“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.”
Even Nice Girls Do It
AT THE LAST MINUTE, Christina changes her mind and decides to stay home and rest. She hasn’t felt well all afternoon. She knows she’s probably only coming down with the flu, but she doesn’t want to go out feeling like this. She feels cold deep down into her bones (and she’s in a tropical country). Ever since she arrived in Port-au-Prince, her greatest fear has been contracting malaria. She knows what she’s going to do. She’s going to make herself a nice hot toddy (rum, lemon, sugar) and curl up in bed with the new John le Carré. She likes his dry, refined sense of humour. This is how she intends to spend the evening. Harry can go to the Widmaiers’ without her.