Alphabet of the Night Page 6
Zaccharias talked to me about this bitter period of our history and I had been thinking that he knew nothing at all. He told me the Blacks and the Jews ought to join forces to reverse the course of history. When I told him I was a foreigner, he explained it was the same for Blacks. This is a stolen land; those in power have to play hopscotch. My relationship with Fresnel made an impression on him: Black and White. It is a sacred union. He admitted he was also homosexual. Simply out of passion.
I take an official text from my pocket, copied onto a page from an exercise book. I have kept it on me for years. It is like a door that opens onto courage, a passport to the struggle.
Extract from The Official Gazette of the Republic of Haiti on the eighth day of the first month of Year Eighty of Independence.
By decree of the President of the Republic following a recommendation from the Council of Ministers, ratified by Parliament and with the aim of ensuring social peace, the following has been decided:
Foreign nationals belonging to the Jewish Muslim community are banned from Haitian territory with effect from the publication of this decree in The Official Gazette of the Republic of Haiti.
Property and real estate belonging to those affected by this measure will be sold to the highest bidder and the sums collected will be paid to the former owners, after the deduction of taxes and any other costs, should these be due.
This decree, although contrary to our tradition of hospitality, is motivated by the constant complaints from our Christian fellow citizens who have duties when faced with the heresy spread by the Jewish Muslims. Indeed, the latter, not content with ridiculing consumers by selling cheap rubbish, use every means of persuasion to turn the population away from the teaching of the Bible and the Catholic faith. Our duty is to protect the people from barbaric and unorthodox practices such as the circumcision of boys, the ritual slaughter of animals and fasting on Saturday, among others. Our country, which is constantly in search of the Light and the principles of an enlightened country, cannot permit such dubious activities. It is our duty as a government to lead our citizens along the path to progress.
Confronted with so much injustice and prejudice, the Jewish community resorted to every conceivable tactic. There were more than five thousand of them from North Africa, Turkey, Spain, Italy and Portugal. Long cohabitation with Muslims had transformed their original Judaism. But they came to Haiti in search of a land. They had never behaved like colonists. From the moment they arrived they worked hard for the shopkeepers here, slept twelve to a room. They more than paid their way in this country. As usual, they pulled through. And at the time this decree was published, the wealth of the Jews accounted for at least a tenth of the wealth of the country.
Several families went back into exile. Out of habit, out of having to. Now, I think they were right. A lot of families, including mine, stayed on and converted to Catholicism. They helped build churches. They financed a revolution. And the decree was revoked. Then, the whole community understood that a Jew was henceforth a Haitian who runs his shop and pays the political class.
I am a descendant of those who chose to stay. Inside me I carry the legacy of history, and I live with my own: my love.
And I think I behave decently towards other people. Being in business has never driven me to make a quick profit or become famous. I serve the poor, the rich, the White, the Black, the victim and his executioner. I have always been understanding with customers who are broke, with those who are uncouth. My shop lives by other people’s sorrows. I have done my best to help the hungry who pass by my door. What power could the forces of evil have over me?
8
15th December
All day
THE RIVER HAS GONE MAD. It is not sleeping in its own bed. In the living memory of Artibonitians, no one has ever seen it in this state. For three days its roaring has made the Cahos mountains shake. Only the gods and Port-au-Prince could do something. The farmers of Artibonite sowed rice; what they will reap is the American wheat given to disaster victims.
Perhaps I chose the wrong door to enter the Artibonite valley, to launch myself towards another station on my route. The river passed through last night. It got here before me. It is six hours since this cross-country vehicle spewed its bile over the trail. It is moving on, but slowly. On both sides of the road the farmers are draining the water that is left. It is a distressing sight. To each his sins. To each his misfortunes.
The river is sure to come back tonight, crying like a wounded giant, to dump the cultivated soil it picked up in the hills in people’s bedrooms. The farmers are used to life being an upward climb. It is the only way they have of seeing what lies ahead. When the river is not driving them out, it is the head of section’s whistle. If it is not the whistle, it is the landowners’ bullets.
Artibonite, a valley full of holes, darkness and graveyards, is a land of water and mudslides. Here, distances are still measured in ells, as in the past. The future of this place is Port-au-Prince’s business. Lucien was born in this valley. The land his parents worked had been in the family for more than three generations. At an early age, Lucien learnt to get down on his knees and make the millet and sweet potatoes grow. Admittedly it was a hard life, but the family always had enough to live on. Their troubles started when the Germans, at the request of the old regime, built a dam on the river. With the water finally under control, the land became fertile. The rice began to grow. To show their gratitude the farmers went to the capital. They celebrated for three days. Danced outside the palace, wished the President to hold office for life. The President received them in the palace. With his ministers he ate their rice and agreed to be President for life.
Port-au-Prince set up cooperatives to help the farmers. Port-au-Prince put technical missions in place to pass on specialist knowledge. Port-au-Prince sent soldiers to make the valley secure. Port-au-Prince sold the land and its farmers, the farmers and their land, for the good of the nation. An American company was given the concession to export the naturally-grown rice to the dinner tables of rich people far away, and to import surplus foodstuff from the United States.
