CÉCILE: No. I beg you. They’re terrifying.
THE COMMANDANT: Gather the evidence. No, no, leave the trunk where it is. Just bring the papers from the floor and the bottles. The curious crowd has reappeared, lingering near the front door, at a sufficiently respectable distance from the shack.
SOMEONE: We shouldn’t have come back. That was careless.
ANOTHER: NO. Look, they arrested the offenders and the witnesses.
ANOTHER: You never know with them. Once they start making arrests, they seem to go mad.
ANOTHER: Oh! A dead body! They killed someone. Look!
A LADY (sighing): Poor Cécile got dragged into a really nasty mess.
A YOUNG GIRL (to another): Do you really think she was plotting with them? I never would have thought Cécile capable of that.
MME FANFRELUCHE: I found her to be very strange lately. Gaunt, anxious and strange. She’s not all that beautiful anymore, that’s the truth.
AN OLD MAN What rubbish, Madame Fanfreluche! That girl is beautiful and you are jealous, admit it. You just want the prefect to notice you, but he only has eyes for her.
MME FANFRELUCHE: What insolence! How dare you speak to me?
THE OLD MAN Rubbish, Madame Fanfreluche! Your tone is old-fashioned. Times have changed and now it’s your turn, mulattoes, to lower your heads. Maybe there’s truth to the gossip going around, that you’ve dropped your color prejudice lately, for the color of gold makes you forget about the color of skin. Amazing how gold blinds! Look at the prefect! Is he handsome? Light-skinned? Answer me that much, Madame Fanfreluche!
MME FANFRELUCHE: You old ape!
THE OLD MAN: An old ape in whose face you once spit for daring to propose to you twenty years ago, and who now insults you in his turn.
MME FANFRELUCHE: I’m going to lodge a complaint and have you flogged.
THE OLD MAN: By whom, Madame? By a black man or a mulatto? Since you’re dancing in both circles quite nicely. But despite your little schemes, you and your kind will pay for your stupid prejudice. The punishment has begun already, or are you blind? Maybe I’ll die soon, but the ants, as the peasants like to say, will bring me news of this world.
MME FANFRELUCHE: Stop insulting me or I will denounce you as a traitor to the nation.
THE OLD MAN: Who knows! They might be crazy enough to believe you. In any case, stop jangling your bracelets in my ears. It’s annoying.
A LADY: There’s Madame Fanfreluche crying out of indignation! What a ridiculous woman! As usual, Old Mathurin shut her up good, and there she is sniffling like a little girl.
PATROL MEMBER: Quiet over there or I’ll break it up. Doctor, stop feeling sorry for the prisoners. This is a serious matter.
THE DOCTOR: I am not feeling sorry for them, chief. They’re guilty, so punish them. My suggestions were only meant to make your job easier.
CÉCILE: DOCTOR, I beg you, look in my pocket-you will find the key to my house. Go see to my mother. Father Angelo probably couldn’t get in and she’s all by herself.
THE DOCTOR: Me, look in your pocket! Certainly not! I can get inside your house without your key. All right, duty calls. Farewell, gentlemen, and long live law and order!
THE COMMANDANT: We’ll be calling on your services again, Doctor.
THE DOCTOR: I’m at your disposal, Commandant.
PATROL MEMBER: Get the prisoners out. Let’s go!
SOMEONE IN THE CROWD: My God, Magistral’s daughter in handcuffs! If the father were still alive, he’d get himself killed in front of her.
SOMEONE: And the poor mother with heart trouble! Who will dare go to their house if not Father Angelo?
MME FANFRELUCHE: She’s alone and the house is locked. It’s dangerous to go see her. One always risks getting caught when going inside a suspect’s house.
A YOUNG LADY: Look at the one walking next to Cécile. Look at his eyes and his smile.
ANOTHER YOUNG LADY: Why is he smiling?
MME FANFRELUCHE: But he’s a madman! He’s the son of the trinket vendor, Angélie. You didn’t recognize him? Come on, they’re not serious! They’re arresting madmen!
