Heading South

by Dany Laferriere

  “What girl?”

  “Oh, come on, Christina, not you, too! Why does everyone take me for an idiot? Very well, I forgive you. When I saw Harry’s little trollop over there I invented the story of the scarf in order to give you time to get rid of her . . . She has no business hanging around here . . . I think we have to start putting those people in their proper place.”

  “Would you give me a lift home?”

  “Don’t you have your car?”

  “I’m not fit to drive . . . I’ll send someone to pick it up . . .”

  “If you’re not feeling well, Harry should take you home . . .”

  “You’ve just told me your story, and I didn’t judge you . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Christina . . . My car’s just down there, on the left . . .”

  “I feel so tired all of a sudden . . .”

  “Do you want me to stay with you? We could go to Saint-Marc.”

  “No, I’ll be all right in a few minutes . . .”

  A Mortal Blow

  LYING BETWEEN MISSIE’S long, slender legs, employing the same degree of skill that Shoubou, the lead singer of the Tabou Combo, devotes to his microphone, Charlie dips his tongue into the juiciest bit of fruit in Port-au-Prince. Missie never tires of this exotic but exquisitely executed caress. Especially towards the end of the afternoon. She is always the one who insists on it. Missie’s sweet, pulpy body. Her sex exhales an odour of ripened fruit. She may be European on the outside, but inside she is pure Caribbean. Her slit smells of guava; her stomach tightens and lifts at the same time, inviting Charlie’s tongue to resume its exploratory probe. She moans constantly, frantically, faster and faster, with mounting sweetness and intermittent, delicate puffs of breath. After her violent orgasm (her whole body trembling, nearly drowning in her own saliva), a brutal seizure pervades her entire body and pins her to the tip of Charlie’s tongue as she prepares to let herself go anywhere, do anything, lose herself in this timeless, endless madness. The orgasm brought on by Charlie’s tongue is for her only the beginning.

  Charlie gets up and begins to dress. Missie looks up at him in astonishment.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going out to eat.”

  Missie is still writhing and trembling on the bed.

  “You can’t do this to me.”

  “Do what to you?”

  “Come here . . .”

  “I’m hungry. It’s all right for you to go on a diet for a few days. Your ancestors have been stuffing themselves for centuries . . .”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not food I want now . . .”

  “Your hunger can wait. Mine can’t.”

  “Why are you bringing all this up now. It’s not fair!”

  “I don’t have time to philosophize with you . . . I need to eat . . . Anyway, maybe we can do both at the same time . . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  Charlie heads for the door. Missie quickly reaches for her tiny, red dress that is lying on the floor, and catches up to him in the street. If anyone told her a month ago that she’d be running after a man like this she wouldn’t have believed it. Especially a man from this part of town. She fully intends to take stock of what has happened to her, someday, when things calm down. That’s exactly what she is desperately in need of right now: calm. When she goes home to calm herself, she ends up staring at the ceiling and thinking about Charlie. She even thinks about being with Charlie when she’s with him. It’s as though there are two Missies: one who is with Charlie, and the other who thinks of being with Charlie.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Chez Gérard.”

  “Are you crazy? I’ll know everyone there.”

  “Will your friends be there, too?”

  “Not my friends . . . It’s too stuffy for them . . . It’s where all their mothers go. All the good mothers of Bellevue . . . And it’s expensive, so be warned . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. You’re paying.”

  “Right,” Missie says to herself. She wonders why she puts up with this, and how far she’ll let it go. Every day Charlie finds some new way to provoke her. It’s like he’s constantly playing Russian roulette with her head. So when does the explosion come? Desperately hoping she won’t run into anyone she knows, she dutifully scampers after him.

