office, where he found M. Zura in a state.

  “Have you heard the news, Normil?” the latter asked him. “Your friend was assassinated.”

  “By whom?” Louis Normil exclaimed, feigning surprise.

  M. Zura rolled his worried eyes and lowered his voice:

  “By one of his henchmen, and they’re going to execute him to set an example.”

  “Such an extreme measure won’t revive our poor friend,” Louis Normil added, looking devastated.

  “What a horrible misfortune! Isn’t it?” M. Zura added. “And now, they’ll be on their guard. Look at all these trucks full of armed men. They know who did it, but they still have to deploy in all their gear just to give us a good scare.”

  Louis Normil looked at M. Zura’s shaking hands, took his hat, excused himself and decided to go straight to the immigration office while he was still popular there.

  “It’s Monsieur Normil,” said an employee respectfully when he saw him. “Why don’t you go ahead and t
ake care of Monsieur Normil.”

  “Let’s make sure Monsieur Normil doesn’t have to wait,” another cried.

  “Long live the leader of the Blackshirts!” the first employee shouted.

  “Long live the leader of the Blackshirts!” the others repeated in chorus.

  “Long live the leader of the Blackshirts!” Louis Normil affirmed obligingly.

  What do I care! he thought, as long as I’m able to save my children, the rest doesn’t matter!

  We’ll remain, the rest of us, to pay whatever it is there is to pay, he also told himself as he got the passports. I’ll stop at nothing to save Rose and Paul. He went home and found his wife in their bedroom.

  “Everything is ready” he announced. “The children will leave tomorrow.”

  “My God!… How did you do that?”

  He opened the drawer of the night table, lifted the books and took out the money.

  “This money will never pay for what we’ve lost morally,” he whispered in a choked voice. “Never, even if they were to let us live, we’ll never be the same. Do you understand?”

  She closed her eyes.

  “And us?” she asked. “What will happen to us?”

  “Us!”

  He got up from the bed where they had been sitting side by side and went to the window. He looked at the black stains of the uniforms beyond the stakes and frowned.

  “Us!” he began again.

  And unwilling to lie to her, he said nothing. Did she understand the meaning of his silence? She stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder:

  “Have you told Rose and Paul?” she asked, to tear him from the dreadful thoughts he dared not utter.

  “No. Where’s Rose?”

  “She hasn’t left her room.”

  “Let her rest.”

  At lunch, there were only four of them sitting at the table. Rose had locked herself up in her room. No one spoke of the Gorilla’s murder. There was an unusual commotion on their property, with a significant number of uniformed men pacing around, armed to the teeth. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were sealed and silent as graves. It seemed as if their terrified inhabitants had run for cover.

  I will attend the Gorilla’s funeral tomorrow, the father told himself. I will play my part to the very end, until the children leave. After that, whatever happens, happens!

  The sun was setting as he left the room. He ran into Rose at the door to the living room.

  “Where are you going?” the father asked, obstructing her path.

  “How can you ask that, Papa? I’m going out, that’s all.”

  “Come, I need to talk to you.”

  “Tomorrow, Papa, I have to go.”

  “I have to talk to you,” he bellowed with such authority that she was dumbstruck and turned around.

  “I’ll come to your room, go,” he added more softly.

  She looked at him in fear, saw the time on her watch, then ran past him and made for the street.

  “Rose!” he yelled.

  He saw light in Paul’s room and went up. He opened the door quietly. The young man was sitting with his eyes on the ground, his arms on his chest, somber and stern.

  “Get out of here, Papa, get out,” he said quietly.

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “We have nothing to say to each other.”

  “Here is your passport and Rose’s and the money for your studies. More than you’ll need, a lot more because you’ll have to attend to your sister’s health. I have reserved seats on a plane for tomorrow. That’s what I had to say to you, my son.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then walked slowly to the door.

  “Papa!”

  “Yes, son,” he replied without turning around.

  He felt two shivering, ice-cold hands grasping him from behind, moving up over his face.

  “Papa, Papa!” he heard again.

  And the hands wandered madly over his face, seeking the embrace that would halt them. So he held these hands in his and stood there without moving, his son’s icy hands in his. Against his own weakened body, he felt the twitching of his son’s, robust and powerful.

  “Calm down,” he advised, “you have to stay calm.”

  He freed himself and led Paul to the bed, where he made him lie down. Lifting his son’s feet onto the bed, he looked at him pensively, then abruptly left the room. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, which he wiped with the back of his hand. Walking by the grandfather’s closed door, he heard the invalid whispering. He went to his room, got undressed and lay in bed next to his wife.

  “Rose went out?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” the father said.

  “I’m going to use this time to pack her bags.”

  He held her back by grabbing her hand.

  “Wait until I’ve spoken to her, Laura. Wait until she comes back,” he said.

