Alphabet of the Night Page 5

  My attempt at a public declaration of love. It is a justifiable way of calling a halt to my most intimate torments. I know reality when I hold it in my hand. Even in the joy of feeling his response of bold, clear desires lived and shared, I keep on making a break with steps I mustn’t take, with unknown dances I must avoid.

  It is a time of my life for intense absence, forcing me to accept, or (worse) make do with conservative, reactionary solutions. I search the expanse of mirror which is his life, his journeys and his roots. As delirium takes hold of me I want to stay in the tracks, in the depths of his desires.

  Fresnel once promised to tell me about his outlawed dreams, his crimes of intent. I am still waiting. I have known days when I planned departures that were definitely provisional or provisionally definite. But sadly I am just a lover in love.

  4

  Once during my life

  WHO DOESN’T KNOW Zaccharias? I met this man only once, by chance in my comings and goings from the customs. But I have never forgotten him. Everyone has always known him. His power is stamped into the memory of this country. At the customs he shook my hand and slipped his card into my pocket. He was in his private fiefdom: the public service. This gentleman is nothing. No official function whatever. Yet this country has always belonged to him for having supported the underground foundations of the regime in power. Our first contact was no more than a glance. He looked me straight in the eye. I did the same. I knew his name, the gallons of blood, emotions and pain that went with it.

  He introduced himself with the smile of the eternal victor. He wanted to know what I was trying to see in his eyes. Being a shopkeeper, I have to know the games that all the raging rivers play. Great oak trees can be swept away, while a few wood shavings easily survive. The main thing is to know how to react. I have mastered the art of selling trinkets. To earn the right to bear my name I perform a thousand acts of persuasion every day. When I told him that the President, his President and that of all Haitians black and white, rich and poor, had said, “if you are afraid of someone you must look them in the eye”, he relaxed. The beast drew in its claws to see so much political skill in a White, obviously a foreigner.

  Next to his power there no doubt lives a man who sometimes notices that he is keeping company with terrible evil. Only pain can understand pain. To hear people talk about Zaccharias you could easily believe that he rules everyone, even the President. Even his faults and insensitivity have not made a crack in his shell as underground head of government for life. Yet everyone tells the story of the day he had all the schools in the Republic closed, to give a little boy time to learn his lessons and do his homework. This took a day. He met this little boy, a real son of the people, in tears one Monday morning. He found out what was upsetting him and took the necessary decision. It was a fait accompli, odd and barbaric. No one dared say a word, not even the Minister of Education.

  The whole country lives with him. No one knows him. Who can say why Zaccharias lives his life in the silence of others? He is like a shadow that you can’t drive away when it lays itself at your feet at midday. Anything that is said about him always shatters on a wall of fear and anxiety. Nonetheless, he does business. He helps people get promotion, an appointment. His will is a lifetime guarantee for anyone who has lodged an official petition.

  The shop is the echo of the town. The town of the shop is the heart of the country. Behind the counter, my head in my account books, I can’t remember all the times I have heard people talk about him, always in a whisper. He has no friends. He provides services for the country’s rich and respectable families in return for a night with one of their sons. He likes them young and healthy.

  So what can I offer him except my abused childhood, my adult’s pain in search of at least one of its loves? His own childhood is a mystery. His history is just a few unremarkable lines that you could find on any poster in the street. He arrived in Port-au-Prince one ordinary morning at the head of a big secret. He walked into the office of a presidential candidate. He came out again the day the candidate became Head of State, proudly sporting the presidential sash, greeted the crowds on the steps of the cathedral. Since then, Zaccharias has haunted the streets of the town in an incurable silence.

  I rang him. He agreed to see me. He told me he always remembered the few rare people who dared look him in the eye. I am one of them. I get out an old press cutting from about ten years ago. It has his whole life story in twelve lines, tucked away in a corner of one of the big daily newspapers at election time. Whoever says election says hope and passion.

  “From a combination of sources. For a whole week the residents of Haut-Turgeau have been unable to get a wink of sleep. Their nights are being disturbed by the constant pounding of drums and the raucous cries of a certain Zaccharias, as he is known. The distinguished guest of a candidate whom the paper refrains from naming, but whom everyone would definitely recognise, he spends his nights calling on all the gods of Africa, turning the lives of the candidate’s unfortunate neighbours into what might be called an election nightmare. According to more than one of them, every evening Zaccharias turns into a strange beast and talks to a crowd of ghosts. He explains to them how to go about voting on the day of the election.

  Contacted by telephone, the candidate admits he has been putting up a son of the people who is plagued by violent bouts of insomnia, and who he took in off the street. He feels it is a sign of petty, underhand jealousy on the part of his opponents. The fact that they wish to exploit his altruism, his reaction to the suffering of others for political ends, is behaviour far removed from the urgency of lending a helping hand to those most in need, to the people who liberated this country and who have been robbed by a minority of cheap con men.

  The candidate believes that the spirit of democracy, so dear to the other election candidates, gives him the right to invite whoever he wishes into his house without having to give an account of his actions. He is a candidate and a citizen. Even at the palace, he will still have the same rights as any other citizen.”

