Franketienne - Ready to Burst

— They’re terrifying with that reddish hair they have.

— They look like crusty pigs.

— An army of extraterrestrials.

— They give off a smell of cloves and parsley.

— At first I thought they came from another planet.

— I just couldn’t believe they were inhabitants of Earth.

— They’re hideous mutants.

— It’s the bitter cold that cooks their skin.

— They must be from some faraway galaxy.

— Lower your voices, I’m telling you. They might hear us and condemn us to be tortured at the stake.

— What are you talking about?

— It means having a stake shoved into your anus and through the intestines.

— Do they really do that?

— Yes. But they have their own way of doing it. And they boast about the originality of their obscene and morbid ways.

— So how do they do it?

— I got an answer to that on the first day of my imprisonment. They were torturing some adolescent accused of rebellion. There were maybe ten torturers. The boy died. Mostly of indignation.

— How’s that?

— They don’t use the stake to impale you. They’re raging homosexuals, endowed with enormous neon-headed golden pricks. They sodomize the victim one after the next. And they do it publicly.

— Watch out! They’re looking at us.

— We’d better separate for now.

— No, this isn’t the moment, says Ganord. And I have to talk to you. All last night I was kept awake by the hum of patrol cars and the bursts of machine-gun fire.

— What can that mean? asks Raynand.

— It means something big … I learned from a newcomer that things are heating up outside. The patriots are fighting in the countryside for the liberation of the nation. For our part, we can’t just let ourselves rot in this rattrap. Resignation and inaction yield nothing. It’s time we do something.

— The most urgent thing to do is escape, notes Raynand. We’ve got to come up with a plan to get out of here and act on it as soon as possible.

— Indeed, there’s no other solution, says one of the other prisoners. Ganord is the head of an important resistance network. His presence is needed with the militants to organize their operations.

— We’ll figure a way out of here, adds Ganord with a meditative air.

— Quiet now. The guards are looking at us suspiciously, remarks Raynand.

As if by chance, right after that conversation, their confinement got stricter inside the prison. Going out in the courtyard to get some air was absolutely forbidden. Like a rat trapped in a cage, Raynand walks in circles in his cell. Thinking … Observing … There was no other solution — he’d have to force open the gates of hell. Get out of there. Keep his head together for the moment. Wait for the best opportunity. Thus passed several miserable weeks of waiting.

Then one Sunday, under orders from the commander, the prisoners are brought out, one after the other. They walk several times around the yard to stretch their limbs. Walking. Nothing but walking. Without speaking. Without looking at one another. They’ve been walking for an hour. They ceaselessly walk around the perimeter of a rectangle. A monotonous path … Shifting of the hips. Crossing of the legs. Irritating alternation. Left foot forward. Then the right. Outside, there’s some sort of racket. A wedding of drums, bamboo vaksin , ‡and chants. Raynand realizes it must be a carnival Sunday.

Left foot forward, then the right. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Completing a full circle.

As he walks, Raynand looks out of the corner of his eye at the main gate, guarded by two armed men. Fatigue gradually overcomes him. First in the ankles, then the knees. Then in the lower back and the spine. Left foot forward, then the right. Left. Right. Completing, who knows, perhaps the thousandth circle.

And reaching the point in his trajectory that brought him closest to the gate, like a wild beast pouncing on its prey, Raynand leapt forcefully onto one of the guards and knocked him out with a powerful blow to the neck. The other guard, who’d just opened the gate to let pass an empty old cart, turned around, completely surprised. Without having time to react, he’s hit by Raynand’s left fist, a masterful uppercut that fractures his jaw. In the same moment, on his feet, crouched in a position of attack, Raynand calls out to his comrades in the midst of an indescribable confusion.

— Let’s get out of here! Ganord! Come quickly! My friends, let’s go!

He stands up. Takes a step toward the exit. But snatched by some irresistible force, he stumbles in an endless fall. Weightless. When he comes to, he smiles. Painfully, he focuses his gaze and tries to make out his surroundings and to understand what happened to him. Through a veil, he recognizes Ganord’s face. The latter holds Raynand’s head in one of his hands. With the other, he wipes a bloody handkerchief across Raynand’s lips.

— Ganord, where am I? asks Raynand, weakly.

— In the van we were able to take from them, thanks to your bravery. You did a great job, Raynand. We’ve left the main road. They won’t be able to find us now.

— What happened, Ganord?

— You were courageous, Raynand. The man driving this van got you in the chest. We took care of him.

— Where am I?

— In the van. They won’t find us anymore. We’ll fight this battle to the very end.

— Do you think we’ll win, Ganord?

— I’m sure we will, Raynand. And you’ll get better quickly.

— Will I see him — wherever it is we’re going?

— See who?

— I’d like to see him again. I’d like Paulin to be close to me.

— Who is Paulin?

— My best friend. The one I’ve been looking for everywhere. I never found him … I walked … I ran … my whole life … My friend has always been a step ahead of me.

— Really, who is he?

— Maybe he’s just me … Me at a distance … Me in the conditional … Yet, one time, I got close to him … I called after him … I called loudly after my friend Paulin who fled far away from me. I screamed after him … And my unhinged throat only let escape a little yelp … Inarticulate. The sound of a broken accordion. The bark of a wounded dog.

For a few minutes, Raynand is quiet. The vibrations of the car pierce his body with little electrical shocks. Through the undercarriage and the windows he can hear an irritating creaking on the bumpy road. Reaching a turn, in a space of abundant vegetation, he asks Ganord to stop the van so he can contemplate the frolickings of a rara band dancing a few meters from the road in the shade of a giant mapou tree with its lush green branches.

Leaning against Ganord’s chest, his lips dry and his gaze pallid, Raynand lets his eyes pass over the orchestra. Two drummers. Three vaksin players. The great master samba , §the choir of backup singers. And then the vast crowd of fanatic participants. Devilish revelers. Curious folks attracted and spellbound by the carnival music. Exuberant fans of Mardi Gras. The jubilance of the rowdy crowd. Transvestite dancers. Chubby-cheeked masks. Burlesque heads. A paradoxical mix of slovenly exhibitions, triumphant rage, and macabre masquerade. A noisily theatrical and erotic releasing of tension. A mind-boggling happening. And someone dressed up as a pregnant woman who makes him think of Paulin. Of the novel. Of the title of the novel.

— Oh, yes. The novel!.. he mutters. Ready … ready … to burst! And with the flat of his hand, Ganord slowly closes the lids of Raynand’s eyes, fixed and infinitely sad.

*A rhythmic dance style associated with the Gède nanchon in vodou ceremonies.