by Maryse Conde
“Be quiet! Don’t be stupid! If something’s at fault, it’s this wretched age in which we have the misfortune to live.”
After a while Fouad calmed down and, probably ashamed of his weak side, he rattled off a harsh list of insults. Then a long silence passed. Babakar ended up falling asleep: a feverish sleep, devoid of dreams—a black hole. Thank God, Thécla didn’t make an appearance.
Suddenly, the door opened. Armed with the dazzling light of a torch, four young soldiers entered pushing a trolley. Without a word, they handed out plates of a greenish mush. Before leaving, they lit a flaming torch and fixed it in a crevice on the wall. Realizing they were famished, the prisoners voraciously lapped up their frugal meal. After a few minutes, the torch went out and once again they were plunged into darkness. The driver started sobbing again, but muffled this time. He stammered out a series of disjointed lamentations in a mixture of French and Creole.
“Bon Dyé, pran pitié! Good Lord, what have I done to you? I have never touched drugs. I’m married and respect my wife.”
This time Fouad did not intervene. Another several hours went by. Then the door opened again. Pointing their guns aggressively towards them, the same youngsters reappeared accompanied by two acolytes: dirty, barefoot, and heavily armed.
“Dèwo!” they yelled. “Get out!”
The prisoners did not comply quick enough to the minds of the youngsters and were shoved forward.
“Kot n prale?” Movar took the liberty of asking which way.
By way of response, a jab made him stumble. They were made to walk through a string of empty rooms and at the end of a corridor found themselves on a terrace in the coolness of dawn. The sun hadn’t yet begun its ascension into the chaste blue sky. As for Babakar, his eyes were set on one thing a few meters away: the sight of Anaïs in the arms of Dalembert leaning against the jeep. He was talking and laughing with Jahira, who was standing next to Myriam. Captain Dalembert appeared more dashing than ever. Apparently, Anaïs had survived the night unscathed and felt at home where she was. She gave a large smile to her father, but nothing more, and held out her arms.
“I hope all this wasn’t too hard for you,” Dalembert declared, smiling.
Nobody said a word.
“As I told you, we had to make a number of checks,” the captain continued. “Now they are done, everything’s in order and you can go on your way.”
Babakar hugged Anaïs in his arms, breathing in once again the scent of her chubby little body.
He had the feeling a miracle had occurred and that she had escaped a terrible danger.
The captain sat down at the wheel of his jeep, while the others piled in as best they could. The jeep drove back up to the roadblock where their car was waiting for them. At this hour of day, it was deserted. Only a heap of tires was still burning, emitting a nauseating smoke. Dalembert fondled Anaïs tenderly and kissed Jahira and Myriam on both cheeks like old friends. All of this infuriated Babakar and he dived into the car, outraged by his companions’ handshakes. The driver settled in behind the wheel and the car started up.
“Bon voyage!” Dalembert shouted with his odd mark of courtesy mixed with insolence.
“Where did you spend the night?” Babakar asked in a frenzy.
“At the captain’s place. He’s such a good fellow!” Jahira concluded.
These words rang out as if to put an end to a minor episode and any unpleasant thoughts or memories. This was too much for Babakar, for whom these words had the effect of ultimate treason. Unable to contain himself, he shouted at Jahira.
“How can you say such a thing? He arrested us, locked us up, and treated us like prisoners. I was worried to death about Anaïs because of him.”
“I merely wanted to say that Myriam, Anaïs, and I were treated well. He had us come to his house, gave us a meal of really good food, and left us his bedroom,” Jahira explained miserably.
Thereupon, since she was still no more than a child, she burst into tears. Movar cast Babakar a look of reproach, then he hugged his sister tenderly. This look and compassionate gesture made Babakar’s blood boil. The rest of the journey was made in a silence loaded with tension.
After an hour, they arrived without further incident.
Only a few years ago Jacmel was still a charming little town, much appreciated by visitors to Haiti for its famous gingerbread houses, art galleries, and local crafts.
