Franketienne - Ready to Burst

— So, Mama, have you finished grinding the coffee? says Raynand, coming through the door.

— Not yet, darling, responds Marguerite in a voice marked with melancholy tenderness.

— But what’s wrong, Mama? You seem like you’ve been crying. What happened while I was gone?

— Somebody named Gaston came to see you. He was furious and made threats against you. It has something to do with Solange.

— So that’s it, then — we aren’t free? Since when can’t a person go for a walk, wander around?

— Try to understand, my darling. You’re not yet even fully recovered. You’re still ill. And I’m just sick about it. It wasn’t long ago that I nearly died of shock when Paulin brought you here, bones broken, face swollen with bruises.

— But, Mama, I haven’t done anything wrong. They’re the ones persecuting me, as if my very presence is an annoyance.

— Clearly that’s the case. Your presence has become intolerable. The only solution is to leave, especially seeing as you’re not really doing much of anything here.

— So you want me to leave, Mama?

— Yes, my son. You’ll never have the upper hand with them. I’m old — there’s nothing left of me but skin and bones. I wouldn’t even make a good mouthful. They want a nice healthy, muscular body. Get out of here — as far away as you can.

— You’re asking me to run away, Mama. To give in like a coward to the scare tactics of some good-for-nothing.

— Think about it, my son. I’m speaking from experience and from my heart. I only want what’s best for you. Listen to me. Leave, my child. These are not idle threats. Gaston has connections in the government; he’s a known killer. I’m begging you, Raynand. Leave immediately.

— Fine … let’s say I accept. How would we manage the trip?

— I’ll go see our neighbor, captain of LA GRÂCE DE DIEU — the one who traffics between the islands. We’ll work something out for the costs. You’ll go to Nassau. You’ll find work there. You’ll make a lot of money. After a while, you could maybe even go on to New York.

— So you’re set on me leaving forever?

— The years run by like water, my darling. This is the time to think of your future, you’ll see.

Shirtless, wearing only a pair of underpants, torn at the crotch, Raynand listens carefully to his mother. For the first time, he seems to take the old woman’s suggestions seriously.

— Tell me, Mama, won’t you be sad living all alone?

— Of course, I’ll be sad in the beginning. But I’ll manage. I’m agreeing to this little sacrifice for you. For both of us. For both our happiness. For your safety.

— You still haven’t told me how we’ll manage this.

— I’ll go talk to Murat, the captain, this very night. He won’t refuse me this favor. It’s his job to bring Haitians to Nassau.

— But, Mama, we don’t have any money. A trip like this is expensive. We don’t even have enough money to pay for food or the rent.

— Let me handle it, my dear. There’s no other solution for the moment. All the young people in the neighborhood are doing the same thing. Don’t stay here. Go — and forget Solange. Forget Gaston and all the other cannibals who eat the flesh of our children, who chew up their bones. Go far away from these people who rip apart mothers’ guts, trample women’s hearts, and devour the best young growth in the fields we’ve been cultivating endlessly.

— I understand what you’re saying, Mama. I accept it. You can go ahead and speak to Captain Murat.

— I’ll make sure you get out of here as soon as possible. In Nassau you can sort out your papers to establish residency in New York. It’s much easier over there. Don’t stay and waste away here. The Caribbean gods will open the way for you, my son.

His vision wearied by the room’s low ceiling, Raynand listens attentively to his mother’s words. Then he lets his mind wander. Numbed by the overwhelming summer heat. Heavy headed. His gaze follows the buzzing, staccato flight of an enormous fly. A screwworm fly … that’s a sign of good luck and of bounty; a sign of wealth to come. This age we’re living in is made for traveling. In tenth grade, the literature professor often said that any intellectual worth his salt had to travel … See the wide world … New York Harbor … the Eiffel Tower … Spit into the Seine … Piss in the Saint Laurence … See other faces … Open his body to all the winds of the universe … And his heart to the many faces of love.

— Mama, I’m set on leaving. As you wish. I’ll go.

— Thank you, Raynand. I knew you’d understand. Thank you, my darling.

I was ten years old when I began to appreciate the power and the omnipresence of money. At all times. In all places. In all things. In the things I loved the most. In things I’d believed were nature’s offerings to man. It made me sick. I couldn’t accept the nauseating and revolting idea that everything can be bought or sold, depending where you stand. If ever I’d even looked for the border — the dividing line — between buyers and sellers, I wouldn’t have been able to find it. With a pang of anguish, I faced the fact that you have to have money to taste such things as candies and fruit. Reluctantly, at the beginning of every month, I handed over wads of dollar bills to the potbellied bursar at Saint-Martial High School. A red-nosed priest who stank of garlic. Who, clearing his throat, used to receive me while seated behind his big desk. Who smelled like bad wine. Who counted my poor mother’s money, three wrinkles in his forehead. Whom I loathed for kicking me out of school. Twice. Because my monthly bill hadn’t been paid, he made sure to explain .

My bitterness was even greater when I realized that I also needed money to be treated by a doctor. To acquire a much-needed pair of shoes. Or in order for Santa Claus to come. Moreover, I was enraged by all these privations. Source of my first revolts against the adult world. My rage against the system. My refusal to obey laws I didn’t understand. My taking a stand against social injustice. My dissidence. My revenge. I resolved to protest in every way. The one who had to deal most often with my bad behavior and my rebellions was Uncle Bernard. Owner of a big boutique, he was the Croesus of the family. Exceptionally stingy, he never forgave a cent of debt among family members. He hated the poor. His heart was made of neither flesh nor wood. For the flesh is weak, and wood heats up when it burns. Truth was, he had no heart. Completely ungenerous. He loved no one. He was harsh. Inflexible with everyone. Cruel. Indifferent to human suffering to the point where he’d refuse to offer the slightest help to my despairing mother, overwhelmed by the weight of her poverty. One day when we had nothing to put on the fire, we went to him, only to be treated like vile parasites. In front of people we didn’t even know. That’s when I decided to act in my own best interest. I initiated a veritable impoverishment campaign against him, stealing whatever I could from him … I went to his grocery store more frequently just so as to advance my plan for meting out justice. Not a day went by that I didn’t pilfer some can of something or other, or some money even. My lifestyle improved. I drank milk three times a day. At night I started smoking cigarettes in the toilets. As time went on, I increased my take to up to ten dollars a day, money I spent recklessly with boys from the neighborhood .

One morning when, as usual, I showed up at Uncle Bernard’s, I found the living room crowded with strangely dressed people. One of them was wearing a red coat and reading from a Bible with a black cover. I learned from Anna, the servant girl, that this was a Freemason ceremony. A spiritual event. A mystical happening. They’d come as a show of support for their brother-in-arms, victim of inexplicable thefts that had been occurring on a daily basis. They’d come to perform an exorcism of the haunted boutique. To chase away the thieving demon. I also learned that my uncle’s wife, for her part, had gone to see several Vodou priests and had just been given the magic recipe that would enable her to catch the thief. People were even predicting that the thief would be dead in less than three days, either when the clock struck twelve noon or at midnight. I stayed till the end of the ceremony, which ended at about eleven in the morning. That afternoon, before the sun had even finished setting, I’d already pilfered a twenty-dollar bill from my uncle’s cash register. And I went on messing with him for years. When I finally stopped stealing money from him — a purely personal decision — he died three days later. On a Saturday, at around noon. Result of a brain aneurysm, said the family doctor. His wife followed him to the grave that same year .