Dany Laferriere - The Return

Yet in the same village, someone steals our bag while we are having lunch. We had put it underneath the table, by the hen. Monsieur Jérôme is dying of shame. He keeps saying that things have changed. In his day everyone knew one another. If someone had a problem, they all chipped in to help out. They lived as a single family. So the thief isn’t from here? He must come from Zabeau, six kilometers away. I know the refrain. I’ve heard it everywhere I’ve been. The cook tells us to make a deposition at the section head’s office. When we get there, we are informed that he’s always in Vietnam at this time of day. It takes us a while to catch on that “Vietnam” is a whorehouse on the edge of the village. Monsieur Jérôme blushes with shame again. We head there anyway. Sitting at the rear of a dim room, the section head is sipping the house cocktail, the “rarin’ to go,” a drink that can keep you galloping till dawn. His attention seems focused on something other than our report about a stolen bag. He keeps his sunglasses on despite the darkness. Suddenly he begins to quiver. He slams the table with his large palm and begins gasping for breath. I am about to offer him my help when a young woman crawls out from under the table, her forehead bathed in sweat. Obviously, this is not the right time to explain our problem. The chief seems ready to move on to the main course. We don’t stay, despite his generous offer to share his harem.

The only way to the village of Zabeau is through a cane field. Bare-chested, sweating men. The machete whistles like an angry cobra. The first sharp blow cuts the cane at the base. Catching it in full flight, a second blow takes the top off. The stalk joins the pile a meter away. Monsieur Jérôme tells us how he used to follow his father to go cut cane. He tries, but he’s lost his touch. For a moment I watch the men work, and dream of having the same dexterity with sentences. I spot figures moving in the distance. Someone is holding a secret ceremony far from prying eyes. Monsieur Jérôme asks us to get back in the car, and as we drive I hear the melodious voices of men and women singing the glory of Erzulie Freda Dahomey, the goddess no man can resist. The apparent peace of the countryside should not make us forget that these peasants have never stopped battling, first the slave traders of Europe, then the American Army of occupation (from 1915 to 1934). Today, they’re fighting the Haitian government.

I have just left one of those small improvised celebrations at the side of the road. One of the few parties in the countryside that involves only mortals. In this case, the ingredients include a guitar, a bottle of rum and a few men who have been friends from childhood. The little group is making its way to the cemetery, to the grave of the guitar player’s young fiancée who died at the beginning of last year. Now they are on the far side of the hill. The song is even more poignant when the one singing it is unseen.

We have been driving for a good hour when we hear a noise so startling it sounds like gunfire. Worried, people come out of their houses. A boy points at our left front tire — already flat. We pull onto the side of the road and open the trunk. No spare. “It’s my fault,” Monsieur Jérôme murmurs, sincerely sorry. We will have to have the flat tire repaired. Monsieur Jérôme rolls it five kilometers to the next gas station. We wait for him by the car. My nephew uses the time to go swimming in the little river at the foot of the cliff. The water is so cold it shows bluish glints. I hear my nephew laughing as he tries to catch small flying fish. Two peasants coming back from the fields watch him placidly. It’s always hard to tell what they are thinking, or find out if we are transgressing a taboo. My nephew recovers the sense of pleasure his body has forgotten. You can’t imagine the constant pressure that a city like Port-au-Prince exercises on the nerves of a sensitive young man.

A lady comes to offer me a well-sweetened cup of coffee, as is the custom. I drink it sitting on the car’s hood. A boy who lives nearby brings me a chair. A little girl wants me to admire her skill as she spins pirouettes with her jump rope. Evening is just beginning to fall and already I hear the hum of mosquitoes preparing to attack. And now Monsieur Jérôme is coming back with the tire repaired and a swarm of children buzzing around him.

It took him a while to return because he knows a woman in the area. Attentive to the unfolding of his story, I understand they have two children together. Is she your wife? No. The children are from him, but they’re not his. What does that mean? He tries to explain a highly embarrassing situation. The mystery deepens the more details he provides. If I understand correctly, his father had to acknowledge the two boys because he was a minor at the time of their birth. So they must be adults by now? His face brightens. They’re good workers, and most of all they’re honest. One is a shoemaker in Les Cayes, the other’s a mechanic in Port-au-Prince. So what’s the problem? The story is complicated, I’m afraid. The woman’s father never forgave him for spoiling his plans. He had other ideas for his daughter. Her father swore he would chop off his head if he came near the house again. Even now? He’s old, but he’s still strong and still angry. People never forget anything around here. Monsieur Jérôme arrives at the most sensitive part of the story: he wants me to go and say hello to the woman for him and discreetly slip her an envelope. What if her father catches me and chops off my head? Monsieur Jérôme’s face darkens but then he assures me that the man would never do that, since he is really quite courteous. Except when it comes to him, Jérôme. He thanks me with profuse expressions of regret for having to ask such a favor.

I doze off a little

despite my sore back.

Two nights in a row I’ve slept

curled up in a ball in the car.

I’d like to stretch out on a real bed.

I would have gladly accepted

the wealthy farmer’s invitation to stay

if I hadn’t been so afraid to end up with

his daughter in my bed, caught

in a complicated tale of dishonor

that would have been settled with one swift blow of a machete.

A necklace of red pearls.

It’s not that I am

such a prize catch.

But it’s an obsession among some rich farmers

to have an intellectual in the family.

The way the middle class

bought up ruined aristocrats

so their grandchildren could carry

a noble name.

Night has fallen. I knock timidly at the door. An old man shuffles over to open it. Excuse me for disturbing you at such a late hour, but I have a message for Madame Philomène. Did Jérôme send you? he asks with a smile in his eyes. Yes. Tell him he’s welcome here. And that he can stay the night. I go back and give Monsieur Jérôme his envelope. When we get there, the beds are already made up. Monsieur Jérôme spends the rest of the night conversing in low tones with his father-in-law. The next morning, we get back on the road after a strong cup of coffee. Suspecting that business is bad, Monsieur Jérôme does not want his father-in-law to go to any extra trouble. When it is time to leave, the older man declares that “this whole business was just a terrible misunderstanding.” On the road, Jérôme tells us that the friend who was supposed to build bridges between him and his father-in-law had lied to both of them, and that during the negotiations he kept asking for Philomène’s hand for himself, which the old man always refused.

My nephew sits down next to me

on the hood of the car.

A pink sky edged in darkness

above a vast desolate landscape.