Franketienne - Ready to Burst

After this demoniacal Olympic storm, the guests, scattered into little groups, enjoy the drinks. The young girls and women drink Coca-Cola. The gentlemen drink unlimited quantities of whiskey or Barbancourt rum. The room is immediately transformed into picturesque fairgrounds. Exhibition of colorful moths. Farcical ostentation. Parade of miniskirts. Disjointed comments marked by a touch of sophistication. Raynand and Paulin, seated at a strategic angle, attentively watch this high-society spectacle. Taking neat shots, they empty a half bottle of rum placed on a round table. Quietly, they exchange commentaries and gossip. They observe everything rigorously. From one thing to the next and without missing a beat.

A short distance away, three elegantly dressed women chat and giggle together. They’re soon joined by an impeccably ugly fourth woman, who’s accompanied by a pretty young girl. The woman’s face is dried up, eroded. An absurdly long neck. She’s so hideous, she wouldn’t be out of place among a collection of barn owls in a museum of horrors. A fluffed-up chicken. Exaggeratedly exuberant. Her talkativeness and tinny laugh irritate. With her skinny, jittery body, she recalls the jerking movements of a broom. An unbearable talking weather vane.

— My son Patrick took a trip last month. He’s in the United States. He’s doing his military service.

— You’re not worried he’ll be sent to the front in Vietnam?

— It’s certainly a possibility. He’s not planning on returning to Haiti. In fact, I encouraged him not to. What’s important is that he secure a foothold over there. That brings certain advantages. He’ll be able to open a path for us to the great industrial cities. In no short time, the whole family will settle in New York. I couldn’t have hoped for better. Here, life has become impossible. A veritable hell on earth.

Raynand follows the conversation attentively. He touches Paulin’s right knee.

— Paulin, do you know that woman?

— She’s a lesbian. The pretty young girl with her is her official mistress.

— Is that really true?

— And, in fact, Raynand, the other ones are no better. They’re corrupt politicians. Secret agents for foreign powers. Their husbands — a bunch of cowards. Freeloading assholes. Pedophiles. Smugglers. A real debauched crowd. In favor during the American Occupation, now ousted from the halls of power, they actually miss the Yankees. Since the white man can’t come back and run the country, they all head over there to keep the old love story alive. So their good-for-nothing kiddies quit school before ever even studying the humanities and leave for the States. The most talented of the bunch study electronics, diesel mechanics, or business. The mediocre ones become dishwashers, dog groomers in New York, or cannon fodder in Vietnam. The people, filled with complexes, blinded by color prejudice, are only too happy to see their daughters married to some cowboy or gringo from Texas. They see it as a true godsend, manna from heaven. All of them flee Haiti, which, in their spite and resentment, they see as no more than savage-filled bush country. Bitter farewell to the good old days at the Club, where any black person who dared come in was looked upon disdainfully like a dirty black fly in a glass of milk. That’s all gone for good!

Pensively, Raynand takes a drink, draws exaggeratedly on his cigarette. Paulin, eyes shining, head resting against a sign, continues talking. With his resonant voice. Passionate. A convincing tone that, in its fluctuations, manages to find just the right way into the heart or the mind. An empathetic understanding, without artifice or oversensitivity. A flood of emotions, but without flashy hysterics or embittered violence. A strong temperament, neither tough nor dogmatic. In short, a striking sensitivity. A generous connection. An elevating glimmer.

The contents of the bottle have diminished noticeably. Raynand, slightly tipsy, looks vaguely around at the crowd of attendees. A long-limbed gentleman walking across the salon toward the exit notices Paulin. He stops suddenly. Smilingly, he approaches the table:

— Good old Paulin, how the hell are you?

— Hanging in there. Raynand, meet my buddy Roger Drouillard, a friend from way back. He’s a good guy. An intern at the medical college.