Alas, Jacmel had not been spared the desolation that had affected the entire country. Like everywhere else, the electric power station had broken down. As a result, days were stiflingly hot whereas nights were plunged into darkness from six in the evening. The dark was an open invitation for criminal gangs to operate as freely as they pleased. The once elegant sidewalks, hosed down regularly by their owners, were now squatted by women in rags selling gaudy-colored, hand-crocheted horrors such as bonnets, bootees, ankle socks, and scarves, or else inedible food.
Babakar and company were housed on Roro Meiji’s recommendation at the Alexandra boarding house, which in times now forgotten was one of the country’s best tables d’hôte. In particular, it used to serve up a grilled suckling pig that connoisseurs raved about. The only thing remaining of its past glory was a magnificent park with an unrestricted view of the sea. The Alexandra, however, was less deserted than The Cedars of Lebanon. Its swimming pool and especially its cool, leafy park attracted a number of foreign press correspondents who could no longer put up with the heat and chaos of Port-au-Prince. They killed time going for long walks under the custard apple and tamarind trees. Or else they crowded around the pool drinking mojitos in chipped, mismatched glasses, leftovers from a once-extraordinary collection.
Everyone stared openly at the new arrivals. Babakar didn’t waste any time and, leaving the others to look for their rooms, he returned to the reception and asked the desk clerks, “Could I please see Monsieur Meiji?”
They pointed to a door marked Private.
Roro Meiji, Ti-Son’s brother, was so fat that his huge backside flattened the cushions of his armchair like pancakes. He offered Babakar a drink from his cabinet of treasures.
“I’m an alcoholic, but an ‘aristocratic’ alcoholic. None of that ordinary white tafia rum and spirits. I don’t get drunk on any old rum. I have over a hundred types. Barbancourt of course. But also Damoiseau, Montebello, and Bologne from Guadeloupe. Bacardi from Trinidad. I’m particularly proud of my rum from Martinique. Both the white and aged rums are undoubtedly the very best: Duquesne, Depaz, Trois Rivières, La Mauny, Neisson, Crassous de Médeuil, Clément, and Saint James.”
When Babakar replied that he didn’t touch alcohol, Roro stared at him in mocking disbelief. “Never?”
“Never!” Babakar declared solemnly.
“Then how do you manage to put up with life?” Roro asked, pouring himself a full glass of Barbancourt.
“I make a bad job of it!” Babakar confessed. “What can you expect? I was destined to be a simple obstetrician in a peaceful hospital in the bush. Instead of that, life has pushed me along the most unlikely of paths.”
Roro laughed in turn and the two men immediately hit it off.
“You’re looking for Estrella Ovide?” Roro continued. “Can I ask why? She doesn’t give interviews to everyone.”
Babakar hesitated. “It’s for a very important reason. I was her sister Reinette’s doctor. Alas, her sister died in childbirth.”
Roro seemed stunned. “Reinette, dead?”
Babakar nodded sadly. “She begged me to bring her daughter back here.”
Roro poured himself another ample glass and belched. “Here? To this mess? Have you seen the state of the country?”
Babakar was thinking the same and regretted a bit more each day that he had let himself be convinced by Movar.
After a silence, Roro resumed. “And, then, you never know what Estrella’s reaction wi
ll be. Reinette’s child? She could open her arms to her, or …”
“Or what?”
Roro did not answer, and simply declared, “I’ll take you to see her late afternoon, let’s say around six. She says she’s a painter but I can assure you she’s never seen a paintbrush in her life.”
“Never?” Babakar exclaimed. “How come?”
“Beware of her. She made a mess of my life.”
“What did she do?”
“Let me tell you.”
-
RORO MEIJI’S STORY
Estrella and myself have had an unlikely relationship; I swear, like in court.
