Heading South (3 page)

“She can't bring herself to say your name out loud. I think she's afraid of something . . . Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Go fuck yourself, Chico,” I say, standing up.

She is sitting at the back of the room.

“What's the matter, Simone?”

She keeps her head down.

“If you don't answer, I'll leave.”

She looks up. Eyes filled with tears.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Where did you get that idea? I saw you on Monday.”

“Monday! Don't you feel like an eternity has gone by since then?”

“It's only Thursday, Simone. It's only three days, not even that . . .”

“That's three days when I don't know where I am or who I am or what I'm supposed to do.”

“You went to school, though?”

“No.”

She looks me straight in the eye. Her face a blank.

“Can I see you?”

“I'm right here, Simone.”

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

She looks down.

“I want you, Fanfan, I want to be alone with you for a little while. I'd like you to be just with me, just for an hour . . . Is that too much to ask?”

“No, but it'll have to be here.”

So I stay with her for an hour in that little room. She never stops crying, and holding my hand tightly. Every so often she leans her head on my shoulder while rubbing the palm of my left hand. Then suddenly she rears back and stares at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then she kisses my ear. That's her idea of happiness. And then Chico takes her home. I can only guess what they talked about along the way.

MY MOTHER IS
busy sewing in the middle of the night.

“You should get some sleep, Mama.”

“No, dear, I have to finish this dress. Madame Saint-Pierre is coming to pick it up tomorrow.”

I fall asleep to the regular rhythm of the sewing machine. As usual, for that matter.

I'M STILL IN
my room, lying on my narrow cot, reading a book about jazz that Denz lent me, when Madame Saint-Pierre arrives.

“Oh, Madeleine! You've finished it already.”

“I worked on it all night,” my mother says humbly.

“I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have. You must be dead tired now.”

“I always work like this . . . I have two growing children who are very dear to me and I have to bring them up myself.”

“I know. Maryse is with us. She has a rare intelligence. Oh, what a beautiful dress! You are truly a matchless marvel, my dear . . .”

“But you haven't tried it on yet.”

“I trust you, Madeleine, I'm sure it will make me look ravishing.”

I listen to this chit-chat from my bed, feeling distraught.

“Can I speak to you a moment, Madeleine?” Madame Saint-Pierre suddenly says, her voice becoming almost hoarse.

“Of course . . .”

I take all of this in with a growing sense of unease. Maybe I went too far, and she's going to complain to my mother about me. In which case I'd have about two seconds to get dressed and dash out the back door that opens onto the courtyard. My mother would never forgive me if she lost Madame Saint-Pierre's friendship, even if she does know that it's nothing but a superficial relationship. As far as my mother is concerned, Madame Saint-Pierre holds Maryse's future in the palm of her hand. Damn! What the hell was I thinking, taking such a huge risk? I can get what I want from Simone, or Minouche. But Madame Saint-Pierre is such a mature woman. She's one of the Pétionville bourgeoisie. At the time she might have been impressed by my behaviour, but when she got home, when she'd had time to think about it for a while, she must have realized she'd been had by an impertinent little shithead. Which is what I am! Damn! Damn! Damn! And damn! The trap is closing in around me. I'm going to have to leave my cosy little nest and forage for myself in the urban jungle. And I have no idea when I'll be able to come back home. My mother is going to want my balls for bookends. Madame Saint-Pierre will no doubt find some excuse to kick Maryse out of her school. All those long nights my mother spent hunched over her sewing machine, for nothing. What an asshole I am. Totally. Barely ten minutes ago I was lying here, minding my own business, thinking I should get up and have some lunch, it was almost eleven o'clock, the time I usually get up on Saturdays, and now here I am little better than a mangy mutt. Damn! Where the hell did my bloody pants get to?

“What is it you want to tell me, Madame Saint-Pierre?”

“I don't know if this will shock you or not, but I want a short dress.”

“How short?”

“Above the knee. I want to have my hair cut short, too . . . What do you think, Madeleine?”

