The Sad-Eyed Young Man
Standing near the fence by the tennis courts, I see Chantal Guy come up. She’s a journalist with the Montreal daily La Presse, and Ivanoh Demers, the photographer, is right behind her. They’re both alive, and now they’re inseparable. When I was lying in the hotel courtyard with everything moving around me, I thought of Chantal Guy. I’d insisted so much that she come here, even though she had her doubts. It’s always difficult to convince people to come to Haiti. First they agree, because the country exerts a fascination. An intense exchange of letters follows, then silence. Friends and relations recommend against the trip. They go on Internet sites that portray an extremely dangerous place. Panic sets in. In the end, the answer is no. With Chantal, I did more than insist: I argued against each of her objections. For me, it was important for this delegation of Quebec writers to be accompanied by a good journalist. Besides, she’s a friend. I’ve been living in Quebec for thirty-four years, I know everyone on the literary scene, I’ve read most writers working today, and I felt it was time that Quebec writers come and see how Haitians live in their own country. I don’t think it’s healthy to have a good friend who knows you so well, who has looked into the hidden zones of your life, but who has no sense of the country you come from. You don’t get to know a culture by watching TV documentaries. If you want to get a real idea of things, especially for a journalist, you have to be on the ground. Smell the earth, touch the trees, and meet people in their natural environment. I’m not blaming anyone. I was just hoping for a dialogue between writers from Quebec and Haitian writers who represent the two largest French-speaking populations in the Americas. Chantal held out but finally agreed. And now the earthquake. That’s why I thought of her at that critical time. Especially when I heard (that night there were so many rumors) that the Hôtel Villa Créole where she was staying was heavily damaged. And now here she comes, making her entrance like a Venus arising from the ashes with Ivanoh Demers on her heels. He looks ill at ease. Port-au-Prince was a revelation for Chantal. She used to be afraid of her own shadow, but now she’s an intrepid warrior ready to face the fury of the elements. As for Demers, the photos he took that day made him the most famous photographer on the planet, at least that week. His pictures were published in papers around the world. And his moving photo of the young man lifting his eyes to us with a mixture of pain and gravitas will remain in our memories. The gentle light of his face conjures up the Flemish masters. Yet the photographer himself was torn between his sudden celebrity and the city in ruins, since one couldn’t exist without the other. He shouldn’t feel bad. His photo of the young man’s gentle expression will last.
Culture
Chantal Guy blurts out a question: what do I think of all this? She takes out her notebook. What is the value of culture in the face of disaster? Asking the question in a university classroom doesn’t have the same resonance as it does here. I look around: it’s easy to evaluate the situation. The conversations are lively. I hear laughter from time to time. People are looking for some way out. Which makes me think that when everything else collapses, culture remains. The people who are still moving will save this city. The crowd’s appetite for life makes living possible in these dusty streets. I go back to the lesson of the old naïve painters who choose to show nature in its splendor when all around there is desolation.
A Man in Mourning
He is smoking on the street corner, near the art vendors who have started displaying their canvases on the walls again in the wind, heat, and dust. Very elegant in his fine black suit. A black hat. Unconcerned by the bustling activity around him. Unmoving, he lights another cigarette. Some people can keep their composure no matter what. I approach him. He offers me a smoke. We talk about this and that, avoiding the subject of the hour. Slowly I learn a little about him, and I understand he is far from being the dandy he appears to be. His mother died at the beginning of last week and he wasn’t able to contribute to her funeral. His three sisters (they live in New York) paid all the expenses, even for his black suit. They were supposed to leave the day before yesterday, but they postponed their departure to buy him a barbershop that was for sale not far from here. He’s a barber, but he can’t seem to keep a job for long. His sisters thought it would be better if he were his own boss. This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to help him out, but it’s the first time his situation as a parasite depressed him to the point that he considered suicide last night. He lights another cigarette (I refused his offer) and we get around to the earthquake. He was here when it happened. He went home and discovered his house was completely destroyed and that his sisters were dead in the wreckage. He stares at the glowing coal of his cigarette a little too long. The pain I read in his eyes is so private I realize I’m intruding. I slipped away as he was taking another drag.