  AT CHEZ GéRARD. A dandified crowd. They are given a good table; the maitre d’ knows Missie. They sit. Missie immediately gets up and goes to the washroom. She has just spied the principal of her school, Madame Saint-Pierre, sitting at a corner table chatting with June’s mother. The eyes of every businessman in the room follow her speculatively as she crosses the room. She walks slowly towards the back, not wanting to appear to be fleeing, her pert bum bouncing under the red silk above her long legs. Every cognac-soaked man who sees her knows in a second that it is a perfectly formed bum, and that anyone who could attain it, cup it in his hands, would remember that moment for the rest of his life. And all of it going to that little shithead, Charlie, who now, after waiting a few minutes, is tapping at the door to the women’s washroom. Missie, smiling and looking nervous, opens the door to him, a tube of lipstick in her hand. Charlie enters and, without a word, pushes her into the narrow enclosure bathed in blue light. He kisses her with his mouth wide open, and his hands feel for her body.

  “We can’t, not here, my darling. Everyone knows my uncle . . .”

  “That’s exactly why I chose this restaurant.”

  Charlie’s hands are already spreading Missie’s thighs, sliding up under her red satin slip and holding her by her sweet behind. Twin moons.

  “What are you doing? No, not here, I said . . . We can go to a bar, if you want . . . What about the Paradise? Okay?”

  He gives her no time to continue. He turns her around with a quick movement so that her rear end is towards him, and now he bends her forward so that she has no option but to lean with her hands on the edge of the sink. There is no need for him to lift her short skirt; the magnificence of her superb ass with its two tender orbs is revealed to him in its full glory. His penis is already insistent with a surge of fresh blood. With one hand he feels beneath Missie’s ass and unerringly finds the hot, moist entrance to the tightest little vagina on the planet. He parts its fragile lips and, with a single, swift thrust, enters her. Missie is so taken by surprise that, to prevent herself from crying out, she bites her lower lip until it bleeds. Keeping her legs spread as wide as she can, she lowers to her elbows on the sink. Charlie is working her hard, knowing how much she likes being taken roughly from behind. Together they embark on the road whose destination is known only to them. Time no longer exists. Nor the world.

  “What’s going on in there?” a shrill, vexed voice suddenly calls out. “Are you ever going to come out? Do you think the rest of us can wait indefinitely?”

  “It’s Madame Saint-Pierre, my school principal!”

  Charlie eases off, entering and exiting more slowly as though he intends to stop altogether. It seems a long time to Missie. Madame Saint-Pierre is still knocking on the door.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  Missie’s frantic face in the mirror.

  “No, don’t stop, I beg you. Keep fucking me. I’m going to come. Fuck me . . . Oh, God! It feels so good . . . I feel like I’m going to die . . .”

  Several minutes later, heedless of the outraged woman’s continued knocking at the door, which reaches them as though through a thick cloud, Charlie and Missie reach their climax at the same time, something that happens to them only in unusual places such as this. Charlie’s sperm surges in furious spasms deep into Missie’s arched body, which he holds tightly against himself with one hand spread across her thin waist, which heaves like that of a wild animal.

  A Mouse in the Elevator

  CHARLIE IS LYING on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, when Fanfan comes in.

  “There was a girl in the elevator . . . I think she was crying . . .”

  “It w
as Missie.”

  “Oh, her! She’s not bad at all . . . Well done, my man . . .”

  “I just told her to go home. She’s been hanging around here for three days.”

  “You want to dump her?”

  “It’s not even that! I just don’t want to change my life for her, Fanfan. Now that she’s got a taste for it, she never wants to get out of bed. Meanwhile, I’ve got other things to do, you know? . . . I have no doubt that once she’s had her fill of me I’ll never see her again. That’s how it is, my man, I know the rules. Why do women always make such a big hullabaloo?”

  “Easy for you to say, you’re the one holding all the cards . . . But wait until there’s a new deal, Charlie.”

  “It’s not me she wants, Fanfan. That’s the thing . . . The more time I spend with her, the better off my parents are. Weird, eh? That’s the only reason I do it . . .”

  “You still want your dough?” Fanfan asks, taking a few crumpled gourde notes from his pocket.

  “No, I’m good,” Charlie says, with a small smile.

  “You going to the game tonight?”