THE ADJUTANT (returning: Commandant! Commandant, sir! I was unable to find either the prefect or the mayor. I looked for them everywhere. Even Laurette has no idea where they are. Here comes Saindor. He claims he saw them driving to Port-au-Prince at full speed.
SAINDOR: Yes, Lieutenant, they left a while ago and they must be far away by now… Hey! If you guys get arrested, who’s going to pay me? You owe me five piastres, and you ten, and you, Simon, a lot more than that. Hey! I want to get paid, you hear? Find a way! Mademoiselle Cécile! My God! What are you doing with these bums? If your poor father, who I knew so well, saw you in handcuffs! And your mother? She will die of it. The prefect could help you but you’ve been stubborn and pushed him away. He was telling me about it just last night and even got drunk to drown his despair. The prefect and the mayor, hah, they must be far away by now.
THE COMMANDANT: We’ll manage without them. Always have to manage without them whenever there’s work to be done or things get dangerous. This is a police matter. And the police will act.
CÉCILE: My God!
ME: Don’t be afraid. I’ll save you a second time.
THE ADJUTANT (to me): Hey you, what’s in your hand?
PATROL MEMBER: Open your hand. Right, there’s something in his fist. Open your hand, mulatto bastard! A possessed man with a stone in hand, not a good idea. Drop it, you son of a bitch.
ME: NO.
THE COMMANDANT (slapping me): Drop it.
CÉCILE: For pity’s sake, throw it away.
THE COMMANDANT: Let’s go! Keep moving. The rest of you, make way! Clear out.
ME (to Cécile): It was from you.
CÉCILE: What?
ME: The stone.
CÉCILE: What do you mean?
ME: There was a letter wrapped around it.
CÉCILE: What letter?
ME: The one you threw to me from your window. I saw the stone fall and I went to get it. But alas, the letter was gone.
CÉCILE: Oh!
ME: Thank you all the same.
CÉCILE: I still have your poem. I find it very beautiful. I also write poems, I’d like to show them to you.
ME: You’ll read mine and I’ll read yours.
CÉCILE: There’s the prison!
ME: Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.
PATROL MEMBER: Take the girls this way.
ME: If they question you, just say: René is guilty. He made weapons and conspired against the security of the State. He alone is guilty.
CÉCILE: Is that true?
ME: Yes.
CÉCILE: You sound like a sensible man.
ME: Do you think I’m crazy like everyone else does?
CÉCILE: I don’t know. That’s what I’ve heard, but I don’t know anymore. I’ve known you since you were little and I feel as if I’m seeing you for the first time. Your eyes, your smile, they’re not the same.
ME: That’s because you never looked at me before today. In your eyes I was just a beggar. Misfortune has brought us together.
CÉCILE: I hate the prefect, I hate the commandant, I hate them all. They disgust me and I’d like to see them dead.
ME: Don’t forget, Cécile, I’m the guilty one, I’m guilty, you have to say that.
THE COMMANDANT: Stop whispering, you two! Separate them. And bring me the girls.
ME: Farewell, Cécile.
CÉCILE: Farewell, René.
SIMON (to André): Stand up straight, old man. I’m scared too, and your brother’s body is heavy, but I’m holding up well enough.
ANDRÉ: I’ve never been in very good health. Our mother died of consumption. And recently I’ve been spitting up a little blood, too.
SIMON: Bugger me! Look! There’s Germaine! She’ll stop at nothing to get us out. I know her. She’ll sleep with the entire patrol if it will help. A good black woman, yeah. She’s waving to us. It’s good to
see her.
PATROL MEMBER (hitting Simon in the back): Shut your hole, white trash, and put down the body.
They dug a hole and dumped Jacques’ body. I was standing between Simon and André. All of us shuddered at the thud of the body in the ditch. Sweat dripping in our eyes, teeth knocking together from faintness and terror. They herded us with their rifle butts into a room where they lined us up faces against the wall. I heard Marcia crying; Cécile’s silence seemed brave and dignified. The commandant asked for coffee, ordered that we be locked up, and left the room followed by the others. We were separated from the women and thrown in a cell.