  “In an upcoming edition of our newspaper, your newspaper of reference, we will be bringing you the results of our ongoing investigation.”

  The investigators took with them, along with the newspaper, Zaccharias’s first moves in the capital. No one heard any more about it. By a combination of unfortunate circumstances, the newspaper did not survive beyond the first month of the new regime. The journalists, less dangerous, are perhaps crossing off the days on a huge calendar on the wall of their cells with a piece of charcoal. The others have joined the legion of zombies who haunt all the games between the national palace and the great cemetery of Port-au-Prince.

  5

  10th December

  7 p m

  MY FOOTSTEPS CLING TO THE BREATHING of my guide. In the tropics, nightfall always comes as a surprise. Daylight turns deep black without a qualm, without a go-between. I think the day does its best to avoid understanding what goes on on Zaccharias’s property. So many words have stopped at the edge of this darkness. I no longer have eyes. All I have left is the stumps of my senses. I am frightened of what I am doing.

  The persistence of the night combines with malicious rumours to turn the residence of Monsieur Zaccharias into the set of a horror film. In different circumstances I might have enjoyed the mysterious calm of this place; especially when I think how close it is to the uproar of Port-au-Prince. By isolating this moment I am swept along, already lost in the dénouement of my plans. But a Jew is used to crossings, and not just the short ones. Every day, the number of kilometres travelled by my race in search of a land of transit is as far as the distance from the earth to the moon. Yet this is not our destiny; it is our act of overturning history. The State of Israel is not enough for us.

  My guide has a fascinating way of working. He leads the way without worrying about my motives. In a sense he is simply delivering me to his master. Since I was due at six he waited for me, checked my identity, and that was all. Perfectly impersonal
, he just made a sign for me to follow him. My naturally bad habits prompted me to keep close on his heels. Direction: second station for Fresnel.

  I am always the one who follows, who comes afterwards; we arrive at a colonial-style house with a big veranda like the one in my dreams. Zaccharias, wearing a colourful scarf round his head, holds out an almost friendly hand. With an impeccable gesture he motions me to sit down and turns up the volume of a radio that is in arms reach.

  For once I have the terrible impression that the radio really does connect people. Between the breaking up of the silence and the voice of the presenter dissecting the week’s events there was my body, which felt the need to direct my slightest gesture towards Fresnel. Unfortunately my desire to yell out my problem fell on deaf ears. The master of the house was listening to the radio. For isn’t this country destined to wait for ever for the day that will arrive on the airwaves?

  “There has been no news from the meeting that took place this morning between the Minister for Commerce and representatives of shopkeepers in the capital. It must be remembered that in his latest public statement, the President accused shopkeepers in the capital of vastly inflating the price of essential goods. For their part, the shopkeepers claim they are victims of a racket run by those in charge of the Customs Service. According to them it is an absolute mafia. The shopkeepers are also complaining about the countless political, social and religious organisations that are exempt from paying customs duty on imported goods that they then sell on at totally uncompetitive prices.

  News is just coming in from our city-centre correspondents that at this moment a number of shops are being looted. Out of discretion and a desire for objective reporting, we cannot confirm the accounts of several eyewitnesses, who claim this looting is taking place under the protection of militants who are close to the government and the police.”

  I am beginning to understand what is so important about my search. By delving into my memory I again see so many dawns, dreamt on the summit of the mountain where our bodies live. The unmoving, imposing darkness of this house gives birth to a time and place to reflect on the past. I have never doubted that at some point in my life I would need to come and see the grand master of the night. I had hidden the card he slipped into my pocket at the customs among samples of useless products that door-to-door salesman give me.

  The card found its way into the place I usually reserve for requests for loans, instalment payments from women who owe the shop money, sponsorship proposals for a football team, a candidate or a group of musicians. My little cache of repulsive objects has a long memory. Once a month I get it all out and add up my prejudices. Not once have I taken the time to imagine this scenario. Assaël in the position of applicant, up against Zaccharias on Zaccharias’ territory. I am afraid of power and all who serve it.

  I once asked Fresnel why power in Haiti always surrounds itself with mysterious people like Zaccharias. He replied that it is power which is mysterious, and petty crooks hover round it.

  I listened to the news. My reserves of clear-thinking were plunged into a whirlwind of words, strung together, tossed about at the whim of my host. I dare to understand my reaction. Sitting in front of me is the unofficial midwife of the revolution. To bolster my courage I keep telling myself that I am just somewhere, with a human being who will understand that I haven’t come to him as a shopkeeper, but as a simple Jew with a broken heart.

  “Goodness! What do they want this time?”

  Zaccharias’s voice carves open the silence. He turns off the radio and motions to a good-looking man to bring us a drink.

  He continues:

  “This country is in danger of getting into a state of institutionalised chaos. I don’t understand how the government can endorse such behaviour. I’ve spoken to the President about it. You can’t run a country without the backing and the support of the business community. The people are like children. They want everything immediately. On no account must the public’s demands be allowed to threaten the safety of those who have the means and the intelligence to create jobs, to keep the economy going. God almighty!”

