Heading South

Afternoon of a Faun

I AM SEVENTEEN years old (although because of my size and my easygoing nature I look much older) and I live in Port-au-Prince, on Capois Street, near Place du Champ-de-Mars. I live with my mother and my young sister. My father died a few years ago. My mother is still very beautiful. Large, moist eyes, bright flushed cheeks and a sad smile. The kind of tragic beauty that is very attractive to men. But as they say, she is a one-man woman. My father was not handsome (we have a large photograph of him in the living room), but he was tall and elegant. He always wore white and changed his shirt at least three times a day. They say women were crazy about him, which drove my mother to despair. According to her, what made my father different from other men was his great sensitivity and his keen sense of responsibility. “I can always count on your father,” my mother would say every time I forgot to do something. As far as she is concerned, my father is still alive. She talks about him every day. She quotes him every chance she gets. If I come home a bit late on a Friday night, my mother never fails to point out that I behave badly only because my father isn’t there. She never says because he’s dead. My mother talks so frequently about my father that often I find myself thinking as she does. Some days, at around two o’clock in the afternoon, a feeling comes over me that he’s about to walk into the house and, as was his invariable custom, toss his hat onto the table.

“Madeleine, I’m hungry.”

“What have you been up to, then?” my mother would reply, smiling.

And he would sit down at the table and wolf down his dinner. No one ate faster than my father. After eating, he would take a short siesta. It was forbidden for us to make the slightest sound while he was resting. At five o’clock sharp he would go out the door and the house would return to normal.

My mother has never accepted his death, but I wasn’t always like her in that regard. At times I was even glad that he was no longer around to prevent me from living my life. In a way, my situation wasn’t so different from that of my friends. Most of them never knew their fathers (killed, imprisoned or just gone off). At least mine hadn’t died in prison. We were all brought up by our mothers. My mother lost her job shortly after my father’s death. She had been a junior clerk in the National Archives, behind Saint-Martial College. Now she works as a seamstress, at home. My sister is two years younger than I am. She goes to a snooty private school whose principal is one of my mother’s clients. It’s only because of this connection that my sister is allowed into her chic school. My mother insisted on it, because she wanted my sister to make “good contacts for later,” as she puts it. In a country like Haiti, where the rich barricade themselves in their fancy houses up on the mountainside, the only place we poor folk ever get to mingle with them and make connections is in the classroom. That’s what my mother says. In any case, unlike me, my sister does well in school. And despite the two years’ difference in our ages, she’s the one who always does my homework. Everywhere she goes — before the chic college she went to the Lycée de Jeunes Filles — she quickly becomes the pet of all the teachers. And since she is very giving, which is to say she does all her friends’ homework for them, no one gets jealous. As for me, I’m not ashamed to say that school was never my thing. Honestly, I don’t see the point in going to school. Only poor people like us knock their heads against the wall trying to solve airy-fairy problems that have nothing to do with real life. And after all these years of school I don’t see that it has done them any good at all. People are rich because their parents are rich, it’s as simple as that. And their parents are rich because their grandparents were rich. And so on. And when you get down to the source of all that richness, you’ll always find someone who made their fortune by robbing from the public purse. That’s Haiti for you, and it’s not my job to change the way this country is run. My sister got her intelligence from my father. Me, mostly what I got is his size. “You’re going to be as tall as your father,” my mother often tells me. And I get my delicate features from my mother. I have always been popular with girls. Ever since I was twelve I’ve known that I could do what I wanted with women. That’s just the way it is. Nothing anyone can do about it. My sister’s friends are always giving me the once-over — some of them are bolder about it than others— but girls don’t interest me very much. I like my women more mature. I like watching them lose their cool. Especially those who take themselves seriously. For some time now I’ve had my eye on a really choice bird: the principal of the school my sister goes to. I always make sure I’m home when she comes to see my mother for fittings. I don’t do a thing. I know she’s a respectable person, but I want to see her private side, what’s hidden behind her mask, the dark side of her moon. So I sit very still in the room. I know she’s spotted me. I’ve often caught her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I play the innocent. I pretend I have no idea what’s going on. I put on my angelic face, my mother’s features. Except that my mother, as my father used to say, is a saint. I’m not. I’m rotten inside. I’m like a spider crouching at the edge of its web, waiting for prey.

