The World is Moving Around Me (12 page)

The Tire

The “little mechanic” (little because he's poor) came to fix my brother-in-law's car this morning at 6:30. He's a frequent visitor because my brother-in-law, like many citizens of Port-au-Prince, has a passionate relationship with his mechanic. They see each other at least once a week—two or three times a day during a crisis. I have a friend who leaves his car with his mechanic and takes it back only when he really needs it—his way of paying him. My brother-in-law doesn't go that far. Their relationship is based on tires. A good tire (forget your criteria) can last at least a week. A bad one, not even a day. Before the earthquake, the “little mechanic” (actually, he's tall and thin) came by every morning to inspect the tire. Any number of times, my sister, who has a practical side, offered to pay for a new tire with her own money (often it's the right front wheel) just so she wouldn't have to see the “little mechanic” every morning, but my brother-in-law, who treasures this ritual as much as his
Nouvelliste
every evening or his morning cup of coffee, always turned down my sister's offer. Sitting on the gallery, every morning I am treated to the same scene. There's a knock at the gate. My brother-in-law goes to open it. The “little mechanic” enters. They make small talk about the intensity level of things in the public sphere—in other words, my brother-in-law wants to know if there was gunfire last night in the poorer parts of town. Then they move on to more serious issues: a meticulous inspection of the air pressure of the four tires. The “little mechanic” carefully examines each tire, then lingers on the right front. Will it survive the day? The answer is often negative, but hope springs eternal. My brother-in-law asks him to proceed, then goes back to the dining room for a second cup of coffee. This morning, it took longer than usual. The “little mechanic” was happy to find everyone safe and sound, and the house still habitable. The wall collapsed, but the “little mechanic” thinks his brother can fix it today. My brother-in-law figured it was a good deal, but just as he was about to agree to the terms, we heard an awful scream from deep inside the house. My sister's cry of protest: she would not accept seeing the mechanic and his stone-mason brother every morning for the rest of her life. The “little mechanic” burst out laughing. Even my brother-in-law managed a smile. The deal was postponed. For the “little mechanic,” January 12 was no catastrophe. His family came through the earthquake unscathed, though their house is in ruins. “Nobody's dead. Material losses aren't what matters,” he added with a half smile. “We're all still alive, and that's what counts, right, madame?” He looked to my mother. “Hallelujah!” she cried happily. The “little mechanic” can always count on a cup of coffee here because he is, above all, a good Christian in my mother's eyes. Social classes don't exist for her; she judges people only according to the quality of their faith. And now she's exhorting him (her hands clasped in prayer and her face turned heavenward) to maintain his faith in Jesus, the greatest architect of all, who would never leave a Christian family in adversity without offering his help. Chatting away, the “little mechanic” has stepped up the pace, since my brother-in-law has to get to his school, even if it is in ruins like most of the houses in the Pacot neighborhood. He removes the tire and replaces it with a new one. As she goes past, my sister taps me on the arm, her signal that the new tire is a “customer.” That's our code, and it means the tire has been used several times on the same car, and is about to give up the ghost. She recognized it right away.

The Panic

My mother is slowly getting over the inflammation in her leg. Her heart rate is more normal. Her appetite is returning. She's lost that listless mood that made me so afraid. The last time we sat together in her room, she spoke of her own death. Not directly—that's not like her. In a soft voice, she warned that she couldn't wait for me very much longer. She has spent her life waiting for my return. She lowered her head as she spoke then smiled up so discreetly that you'd have to be watching for it. She's decided to return to church the next Sunday. She's eager to see that handicapped man who, my sister told me, is the only person who really depends on my mother. Although she's frail and ill, she knows she's in better condition than that man. Slumped in front of the church day and night, he scarcely raises his eyes when people give him alms. But when he sees my mother, his body moves in her direction, and he tries to lift himself from his chair. His frenetic dance (with drooling and dissonant gestures) frightens some of the faithful, but the joy that shines on his face makes my mother happy. She needs that bond, especially since she is beginning to depend on others. She is facing the unknown valiantly, but I see the panic in her eyes.

Madness

Mental health problems are the lowest on the list of current illnesses. Madness is not considered a sickness, but the result of cruel destiny. It's a consolation to know that in poor countries, the insane are not excluded. They fulfill their function as madmen with the right to act mad. In richer countries, where they receive special care, the mad are segregated. They have no social function. They are objects of shame and are hidden away. They disappear from circulation, often from one day to the next. Only to reappear once they have shown the ability to imitate the rest of society. In Haiti, people make cruel mockery of your anxieties. Sometimes that shock treatment is beneficial. Those who can't stay on track are pushed to the side, and the crowd moves on. The word “trauma” has been heard lately from the mouths of international specialists describing the earthquake survivors. Of course this kind of situation calls for attention and care, but will people be willing to accept help? It's difficult to treat an illness denied by the population and the person most concerned. The only thing recognized as discomfort here is merciless pain that refuses to abate after three days.

Laughter and Death

You have to talk about it in the coarsest of ways, using vulgar words. The way people still do at gatherings in the countryside. Baron Samedi's exaggeratedly sexual dance begins the festivities on the Day of the Dead. The extreme carnival of the
guédés
(voodoo spirits), who pour alcohol and vinegar into their mouths as they crunch on broken bottles adds to the atmosphere. Sex is the energy closest to death. In the Middle Ages, the orgasm was called
la petite mort
. This stuff isn't made for parlors and powdered cheeks. Poets don't do very well with it, except for Villon, who pleads for pity for the hanged men twisting in agony, left along the side of the road, at the mercy of the elements. Men have never domesticated death. It has always been tribal, ordinary, and obscene. Death is the origin of life, not the other way around.