“Shit!” Simon said. “Our goose is cooked.”
“I’m hungry,” André mumbled.
“How can you be hungry at a time like this?” I asked.
“I’m hungry,” he repeated.
Almost all at once we sank into a deep sleep. At dawn, they woke us with kicks and we found ourselves in a room with the commandant and three men from the patrol sitting at a table. Two rickety green wooden benches leaned against the wall, and there were torture instruments on the table in front of the policemen.
Looking worried and important, the commandant started handling the objects laid out before him with ostentatious reserve.
“I have pointed out the serious charges against the defendants. They have criminal records and left prison barely three months ago. I’ve been kind, indulgent, and today I regret it.”
“What were they guilty of?” one of the three men asked.
“They were inciting a mob, shouting: ‘To arms!’”
“You pardoned them?” the same man exclaimed. “And you dare admit as much!”
“It would appear that these words are from a poem by Massillon Coicou,” the commandant admitted sheepishly.
“Who is this Massillon Coicou?” the man asked. “Is he still in prison?”
“He’s dead,” the commandant answered. “At least, that’s what they’ve told me.”
“Do you hear the cry that resounded: ‘To arms!’” André said suddenly in deep, low voice.
“Silence!” the commandant shouted, “or I’ll break your neck… That verse, we checked it out and it really is from the poet Massillon Coicou. I thought a good beating and six months of detention would be enough punishment.”
“They’re making an ass out of you, Commandant,” one of the three men sniggered. “All one has to do is look in their eyes to see that they’re making an ass of you. That verse by Massillon Coicou, they’re using it to express their own feelings.”
“They’ll live to regret it, I swear,” the commandant hastened to assert.
“I find your zeal to be somewhat tepid,” added the one who had spoken first. “Don’t forget, we were ordered to suspect our own shadow and spare no one… Why don’t you begin the interrogation, Commandant Cravache?”
“You, white man, come forward,” the commandant said.
“Last name, first name, address and occupation,” one of the patrol members recited slowly while dipping a quill in an inkstand.
“Simon de la Pétaudière, French poet, residing in this province, cohabiting with Germaine, merchant on rue Chochotte.”
“Spare us the details,” one of the men pronounced slowly, “and go put yourself against the wall, arms crossed, feet together.”
“Next! Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“André, son of Julie, poet, born and residing in this town, rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Speak up, imbecile!”
“Rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Have you heard of it, Commandant Cravache, Devil ‘Green Calf’ Street?” [60]
“No, but we’ll find it. They’re always holed up in ridiculous places, the swine.”
“Next! Hurry up. Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“René, son of Angélie, malnourished poet.”
“Spare us your tales of malnutrition and just answer the questions.”
“René, son of Angélie, born in and residing in this town, rue de l’Enfer.” [61]
“Quite a brotherhood,” the commandant declared in annoyance. “All obsessed with the same fixed idea: speak French, write verse.”
“Rue de l’Enfer! Rue de l’Enfer! The streets of this town have ridiculous names!” exclaimed the patrol member who was writing everything down. “No wonder they shelter so many subversives.”
“Bring in the girls,” the commandant then ordered.
The adjutant entered, roughly pushing Marcia and Cécile before him.
“Here they are, Commandant.”
“You, the maid, come over here.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Tell us your name.”
“Yes, sir. It’s Marcia, sir.”
“Marcia what?”
“Marcia Nanpétrin, yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
“At Madame Magistral’s, sir. Since I was ten.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“Do you have parents?”
“Yes, sir, in the mountains, far away. Up in the coffee farms.”
“You were the first to hear the bottle crash. Tell us what happened?”