My mother has just rushed out of the house to visit a sick friend who called her for help. She asked me to explain her absence to Madame Saint-Pierre, who is supposed to come at two o’clock this afternoon. My sister has gone to a friend’s house in Pétionville to study for her second-term exams. She won’t be back before four. And then she has to join my mother at the hospital, the Canapé Vert. So I have at least two hours at my disposal. I take a Carter Brown from the little bookshelf. I turn the pages mechanically, passing the time. The trap is set. Waiting is the hardest part. I get up, take a few deep breaths, then go out into the yard. A dead rat near the cistern. I give it a swift kick that propels it into the yard of the next-door neighbour, a kid of about twelve with the brains of a two-year-old. I smile at him and wave. He stares at me like I’m some kind of celestial apparition. Maybe he’s not seeing me at all. A car stops in front of the house. Two o’clock on the dot.

She’s a punctual lady. I open the door.

“My mother has gone to see a sick friend.”

“Oh!” she says, her voice deep and musical. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“I don’t know, madame, she didn’t tell me what it was.”

“Did she tell you when she would be back?”

“No, but I don’t think she’ll be late.”

“Well, then, I’ll wait for a bit.”

And so she has decided to stay.

“Not that chair, madame, it’s not very solid. Sit here, you’ll be more comfortable.”

She sits on the edge of her seat. Her way of letting me know that she has twigged to my little game and she isn’t going to give me a lot of her time. I, in turn, do not fall for that: I already know that whoever controls time wins. I sit down calmly, across from her. I have all the time in the world. I look her straight in the eye, which I have not done to this point. And then I attack.

“Your dress suits you very well, madame.”

“Your mother is an excellent seamstress, it’s true.”

She wants me to go on.

“It’s the yellow that suits you, madame.”

Which is the limit of insolence. But my innocent face (wide-open eyes, bright smile) saves me. She blushes. I lower my gaze. A bit troubled.

“Your mother is very brave,” she says suddenly, to regain her composure.

I must renew my attack immediately.

“It is my opinion that in their own way, all women are brave,” I say, looking again into her eyes.

And again she blushes. She now understands that something is going on. I smile at her. Clearly she hasn’t expected such a volley from the son of her seamstress, a boy with such sincerity in his eyes and such openness in his smile (or so I’ve been led to believe, anyway). But I’ve been playing this game since I was twelve. If I’d been playing tennis this long I’d be going to championships around the world by now. I love tennis, but it’s too expensive. I can spend hours watching the endless matches through the green fence at the Bellevue Circle. Madame Saint-Pierre is watching me without smiling. She appears to have grasped something. What has she understood? That despite her intimidating behaviour and her social status (principal of a prestigious school), I have absolutely no fear of her. Not only am I not afraid of her, but I am playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. She is vexed. She leans forward on her chair, putting on the severe expression with which she intimidates the parents of her students. But it is too late. In this game, there are no second chances. A long moment of silence. We stare at one another. She, furious. Me, calm.

“I don’t think I can wait much longer. . You’ll tell your mother that I was here. .”

“Of course,” I say, without standing up.

She stands for a moment at the centre of the room, her arms hanging by her sides.

Like a ship becalmed.

“Tell her I was here,” she says again, moving towards the door.

The back of her neck.

I get up quickly. Like a tiger in an urban jungle. She hesitates for a quarter of a second with her hand ready to turn the handle of the door. I go up to her and lightly brush the back of her neck. She stops dead. I don’t move. I see the muscles in her jaw contract. Her hand turns the doorknob. Her body stiffens. With the tips of my fingers I caress the back of her neck once more, even more lightly than the first time. She emits a sharp cry, so muted that I am not certain I have heard it. This is the moment we love, we hunters, when we lift the rifle and the beast seems to hear the fatal shot.