  He kept his anguish to himself, counting the minutes until he suddenly sank into a deep sleep, his wife’s hand in his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Paul stayed up waiting for Rose to return. Eyes fixed on his watch as it marked ten o’clock, he was startled when he heard the stairs creak. There she is! he told himself and held his breath. Fifteen minutes went by and he didn’t move. Finally he got up, left his room and put his ear to Rose’s door. He heard nothing. He knocked and no one answered. “Hell and damnation!” he whispered, “but I really did hear steps on the stairs!” He steadied his nerves and broke down the door with a firm right shoulder. Two bullets sounded not too far from the house, then two more.

  “They’re shooting!” the mother screamed from her room.

  The father appeared, haggard, supporting the mother who was about to faint. She pointed at the grandfather’s room.

  “See if they’re here,” she said, her face deathly pale. “Make sure they’re not both outside.”

  Paul opened the door, saw there was no one there, and rushed downstairs.

  “No, not you, not you!” the mother screamed.

  And she fell to her knees, arms folded on her chest screaming: “My God! Have mercy on us!”

  Paul had already reached the yard, followed by the father, who was nervously pulling up his oversized pajamas.

  Two bodies lay against the wall where they had probably been thrown, the child’s head resting at the grandfather’s feet, facing the house.

  Paul bent over the bodies, looked across the property and hollered:

  “Murderers! Murderers!”

  Teeth clenched, he waited, but nothing stirred. So he put the invalid’s body in his father’s arms and lifted the grandfather onto his back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rose walked into the bright living room without a sound. Around the sofa, she could make out her father, her mother and her brother looking at two bodies lying beside each other. No one looked up when she came in and she didn’t say a word. The church bell tolled twelve times as she counted patiently, heels together, motionless, as if struck dead. In vain she waited for somebody to make a move, to know what to do, to know whether to speak, cry or scream, whether to clutch at the bodies and call out to them. Her legs were wobbly and she took a few steps back, moving with difficulty, like an automaton, as she slowly made her way upstairs. She recognized Paul’s footsteps behind her and went into her room, leaving the door open. He closed it behind them. They looked at each other in silence. Then Rose lifted her hand and stroked his face. He felt as if she were fighting off some sort of terrible exhaustion and that at any moment she would collapse before him, flimsy and disjointed like a puppet.

  He watched her stagger.

  For a brief instant, he could see the student who had fallen asleep beside him on the bench in the public square. He thought: Worn out, they’ve worn her out as well. He rushed and caught her on his shoulder. Then he put her in bed and sat by her side to wait for her to wake up. Dawn came and only then did he learn that Rose was dead.

  MADNESS

  There is no better
role to play in the presence of the great than that of the fool. For a long time there was an official jester to the king, but there has never been an official wise man to the king. Me, I’m the fool of Bertin and many others, perhaps yours at this moment, or perhaps you are mine; a man who would be wise would have no fool, so anyone who has a fool is not wise; if he’s not wise he’s a fool, and perhaps, though he be king, his fool’s fool.

  DIDEROT [37]

  Book One

  It was as if suddenly the earth, ravished and devastated by a horrifying cataclysm, had opened up to swallow us. People were running, shrieking. I leaped to open the door and, falling to my knees, looked outside. A taunting patch of tropical indigo sky caught my eye-an indigo stretched with water to the infinite horizon by the enormous brush of a tireless, austere and silent painter. Sky of Haiti, sky beyond compare, a custom-made frame for the giant mapou trees, for the unrelenting verdure of a landscape coddled by eternal spring. Bullets whistling by my ears quickly made me duck and close the door. Silence and trouble! Fearful silence. Deadly silence. Were they, like me, listening to their hearts leaping in their throats? The silence weighed like bricks upon us and we no longer dared move, lying low in terror, in our common terror where we clutched each other, invisibly, as if we were at the bottom of an airless pit. A stagnant agglomeration of cowards and curs! If only I could shake off my terror. I am going to shake off this repulsive terror of mine. They will see me show myself, a harmless poet and a dreamer, alone, in all the glory of our forebears, and offer my serene brow to their bullets. Lies. After many twists and turns, the poem crosses my field of thought and stops there as if to fool me about who I am. I am afraid. I’m stunned by the hammering of their boots. There they are walking past my house! I locked the front door and barricaded it with the old dresser rotting with wood lice, the four wicker chairs, the little pitch-pine table and the trunk where I keep my books and scraps of paper. I do all this, and yet by way of a peculiar doubling, I calmly go where I hear screaming, where I am certain the devils are committing murder. I avoid danger as I accuse myself of cowardice, loathing my own reactions. In the trunk, there are a few poems, unpublished, as are all of my poems about devils and hell. Enough of them there to get me pumped full of lead without anyone hesitating. No one until now has managed to describe them as well as I have, so intuitively. Before I even saw them, I pictured them booted, armed, dressed in resplendent red and black uniforms decorated with gold buttons. I understood the symbolic shorthand: incandescent flames burning at the bottom of an abyss out of which the damned, in a supreme and vile temptation, would see a rain of gold. Red, black, gold! Flames, abyss, ambition! No use trying. I can’t write. I will try to preserve in my memory this poem that keeps worrying at me.