Dany Laferrière - Heading South

“Mrs. Wenner from Cleveland, Ohio,” Chico says calmly. “She’s the marathoner of sex. She can go twenty-six miles without leaving her bed.”

“Listen,” Gogo says with a glint of panic in his eyes, “this woman is sixty years old and she can fuck without stopping for more than ten hours. . Then she’ll rest for ten minutes and be ready to go at it again. .”

“You’re kidding me, Gogo. .”

Gogo turns to Chico and the two of them go through a rapid dance step.

“Am I right, Chico, or am I right?”

“You’re right! She’s going to swallow little Mario whole in the first go-round. . Bad deal . .”

Gogo and Chico continue dancing, holding each other close, laughing, as though Mario’s predicament is the funniest thing in the world.

“Are you going up there to Number Eight or not, Mario?” says Gogo.

“Mrs. Wenner’s waiting for you, Mario,” Chico teases.

“What am I going to do?” says Mario, sounding a bit frightened.

“You could go down to the Arts and Crafts Institute and learn how to do a real job, like carpentry or mechanics.”

The three boys turn in perfect synchronicity towards the barman.

“Albert,” says Chico, “what we do here is a real job.”

“Anyway,” says Gogo, “there are no dumb jobs, only dumb people. Isn’t that right, Albert?”

“But what am I going to do with Mrs. Wenner?” Mario asks again.

“I know!” Chico says quickly, with his angelic smile.

“Spit it out, man,” says Gogo.

“You know how after a couple of hours of fucking, she goes into a kind of trance. .”

“Oh, yeah,” says Gogo, “it’s like she goes into automatic pilot. .”

“When she’s like that,” says Chico, “you could get up and go for a piss and she wouldn’t even notice. .”

“Go on,” says Chico.

Even Albert is listening as he sets up the bar for the afternoon cocktails.

“So, what if we do her in turns, every couple of hours?” Chico says without laughing.

“What are you saying, Chico!” cries Mario.

“It’s simple enough: as soon as she goes into her own little world, one of us switches with whoever’s in the room with her.”

“That way,” adds Gogo, “whoever’s in the room can come down here to the bar and freshen up a bit, have a sandwich and a malted with extra ice, prepared by our very own games master, none other than Albert himself.”

“Never mind dragging me into your filth,” sniffs Albert.

“That’s cool, Chico!” Gogo nearly shouts.

“But what if she dies?” asks Mario, more than a little alarmed.

“She won’t die. She’s got a tough old hide on her. Crocodiles like her never die under these conditions.”

“They’re like ants,” says Chico. “Ants are never crushed by a bag of sugar.”

“That’s us,” adds Mario. “We’re the bag of sugar.”

All three of them laugh. Albert pretends to wipe off the bar. Several of the hotel’s female guests come into the bar area with towels wrapped around their waists and a ton of sunscreen on their faces, chests and backs. They’ve come up from the beach. They crowd around the bar and order their afternoon punch (“Let’s put some of that heat inside us for a change!”). After three of Albert’s punches everyone is pretty much settled in for the rest of the day, until at least five o’clock. There they are, standing around the bar. Those who know Albert from other hotels (Albert worked at two or three others in the area before landing at the Hibiscus) chat him up, talking fondly about the good old times. The good old days of Brise de Mer or Lambi. Albert’s tone is always respectful. No familiarity with the clients, despite a few obvious come-ons from those for whom a single glass of punch makes them lose all sense of time and space. Gogo watches Albert with a strange smile on his face, a mixture of admiration and irreverence. Doesn’t this guy know he’s working in a brothel? People are so strange. Some people can remain the same whether they work in a church or in a bordello. Albert, for example.

“I’m going up now,” Mario says suddenly.

BRENDA

My husband and I both come from the same small town north of Savannah. The middle of nowhere. I won’t even bother telling you its name. I’ve never met anyone who’s even seen it on a map. I’ve known my husband since we were little children. We don’t come from the same religious backgrounds. He’s a Methodist and I’m a Baptist. The way I see it, it doesn’t make any difference what you call yourself as long as you believe in God. That’s what my husband told me after we got married, and now we’re both Methodists. I talk about it, anyway, but I haven’t been confirmed yet. If my husband were here, he’d say, “That’s Brenda all over!” His name is William, but he likes to be called Bill. Actually, Big Bill. Oh, I almost forgot: you don’t have to know what to call him, because he didn’t come with me on this trip. That was my idea. I didn’t think I could ever do it, leave him alone up there like that. This isn’t the first time I’ve been to Port-au-Prince. It’s the second. The first time, Bill came with me. I’ve been wanting to come back for two years. Pamela, I call her Pam, she’s my best friend, she says that I’ve been like a drug addict in withdrawal for two years. I tell her that no drug addict ever went through what I went through. My whole body suffered, my head, my chest, my blood, every possible pain you could ever imagine, I suffered. For two years. Every day. Every night. Every hour. Can you imagine such a thing? I don’t think anyone who isn’t called Brenda Lee, and who didn’t come from a tiny little town north of Savannah, and who hasn’t lived for twenty-five years with a man named Bill who hasn’t touched her more than a grand total of eight times in all those years, could ever understand what I went through.

ELLEN

I’ve always been attracted by the South, but I never thought of coming to Port-au-Prince. As far as I was concerned, Port-au-Prince was for nymphos. Not for me. One big sex park. Anyway, I’ve been coming here now for five years. I come down every year and spend the whole summer. My courses end the last week of June, and generally a week later I fly to Port-au-Prince. I always stay at this hotel. It’s quiet, it’s clean, and it’s on the beach. This is how you know you’re getting old: you want everything close at hand. Port-au-Prince. Who would have guessed that this is where I would spend my holidays? I went to a private school, and for the past twenty-five years I’ve been teaching at Vassar. I teach stuck-up little bitches to keep their knees together so they can trap husbands. And if you think things have changed in that regard you’ve got one very long finger stuck like this in your eye. (She makes the gesture.) Actually, I’m supposed to be teaching contemporary literature, but all they want to know is how to go about making the best of what the good Lord gave them to work with. A tidy little mouth, two little tits that they check for signs of growth every day, blonde hair and a pretty little ass. Scrumptious little packages. And who can blame them? The boys are worse. Complete ninnies that don’t deserve any better. I hate that country, even if it is my own. You can’t imagine how much I loathe those little sluts and their asshole boyfriends. All they think about is getting laid and producing litters of more brats and, when they’ve bought as much junk as they can at their supermarkets, washing up on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean like so many overstuffed sperm whales. Always with their hair in curlers, always wearing sunglasses, always shoving their shopping carts into your legs at the checkouts. So will someone please tell me what the hell I’m doing here, where that’s exactly the type of person who forms the majority? (She motions with her chin to the line of her compatriots covered in sunscreen trying to get a tan on the beach.)