Bring her down now, or let her go? I hesitate. Absolute power. Gently, I press my lips to her neck.

“Don’t worry, Madame Saint-Pierre, I’ll tell my mother you were here.”

She finds the strength to turn the doorknob and leave, moving like a sleepwalker. Slightly hunched, her eyes almost wild, she flees. I watch through the window as she gets into her car. It’s obvious she isn’t going far.

MY MOTHER COMES in like a gust of wind shortly after the departure of Madame Saint-Pierre. It was a good thing I didn’t push things too far.

“Madame Saint-Pierre just left.”

“Did you tell her I went to see a sick friend?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Did she wait a long time?”

“Twenty minutes or so.”

“Dear God! She’s a very busy person, but I couldn’t leave Chimène. . Do you at least know who she is?”

“Of course. . She’s the principal of Maryse’s school.”

“Ah, so you know. I’m astonished. You always seem so. . vague about things. .”

“I know a lot more than you think, Mama.”

“Good. You were polite to her, I hope? She’s an important lady. Your father knew how to behave in a lady’s presence. He had good manners. . I can tell you that! Were you good to her?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“You do understand, don’t you, Fanfan, that it’s thanks to her that your sister is going to that school? It’s lucky for us that Maryse is there. . Of course, if your father were here it would be different, but he’s not here and I have to do the best I can by myself. It’s a good thing he bought me this Singer sewing machine, otherwise I don’t know what I’d do. Madame Saint-Pierre is a godsend to this house. Your father must have sent her to us. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s looking after us. .”

“Is that why you spend all night sewing dresses for Madame Saint-Pierre without being paid a cent. .?”

My mother turns angrily to me.

“How do you know that? You mind your own business, young man, if you don’t want a couple of good smacks.”

“But that woman is taking advantage of you, Mama.”

“What do you know about life, that you can talk to me like that? If you can’t mind your tongue, you can at least wait until you’ve lost your baby fat before you start having opinions about what goes on in this house. You understand me?”

I stand up to be closer to the door, ready to take off in case there’s an explosion. Normally, my mother is a calm person, but she can fly into unpredictable rages at times.

“I’m only saying what I see, Mama. That woman takes advantage of you.”

“Without Madame Saint-Pierre, Maryse would not be going to that school.”

“I don’t see how that school’s any better than the lycée. Either way she’ll get through her finals with her eyes closed.”

“Who’s talking about finals?” my mother shouts. “I’m talking about the kind of people she meets at that school, thanks to Madame Saint-Pierre. And if I choose to do her a few favours. .”

“But Mama. .”

“This discussion is over!”

She comes towards me. A little slip of a woman (my mother is much smaller than I am), she still intimidates me more than anyone else I know. I’ve never met anyone with more strength of character, or more courage.

“If I have to kill myself on that sewing machine, you two are going to graduate from good schools. As your father wanted you to.”

She looks me straight in the eye as she speaks. Her eyes are smouldering. Madame Saint-Pierre is from France, but she came to Port-au-Prince so long ago, before I was born, I think, that by now she seems to have taken on all the cruel customs of Haitian high society. I suppose she might have found it difficult, at the beginning, the way our middle class is so dismissive of those who have no money, no name, no power. But today she’s an influential member of the golden circle. In any case, our system has come down to us from slavery days, when we were a colony. That’s why certain Europeans slide so easily into the Haitian mud. I know that because I never skipped a single class given by my history teacher, Mr. Zamor, whose vocabulary is so colourful, and the tone of his voice so impassioned, that his is the only course I ever stuck out from beginning to end. It’s true, though, that I’ve always been fascinated by social interactions. Power, money and sex, as my history teacher would say; that’s the infernal trinity that drives all men. When you understand that, gentlemen, you understand everything. Love, you ask? he booms in his thunderous voice. Hey, we’re only talking about serious things here. .

MY SISTER COMES home and installs herself in the easy chair next to the window.

“I’m exhausted,” she says, staring up at the ceiling.

“Go take a shower, dear,” my mother says.

“That won’t make my hunger go away.”

“You didn’t eat there?” I ask her.

