Franketienne - Ready to Burst

— Not even by you, Paulin?

— By no one. Men have a tendency to consider women their private property … Don’t you swallow any of the nonsense that comes out of their mouths. Whatever the cost, avoid becoming one of those women who contents herself with having her belly, her uterus, and her abdomen filled up. That kind of woman is only worth anything when she’s horizontal.

— I thank you, my darling.

— Marina, do you know that I’ve begun writing my next novel? I’ve already written two chapters. I haven’t found a title for it yet.

— When might I read a few passages?

— As soon as you’d like. You know that I owe my work to you. I’ve elected you queen of my creation. And your dynasty is eternal. I owe you all the works that are already scratching at my brain and nipping at my entrails. Marina, be the midwife to my works. Participate in the fascinating creative adventure that obsesses me. Straddles me. And violates me. I carry and sustain a perpetual pregnancy. I expect you to assist me in the miracle of birth.

The room darkens. Paulin is covered in sweat. His fingers, his lips tremble. His body shivers. A steamy vapor trickles out of his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. Suddenly, he sees only black.

— Marina, make it bright in here. I’m begging you. Switch on the lamp. Give me your hand so I can make it through the tough times. Help me. I need you so badly.

— Alas, Paulin. My father knows we love each other. He’s furious. My parents disapprove. They’re sending me off to Europe. In twenty-two days. Like a package.

— It isn’t possible!

— They’ve already taken the first steps.

— Marina, tell them that our love is a spring on the verge of becoming a torrent. That our love burns the eyelids and rips apart the eardrums of those who doubt it.

— There’s nothing we can do to stop them. They are absolutely set on me leaving.

— Marina, I was born through your gaze. You delivered me in a bright flash of fire. Whether I live or die is up to you.

— Paulin, we must take this separation as a test. We’ll come out of it victorious. Even more attached to one another. I’m confident. In exiling me far away from you, they will not get the better of us.

— My rebellious suffering, I’ll cradle it in my lap. But for how long?

— It’s possible that I’m to spend four years far from you.

— Four years! Here it is that, despite myself, I’m compelled to measure time’s passage. Clocks, calendars — I hate them with a passion. The mutilation of days with their strange names that fracture our existence. That fracture life. Not to mention, is human existence really measurable in figures?

— Don’t forget that time passes quickly. I’ll come back. A trip won’t be able to kill our love.

— Since you must leave, I’ll ask one thing of you: believe in the possibilities of your country. Come back to it. The black man doesn’t easily get comfortable in the land of Whites. Come back!

— Paulin, I’ve brought you my photo. It’s a testament to my love for you. Keep it in your room, during the entire time I’m away. Let me add a dedication: “To my darling Paulin, with my unchanging love. Sincerely, Marina.” Take it and cherish it. As if it were me in person.

The room grows even darker. Paulin is bathed in sweat. She hasn’t written to me in three months. She’s given me no sign of life. Is it true what I’ve been told about her? Suddenly, Paulin feels what seem like exploding grenades in his head. At the base of his skull, a volcano roils, explodes. And the crater rips apart violently. Screaming of lava. Bottomless hole out of which giant flowers surge — monstrous and bloody.

— What’s this? You’re wearing a long white dress with a train. Marina! A thin man holds you by the arm … You’re married! I see the lit candlesticks … I hear the hymns — the “Come, Creator Spirit!” … You’re leaving the church on your husband’s arm. And so it is that you’ve become someone else’s wife. So this is how you betray our love?

Suddenly, a blinding flash surges from Paulin’s eyes. His eyelids blink rapidly. He holds his head in his hands for a moment. Then picks it up. And sees the large signed photo of Marina back on its shelf. He’s exhausted. For three months, not a day has gone by that he hasn’t lived, in his thoughts, his sad love story. Imagining all the scenes of this unrequited love. Going over the painful path to failure. In an unbearable torture. In fact, it was happening just then to him … right after the departure of his friend Raynand, who’d looked at the photo. It had been three months since he’d learned of Marina’s marriage in a foreign country. Three months …

After a few moments spent lost in bitter reflection, Paulin gets up. Wipes his brow. Rubs his head, inside of which wheels full of teeth seem to grind. Then says to himself that this is the last time … the last time.

— My obsession is over. Reason is now looking for a way past the fragility and weakness of the body. My nerves tense up in the face of the dust and the rust of the dreary darkness. A blaze burns inside me. My heart has jumped into my fiery mouth. I want my words to be embers. And if my voice drains all the blood clots, it’s that my chest is ripening a glowing red apple tree in the place of my heart.

Tired out, Paulin moves toward the bookshelf. Picks up the photo. And places it carelessly in a corner. Far back in an old faded buffet. The corner of the forgotten. His complete healing.

In my native province, as a very young man, I learned from the peasants that one should never go to sleep on an empty stomach. Famished sleepers, they cautioned me, suffer the torments of a repose polluted by nightmares. I had the experience without intending to one night when I couldn’t find anything to put in my mouth. That night, I’d lain down in my bed earlier than usual, worn out by the day’s labors. Sleep came quickly, despite my agitation. But what happened next, and must have been a nightmare, remains a troubling enigma for me to this day. On the margins of everyday life. Between dream and reality .

I was walking along a narrow street, accompanied by strange creatures. Monstrous. Handicapped. Having emerged from the factory of some demon counterfeiter. Let loose on the world without control. Spilled hurriedly onto the market of the living, their sole purpose being to consume. They were missing, respectively, some organ or the other. Their points of distinction. A whole range of hideous malformations. Faces pocked with holes. Without eyeballs. Heads without ears. Bodies without heads. Legless cripples. They spoke incessantly, yet seemed unable to understand one another. A surrealist game of automatic language. Dadaist Babel .

— Where have my madrepore eyes flown away to? I want to rinse the skin of sickly words in the humid air. My mouth opens and closes, entablature of star-laden branches. I’ll trim the tapestries of the sky so as to bandage the wounds of light and the leprosy of the moon .

— I threw up my brains through my nostrils, in the form of a liqueur imbibed by birds of prey, lapped up by drunken dogs. I will detach my hollow head and use it in a volleyball match .

— I’ve buried my heart in a bottle and tossed it into the sea. The message insults the throne of kings and discredits the aqueous genitals of my mistresses. As a bee, I fly from tree to tree and peck at the young fruits .

— A voyager thirsting for space, I gather nectar and pollen and I become delirious from the perfume of the stars .

— My hair gives shelter to vermin. Let us raise the curtain of deception for the backwash of lies. The jesters throw out the wash water. And the virgins chatter, touched by roaming tomcats who fart forcefully while opening their flies .