  “Who’s playing?”

  “Violette versus Don Bosco.”

  “Pfff . . . two to nothing for Don Bosco.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it . . . Manno Sanon is playing pretty well these days. I saw him when Don Bosco made mincemeat out of Bacardi. And Vorbe has something wrong with his ankle . . . I’d say two to one for Don Bosco.”

  “Whoa, slow down a bit . . . It’s the Violette Athletic Club we’re talking about here, isn’t it? That team could beat Don Bosco with two players missing. Vorbe can stay home if he wants to, my friend . . .”

  “Not since Don Bosco picked up Manno Sanon . . . What you say may have been right before that . . .”

  “How much you want to bet?”

  “I don’t want to take your money . . . I know what the score will be: two to one in favour of Don Bosco. Sanon will score two goals in the first half. Vorbe will score for Violette towards the end of the game.”

  “If you’re so sure of that, should we put a hundred dollars on it?”

  Fanfan recoils as though he’s been punched in the face. He does a quick calculation: one hundred dollars equals five hundred gourdes. He doesn’t have that kind of money. He’s sure of winning, though, unless Sanon’s sidelined for some unknown reason early in the game, leaving Vorbe alone on the field. Even with his bad ankle that devil is easily capable of scoring a couple of goals. Where would he find the money, anyway? He can’t ask his mother for five hundred gourdes. Madame Saint-Pierre would cough it up, he thinks. Fanfan is pretty sure Charlie is betting with Missie’s money, otherwise he would have kept it down to his usual twenty gourdes. Fan-fan thinks that if he ever did win, Charlie should be the one to pay up.

  “I’ll go get her, Charlie.”

  “Get who?”

  “Missie . . . Her eyes glow in the dark. They’re like little mouse’s eyes.”

  Charlie seems to weigh the situation for a brief moment.

  “Whatever you want . . . The problem is she doesn’t want to leave me. If I didn’t tell her it was time to go, she’d never go home at all. I don’t know what she sees in this place. Small room, no window . . .”

  “It looks different . . .”

  “Well, she does the dishes and makes the bed . . . She’s made a few improvements on the sly. Sometimes I go out and leave her to it. And when I come back there’s always some new thing in the room. She’s taking over the place. Doesn’t matter how often I tell her this is my sanctuary. She has her big villa, but she wants my room as well. Those people are truly insatiable. That’s how they get rich, too. They take whatever there is to be taken.”

  “I don’t know about that, but that was something, anyway, seeing her in the elevator . . . Those frightened little eyes in the dark . . .”

  “Ah, the poet . . . I know what you’re thinking, Fanfan . . . You think she’s going to give you the money. Well, what I say is you’d be better off getting the money from someone else, and bring me my winnings tomorrow morning. If there’s no score, you win, that’s how sure I am. Or you can give me three hundred gourdes now, and keep the rest . . .”

  “You want me to pay you before the game . . . Now you’re really off your head . . . I’ve got to run, anyway . . . Get your money ready . . .”

  “Right. Tell her she can come back.”

  “You suddenly have your doubts?”

  “Not at all . . . But you’d be better off going to see your school principal . . .”

  “See you tomorrow, brother . . .”

  “That you will, my man, see you tomorrow . . .”

  Skin

  RETURNING TO THE TABLE, Madame Sainte-Pierre still appears to be in a state of shock.

  “I was beginning to think you’d run into your little friend . . .”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. He isn’t even here . . . But you’ll never guess what did happen, Christina . . .”

  “I’m not even going to try . . .”

  “I couldn’t get into the washroom because that niece of Ambassador Abel’s was in there being screwed by some man . . .” she blurted out in a single breath.

  “How do you know it was her, Françoise?”

  “She passed right in front of us on her way there . . . I recognized her because I’ve been to the Abels’ a few times. Since his brother died he no longer has guests. And I’ve often seen her play tennis at the Circle.”

