by Maryse Conde
The man made a face. “You know, in this country everyone keeps their nose clean and minds their own business. Jean Ovide’s daughters were not the sort you associated with.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know who Jean Ovide was?”
“No, who was he?”
The man seemed more and more amazed, but didn’t say a word, notifying by his expression that the conversation was over. Movar grabbed Babakar by the sleeve and whispered, “Ann ale.” Let’s go.
A few hours later Babakar entered the dining room at The Cedars of Lebanon restaurant with Anaïs in his arms and thought he was back in Danembe. The room was crowded with soldiers in uniform laughing and downing mugs of beer. The only difference was that here they were a mixture of every color and every race. The soldiers belonged to the MINUSTAH force, specially created by the United Nations to “stabilize” Haiti. Groups of girls were fluttering around them, for where there are soldiers there are girls. The girls appeared younger than those in Danembe, but noticeably more destitute. Contrasting with these noisy surroundings, two blonde girls wearing faded T-shirts were sitting in a quiet corner, probably journalists, for one was tapping away on a computer while the other was speaking on her iPad. They looked up and smiled at Babakar, or more precisely at Anaïs, when the two drew closer. Babakar couldn’t help looking at this strange couple who apparently had little time for a husband, a house in the country, or a happy family. After a while they came over and asked familiarly, “May we sit down at your table?”
The younger one asked, “Is this cute little baby yours?”
Babakar nodded.
“Where is her mother?” she inquired a bit tactlessly.
“Dead!” Babakar replied sharply in order to cut short any further questions.
It did not have the effect he was counting on, for they bombarded him with compassionate questions to which he had to find a rapid response.
He realized he was wrong to go by their slovenly looks and take them for just anybody. The younger one, Amy, worked for one of the biggest dailies, the San Francisco Chronicle, and her companion, Louise, for the Washington Herald Tribune. They had traveled to Iraq and Afghanistan, “missed” the tsunami in Indonesia, but covered the massacre in Mumbai. They were annoyed because their editors wanted to recall them back to the US in order to allocate them to another hotspot somewhere else in the world.
“Haiti no longer interests anyone, you know. The country has been in a state of chaos for too long.”
“You might say it’s been going on since independence,” Louise commented. “The country has a constant history of violent crises.”
“What are you doing in such a place with a baby?” Amy asked. “You’re not a journalist, are you?”
“No, I’ve been appointed head physician in a medical center. I’m replacing Dr. Hector Michel who’s going back to Pittsburgh.”
“Dr. Michel is leaving?” both women exclaimed with the same distressed voice.
“Do you know him?” Babakar asked.
“Everybody knows him. He is one of the most virulent critics of what’s going on here. These last years, we were expecting one day to learn they had found his body on a deserted beach.”
“Once he’s gone, there’ll be nobody to give the government a piece of their mind,” lamented Amy.
No matter how much effort Movar and his sisters put into bringing in the dishes and clearing the tables as best they could, the service was so slow that Anaïs fell asleep in the middle of the meal. Babakar had to take leave of his fellow companions. While he was crossing the garden to return to his room, the sound of an explosion rang out close by while the sky turned red.
Oh yes, he was back in hell again!
Built at the initiative of Dr. Hector Michel the year Baby Doc had been “weeded out” by déchoukaj, the Maria Teresa Medical Center was situated at Saint-Soledad. This overcrowded village situated sixty or so kilometers to the north of Port-au-Prince had had its moment of glory when a community of naive painters moved in. When the community had split up, the village became incognito and impoverished again. The medical center itself was an ungainly edifice. One might wonder what had gotten into the head of the architect who had graduated from Caltech and come on purpose all the way from Los Angeles to achieve such a preposterous construction. Imagine three monumental blockhouses of unequal height linked to each other by concrete footbridges decorated with triangular skylights. Building A, the tallest at three stories high, housed Dr. Michel’s quarters and those of his two colleagues, a Swede and an Austrian. For safety’s sake these foreign physicians had left their blond-haired families at home and now lived with Haitian girls. Building B, two stories high, housed the consultation rooms, the maternity ward, and, the pride and joy of the center, a room equipped with four incubators protected from the constant electricity outages by a wheezing generator. Building C, one story high, housed the games room, the canteen, and the day-care center. Mango trees grew in an unkempt park.