A very talented Haitian writer has said that, in Haiti, painting is more popular than football. I don’t know if that’s true but what I do know is that I became a painter. You didn’t know that, did you? And nobody else knows. I was too fat to become a footballer. At birth I weighed almost eight kilos and, in the process, I tore my mother apart. She has never forgiven me. For this reason, she hates me and has always hated me. I was the laughing stock of our servants and a source of shame to my family. My mother inflicted on me drastic agonizing diets which had no effect. One year she sent me to a weight loss clinic in California, and another in Arizona. At the Saint-Louis-de-Gonzague Lycée the students nicknamed me “fatty sea lion.” My life would have been pure hell without painting. I began painting at the age of four. The paintbrushes leapt into action in my chubby little hands. They brushed and colored an exuberant Nature of flowers, animals, fruit, and fish, not drawn from reality but from my very own imagination. On the walls of my bedroom I painted huge frescoes where traditional figures of voodoo such as Erzulie Fréda Dahomey, Erzulie Dantor, Papa Legba, also known as Eshu, mingled with the characters of my dreams. I would lock myself away with my books and when I wasn’t reading, I would paint: as a result, all these creatures collided with each other and spun around in my head.
My family lived near the Ovides, rue du Travail, in the quiet residential neighborhood of Bois Patate. My father was a doctor like the father of Estrella and Reinette. Without being on close terms, our parents were frequent visitors at the Ovides’. Jean Ovide was Baby Doc’s first cousin. He was also a poet. He had a weekly program on television. After the downfall of Baby Doc, taking the law into their own hands, the crowd stoned Jean Ovide to death. In fact, they were mistaken—Jean Ovide had never harmed a fly. His only crime was his bad poetry and you don’t stone people to death for that.
After Jean and his wife died, the neighbors knew that the two daughters were hiding in the family house with their servant. Tonine was the blackest and ugliest servant you could imagine, yet she was never a subject of conversation and was instead totally ignored. Neighbors turned a blind eye when Tonine left the house, went about her business, and did the shopping. She was the invisible woman. They pretended not to see her. Although walled up inside the house, Estrella and Reinette were strangely very much present. All three women were fuel for gossip. It was rumored that Tonine, because she was related to François Duvalier, was a “guédé,” a spirit of the dead, a sort of ghoul. At night she changed into a bird of prey to quench her thirst for blood. Her favorite dish, which she cooked every Friday, was pluck, coagulated ox blood, sliced and fried with small onions.
Estrella crystallized my desire, which despite my unsightly and unsavory appearance was violently aroused. I often used to meet her at children’s tea parties at the National Palace. She was a lovely little girl already embodied with all the charms that would later on be hers. I fell hopelessly in love with her. When she disappeared, it merely exacerbated my passion.
After many long years the doors of her prison finally opened and Estrella emerged more beautiful than in my dreams. Outwardly, she appeared gentle and secretive. She walked, eyes lowered, sashaying her wasp waist. There was no question of me declaring my undying love for her and telling her what she had meant to me all these years, as I knew full well she too would laugh at the “sea lion.” Yet I managed to approach her and ask permission to paint her portrait, and to my amazement she accepted. She walked into my bedroom, which I had converted into a studio, and looked at the piles of canvases. Then, before I had time to say anything, took off all her clothes and posed naked.
Quite beside myself, my eyes ran hungrily over her breasts, the dark stain of her pubis, and the small of her back. I was incapable of holding a brush, my fingers had turned numb and I had an erection.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
Burning with passion, I managed to get control of myself and painted for two long hours. When I had finished, she got dressed and left without troubling to say goodbye.
She came back every morning and the same scene repeated itself over and over again.
Since Reinette and Estrella had no relative to help them—most of the Duvalierists having been massacred and the luckier ones having left to spend their ill-acquired millions abroad—the two Ovide girls could not afford to go to school. Consequently, Estrella sacrificed herself for Reinette, who attended the Sisters of the Eucharist day school on her own. Three days a week Estrella worked as an usher at the Paradiso movie palace. She agreed to let me escort her to work as the town was dangerous. The Paradiso was an art-house cinema with an ornate facade. It was there I saw all the New Wave films—already old and outmoded in Europe, but new for Haiti. I didn’t understand very much: the plots seemed too slight or too complicated. But Jeanne Moreau’s voice and face sent me into seventh heaven. Apart from that, my entire life revolved around Estrella. I either escorted her or I painted her. When her poses were too daring, I got so sexually excited that I dropped the paintbrushes.