  “She’s a very good tennis player, but she’s too aggressive, I think. She’s a bit full of herself. June beats her regularly, and she doesn’t like it one bit. In my opinion, she’s a better player than June, but she doesn’t win because she keeps losing her nerve . . . June uses a bit too much topspin, I think . . . I think she’s changed a lot, lately . . .”

  “But listen to me, Christina. I was standing there at the door, I could hear them as plainly as I can hear you. I was transfixed! I had no idea how well whatever goes on in that washroom can be heard outside . . . I shudder to think what I might have said myself when I’ve been in there . . .”

  “What could you hear?”

  “Everything! Everything, everything. Everything, I tell you . . .”

  “Well, that must be what’s shocked you. You’ve seemed very edgy these past few days. Are you sure you’re not just a tad jealous, perhaps?”

  “Why would I be jealous? I didn’t even see who she was with. I have no idea what he looks like!”

  “He must have come out of the toilet at some point, Françoise . . .”

  “Do you think I stuck around until they were finished? I had Gérard give me the key to the upstairs bathroom and I went up there . . . Honestly, I didn’t see them. But I heard everything. They must be crazy! It sounded like he was slitting her throat. She was making such a terrible noise, I’ve never heard anything like it before . . .”

  “I’ll bet he was sodomizing her . . .”

  “Oh, that girl, she’ll do anything. And with everyone here . . .”

  “It was probably the only available place around, don’t you think? . . . When you’re desperate, I’d imagine any closed-off area will do . . . People lock themselves in bathrooms to shoot up, I’ve even seen it done here, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t fuck in them, too . . .”

  “I don’t agree, Christina . . . If you look hard enough for a proper place you can always find one. Surely she knows someone who lives nearby . . .”

  “But suppose they just came here to have a quiet meal, and then all of a sudden . . . In a way, it’s not much different than needing to pee . . .”

  The stricken yet outraged look on Madame Saint-Pierre’s face.

  “But we’re not animals! At least I hope I’m not,” she hastened to add . . .

  “You never know until it happens to you, Françoise . . . Only those to whom it’s happened can say for sure, and I doubt they’re about to. I’ve noticed that around here everybody talks about everything except what’s actu
ally important to people. And certainly never to the people to whom it’s important.”

  “I won’t spend my life in a place where I feel completely suffocated. You know? There are things I like about this place, but I find it all so secretive. Everyone is related to everyone else. Everyone keeps passing the ball to each other. They have affairs with each other, they play with each other, they even have each other’s children. Husbands cheat on their wives with their sisters-in-law. Wives sleep with their fathers-in-law. In the end, everyone sleeps with everyone else.”

  “That’s why it’s called the Circle, Françoise. I hardly go there anymore . . .”

  “When I arrived here I was told that Jacqueline Widmaier threw these little so-called intellectual parties, where you could meet the popular young artists of the day. In reality, they were a kind of organized harem. She’d set up these very young people, painters or musicians or poets. Everyone knows that Jacqueline is no more a patron of the arts than you or I, but everyone pretends to swoon over her at those concerts and vernissages she arranges every month . . . I haven’t seen you there very often, I must say . . .”

  “I used to go at the beginning, but as soon as I figured out what they were I haven’t set foot in the place . . . These days if I go at all to the Bellevue Circle it’s either to meet someone or because Harry has an important game . . . He absolutely insists on my being there to watch. Oh, the vanity of our husbands!”

  “Do you see that woman over there, at the table near the window?”

  “Who? . . . Oh, her! . . . I’ve never seen her before . . .”

  “She’s a French journalist . . . I’ve heard a really amazing story about her . . . A friend of Jacques Gabriel’s told me about it. She took part in a voodoo wedding without knowing that she was the bride. And Legba was the groom. Yes, you heard me: Legba. Can you imagine? A journalist comes here from Paris to write an article about Port-au-Prince, and ends up marrying a voodoo god. What a country! That’s why I stay here. You get so totally disheartened that you want to hang yourself, and then you hear something like that! Where else can you see gods marrying mortals?”