“Here is what happened, Commandant! I was leaving Madame Magistral’s house when I saw the door of the shack open-it had been closed for eight days. The mulatto came out, eyes closed and hand lifted high. He walked like a blind man, hesitating, and then he threw the bottle under the balcony. I saw flames running along the ground and then the mulatto threw himself on the ground screaming and the black guy and the white guy came out of the shack, and the white guy stamped out the flames and lay down on the mulatto and starting saying something in his ear.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, yes, sir. I swear on my mother’s life.”
“Fine, go stand by the wall and wait.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Come forward, you. Last name, first name, address and occupation.”
“Cécile Magistral, born and residing in this town, teacher at the Holy Sisters School.”
“What do you know about this twisted plot against the security of the State?”
“I don’t know anything about it, Monsieur.”
“Talk or you’ll regret it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Two men came down from the platform on which the table stood and loomed before Cécile.
“Talk,” one of them said.
“I swear I don’t know anything.”
“You want a beating? Huh!”
One of them tore off her blouse and grabbed a bundle of leather straps that lay on the table.
“She doesn’t know anything, she doesn’t know anything,” Simon yelled.
“Tell them, Cécile,” I begged. “Tell them what you know.”
“I don’t know anything,” Cécile said.
“Fine. I am going to loosen your tongue. You’ll see.”
He shoved her to her knees and struck her. The straps marked her flesh with long red streaks.
“No! No!” I couldn’t stop yelling.
“Let him kill me,” Cécile shouted to me.
“No! No!”
“I won’t be able to live after all of this. Let them kill me!”
Two patrol members had to hold me back. I had rushed at them like a lion. They twisted my arms and I fell to my knees.
“Cécile, think of your mother,” I begged again, “tell them what you know.”
“I don’t want to live anymore, I don’t want to live anymore,” she sobbed.
“You bastards,” Simon shouted.
And he leaped on one of the men and hit him in the head with his handcuffed fists.
“Shoot him,” ordered the patrol member who had remained at the table with the commandant.
“I am French, I invoke my flag,” Simon protested.
“We shit on your flag,” one of the me
n answered. “You struck law enforcement personnel.”
“My embassy will be notified. You’ll have to answer for my death.”
“You were conspiring against the security of the State.”
“You’re lying There was never a conspiracy.”
“And the petrol bombs? Where did they come from?”
“They’re no more threatening than firecrackers, they’re stuffed with rotting cotton and clairin. I demand to be transferred to Port-au-Prince and allowed to contact my lawyer.”
“Hah! Hah! Hah!” one of the patrol members sniggered. “He thinks we have time to waste. How many days did you stay locked up in the shack with the conspirators?”
“I repeat, there was never any conspiracy,” Simon roared.
“Let him be,” said the commandant, who seemed preoccupied by an inconvenient thought. “Let’s take care of these two first.”
“Come with me,” said one of the men. “See these goodies? They will make you as soft as a woman’s hand.”
And, tearing off our shirts, he burst into hideous, demonic laughter.
“Look at that, thin as a rail. You won’t be able to make it through an hour of torture. Commandant Cravache, give me the studded whip.”
“I’m the only guilty one,” I cried. “I made the weapons myself while they were both sleeping.”
“Who were you trying to set on fire?”
“The devils,” I responded.
“What devils?”
“The ones who invaded the town.”
“He’s a mad fool,” Simon yelled. “Don’t you understand that?”
“I wonder which one of you is best at playing the fool?” the commandant replied.
He came down off the platform, grabbed some kind of pliers off the table and dangled them before me:
“I will tear out your flesh, I will flay you like a hog, but you will talk.”
“I’m the only guilty one,” I repeated.
“Who were you after?”
“The devils.”
The commandant smashed my face with the pliers and blood ran down my cheek.
“You’ve already been beaten with a stick, right? That can be tiring for the person doing it, but this”-holding the pliers under my nose-“is a game that can last for hours. It is reserved exclusively for little plotters such as yourself. Tie him to a chair!”
Two men rushed over, grabbed me and bound me to a chair. The commandant held out the pliers to the patrol member who was still smiling in his seat, saying to him:
Love, Anger, Madness Page 39