The Room
I decided to return to my room. The façade that overlooks the garden is badly cracked, but the hotel didn’t collapse. Debris everywhere; there’s no way of saying how bad the damage is. I go up the stairs to the third floor. From there, I can see that the lobby was wrecked. I continue my adventure without knowing what I’ll find. So far, so good, but the hotel could cave in at any moment. I reach my room. The door is closed. I take out my electronic key. No chance it will work. The earthquake must have knocked out the electrical system. Besides, they cut the current to prevent fires. I slip the card in the slot. The little green light lights up. I walk inside. The room is intact except for the television set on the floor. I find my suitcase. The computer that someone lent me hasn’t moved from the bedside table. My last two mangos are patiently waiting for me next to the computer. I grab everything I can. I picture everyone doing the same thing at this very moment, trying to save things that matter. Things that might appear useless to other people. I’d better not stay too long; just being here is a major provocation. When it brushes past, death leaves us in a frenetic state that pushes us to defy the gods. That explains this irresistible desire to lie down on the bed. I change my mind at the last second, realizing I’m doing something stupid. It might not be over. A new tremor could send the hotel crashing down. I don’t even know how long I’ve been in the room. I’ve lost all notion of time since yesterday. I understand now that a minute can hold the entire life of a city. A new density for me. Finally I exit the room, leaving the door open, with the feeling the card won’t work a second time.
The Opportunity
We were sitting under the trees when someone showed up with a bottle of rum and set it down in the middle of the table. Some people could find alcohol even in hell. He found this bottle in one of the cabinets in the bar. Apparently it’s not the last one. The Gold Rush, all over again. It’s the only weapon against the anxiety of the coming night. With a haggard eye, I watch the mosquitoes gather around the light, waiting to go on the attack. Their exasperating music hums in my ears. We drink right from the bottle and pass it around. Now is the time to try everything that good manners and hygiene teach us not to do. The warmth of the rum is good. We’d like to do something completely unusual, since this kind of situation won’t happen twice. It was more acceptable last night than tonight, and tomorrow it will be too late. We will have recovered our wits completely. And we won’t be just the few of us. Right now, everyone in this city is either dead, wounded, or saved by some miracle. Tomorrow, or even tonight, they will start arriving (are they already among us?), and we will lose our sense of collective madness. In any case, it’s not over yet. The earth is still shaking. Two or three points higher on the Richter scale and we’ll be cast back into a realm without time. I don’t understand why we don’t try doing something completely off the beaten track of everyday life. Nothing is holding us back. No more prisons, no more cathedral, no more government, no more school—it’s the perfect opportunity to try something new. An opportunity that won’t knock twice. The revolution is at hand, and here I am, sitting under a tree.
An Offering to the Gods
We open the cans of s
ardines. I remember that I’d left bread on the table in the restaurant. Rodney and I go off in search of that bread. It’s the first time we’ve returned to the scene. Nothing has changed. The restaurant, made of wood, is more flexible than concrete. The breadbasket is sitting where we left it. I feel like I’m stealing an offering made to the gods.
The Second Night
We settle in. Everybody goes back to the spot where they slept the first night. We’ve claimed our territory. There’s movement by the entrance. The guards are coming with mattresses, sheets, and pillows. The pillow is the sign of a higher plateau of refinement. Our heads won’t be on the same level as the rest of our bodies. An enormous change compared to last night. A good night’s sleep will make us less sensitive to the smaller tremors. We’ll need steady nerves. Already we’re leaving behind last night’s anxiety, when we weren’t even sure we’d see the dawn. Now we’re more exasperated than worried. We just wish the earth would stop moving. I spot a red dot moving through the garden: a man smoking a cigarette.
A Pain in the Ass
People’s temperaments are quickly revealed within this small perimeter. All the major traits of our species are represented here. I suppose it’s the same in every improvised camp. You can spot them right off: the petty ones, the jealous types, the generous kind, the optimists, the pessimists, the adventurers, the careful ones, the quiet ones, and the pains in the ass. I’ve got one of the latter in my zone, a woman. She talks endlessly about her own problems. Most people here have family members either dead or injured, but she couldn’t care less. She knows that her husband is alive, but she acts like she isn’t sure just to be at the center of attention. She complains about everything. In her opinion, Haitians are partly responsible for this disaster. We must have committed some crime; that’s why misfortune follows us. And on and on. She’s just decided that it’s too beautiful a night to sleep. And she’s right: the sky is magnificent and the earth still warm from its convulsions. But I’d rather be attacked by hordes of furious mosquitoes than have her muttering behind my back. I set up my mattress a little further on.
A Teenager
He showed up this afternoon, found a spot, and settled in without a sound. He was having trouble with his foot. Maëtte, who has a way with stray dogs, took him under her wing. Especially since he’d lost his parents. She treated his wounds and defended him when a guard wanted to put him out. On the first night, we could welcome strangers into our space, because even the thieves were in a state of shock. Sleeping outside is always a risky business. Tourists possess two things that make thieves covetous: money and a valid passport. Besides, our suitcases were piled up along the fence. The men slept like babies. The women kept watch, listening for the slightest disturbance. They lifted their heads the minute a shadow moved through the garden. Often it was just someone looking for a tree to piss against. The women organized a spot near the fence for their basic needs so they wouldn’t have to leave the secure zone. Their anxiety became palpable once darkness began to fall. Luckily there were songs and prayers that were like lullabies in the night.