“Oh, they offered me all kinds of things, but I told them I wasn’t hungry. .”

“That’s misplaced pride, Maryse. You were there helping them do their homework.”

“We were working together. .”

“Don’t give me that, Maryse, you spend all your time helping those people do their homework.”

“I’m telling you, we work together.”

“Come off it, Maryse, you go there to help them do their homework. You don’t even need a teacher to figure out the answers.”

“No, but I do need friends.”

“If they’re such good friends, how come you don’t eat with them?”

“Because I don’t want them to think I have some ulterior motive in going to see them. Why do you refuse to understand, Fanfan, that these people are simply my classmates? Whether they’re rich or poor, friends are friends. And anyway, they’ve never once made me feel that they’re richer than I am. I’ve even lent money to Marie-Christine.”

“It’s all show, Maryse. When the fun and games are over, by which I mean when your final exams are done, they’ll all go back to their own social class.”

She gives me a lingering, sidelong glance.

“That’s all you see, isn’t it? Sometimes I think you’ve already gone sour. And I don’t understand why you’re like that. You don’t owe anything to anyone.”

“Let’s just say I’ve never let myself owe anything to anyone.”

“But where does it get you, hating people like that?”

“It isn’t that. . What are you talking about? You sound like someone else when you talk like that.”

“What is it, then?” she says sharply, with her patented frown of disdain.

“I simply want to know what kind of world I live in, Maryse. I want to know how it works. . I’m sure there’s a trick to it, and I want to know what it is. That’s all.”

My mother comes into the room with a huge bowl of cornmeal mush and a large slice of avocado, which she sets on the table after pushing back piles of catalogues and bits of cloth.

“Mama, why do you choose to pay such a high rent that we’re practically starving to death instead of moving to Tiremasse Street, where we could maybe save a bit of money?”

“Who lives on Tiremasse?” my mother says disdainfully. “Listen, Fanfan, if I ever move even one rung down the ladder, I’d get no more clients. Do you think my customers would follow me into that dangerous part of town? They wouldn’t even go to Magloire Ambroise Avenue. They’re too worried about their cars. And there’s all that garbage on the street, and the mud, and the sickening smell. . What kind of customers would I have then? Tell me. The kind who would want me make them a blouse for eight gourdes, that’s who. Besides, your father wouldn’t want us to live there. .”

“My father is dead, mama.”

“He’ll be dead when I say he’s dead,” she shoots back, turning sharply towards me.

“Maybe I could find a job, Mama.”

“No, you are not going to work. You are going to go to law school, like your father wanted.”

“But Mama, my father is my father, and I am me. . That makes two people.”

She looks fixedly at me as though she can see something or someone behind me.

“You sound exactly like him,” she says, her voice drawn.

“All right, you win. I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, worried.

“To the Rex Café.”

“Will you be home late? The dogs are out in the streets these days.”

“I’m not afraid of the tontons-macoutes. It’s them who’re afraid of me.”

“Be careful, Fanfan!”

“Oh, he’s just teasing you. Let him go, Mama,” my sister says, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “It’ll be better here with just us two women.”

Give me some air!

I DROP IN on Gérard, the museum guard, who owes me money. There are still a few people hanging around the main room. I’ve never been able to understand what makes people want to spend hours looking at bits of painted cloth hanging on a white wall. It would take me five minutes, if that. These people must have nothing else to do. I know life can be depressing at times, but not that depressing. .

Chico motions for me to join him at the Rex. I cross the street in the direction of the café. People pass me without seeing me. In a hurry to get home. What for? I’d rather die than live such a shitty life. Going nowhere. Totally inert. I go into the Rex Café. The old Hindu is still behind the counter. He’ll die behind that counter. I order two hamburgers and a glass of pomegranate juice. I’m down to my last three gourdes. Chico also orders a glass of juice. Broke again.

“Simone was here a minute ago. She just left.”

I shrug.