In times gone by these huge grounds belonged to the Michel family. It used to accommodate a number of elegant wooden pavilions, the setting for fêtes and masked balls, often the subject of complacent articles in the press in Port-au-Prince. The women paraded around coquettishly with naked breasts, costumed as Pauline Bonaparte and sporting black beauty spots on their mulatto skins. The men were dressed in the uniforms of Bonaparte’s generals. Then, when the déchoukaj occurred, all the Michels perished at the hands of angry crowds, except for Hector who had fled Haiti and disowned his father, mother, and every ancestor. He had given the family estate to Eradicate Poverty. This organization’s enterprising name hid a modest American foundation that was constantly on the point of going into liquidation.
Babakar was overjoyed at being back in the atmosphere he liked so much. He recognized the sickly expression of the patients, the harassed and anxious looks of the physicians as well as those of the handful of nurses and midwives accompanying them. Dr. Michel was a mulatto so white it needed an expert eye to detect his color, and he was afflicted with a severe limp. Once the visit and introductions to the staff were over, the doctor, leaning heavily on his crutch, preceded Babakar along the path that led to the blockhouse where he lived. They sat down on the veranda and a servant brought them glasses of lemonade. Babakar sat Anaïs in the hammock, which was swinging back and forth, and she began to gurgle with pleasure.
“That’s a lovely child you have there,” the doctor remarked, stroking the baby’s tiny hand. “She looks like a real little Haitian. Take care of her. There are so many things you can catch here, and add to that the wickedness of people and their mischief.”
These last words took Babakar by surprise, but he didn’t show it and merely asked, “Do you by chance know Estrella Ovide?”
“Estrella Ovide?” Michel asked with a frown. “Do you mean one of Jean’s daughters, the one who’s a painter?”
“Jean? Is it Jean? They did tell me but I forget the father’s first name. Did he live on the rue du Travail?”
“Yes, I think he did. He was Jean-Claude’s personal physician. That’s why during the déchoukaj he was stoned to death. I know he had two daughters, that’s all. I’ll ask my cousin who’s a mine of information,” he declared before continuing. “Would you like to take a spin to see an old friend of mine who lives on the mountain? The views are incredible.”
They climbed into a dilapidated jeep that took ages to get the engine started.
“No spare parts,” Hector calmly explained. “In this country everyone gets by as best he can.”
Since the air conditioning wasn’t working either, the heat was unbearable and Babakar wondered if it had been wise to bring Anaïs along on such a venture. Haiti seemed moribund. They drove around Port-au-Prince and as the car began to struggle uphill the view became spectacular. A reddish landscape studded with giant ant hills and tall columnar cacti spre
ad out as far as the eye could see, embellished unexpectedly here and there by dark red flowers. Any form of life seemed out of the question in this blazing heat. However, at a bend in the road, a group of brown, shapeless mud huts suddenly appeared. Behind every hut there was a pile of stones, recognizable as graves by the rudimentary crosses on top. Babakar recalled Movar’s words: “Haiti is a country where death doesn’t exist.”
Blessed is the land where the living and the dead remain together and continue to walk hand in hand. On hearing the car’s engine, a group of ragged children emerged and greeted them kindly, an act which contrasted greatly with their wild expressions. Babakar’s heavy heart now filled with anger. How thoughtless he had been! Once again, he had been reckless and lacking in foresight. Why had he brought Anaïs into this land of desolation? But it was her mother’s country. So what? She had nothing in common with this country. Nobody belongs to a land of misery. Nobody is destined in advance to live in poverty.