“I think it's good to change your style once in a while.”

“It's the first time . . . I don't know what's come over me. I feel like a giddy schoolgirl . . .”

Madame Saint-Pierre's joyous laughter, followed by a long silence.

For my part, I've heard enough. I'm already dressed, and without making a sound I slip out the back door.

A FEW HOURS LATER
, at the Rex, I'm listening with one ear to Minouche's carrying on.

“The next time I run into that hussy I'm going to scratch her eyes out, take it from me!”

“What have you got against Simone?”

“She's a little snob, that's what . . . She thinks she's an intellectual because she's read three books. The slut! I know what I'll do, I'll tear her clothes off her back in front of everyone. But she might like that, come to think of it, the little lesbian.”

“Will you please stop with the gratuitous vulgarity, Minouche? You're not impressing anyone.”

“Listen, Fanfan, you know what I'm like; I haven't changed . . .”

“You're getting upset about nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? That bitch came to my house and started screaming at me. It's lucky for her I wasn't home; I'd have torn the tongue right out of her head!”

“Finish your hamburger. Anyway, it was you who went to her house.”

“Where do you get off, talking to me like that? Are you sleeping with her? What am I saying? Of course you're sleeping with her . . . So what's new, you sleep with everyone. Have you tried doing it with animals? I'd be surprised if . . .”

“Stop it, Minouche! Ah, here's Chico . . .”

“Oh, him! I can't stand him, with his weasel's face . . . He's only after one thing . . .”

“Careful, he's a friend.”

“A friend!” Minouche says with disdain. “All he wants is for you to pass on your girlfriends when you're done with them. He's like a dog waiting for his master to toss him a bone. Deep down, what he really wants is for you to fuck him in the ass.”

“You don't mince words, do you?”

“I call a spade a spade.”

Chico comes and sits at our table.

“Hello, Minouche,” he says, all smiles.

Without unclenching her teeth, Minouche picks up her math book and leaves.

“Anyone'd think she hates your guts.”

“What's up with her?” Chico asks, not attaching much importance to the question.

“She's pissed off because Simone is a classier chick than she is, that's all.”

“Right. I'm going to Torgeau to see my uncle, who promised to give me some money. Want to come?”

“I don't want to climb the hill up to Torgeau for a measly five gourdes.”

“No,” says Chico, laughing. “He's not like the others, he's a generous guy. He's my mother's younger brother. He works for Téléco.”

“I didn't ask for his
CV
, Chico . . . How much do you think he'll fork out?”

“At least twenty gourdes, maybe more . . .”

“Well, then, let's go . . .”

SUDDENLY, JUST AFTER
the Au Beurre Chaud bakery:

“That's strange,” Chico says. “That's the third time that car has passed us in less than five minutes.”

“I didn't notice.”

The Mercedes pulls over a little farther on.

“I'm going to check it out,” Chico offers.

“Leave it, Chico, I'll go . . . I know who it is . . . I'll meet you tonight at the Rex Café.”

“All right . . . You know,” he adds, “one day you're going to read about yourself in history books.”

“At the Rex, about eight o'clock.”

“Ciao!” Chico calls before turning the corner.