The farmers took refuge in Port-au-Prince, on the workers’ housing estate. The ones who stayed behind took leasehold contracts, payable in shares of the harvest. Three parts for the owner, one for the farmer. When the harvest is not good they are thrown off. If they put up a fight they are accused of being communists and hunted down like rabbits. The valley is at war with Port-au-Prince. Only the river can make its voice heard and banish the bad air.
I lower the car window a fraction. The sounds carry the song of struggle: wheels spinning in the mud, farmers’ buckets scraping on the stones, an uprooted tree that tries to cling on to the bank. I have the feeling that I am in the middle of a scene from the end of the world. I am truly alone in pursuing a life that I meet at all the dangerous crossroads along the great road. Life is getting ahead of me, dribbling with my desires, taking crazy shortcuts.
I have a meeting with Edner, the head of more than half the secret societies in the country. It seems he is even more feared than Zaccharias. They tell me he makes the dead speak from two centuries ago. He has his own cave in the back of beyond, which he uses for difficult cases or reasons of state security. I hope I will get the solution from him. If not, where do I go next?
9
15th December
On a long night without landmarks
NOT EVEN A SHUDDER OF FEAR since I got though the second station. This is the next one, and I don’t know how much further I have to go. My road must end eventually— I sense it is pointing to the way out. I live too much in the hope of a flowering not to believe it. I reconcile myself with logic and drink my water calmly. For a quarter of an hour I have been sitting across the street from Edner’s courtyard. Scattered drumbeats shatter the peace of the district. People come out, others go in. It is past ten o’clock at night. The road is long; my ardour turns to ice at the scene I am imagining.
A car pulls up
level with mine. A large four-wheel-drive Mercedes. The driver winks at me. Everyone understands each other. It is the German Consul General. Someone else chasing after froth or hope. This country is just like a village. We are all searching for the same opening. Each of us gives whatever name we want to our basket of sorrows gathered up after every night of madness. One person has a need to understand. Another leaps into the waves to save who he can. No one comes from here. We are all foreigners who have been bitten by this country. When the virus takes hold you daren’t leave. Haiti has the knack of embedding itself deep down in the souls of those who come here.
“Tout moun dòmi
lakay
mwen sèl ki nan seren
Tout moun dòmi
lakay
mwen sèl ki nan seren
zanmi zanmi kole kole
s am jwenn se li ma pran”*
The wait—for I don’t know what—becomes delirious, dizzying. This song marks the beginning of the blind festival. The night will tremble. All it can do is keep its hours in time with the rhythm of the drums and the tuppenny tin bugles. I get out of the car, mind churned over by the meanings that my eyes and my nightmares give to this song. It is vital for what I am doing to separate my prejudices from the need that drives me on.
The peristyle round the courtyard is lit up in red and by candles. Solitude brings a lump to my throat at the sight of so much sparkling. My head wants me to walk in there, my body backs away. The festival is too intense to be real. The dance is passionate, it carves out my presence. In order to grow up with this country I grew up with voodoo. But every beat that draws a cry of protest from a drum has always reminded me that I, too, come from somewhere far away, far away from here.
A man comes and stands in front of me. He takes my hand and drags me with him into the middle of the dancers. He is in a trance; his eyes speak the language of a ravaged land. His touch is reassuring and impartial. He has a real farmer’s hand, rough and broad. He drags me into his dance, through the vèvès and the candles, and leads me into a room beyond the dance floor and its ceremony, to Edner the hougan. Edner motions me to sit down and hands me a half-empty bottle of rum.
“Have a grown-up drink, brother” he says. “You need it to forget all the miles.”
“Thanks for giving me a good welcome. I’ll do my best to be worthy of the honour.”
He looks at me, sways his head from side to side and points out his friends all round him. One of them is the Consul who winked at me a quarter of an hour ago.
“The gods of Africa are from every race. In my house, as long as I still have the privilege of serving the lwa, everyone is treated as an equal. Here we all drink straight from the same bottle. All wealth is dust. It only takes a gust of wind and it is scattered to the four corners of the earth. Here”—he gives me a garish red tunic—“you are worthy of these clothes. We will talk about your problem tomorrow. Tonight is a celebration. Even when the river decides to make our poverty worse, we have to show the gods that we really do want to see another day. If they see we are hanging on to life, they will calm the river.”
A woman of about sixty holds out her hand as if to ask me to dance. I look at Edner. He approves. With the first pirouette she takes away all my awkwardness. Her crumpled body has no trouble following the raging rhythm of the drums. I look into her eyes—I shouldn’t have. Her gaze is fixed. She is not even moving her eyes. She is just a trembling body which holds on to me, hard but gently.
Sweat, alcohol and the drum that works on my senses get the better of me. She sits on a chair and lays me on her legs as if in a dream. She takes out a handkerchief, wipes her face. With a light, almost maternal touch, she wipes my face with her handkerchief. From what little I know, this is a privilege. She wants to pass on a certain art of understanding. Her mouth opens like a doll’s and begins to speak:
“Ay pitit mwen, wout la long. Se pa de pas dlo ou pa travèse avan ou rive la epi ou pa konnen kombyen ou rete. Peyi sa s’on maleng envlimen.
