“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.”