  Zaccharias empties his glass. His gaze stands between us. Shady. Withering.

  “And what do you think? What future is there for a country without its brains and its job creators?”

  I daren’t point out to my colourfully-dressed host that my being here has nothing to do with the world of politics. A shopkeeper by trade, my reply reveals my policy of half-measures.

  “I think you’re right. But on the other hand, the business sector could be more flexible. The government’s demands are justified, in that they tend to keep the cost of living down. The people are hungry. It’s the responsibility of those running the country to protect the interests of the people who elected them as a matter of priority. I think it’s journalists who prevent the unity of this …”

  I settled for a reactionary and treacherous reply. Fear was making my survival instincts work at full speed.

  6

  I AM DESCENDED FROM THE PEOPLE who invented exile. A long time ago, almost as long as the memory of history, we were the masters of every expression of distance. It is not ironic if every Jew inherits several thousand years of exhausted footsteps, of suitcases done up on the outskirts of every town. A Jew has tough skin. It brings lands with it from everywhere, heavy, different lands. The key to the universe is in the middle of the ark that we are pushing towards our touched-up tomorrows.

  I left Zaccharias with the desire to make an emergency stop at the nearest bar. I need air, music, something to get me back on the road. This guy is either mad or wise. And there I was, thinking I would go to his house and not come back. I imagined him living in underground tunnels in the depths of a mountain, with zombies in every nook and cranny. I also thought I would be greeted by a large devil to whom I would hold out a cow’s hoof to stop him crushing my hand if he insisted on shaking it. I can’t get over my surprise. Not the slightest trace of blood at his house. Just a particular kind of court in the early evening, a master’s house, a welcoming host.

  There is a country where the parameters are inverted, collide with each other, stand logic on its head. Miracles have no meaning here. I live in this town, capital city of a bizarre country that has dared stay alive despite four centuries of being cursed. No one remembers when it was that the struggle simply to survive began. No one dares predict when the end will come. Zaccharias, however, has a plan. This presumed guardian of blood, collected every night at the crossroads in Port-au-Prince where all the channels meet, has set himself up on the road to the future. This country will end up transforming my sceptic’s destiny.

  My father taught me the history of our people. It is made up of a collective will for the future with pride of place given to destiny. Travelling people like us have no right to turn our backs on our identity. We know exile. All Jews have been there. It is our common point of reference. Each of our communities brings new facts picked up from brushing against other cultures, other ways of life. My people are an encyclopedia, a collection of passports. The plans for the future I cling to go beyond this country, which gets a mouthful of water whenever it tries to swim. I am from here, I earn my living here, I lose my lives; but my ambitions are much like those of the people of my community.

  And by extension, my community is also my loves who have been killed or reported missing. I am firmly convinced that sharing someone’s life history is grounds for strong, close ties. Fresnel and I had the same childhood. We always shared the same games. And today we dream of the same everlasting day, the continuity of life. Strange, but the more I move on, the more I get the feeling that Fresnel is not dead. My body has not given me any particular sign. My sense of bereavement dies down. Only the struggle remains.

  If I had dared ask Zaccharias to help me in return for ‘moral’ support for his cause, I would go round the whole country four more times if needs be. I am a Sephardi: history has never come up with an easy life for us. We are everywhere i
n the world, our will like a tool, searching for the colour of our earliest days. Fresnel is just a stage and we will survive. My mouth opens to cry out my pain.

  7

  ON THE ROAD OF MY SEARCH, I have travelled through nights, I have listened to music. When the miseries endured by the first Jews to arrive in Haiti suddenly take possession of my bundle of memories, I imagine having a chance to make myself heard. I am from a rich community that has no political allegiances. Gone are the days when Jews were undesirables. My father, who was determined to keep the memories alive, talked to me years ago about the Jews’ quarrels with the mulattos. At the time the latter held the political reins. Although like us they were foreigners, they had no desire to share power. What was more, the Jews who came to Haiti did not behave like Europeans. They were in the same category as Levantines, good for making lamb kebabs and eating couscous. To succeed in this country you had to be a foreigner of European birth.

  Then the Americans occupied the country. They looked everywhere for collaborators. Our community was forged out of good relations. It was able to leave the parched countryside and gradually set itself up in the capital. The Europe-lovers were pushed out to make more room. And us? We come from nowhere. We have no final destination. We just honour the road. Our journey will be over on the day the world ends.

  Fresnel had helped me collect pieces of paper, press cuttings from the end of the last century. He advised me to do this in the days when we were wearing out the seat of our trousers at the Collège Saint-Martial. It was one way among others of understanding the Father Superior who had forbidden me to do anything but go into business. I could have gone to university, like Fresnel. But I simply did not have the right. A Jew keeps to his place. It is part of his destiny. From time to time I look at these old papers. They make me sad. They encourage me. It all depends on the tension, the sounds that reach me.