“How do you do it?” Chico asks me. “Get women to fall for you like that? It’s unbelievable! She was barely able to sit still. I’ve known Simone for a long time, and I’ve never seen her like this before. . She just met you last week, and she’s acting like a drug addict who can’t get a fix. Tell me your secret, master, I’ll do whatever you ask. .”

Laughter.

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Your problem, Chico, is that you talk too much.”

“What? What am I supposed to do, take off my clothes, maybe?”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“But Fanfan, if I stop talking, she’ll leave.”

“You don’t know that if you haven’t tried.”

“It seems too risky to me.”

“She’ll be quiet for a moment, and if she sees that you aren’t getting up to leave then she’ll start talking. . As long as she opens her mouth first, then half your job is done.”

“I know myself, Fanfan. She’ll take off the minute I stop talking.”

“You’re right.”

He gives me a stunned look.

“Is that all you can think of to tell me?”

“Listen, Chico, to each his own. You, you’re not a lover, you’re a friend. A confidant. Women like talking to you. You make them feel better. Sometimes I even envy you.”

“You’re making fun of me, you bastard.”

“You’re right. Let’s go to Denz’s to listen to music.”

DENZ ALWAYS HAS something new to listen to. He’s just received an album by Volo Volo, a new group based in Boston. They really did a good job on it — each cut goes somewhere different. I think they’re as good as Tabou, but as far as Denz is concerned, Tabou is still Tabou.

“Look, Fanfan, I admit this is a good album, maybe even a great album, but Tabou has put out a dozen albums that are just as good. It’s always the same with you: whenever a new act comes down, you get as het up as a flea on a hot rock. Relax, man.”

Denz is a bit older than Chico and me. We call him the Godfather. He loves Marlon Brando. He’s seen the Coppola film at least a dozen times. But it’s only the music that interests him. He hardly ever leaves his place. Doors and windows shut. He spends his days listening to music in the dark. People (mostly musicians) come to him from all over. Sometimes girls from Pétionville come as well. Everyone thinks he’s a genius. It doesn’t seem to bother him much. As long as he can listen to his music without too much interference.

“Look, Fanfan, I’ve listened to this album more than a dozen times, and, like I say, it’s very good, but before I can say that they really have guts I’ll wait until they’ve put out at least a half-dozen albums. You see, for me it’s endurance that counts.”

There’s a knock on the door. Denz goes to open it.

“Hey, Denz!”

It’s Simone. She comes straight in without even looking at me.

“Denz, can I talk to you?” she says, moving towards the small room at the back.

Denz mimes to us that he has no idea what she wants, but he follows her anyway. They stay in the room for a good twenty minutes. Finally Denz comes back in time for the final cut of the Volo Volo.

“Look, Fanfan, it’s up to you to solve the problem.”

“What’s happening?”

“It seems that Minouche went to Simone’s place and tore a strip off her. I get the impression that it has something to do with you. Go in and see her, she’s waiting for you.”

“It’s just show, Denz. Simone is yanking your chain.”

Denz shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know anything about women, you know? Go tell her what happened and let me listen to my music. I’d like to see how you get out of this one, anyway, just out of curiosity.”

“Denz, Fanfan couldn’t care less,” Chico puts in. “He even enjoys seeing women fight over him.”

“Chico! Chico!”

Simone is calling him from the back room. Chico gets up quickly. I suspect he falls in love with all the women I get mixed up with. He goes into the room and comes out right away.

“She wants to see you.”

“Why didn’t she call me herself? She called Denz. She called you. I’m not going in if she doesn’t call me.”

“She can’t bring herself to say your name out loud. I think she’s afraid of something. . Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Go fuck yourself, Chico,” I say, standing up.

She is sitting at the back of the room.

“What’s the matter, Simone?”

She keeps her head down.

“If you don’t answer, I’ll leave.”

She looks up. Eyes filled with tears.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Where did you get that idea? I saw you on Monday.”

“Monday! Don’t you feel like an eternity has gone by since then?”

“It’s only Thursday, Simone. It’s only three days, not even that. .”

“That’s three days when I don’t know where I am or who I am or what I’m supposed to do.”

“You went to school, though?”

“No.”

She looks me straight in the eye. Her face a blank.