I get into the car, a new Mercedes that is practically running on its hubcaps. We take the road to Pétionville. She's a good driver (black driving gloves), but I can tell she's nervous. The vein in her right temple. Not a word. Jaws clamped tight. The car is smooth on the rough road. She drives straight down the centre of it. Everything is clean, quiet, luxurious. A hint of perfume. What a class act! She looks straight ahead. Think it'll rain? It's already drizzling. A myriad of tiny sprinkles are hitting the windshield. Without letting her see me I check the car out, at least as much as I can without turning my head. What do I see? An ant going for a quiet stroll on the dashboard. It passes in front of me. I reach out and crush it. No witnesses. Calmly, I watch the countryside go by: houses, people, trees. We arrive in Pétionville. The road is a bit wet and quite steep in certain places, but the car is so comfortable I never feel we're in danger. Flat calm. So happy to be in this heap that I almost forget about Madame Saint-Pierre sitting beside me. Still nervous. Then we're at Kenscoff, in the heights of Pétionville, high above the heat of Port-au-Prince. Where the air is purer. Switzerland without the snow. I feel like I'm a million miles away. In another world. A world gained neither by work nor study. Not even by money. Anyone living up here has put a wall between themselves and the new. Their only enemy is overpopulation. And the mountain is their ultimate refuge. The car makes a quick left turn onto a hilly road that soon gives onto a dirt lane. No house in sight. Perfect place for a crime. The car is now completely stopped, but Madame Saint-Pierre keeps her hands clenched on the steering wheel. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She starts to speak, then checks herself at the last second. Her chin points towards the sky, already sprinkled with stars so low I feel I could reach out and grab a cluster of them in my hand. Madame Saint-Pierre's worried brow. Twin creases at the corners of her mouth. I sit motionless, waiting. Time is on my side. Suddenly, Madame Saint-Pierre's look becomes almost clouded. Her breathing quickens. She tries to calm herself by flattening her hands against the wheel.

“I don't want . . .”

Her face is closing down now.

“For one thing, you could be my son . . .”

Another pause, this one shorter.

“That's it: you could be my son,” she says, as though she has made a decision.

She turns towards me. An infinitely gentle look. Like a plea.

“And so?” I say, my voice even.

“And so . . .”

She doesn't finish the sentence. Her head must be on fire. She lowers her eyes, then slowly raises her head. Her mass of thick hair changes sides. There is an expression of perfect astonishment on her face. A wounded beast who doesn't even know where she's been hit. In her womb? In her heart?

“I don't want to,” she says, a whisper.

I slide as far away from her as I can get, pushing myself up against the passenger door. She thinks I'm trying to get away. Mild panic in her eyes. Is she frightening me? Her eyes question me mutely. Is it her age? Her scent? Do her hands disgust me? She doesn't understand why I don't want to take her. She must give herself. Suddenly I've turned the tables. Now I'm the prey. She leans towards me. Hesitant. Her upper body turned in my direction. And slowly she unbuttons her blouse. Her eyes sparkle in the darkness. There is a full moon. She touches me with the tips of her fingers, as though I were a holy relic. Then with her mouth. I relax into it. She licks me with the tip of her tongue. Like she wants to taste me. The salt of my skin. Then with her lips. Her huge, carnivorous mouth. My body is slick with her saliva. A pulling back. A throaty cry. A mouth twisted with desire too long held back. I hear nothing but cries, chuckles, whimperings. A curious lexicon of onomatopoeias, interjections, borborygmi. Then the keening of a wounded beast. Interminable even as it peaks. And down she comes.

Ten minutes later.

“My God!” she breathes. “What was that?”

THE DRIVE BACK
seems much shorter. Not a word has been spoken in the car. Me, silent as always. Her head in some world to which I have no access. Even with the tumult raging inside her she retains a certain elegant air. I slide my eyes sideways to take in her long, thoroughbred's legs. When we leave Pétionville she says, simply:

“If Madeleine learns about this she'll never forgive me.”

I say nothing. I get the impression she is not trying to dissuade me from telling my mother about us. Something like that.

She seems to me to be a courageous woman, able to face up to her responsibilities. Maybe she just wants me to know that whatever wrong has been done has been done by her. Poor Madame Saint-Pierre.

She doesn't realize how the city has changed.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” she asks in a very sweet, almost submissive tone of voice.

“At the Rex Café.”

“I saw you there yesterday afternoon.”

The car makes a left turn, cruises the length of National Palace and turns onto Capois Street, then makes a right and comes to a stop in front of the Rex.

“Goodbye, Madame Saint-Pierre.”

“Can't you call me Françoise? . . . It would please me so much . . .”

I open the door. She grabs my arm and turns my face towards hers, gives me a long kiss.

“Would you like it if I cut my hair short?”

An anxious tic at the corner of her mouth.