They clasp hands. Raynand, somewhat distant, doesn’t catch the name of the young doctor, who makes no attempt to hide his pleasure at having run into Paulin at the reception.

— Well then, Roger, hang out with us for a bit. It’s only nine o’clock. We’ll get out of here around ten.

— Okay, Paulin, I was going to leave. But seeing you, I’ve changed my mind. An hour shooting the breeze with you sounds good to me. It’s been so long since we last saw each other.

— Yeah, it’s been a while.

— So what about that novel of yours? I’ve got to believe you’re going to finish it this year. What title did you come up with?

— Still no title. In the end, I think I’ll leave it up to Raynand to give it a title once I’ve finished it. This novel is a curse. It just won’t let me rest.

— That’s a good sign, an anxious creative process. Isn’t that true, Paulin?

— More or less … And you, Roger, what have you been up to? Anything good?

— Fully mired in work at the hospital. This month I’m working the toughest, most exhausting service: the dispensary. Almost no sleep. You’ve got to stay up all night, on call for the unexpected.

— Do you ever have the day shift?

— Of course. There’s plenty of turnover. We’re on rotation. But it’s still hard. For example, yesterday I worked from six in the morning to six at night. And I had a pretty tough day because of something of a strange case.

— What happened?

— It was about ten in the morning. A patient in his fifties shows up with a referral. Pale face. Glassy eyes. Shriveled-up shoes. Clothes full of patches, but well ironed. I was pretty sure those were his best clothes. I gave him my full attention, asking him methodically to give me all the information on the onset of an illness he claimed to be suffering from. Weakly, he explained to me that he’d been feeling a shooting pain in his back. He coughed at night. He barely ever slept. The thing is, he said, if this keeps up I could lose my job. Doctor, I can’t be unemployed again, he implored; I can’t afford to take to my bed; do something for me, and the good Lord will reward you a hundredfold. He explained to me that he’d worked as a road mender for the past twenty years. I had him lie down so as to check him out with my stethoscope. What I found horrified me. We’re not talking about a death rattle. It was an absolute pulmonary cyclone. A real thoracic storm. With every breath, veritable blasts traversed the poor man’s pulmonary alveoli, which had been largely replaced by innumerable caverns. In my ears, it was like violent gusts of wind in what was left of his lungs, irreparably eaten away by tuberculosis. He stayed lying down. I did my best to reassure him. I was going to hospitalize him. He thanked me with a limpid smile that moved me deeply. I left for a few minutes and came back with some hospitalization forms so that he might take advantage of a stay in a sanatorium. When I came back into the little room, I told him that it had worked, that we’d take care of him. He didn’t answer. I went closer to the exam table. Harrowing shock. In my brief absence, the poor road mender had already died.

Roger is quiet for a moment. He fills his glass and continues his story.

— I was upset for the rest of the day.

— I understand you, brother, says Paulin.

— I’d just become aware of the tragic reality of intolerable injustices. I discovered the deplorable absurdity of life. That of a man who’d spent twenty years cleaning. Scrubbing. Sweeping. Keeping the city clean. And he’d just passed away. Like the dirty water he’d pushed along with his broom. Sidewalks with smelly sewers. For twenty years, he’d done nothing else. His whole life, for that matter. And here it was that his breath had been snuffed out in the great void of his destroyed lungs. It was then that I understood the meaning of his limpid smile when he thanked me. For the first time in his existence as a brute laborer he’d found someone to take care of him. In a hospital room. Supreme, unique joy. I also understood his patched-up shoes. His worn but clean clothes. He wanted to treat himself to a final luxury. A poor man’s final elegance. Convinced that he was living the final scene of a comedy. Or a tragedy. Depending on which loge you’re sitting in. He had to die clean, despite his poverty. To leave cleanly from a world that had never taken the time to show compassion for the suffering of others, much less for that of some anonymous wretch. And, above all, I discovered, with a pang in my heart, that we all played a part in this. We’re all responsible for the shipwreck of our society.