“Can I see you?”

“I’m right here, Simone.”

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

She looks down.

“I want you, Fanfan, I want to be alone with you for a little while. I’d like you to be just with me, just for an hour. . Is that too much to ask?”

“No, but it’ll have to be here.”

So I stay with her for an hour in that little room. She never stops crying, and holding my hand tightly. Every so often she leans her head on my shoulder while rubbing the palm of my left hand. Then suddenly she rears back and stares at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then she kisses my ear. That’s her idea of happiness. And then Chico takes her home. I can only guess what they talked about along the way.

MY MOTHER IS busy sewing in the middle of the night.

“You should get some sleep, Mama.”

“No, dear, I have to finish this dress. Madame Saint-Pierre is coming to pick it up tomorrow.”

I fall asleep to the regular rhythm of the sewing machine. As usual, for that matter.

I’M STILL IN my room, lying on my narrow cot, reading a book about jazz that Denz lent me, when Madame Saint-Pierre arrives.

“Oh, Madeleine! You’ve finished it already.”

“I worked on it all night,” my mother says humbly.

“I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have. You must be dead tired now.”

“I always work like this. . I have two growing children who are very dear to me and I have to bring them up myself.”

“I know. Maryse is with us. She has a rare intelligence. Oh, what a beautiful dress! You are truly a matchless marvel, my dear. .”

“But you haven’t tried it on yet.”

“I trust you, Madeleine, I’m sure it will make me look ravishing.”

I listen to this chit-chat from my bed, feeling distraught.

“Can I speak to you a moment, Madeleine?” Madame Saint-Pierre suddenly says, her voice becoming almost hoarse.

“Of course. .”

I take all of this in with a growing sense of unease. Maybe I went too far, and she’s going to complain to my mother about me. In which case I’d have about two seconds to get dressed and dash out the back door that opens onto the courtyard. My mother would never forgive me if she lost Madame Saint-Pierre’s friendship, even if she does know that it’s nothing but a superficial relationship. As far as my mother is concerned, Madame Saint-Pierre holds Maryse’s future in the palm of her hand. Damn! What the hell was I thinking, taking such a huge risk? I can get what I want from Simone, or Minouche. But Madame Saint-Pierre is such a mature woman. She’s one of the Pétionville bourgeoisie. At the time she might have been impressed by my behaviour, but when she got home, when she’d had time to think about it for a while, she must have realized she’d been had by an impertinent little shithead. Which is what I am! Damn! Damn! Damn! And damn! The trap is closing in around me. I’m going to have to leave my cosy little nest and forage for myself in the urban jungle. And I have no idea when I’ll be able to come back home. My mother is going to want my balls for bookends. Madame Saint-Pierre will no doubt find some excuse to kick Maryse out of her school. All those long nights my mother spent hunched over her sewing machine, for nothing. What an asshole I am. Totally. Barely ten minutes ago I was lying here, minding my own business, thinking I should get up and have some lunch, it was almost eleven o’clock, the time I usually get up on Saturdays, and now here I am little better than a mangy mutt. Damn! Where the hell did my bloody pants get to?

“What is it you want to tell me, Madame Saint-Pierre?”

“I don’t know if this will shock you or not, but I want a short dress.”

“How short?”

“Above the knee. I want to have my hair cut short, too. . What do you think, Madeleine?”

“I think it’s good to change your style once in a while.”

“It’s the first time. . I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel like a giddy schoolgirl. .”

Madame Saint-Pierre’s joyous laughter, followed by a long silence.

For my part, I’ve heard enough. I’m already dressed, and without making a sound I slip out the back door.

A FEW HOURS LATER, at the Rex, I’m listening with one ear to Minouche’s carrying on.

“The next time I run into that hussy I’m going to scratch her eyes out, take it from me!”

“What have you got against Simone?”

“She’s a little snob, that’s what. . She thinks she’s an intellectual because she’s read three books. The slut! I know what I’ll do, I’ll tear her clothes off her back in front of everyone. But she might like that, come to think of it, the little lesbian.”

