Dany Laferrière: Heading South

“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.”