“What type of man are you?” she berated me. “Don’t you know that this is Art!”
A terrible blow was awaiting me. I witnessed her budding love for Henri Christophe, who at the time did not yet go by the name of Henri Christophe II, of course. By the way, do you know who Henri Christophe I was? The first of a long list of our mad leaders. He proclaimed himself King of Haiti in 1811 and shot himself with a silver bullet in 1820. In between, he created a court at the Sans-Souci Palace based on that of the kings of France.
“After you, my Lord Duke of the Asshole!”
Estrella and Henri Christophe II met after the return of the beloved-and-democratically-elected-president before everyone hated him and dragged him down to rock bottom. Christophe had been one of his bodyguards while he was in exile in Washington. He was a good-looking guy, very good-looking, self-assured and with a magnificent physique. He came for the showing of François Truffaut’s Quatre cents coups (The 400 Blows). He was probably confused by the title and expected to see an action film like Mission Impossible. He spent the whole time it was on outside telling stupid jokes to Estrella.
“There was once a union representative who wanted to have some fun with a prostitute. So he looks for a bordello where the girls are unionized. At the first house he comes to, he asks, ‘I would like a girl for one hour, but first of all I would like to know your employee policy. Are your girls syndicated?’ ‘No, good sir, they are not syndicated.’”
I must confess, however, that Estrella used to burst out laughing at this nonsense. She, who was usually so reserved and melancholic; I had never seen her so happy. Around seven in the evening a jeep from the presidency came to fetch Christophe and his associates. He left but came back alone for the last show, the one that ends around half past midnight. As a rule, it’s me who escorts Estrella home, but this time she didn’t need me. I did accompany them, however, or rather I followed them to the Peristyle, a bar owned by Mathilde, a former dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris and a so-called voodoo priestess. There was always a crowd of half- or completely drunk militia, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, revolvers, guns, and machine guns, binge drinking and crudely groping the girls. All the militia knew Christophe and called him “chief.”
What almost made me
lose my mind was that once she had met Christophe, Estrella began to limit the number of sittings. One afternoon while I was waiting fretfully for her, Christophe arrived in person flanked by two other militia men. They pointed their weapons at me and forced me to give them all the paintings of Estrella in my possession.
“Swine!” they said, giving me a thrashing.
In all, there were ninety canvasses. The most beautiful was called Estrella, Creole Oratorio.
Two weeks later the French Cultural Center organized the first exhibition by Estrella Ovide: Self-Portraits of the Artist. I turned up. The place was packed. Henri Christophe II had supplied the canapés and the drinks. The champagne, therefore, flowed freely and the press was dithyrambic.
I won’t dwell in detail on the agony I suffered, deprived of Estrella and despoiled of my creations. Fortunately, at that very moment I discovered alcohol in the form of rum. It kept me from killing myself. Alcohol keeps you warm, makes you dream, and satisfies your desire as would a woman.
Six months later Estrella came back.
“This time I want still lifes.” She threw a bundle of dollars in my face. “Do what you can. Buy some plantains, green or yellow, papayas, and golden apples, a little of everything.”
I followed her orders.
Estrella’s second exhibition, once again at the French Cultural Center, was called Tropical Souvenir. The tenth was staged last month at the Archipel, the National Museum. You are wondering why I continue to obey her; it’s because I’m crazy about her and can’t refuse her anything.
Last year she had the nerve to offer the Alexandra a painting signed by her which, in fact, was the work of somebody else. It was called Through the Looking Glass. Fortunately, I inherited this family boarding house from an aunt, otherwise I would have died of hunger. I have never wanted to leave Haiti and become a taxi driver in New York or Montreal. It was when the two of them inaugurated the palatial residence they had built not far from here that she came to hang the painting in great pomp with a number of their kind of people.