“Will you please stop with the gratuitous vulgarity, Minouche? You’re not impressing anyone.”

“Listen, Fanfan, you know what I’m like; I haven’t changed. .”

“You’re getting upset about nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? That bitch came to my house and started screaming at me. It’s lucky for her I wasn’t home; I’d have torn the tongue right out of her head!”

“Finish your hamburger. Anyway, it was you who went to her house.”

“Where do you get off, talking to me like that? Are you sleeping with her? What am I saying? Of course you’re sleeping with her. . So what’s new, you sleep with everyone. Have you tried doing it with animals? I’d be surprised if. .”

“Stop it, Minouche! Ah, here’s Chico. .”

“Oh, him! I can’t stand him, with his weasel’s face. . He’s only after one thing. .”

“Careful, he’s a friend.”

“A friend!” Minouche says with disdain. “All he wants is for you to pass on your girlfriends when you’re done with them. He’s like a dog waiting for his master to toss him a bone. Deep down, what he really wants is for you to fuck him in the ass.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“I call a spade a spade.”

Chico comes and sits at our table.

“Hello, Minouche,” he says, all smiles.

Without unclenching her teeth, Minouche picks up her math book and leaves.

“Anyone’d think she hates your guts.”

“What’s up with her?” Chico asks, not attaching much importance to the question.

“She’s pissed off because Simone is a classier chick than she is, that’s all.”

“Right. I’m going to Torgeau to see my uncle, who promised to give me some money. Want to come?”

“I don’t want to climb the hill up to Torgeau for a measly five gourdes.”

“No,” says Chico, laughing. “He’s not like the others, he’s a generous guy. He’s my mother’s younger brother. He works for Téléco.”

“I didn’t ask for his CV, Chico. . How much do you think he’ll fork out?”

“At least twenty gourdes, maybe more. .”

“Well, then, let’s go. .”

SUDDENLY, JUST AFTER the Au Beurre Chaud bakery:

“That’s strange,” Chico says. “That’s the third time that car has passed us in less than five minutes.”

“I didn’t notice.”

The Mercedes pulls over a little farther on.

“I’m going to check it out,” Chico offers.

“Leave it, Chico, I’ll go. . I know who it is. . I’ll meet you tonight at the Rex Café.”

“All right. . You know,” he adds, “one day you’re going to read about yourself in history books.”

“At the Rex, about eight o’clock.”

“Ciao!” Chico calls before turning the corner.

I get into the car, a new Mercedes that is practically running on its hubcaps. We take the road to Pétionville. She’s a good driver (black driving gloves), but I can tell she’s nervous. The vein in her right temple. Not a word. Jaws clamped tight. The car is smooth on the rough road. She drives straight down the centre of it. Everything is clean, quiet, luxurious. A hint of perfume. What a class act! She looks straight ahead. Think it’ll rain? It’s already drizzling. A myriad of tiny sprinkles are hitting the windshield. Without letting her see me I check the car out, at least as much as I can without turning my head. What do I see? An ant going for a quiet stroll on the dashboard. It passes in front of me. I reach out and crush it. No witnesses. Calmly, I watch the countryside go by: houses, people, trees. We arrive in Pétionville. The road is a bit wet and quite steep in certain places, but the car is so comfortable I never feel we’re in danger. Flat calm. So happy to be in this heap that I almost forget about Madame Saint-Pierre sitting beside me. Still nervous. Then we’re at Kenscoff, in the heights of Pétionville, high above the heat of Port-au-Prince. Where the air is purer. Switzerland without the snow. I feel like I’m a million miles away. In another world. A world gained neither by work nor study. Not even by money. Anyone living up here has put a wall between themselves and the new. Their only enemy is overpopulation. And the mountain is their ultimate refuge. The car makes a quick left turn onto a hilly road that soon gives onto a dirt lane. No house in sight. Perfect place for a crime. The car is now completely stopped, but Madame Saint-Pierre keeps her hands clenched on the steering wheel. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She starts to speak, then checks herself at the last second. Her chin points towards the sky, already sprinkled with stars so low I feel I could reach out and grab a cluster of them in my hand. Madame Saint-Pierre’s worried brow. Twin creases at the corners of her mouth. I sit motionless, waiting. Time is on my side. Suddenly, Madame Saint-Pierre’s look becomes almost clouded. Her breathing quickens. She tries to calm herself by flattening her hands against the wheel.