Morning Conversation
I spent a while watching a grandmother singing with her grandson. They were sleeping on the other side of the net on the tennis courts. It was a whole other neighborhood. The songs brought my childhood rushing back like a salmon swimming up a river. I heard them talking in low tones as, under the sheet, I noted down the morning thoughts that washed over me in streams. Reveries that had nothing to do with the earthquake. I understood that my mind wanted to escape the space where horror kept it prisoner. Muffled laughter. I looked up. They’re still talking in soft voices: the grandmother and the grandson. A strong bond links these two beings separated by the abyss of time. They live in the same fluid universe of dreams. At the beginning and the end of life, we enjoy a time stripped of the responsibilities that weighed down our days. That free time allows old age and childhood to join hands. The grandmother is doing all she can to spare her grandson the horror of the day. Some people can dance on hot coals. People call them carefree and irresponsible, and don’t understand that they are beings with exceptional souls. They pass through these times of suffering with steady hearts; they don’t feel they need to add their personal anguish to the collective tragedy. My grandmother tore me from the claws of the dictator by teaching me something other than hatred and vengeance. This grandmother, on the other side of the net, is taking the horrible images in her grandson’s head and replacing them with the songs and mythologies she can still find in her shaky memory.
Taking Stock
First thing in the morning, we get together to take stock of the situation. We can’t continue in this lethargy. We have to do something—but what? The whole city’s been through the blender. We’re in a state of shock. The planet’s eyes are riveted on Port-au-Prince. The images of destruction broadcast on a TV loop are stirring people’s energy all around the world. The radio stations that have managed to get back on the air are spitting out horror stories. The Internet works intermittently, ten minutes at a time. The phones are still down. It’s like the whole thing happened a thousand years ago. At the same time, we still haven’t assimilated how bad the situation is. Even though I saw the bodies, I go on dreaming. I didn’t describe the scenes to people who have stayed in the hotel. Figures are bandied about. It’s all so abstract: 100,000 or 200,000. Add or subtract 10,000 dead, as if each death wasn’t worthy of particular attention. All that is designed, of course, to keep you from going crazy. No one wants to be the first to go running naked down the street. We avoid considering reality, because reality is the problem.
Rumors
According to a rumor, the looting has already begun. Even in the hotel. Panic: it seems that someone has emptied the strong boxes in the rooms. In the courtyard and in front of the hotel, groups form to discuss the situation. We have to defend ourselves. We’re not going to wait to have our throats cut like goats tied to a post. Voices are raised. People are exhausted. I go off and talk to the security guards. All clear there. Then the chambermaids. They’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary. The hotel owners? First time they’ve heard of such a thing. The strong boxes are all intact. That’s how you kill a rumor before it spreads like oil on the glassy surface of a pond.
City of Calm
In the end, there never were those chaotic scenes that some journalists (but not all) no doubt wanted to see. I could just picture the front page of a major daily paper if looting really had broken out. And the televised commentaries from the instant experts about this barbarous country. Instead, people saw a dignified nation whose nerves were steady enough to resist the most terrible deprivations. When you understand that people were hungry long before the earthquake, you have to wonder how they managed to wait so calmly for help to show up. What did they live on during the month that preceded the distribution of food? And the sick who wandered the streets of the city without treatment? Despite all that, Port-au-Prince never lost its cool. We saw people standing in line, waiting for bottled water in the slums, the same districts that a few months earlier were considered danger zones where the government’s laws had no effect. So what happened? What can these changes be attributed to? Was this the shock the country was waiting for to wake up and halt its dizzying descent?We’ll have to wait a while longer to understand the true impact of such a tremendous event on the nation’s destiny. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the calm. Especially since we know that explosions of another kind (social, this time) are on the horizon.
Amos Oz
Just before I left for Haiti on January 5, when we were having dinner together, Saint-Éloi gave me a book: The Same Sea by Amos Oz. It was my first contact with a writer who has long attracted me. Since Saint-Éloi had brought his copy with him, we took out our two books to read Oz out loud. My confidence in poetry is unlimited. It alone can reconcile me with the horror of the world. Saint-Éloi read standing up. I was sitting on a suitcase. He thinks I have the same obsessions as Amos Oz: the re
lation with my mother, my village, and wandering. He read me these brief lines:
The World is Moving Around Me Page 4