“You know the story,” Hector told him. “All this was once green. Nothing but banana groves, mango, and silk cotton trees infested with lianas. There was once a gully here which during the rainy season swelled and swelled until it overflowed and deposited a thick, rich silt on its banks. Then the peasants cut down all the trees for charcoal and a drought set in. You see, it’s our fault our paradise was lost.”
Isn’t it always man’s fault that paradises are lost? Babakar thought to himself.
A few kilometers further on, a wooden house loomed up as in a dream, built in the middle of this nightmare of stones.
“Here is Aunt Alida’s villa,” Hector said. “I call her aunt, but she’s not really my aunt. She’s eighty-six years old and lives all alone with a servant the same age. He husband was killed during the déchoukaj of Baby Doc, and her children fled to Canada but she doesn’t want to go and join them. She’s imperishable and outlives everything.”
Meanwhile they climbed over a prickly hedge. Sitting on the veranda, dressed all in white and fanning herself with a straw fan, the aunt greeted them warmly. She hugged Hector and chirped in a Creole that sounded affected when she spoke.
“Chéri, kouman ou ye?”
She was a mulatto woman with a diaphanous skin and aquamarine eyes who, although in her eighties, simpered like a fourteen-year-old.
“Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s much too hot for the baby outside.”
The house resembled a museum. Furniture made of precious woods floated haphazardly over a highly polished floor. Paintings by De Kooning, Chirico, and Roberto Matta hung on the walls. A Gauguin had a kind of loggia all to itself. An eighty-year-old servant as black as her mistress was white, a red kerchief tied around her forehead, emerged out of the depths of the kitchen. She immediately grabbed Anaïs who, usually so recalcitrant, didn’t protest.
“She must be thirsty. I’ll give her some water,” the servant declared before disappearing again.
Aunt Alida chattered on about past weddings and cotillons when she had danced to the sashaying rhythms of the merengue. Her rambling consisted of a series of anecdotes all jumbled up without rhyme or reason. This golden age had come to an end because of these dull-witted barbarians, locked in their superstitions from another age. Babakar, who had never given much thought to politics, suddenly realized why this populace had blindly hurled themselves on the likes of Aunt Alida. In actual fact, however, he told himself, it had served no purpose. Enemies in increasing numbers had emerged everywhere. There was no end to the misery and oppression. After a while the servant reappeared without Anaïs and announced with the same quiet authority, “I gave her something to eat and drink. She was hungry and thirsty. Now she’s asleep and mustn’t be disturbed.”
“We’re hungry as well,” Alida said impulsively in her affected tone of voice. “Have you thought about us?”
The servant nodded. Then she laid the table and on a magnificent dinner service dished out a frugal meal of chopped smoked herring and slices of bread lightly spread with peanut butter.
“Do you remember when we roasted whole sheep stuffed with figs?” Aunt Alida went on, her bony hands fumbling with the heavy cutlery. “Do you remember the banquet I gave when Truman Capote came here?”
Hector, who was barely a teenager at the time, said he remembered perfectly well.
“Afterwards,” Aunt Alida continued, closing her eyes, “we danced and danced. There were at least a hundred and fifty guests. Truman Capote read us excerpts from his book, you remember, the one that became a best seller: In Cold Blood. Then I drove him to the Dumarsais brothers where he bought five thousand dollars’ worth of paintings. Years later, André Malraux also came to visit. Do you remember?”
“Yes, Aunt Alida, I do.”
“I didn’t get to invite him because he was only interested in Saint-Soleil and then nobody could get near him because of Tiga.”
When Anaïs woke up, rested and miraculously refreshed, they set off back home, since Hector had offered to drive them back to The Cedars of Lebanon. As soon as they reached the town the traffic jams began and Hector had to skillfully force his way through the tangle of pedestrians, antiquated vehicles, and tap taps, plus the trucks loaded with soldiers, which Babakar had difficulty getting used to. At a crossroads the traffic stopped to let through a procession. A crowd of ragged individuals with a determined look were silently brandishing placards written in Creole.
