Dany Laferriere - The World is Moving Around Me - A Memoir of the Haiti Earthquake

The Room

I decided to return to my room. The façade that overlooks the garden is badly cracked, but the hotel didn’t collapse. Debris everywhere; there’s no way of saying how bad the damage is. I go up the stairs to the third floor. From there, I can see that the lobby was wrecked. I continue my adventure without knowing what I’ll find. So far, so good, but the hotel could cave in at any moment. I reach my room. The door is closed. I take out my electronic key. No chance it will work. The earthquake must have knocked out the electrical system. Besides, they cut the current to prevent fires. I slip the card in the slot. The little green light lights up. I walk inside. The room is intact except for the television set on the floor. I find my suitcase. The computer that someone lent me hasn’t moved from the bedside table. My last two mangos are patiently waiting for me next to the computer. I grab everything I can. I picture everyone doing the same thing at this very moment, trying to save things that matter. Things that might appear useless to other people. I’d better not stay too long; just being here is a major provocation. When it brushes past, death leaves us in a frenetic state that pushes us to defy the gods. That explains this irresistible desire to lie down on the bed. I change my mind at the last second, realizing I’m doing something stupid. It might not be over. A new tremor could send the hotel crashing down. I don’t even know how long I’ve been in the room. I’ve lost all notion of time since yesterday. I understand now that a minute can hold the entire life of a city. A new density for me. Finally I exit the room, leaving the door open, with the feeling the card won’t work a second time.

The Opportunity

We were sitting under the trees when someone showed up with a bottle of rum and set it down in the middle of the table. Some people could find alcohol even in hell. He found this bottle in one of the cabinets in the bar. Apparently it’s not the last one. The Gold Rush, all over again. It’s the only weapon against the anxiety of the coming night. With a haggard eye, I watch the mosquitoes gather around the light, waiting to go on the attack. Their exasperating music hums in my ears. We drink right from the bottle and pass it around. Now is the time to try everything that good manners and hygiene teach us not to do. The warmth of the rum is good. We’d like to do something completely unusual, since this kind of situation won’t happen twice. It was more acceptable last night than tonight, and tomorrow it will be too late. We will have recovered our wits completely. And we won’t be just the few of us. Right now, everyone in this city is either dead, wounded, or saved by some miracle. Tomorrow, or even tonight, they will start arriving (are they already among us?), and we will lose our sense of collective madness. In any case, it’s not over yet. The earth is still shaking. Two or three points higher on the Richter scale and we’ll be cast back into a realm without time. I don’t understand why we don’t try doing something completely off the beaten track of everyday life. Nothing is holding us back. No more prisons, no more cathedral, no more government, no more school — it’s the perfect opportunity to try something new. An opportunity that won’t knock twice. The revolution is at hand, and here I am, sitting under a tree.

An Offering to the Gods

We open the cans of sardines. I remember that I’d left bread on the table in the restaurant. Rodney and I go off in search of that bread. It’s the first time we’ve returned to the scene. Nothing has changed. The restaurant, made of wood, is more flexible than concrete. The breadbasket is sitting where we left it. I feel like I’m stealing an offering made to the gods.

The Second Night

We settle in. Everybody goes back to the spot where they slept the first night. We’ve claimed our territory. There’s movement by the entrance. The guards are coming with mattresses, sheets, and pillows. The pillow is the sign of a higher plateau of refinement. Our heads won’t be on the same level as the rest of our bodies. An enormous change compared to last night. A good night’s sleep will make us less sensitive to the smaller tremors. We’ll need steady nerves. Already we’re leaving behind last night’s anxiety, when we weren’t even sure we’d see the dawn. Now we’re more exasperated than worried. We just wish the earth would stop moving. I spot a red dot moving through the garden: a man smoking a cigarette.

A Pain in the Ass

People’s temperaments are quickly revealed within this small perimeter. All the major traits of our species are represented here. I suppose it’s the same in every improvised camp. You can spot them right off: the petty ones, the jealous types, the generous kind, the optimists, the pessimists, the adventurers, the careful ones, the quiet ones, and the pains in the ass. I’ve got one of the latter in my zone, a woman. She talks endlessly about her own problems. Most people here have family members either dead or injured, but she couldn’t care less. She knows that her husband is alive, but she acts like she isn’t sure just to be at the center of attention. She complains about everything. In her opinion, Haitians are partly responsible for this disaster. We must have committed some crime; that’s why misfortune follows us. And on and on. She’s just decided that it’s too beautiful a night to sleep. And she’s right: the sky is magnificent and the earth still warm from its convulsions. But I’d rather be attacked by hordes of furious mosquitoes than have her muttering behind my back. I set up my mattress a little further on.

A Teenager

He showed up this afternoon, found a spot, and settled in without a sound. He was having trouble with his foot. Maëtte, who has a way with stray dogs, took him under her wing. Especially since he’d lost his parents. She treated his wounds and defended him when a guard wanted to put him out. On the first night, we could welcome strangers into our space, because even the thieves were in a state of shock. Sleeping outside is always a risky business. Tourists possess two things that make thieves covetous: money and a valid passport. Besides, our suitcases were piled up along the fence. The men slept like babies. The women kept watch, listening for the slightest disturbance. They lifted their heads the minute a shadow moved through the garden. Often it was just someone looking for a tree to piss against. The women organized a spot near the fence for their basic needs so they wouldn’t have to leave the secure zone. Their anxiety became palpable once darkness began to fall. Luckily there were songs and prayers that were like lullabies in the night.

Morning Conversation

I spent a while watching a grandmother singing with her grandson. They were sleeping on the other side of the net on the tennis courts. It was a whole other neighborhood. The songs brought my childhood rushing back like a salmon swimming up a river. I heard them talking in low tones as, under the sheet, I noted down the morning thoughts that washed over me in streams. Reveries that had nothing to do with the earthquake. I understood that my mind wanted to escape the space where horror kept it prisoner. Muffled laughter. I looked up. They’re still talking in soft voices: the grandmother and the grandson. A strong bond links these two beings separated by the abyss of time. They live in the same fluid universe of dreams. At the beginning and the end of life, we enjoy a time stripped of the responsibilities that weighed down our days. That free time allows old age and childhood to join hands. The grandmother is doing all she can to spare her grandson the horror of the day. Some people can dance on hot coals. People call them carefree and irresponsible, and don’t understand that they are beings with exceptional souls. They pass through these times of suffering with steady hearts; they don’t feel they need to add their personal anguish to the collective tragedy. My grandmother tore me from the claws of the dictator by teaching me something other than hatred and vengeance. This grandmother, on the other side of the net, is taking the horrible images in her grandson’s head and replacing them with the songs and mythologies she can still find in her shaky memory.