“I am not crazy,” I said, “I have seen the devils. And they’ll be back. They are armed. They don’t have faces and they wear red boots. Black and red, in golden helmets, that’s what they look like. I tell you: when the devils return none of us will escape.”
“He seems sincere,” muttered one of the patrol members.
“And he doesn’t seem to be crazy at all,” the commandant answered. “In fact, he’s admitted he wasn’t.”
“I saw them,” I slowly enunciated. “Black and red, in golden helmets. They move without noise but in the midnight silence you can make out the pounding of their boots and the sound of their voices. Their voices are like hissing bullets. They kill too, and the spilled blood disappears with the rising sun. At the stroke of midnight, prick up your ears, if you’re not scared.”
“Were dead bodies found in the street these last eight days?” asked the man with the pliers, who was growing concerned.
“Dead dogs,” the commandant answered, “and three children on the outskirts of town.”
Dr. Prémature came in with the corporal, trembling.
“Commandant,” said the corporal, twisting his hands, “the women on rue des Saints, led by Germaine, are inciting the crowd with their tales.”
“Two merchants were found dead along the trail to the coffee farms and people claim they’ve seen great black and red shapes running in the woods.”
“Mercy, Holy Virgin!” Marcia moaned. “They’re on their way to my house.”
“They’re there!” I exclaimed in an implacable voice. “I see them!”
And getting up, I slowly walked to the door, looking straight ahead, my hands contorted. The doctor watched me in silence, hands in his coat pockets. He turned to the commandant and said quietly:
“Commandant Cravache, these men are not in full possession of their faculties. Torturing them will be a complete waste of time.”
“Are you sure they’re crazy?” the commandant whispered. “In these godforsaken parts, everyone is called crazy by someone else. Do you take full responsibility for this diagnosis?”
“Look for yourself!” the doctor said.
André had gotten on Simon’s back, and Simon was prancing around with a beatific smile, winking at the man with the pliers. I scanned the surroundings from the doorway, my hand over my eyes. The glint in my fixed, haggard eyes must have been unbearable because the commandant walked up beside me and searched the horizon. Then, he roughly pulled André off Simon’s back. Raising his hand, he touched the scar on his forehead and said to him:
“Where did you get this?”
“I fell when I was little, like so,” André replied.
The commandant stared wildly at Dr. Prémature, leaned over and whispered to him:
“Dr. Prémature, three girls died this month from complications as the result of an abortion. I have received a number of complaints from their parents accusing you of rape and homicide. Either these men are in their right minds or I’ll bring your case to justice…”
“Did I ever say they were crazy?” the doctor exclaimed, becoming pale. “I was merely giving an initial diagnosis. I will have to examine the prisoners more carefully to make a definitive determination.”
“My advice to you is not to make a mountain out of a molehill or I will have no choice but to relieve you of your weapon.”
“They are not crazy!” the doctor exclaimed. “Just now I caught a glint of malice in that one’s eye. I’m certain they’re not insane.”
He was pointing a finger at me.
“You’re making me waste my time, Commandant Cravache, and I don’t much like it!” the man with the pliers suddenly roared. “You write to Port-au-Prince asking for reinforcements under the pretext that there’s a conspiracy. You tell us you found the plotters and then you turn over three loons and two sniveling females.”
“The commandant is new here,” Marcia intervened inopportunely. “I told him they were crazy but he didn’t want to believe me. Everyone in these parts knows they’re crazy. Even the children.”
“Quiet!” the commandant advised fiercely.
“Yes, sir, I’ll keep quiet, yes. Thank you, sir.”
The commandant was still looking at Dr. Prémature. He abruptly turned toward the man with the pliers and spoke with his eyes fixed on the doctor:
“Dr. Prémature,” he said, “have you observed the prisoners sufficiently to offer a diagnosis?”
“Yes,” the doctor answered.
“Are they insane?”
“No,” answered the doctor.
“Have them executed to set an example,” the man with the pliers concluded. “I’m in charge of deciding the prisoners’ fate, and I declare these men traitors to their country. Execute them and don’t waste time. You, Corporal, cuff them.”
“No!” Cécile cried.
“You others, the women, get the fuck out of here,” the man with the pliers added.
“Commandant,” Marcia said, “not to bother you either, sir, but last night, several men came into our cell and raped us.”
“Forget whatever you’ve seen or heard and anything that’s happened to you in this prison, unless you want me to rip out your tongue,” the commandant replied coldly.
“Yes, Commandant, thank you, Commandant.”
“I want to die, I want to die,” Cécile sobbed.
She was slowly getting dressed and weeping as she looked at me. I smiled at her so peacefully so serenely that she thought I was mad. André seemed to be asleep. Simon looked at the doctor with hatred, spit at his feet and shouted:
“Oh bugger me, just get it over with, get it over with.”
Am I hungry? Am I thirsty? I asked myself. Nothing seemed important. Not love. Not even death. They pushed us outside and we staggered to the place of execution.
“Oh Christ!” I cried. “Since they’re going to tie us to a post like they nailed you to the cross and cover our bodies with wounds, let our deaths mean something and don’t let our names become lost in oblivion.”
And it was then that the sky slowly opened up, and I saw angels in song descend on gleaming wings and take us away in their arms…
NOTES
All notes are the author’s unless otherwise indicated. Marie Vieux-Chauvet writes in an elegant literary French, which she interrupts with colloquialisms, creolisms, and even English in an effort to create specific voices. The creolisms-that is, the use of Creole words such as morne or combite in French texts-are an homage to the indigeniste (nationalist) Haitian literary tradition and a departure from bovarysme, the imitation of French styles practiced by the earliest, generally mulatto, Haitian writers. At times she uses the creolisms as if they were idioms. For example, her peasants refer to themselves as nègres, a Creole word related to the Spanish word negro but which primarily means “men” or “people” and only secondarily means “black men” (nègre blanc is how one says “white man” in Creole).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARIE VIEUX-CHAUVET (1916-73), a seminal voice of post -occupation Haiti, was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Her novels include Fille d’Haïti, La Danse sur le volcan, Fonds des nègres, and Les Rapaces.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS
ROSE-MYRIAM RÉJOUIS and VAL VINOKUR (assistant professors of literary studies at Eugene Lang College / the New School) have translated two novels by Patrick Chamoiseau, Solibo Magnificent and Texaco, the latter of which won the American Translators Association Galantière Prize for Best Book in 1998. Their translation of Love, Anger, Madness was supported by a Simon Guggenheim Fellowship.