“What are they demanding?” Babakar asked.
“Democracy!” Hector smiled. “They don’t realize it’s one of the most difficult commodities to obtain. Over there is the Oloffson Hotel, where they filmed The Comedians. That’s where the international jet set used to meet. Today there’s not a single tourist in the country.”
“Why are you leaving?” Babakar inquired. “After having supported so many things?”
“Because I don’t believe in anything anymore!” Hector simply said. “All these years I had hoped that Haiti would pull through. At first, I enthusiastically supported the deposed president. Then I became disillusioned like everyone else. Even so, I would say to myself, ‘Be patient! Things will get better. Everything will work out fine.’ Now, I don’t believe a thing. As Aunt Alida would say: ‘We’re cursed.’” And he let out a burst of bitter laughter.
Babakar was surprised. “Why would you be cursed?”
Hector laughed even louder. “You’ve never heard of the old story that’s now a legend: we made a deal with the devil in order to rid us of the French colonizers.”
“Having to choose between the devil and the French colonizers,” Babakar joked. “What a dilemma!”
The Cedars of Lebanon was deserted as it was the day the restaurant was closed. Movar and his sisters were arranging some armchairs around a table set next to the pool. Movar came over to Babakar and whispered, “Fouad will be here in a minute. He wants to talk to you. Urgently.”
“What does he want to tell me?” Babakar asked, intrigued.
Movar remained mysterious and didn’t say a word. At that moment, Jahira, who, on her own initiative, had replaced Chloé Ranguin, masterfully removed Anaïs from Babakar’s arms.
“It’s her bath time,” she declared, leaning forward and revealing the top of her breasts.
Babakar was surprised to find himself disconcerted deep down by this plunging cleavage. His body was playing tricks on him. He took a closer look than he had previously and was suddenly aware of her charm and her mischievously seductive attitude. But she’s almost a child, he told himself, and suddenly felt ashamed of his emotions. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help keeping his eyes riveted on the curve and swaying movement of her hips. Fouad turned to speak to him.
“Did Movar warn you?” he asked.
Babakar nodded and asked, for the purpose of clarification, “What have you got to say to me that’s so important?”
Fouad’s expression turned serious. “I want to te
ll you my story …”
“Really?”
“It’s a long story. From what Movar tells me it’s the same as yours. Or almost. Our lives start off in a different direction, in very different countries. Then they get closer until they are alike and practically merge. It’s because the world has become what it’s become, crazy, with no bounds or borders. Please be patient and bear with me to the end. I will try to be brief.”
-
FOUAD’S STORY
The story of my life begins with two lies. First of all, my name is not Fouad. It’s Arvo. My mother gave me the name of the Scandinavian midwife who delivered me. We almost died together since I arrived prematurely. The doctor decided to keep us alive and, being a man of science, he managed to do so. I never considered Arvo to be my name and neither did my mother. Can you imagine a Muslim called Arvo?
Secondly, I’m not Lebanese. I’m Palestinian. But that’s an identity that scares people. The term implies too much suffering, dispossession, and humiliation. You need to be a Jean Genet to like us. Otherwise the world turns a blind eye. So I decided never to tell the truth on the subject. In September 1982, at the end of the siege of Beirut, my father and other fighters were sent to Yemen. My mother remained behind in the camp. My parents were never to see each other again, for my father was killed in dubious circumstances. A few months after my father left, my mother contracted pulmonary complications and was admitted with me to the Akka hospital in the camp of Chatila. It actually worked out for the best because I often wonder how we would have survived the horrors of the massacre that followed. Except for her younger brother, Zohran, who miraculously escaped, all her parents and relatives were killed.
She was a brave woman, a fighter in her own way. In order to earn a living, she got together a group of women without husbands or resources, much like herself, and created an association of embroiderers. From early morning until the light failed her eyes, she stuck her needle into the dresses and cross-stitched them with silk thread embroidery. This exhausting work assured all three of us as best it could our two daily meals.