M’ santi ou blese jis nan kè w’. Lavi jenn gason isi pa fasil. Tande, tout lwa gason se masisi. Yo danse nan tèt moun yo vle. Soti sou lakou a limen yon bouji nwa anba pye mestiyen ki fé kwen baryé a. Se pou mechan fout rann ou sa w ap chèche a.”*
None of those watching us show any surprise. I have been aroused by an old woman who is just skin and bone. She burst in on my secrets. Everyone finds this normal. Perhaps the others have not seen or heard a thing. In these circles, mystery is part of daily life. She must have taken me off into a world quickly invented for the two of us. The time for asking questions will come later. I am here because I have no choice. Everything I am offered is welcome.
I leave the room, like I have been told to. The night greets me with a gentle breeze. I light my candle. The flame flickers, dies down. It burns well. I even get the impression that it is controlling the wind. It is so delicate, so tiny in the face of so much frenzy, yet it keeps to its task of melting the wax. It will go out with the feeling of a job well done. I am a flame; I am inventing short cuts and stairways for my road.
* “Everyone is sleeping/barricaded in the house/I am alone with the night/everyone is sleeping/barricaded in the house/I am alone with the night/my friends and I form a circle/I set off on the hunt/I won’t let anything get away.”
*“My son, the road is long. I imagine all the fords you crossed to get here. The worst thing is you have no idea what is waiting for you. This country is a wound. A great big wound of hardships with a nasty expression on its face.
“I know your heart is wounded. Life is never easy for the men of this country. But listen to me: the gods of Africa are all hermaphrodites. They mount women and men as the fancy takes them. You will go out and light a black candle under the big tree next to the main gate. The wicked must give you back your confiscated dreams.”
10
16th December
In the early hours
NEVER DID THE SUN RISE so arrogantly. The few shadows that remain in the valley are pushed back violently behind the mountain. I have not wasted the merest piece of this struggle, carried on under great, harsh beams of light and to the sound of strange moans. In the distance, the singing of the workers means the level of the river is going down. This unashamed attachment to life makes a sharp contrast with the capital, so bereft of air and laughter. Resigned to being a prisoner of my shop, at the heart of a town that is on the point of imploding, I take a deep breath of the fresh, eternal dew of my thoughts.
With her bare feet, an adolescent girl draws an angel on the wet ground. Her movements, although fated to create a fleeting work of art, are like a dance in honour of the earth. In the valley, the earth is still the most beautiful expression of a certain continuity of life. Earth that is washed to its very depths. Earth that is fertile, opening to receive the seed of the rice. Earth that is discreet, complicit, that never rejects the dead or their secrets.
Lost in the colours of a new day, I did not see the procession arrive. Four hounsis* lead the way for Edner the hougan. As they pass by they practically brush against me. The procession moves like an automaton. The sunlight shines through the white robes of the girls and reveals their hips, en route to the place of ritual. The adolescent artist signs her drawing then joins the group at the main entrance to the courtyard. She takes a jug of water from one of the girls. Another of them gives her a bunch of wild basil. One by one she picks off the leaves and rubs them gently. Her gestures are as measured as before. But now her movements are more precise, not as light. She takes her time with her game, makes the leaves give up all their juice. She looks round at the hougan, takes two steps back and bows down to place her work at the feet of Edner the hougan, who begins his libation.
“Mètrès Klèmezin Klèmèy, oumenm ki gen kle dlo na men w’, nou vle de w’ mèsi paske ou tande rèl chwal ou yo. Se ou ki ban nou dlo. Men lè nou fè w’ fache nou konprann ou anvi f è nou pase tray. Fwa sa a, chay la te lou. Nou mande ou bay pitit ou kouray pou repran travay yo dekw
a pou yo jwenn ase mwayen pou ofri w’ sa ou renmen. Dlo sa a nou pral jete a tè a se moso kontra pan ou pou respekte té n ap viv kif è nou viv la.”*
As soon as the libation is finished, the girls form a circle. Drop by drop, the earth opens up to the holy water. On the ground they mark out a vèvè, the sacred space. The hougan pours three drops of coffee onto the ground, for the dead, the angels and the saints. Finally he sprinkles the ground with rum and stands gazing at the new day, already captive to its promises.
This is no ordinary working day. The river fell silent on the stroke of midnight. It is time to count up all the working hours that have been lost.
Edner turns to me, hands me a cup of coffee. I pour out the first three drops in a clumsy attempt to copy the gestures of the hougan. The strong taste of the earth catches in my throat. As after a storm, life begins to return to normal. Women get out their pots and pans. Children look to see which way the wind is blowing; it will carry their kites up to the clouds that are taking their time to lift. After death there is life. After the libation, the court can live again.
* Girl initiates who assist the voodoo priest during a ritual.
* “Master Agwe, guardian of the destiny of the waters, I hasten to give thanks to you for so mercifully hearing your servants’ cries of despair. You have always given us plentiful water. But when you are angry with us, we feel your anger. This time the punishment has been severe.