“I don’t want. .”

Her face is closing down now.

“For one thing, you could be my son. .”

Another pause, this one shorter.

“That’s it: you could be my son,” she says, as though she has made a decision.

She turns towards me. An infinitely gentle look. Like a plea.

“And so?” I say, my voice even.

“And so. .”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Her head must be on fire. She lowers her eyes, then slowly raises her head. Her mass of thick hair changes sides. There is an expression of perfect astonishment on her face. A wounded beast who doesn’t even know where she’s been hit. In her womb? In her heart?

“I don’t want to,” she says, a whisper.

I slide as far away from her as I can get, pushing myself up against the passenger door. She thinks I’m trying to get away. Mild panic in her eyes. Is she frightening me? Her eyes question me mutely. Is it her age? Her scent? Do her hands disgust me? She doesn’t understand why I don’t want to take her. She must give herself. Suddenly I’ve turned the tables. Now I’m the prey. She leans towards me. Hesitant. Her upper body turned in my direction. And slowly she unbuttons her blouse. Her eyes sparkle in the darkness. There is a full moon. She touches me with the tips of her fingers, as though I were a holy relic. Then with her mouth. I relax into it. She licks me with the tip of her tongue. Like she wants to taste me. The salt of my skin. Then with her lips. Her huge, carnivorous mouth. My body is slick with her saliva. A pulling back. A throaty cry. A mouth twisted with desire too long held back. I hear nothing but cries, chuckles, whimperings. A curious lexicon of onomatopoeias, interjections, borborygmi. Then the keening of a wounded beast. Interminable even as it peaks. And down she comes.

Ten minutes later.

“My God!” she breathes. “What was that?”

THE DRIVE BACK seems much shorter. Not a word has been spoken in the car. Me, silent as always. Her head in some world to which I have no access. Even with the tumult raging inside her she retains a certain elegant air. I slide my eyes sideways to take in her long, thoroughbred’s legs. When we leave Pétionville she says, simply:

“If Madeleine learns about this she’ll never forgive me.”

I say nothing. I get the impression she is not trying to dissuade me from telling my mother about us. Something like that.

She seems to me to be a courageous woman, able to face up to her responsibilities. Maybe she just wants me to know that whatever wrong has been done has been done by her. Poor Madame Saint-Pierre.

She doesn’t realize how the city has changed.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” she asks in a very sweet, almost submissive tone of voice.

“At the Rex Café.”

“I saw you there yesterday afternoon.”

The car makes a left turn, cruises the length of National Palace and turns onto Capois Street, then makes a right and comes to a stop in front of the Rex.

“Goodbye, Madame Saint-Pierre.”

“Can’t you call me Françoise?. . It would please me so much. .”

I open the door. She grabs my arm and turns my face towards hers, gives me a long kiss.

“Would you like it if I cut my hair short?”

An anxious tic at the corner of her mouth.

“Yes,” I say.

She smiles. I manage to get out of the car, and it pulls away.

I GO INTO the bar. Chico is sitting by himself in a corner, flipping through the pages of a magazine. I make my way towards him. He looks up just as I get there.

“Fucked. My uncle wasn’t there. Of all the rotten luck! What about you? How did you get on with your bourgeoise?”

“Next time I’m going to make her pay me.”

“Good,” Chico says calmly. “I’ll be able to get some new shoes.”

More customers arrive. The nine o’clock crowd is leaving the Rex Theatre, next door. There’s a new song on the radio.

“I don’t get people like that,” says Chico. “He seemed like a nice guy. .”

The announcer has just said the singer’s name: Dodo.

“Dodo! I don’t know any Dodo. Where’s he from, I wonder?”

“For sure Denz would know.”

“Not me. I’m going home.”