A New City

People have the right to say what kind of city they want to live in. Even better, they should be able to get involved in drawing up the plans. That being said, they might admit they don't have the necessary talent. And while they're at it, understand as well that they won't be alone on this new ground: eight million individuals have the same rights they do. The work site could end up absorbing the energy of several generations of men and women of all social strata. We shouldn't lose sight of the fact that the real inhabitants of the new city have not yet been born. I mean those who will know the former city only through old photographs, since things will have changed considerably in thirty or forty years. Building a city is a much more ambitious project than a bridge or a skyscraper. On the purely technical level, it takes knowledge that demands the participation of several trades. The most important material is the spirit. A spirit open to the world, not concentrated on itself. Let's abandon the insular mentality that keeps us in warm, sterile self-satisfaction. A new city that will compel us to enter a new life. That's what will take time. Time we haven't given ourselves.

A Reunion

I came to Port-au-Prince for secondary school, after a childhood watched over by my grandmother in a small provincial town. Port-au-Prince was an enormous city, and my mother, my sister, and my aunts were the only people I knew. We all lived together on avenue Bouzon, near the cemetery. We lived near the Sylvio Cator Stadium, where the national soccer championships took place, and close to the Salomon market, the Montparnasse movie theater, and place Saint-Alexandre which, years later, would become place Carl Brouard in honor of the anarchist poet. The neighborhood was lively, and it both attracted and frightened me. My arrival would change the rhythm of the house. My mother and my aunts were women of calm and reserved manner (except Aunt Raymonde, who had a melodramatic streak) and my sister an obedient adolescent who spent most of her time at the house helping my mother with the housework. My mother carefully selected the people we were allowed to associate with. Among the rare acceptable families were the Preptits. The father was a former military officer put under house arrest by Papa Doc, which forced him inside for years. The only time you saw him on the street was late in the evening. The mother was a discreet, refined woman who tended toward sadness. You felt that they had once been a brilliant, worldly couple (a painting of the young officer and his wife in the living room spoke of carefree happiness) who were invited out everywhere. Then suddenly the void swallowed them up. For me, all that was very mysterious. It took me a long time to realize the disgrace was political. The energy of the five Preptit children kept the house from sinking into depression. My friend Claude (the eldest) was so serious he even played seriously. But when he did laugh, you could feel the happy child whose sense of responsibility, thrust upon him too early, had made him solemn. I was more the dreamy type. We played ping-pong on Saturday mornings. His father built us a rudimentary table. In the summer, we organized a local badminton championship in the big yard next door. The taste for games was rare in Haiti, and it came from his father who had played them at the military academy. We kept up our friendship until I left the neighborhood. We lost track of each other when I changed schools. A few years later, I left Haiti, but Claude stayed on. In Montreal I heard that he'd become a very good engineer; the trade fit him like a glove. Later, when I was at a literary festival in Port-au-Prince (
Livres en folie
), Claude came up to the table where I was sitting. People had been talking a lot about him for the last months, and the reason was obvious: he was an engineer, and he'd been predicting a major earthquake in Haiti for years. Preptit stated that Port-au-Prince would be the hardest hit. His knowledgeable manner and serious tone made you listen. His predictions frightened people in a country never short on disasters: floods, hurricanes, dictatorship. But in Haiti, if you're frightened one minute, you're dancing the next. This tried-and-true method keeps people from sinking into collective depression. In our society, it's better to be diverse and changeable. And not take a blind alley all alone. Preptit stuck with his predictions, though people thought he was exaggerating. They started whispering about the state of his mental health. When invited to speak in the media, his answers never varied.

A brief dialogue between him and a journalist (imaginary, but based on information gathered from various sources):

Q: When will it happen?

A: The earthquake could occur at any time.

Q: Could you be more precise?

A: Now, or in ten years.

Q: Now?

A: Yes. Even as we are speaking.

Q: And what are the possible risks?

A: Difficult to evaluate, but everything indicates enormous proportions.

Q: Thousands of deaths?

A: Possibly, perhaps more.

His academic tone made people nervous. They were fascinated by this man, who calmly announced the coming apocalypse. In the street, they stopped to question him. Why didn't he leave if he was so sure what was going to happen? He wasn't the kind of man who would abandon his city. I recognized my friend from avenue Bouzon. The son of a military man. You don't leave a sinking ship. I looked up and greeted him. We smiled. He had wanted to see me again. Silence between us. How was it for you? He told me he was in the yard when it happened. He knew it was at least a magnitude seven. Here was the event he'd been predicting for ten years. What did you think at the time? “Honestly, it was a relief. It was the proof that I wasn't crazy.” I saw a lost look in his eyes. He'd done everything to warn the population, but no one had listened. Instead, they mocked him. Now that it's too late, everyone is consulting him. The people in line started getting impatient. He shook my hand, gave me a sad smile that reminded me of my mother, then disappeared into the crowd.

Secret Ceremony

Now that foreigners are finding their way to Haiti, they'll be sure to fall under the spell of voodoo again. Volunteers (all those former religious types who have recycled themselves into humanitarian workers) and intellectuals are going to simmer in the old colonial kettle. Instead of wasting precious time chasing after fake voodoo ceremonies, they would be better off trying to understand the nation by seriously studying its vision of the world. The first man who says, “I attended a secret ceremony” should be laughed out of the country. If it really was secret, you wouldn't be accepted. Why was your presence tolerated at a secret ceremony? For money? You're quick to answer the question: “No, I didn't pay.” Which had you concluding it was a real ceremony. In any case, either you paid in advance without realizing it (the ceremony organized for your benefit was a reward for your past good deeds), or you'll pay later. One way or another. There are so many rules you can't know in this universe heavy with false mysteries. If you're there, the ceremony isn't secret. Remember the old saying: if someone else knows, it's not a secret.

Ancient Knowledge