Cherished driver, who knows how to heat things up! Go ahead and floor it! Dismantle your pedals! And smash right through death’s asshole!
At the end of the line, near the Pétionville cemetery, a place that serves as a station for transport vans, Raynand and Paulin are last to get off. Reluctantly, they’ve come to attend the religious ceremony for Bob’s wedding. They’re really only interested in the reception, which follows the blessing. A nice way to spend a couple of hours. When they arrive, the godfather is just in the middle of making a toast to the new couple. A long line of cars are parked in front of the house. A gathering of the curious. Inside, the folkloric lighting is overwhelmingly blinding. Starving guests. Thirsty alcoholics. Pockets of silence. Whispers. Coughs. Commentaries spoken into one another’s ears. The guttural and trembling voice of the orating godfather dominates the room with a false eloquence. Moldy speech. Scent of mothballs.
… like two inseparable turtledoves. My dear godchildren, you may experience difficult and trying moments. And it is then that you must really come together. In sincere and lasting dialogue, free of all secrets. Dialogue is the most eloquent form of mutual understanding. A union that rests on …
— Bob’s wife seems very old. She’s got to be more than forty.
— She’s forty-three.
— Christ’s age plus ten. An old she-devil with sawed-off horns. A real cradle robber! A complete fraud of a woman!
— She’s rich. A well-stocked shop. A property in Laboule. Several cars. A fat bank account.
— Bob has bet it all on the ball that rolls around in the fat of dollar bills.
— Because two poor people combined still won’t have enough to make ends meet …
… for happiness comes from inner peace. Material suffering doesn’t kill conjugal life. It’s the drying up of the soul that brings about rupture and ruin.
— The godfather is an out-and-out liar. Misery is the execution post of love.
… to acknowledge your duties to society, to the children you’ll have to raise. For these things, fidelity is the key element …
— You think she can have kids?
— She’s already well past her prime.
— A real tacky woman. Bitter and unripe.
— For a long time, she was the favorite mistress of a top customs employee who let her order her goods without paying any import tax.
— A real womanizer.
… to affirm, without risk of being contradicted, along with the eminent sociologist Frédéric Le Play, that the family is a social unit of the greatest importance. My dear godchildren, the commitment you’ve just made belongs to the purest humanist tradition. Christian Humanism, as defined by Saint Augustine in his remarkable work The City of God. If you understand that …
— He’s boring us stiff with this endless funeral oration.
— It stinks of bad medicine and rotten fish.
— I’m tired of his verbal diarrhea.
— I’m thirsty. I’m hungry.
— My feet are killing me.
Impatience is written on everyone’s face. People inhale the aroma from the champagne glasses. Standing, the guests keep shifting their weight. The neighborhood dogs bark incessantly. The waitresses and the kid who chops the ice bicker in the kitchen. And when, in the midst of some flight of lyricism crafted three months earlier especially for the end of his toast, the godfather invites all in attendance to empty their glasses in celebration of the newlyweds, a sigh of relief seems to escape from every chest, in a unanimous rush to do so.
Then the godmother, inviting the guests to the decorated tables, decides to take the floor, offering in turn some words of thanks. The majority of the guests stay up in front, some put the weight on their left foot, others on their right. Ready to go. In a likely race to the buffet. A frightening marathon of aloufas — so many greedy dogs — ready to pounce on the booty. Raynand already has his eyes fixed on an enormous pink cake. Strange swaying of torsos tilted forward for a final assault. Curious momentum of racers waiting for the starting whistle to blow. Jostling of elbows on a makeshift track where the finish line whets the appetite. Mouths water. With the godmother’s final words, a powerful cyclone of open hands comes down on the decorated tables, mercilessly and neatly razed by hundreds of greedy fingers.
After this demoniacal Olympic storm, the guests, scattered into little groups, enjoy the drinks. The young girls and women drink Coca-Cola. The gentlemen drink unlimited quantities of whiskey or Barbancourt rum. The room is immediately transformed into picturesque fairgrounds. Exhibition of colorful moths. Farcical ostentation. Parade of miniskirts. Disjointed comments marked by a touch of sophistication. Raynand and Paulin, seated at a strategic angle, attentively watch this high-society spectacle. Taking neat shots, they empty a half bottle of rum placed on a round table. Quietly, they exchange commentaries and gossip. They observe everything rigorously. From one thing to the next and without missing a beat.
A short distance away, three elegantly dressed women chat and giggle together. They’re soon joined by an impeccably ugly fourth woman, who’s accompanied by a pretty young girl. The woman’s face is dried up, eroded. An absurdly long neck. She’s so hideous, she wouldn’t be out of place among a collection of barn owls in a museum of horrors. A fluffed-up chicken. Exaggeratedly exuberant. Her talkativeness and tinny laugh irritate. With her skinny, jittery body, she recalls the jerking movements of a broom. An unbearable talking weather vane.
— My son Patrick took a trip last month. He’s in the United States. He’s doing his military service.
— You’re not worried he’ll be sent to the front in Vietnam?
— It’s certainly a possibility. He’s not planning on returning to Haiti. In fact, I encouraged him not to. What’s important is that he secure a foothold over there. That brings certain advantages. He’ll be able to open a path for us to the great industrial cities. In no short time, the whole family will settle in New York. I couldn’t have hoped for better. Here, life has become impossible. A veritable hell on earth.
Raynand follows the conversation attentively. He touches Paulin’s right knee.
— Paulin, do you know that woman?
— She’s a lesbian. The pretty young girl with her is her official mistress.
— Is that really true?
— And, in fact, Raynand, the other ones are no better. They’re corrupt politicians. Secret agents for foreign powers. Their husbands — a bunch of cowards. Freeloading assholes. Pedophiles. Smugglers. A real debauched crowd. In favor during the American Occupation, now ousted from the halls of power, they actually miss the Yankees. Since the white man can’t come back and run the country, they all head over there to keep the old love story alive. So their good-for-nothing kiddies quit school before ever even studying the humanities and leave for the States. The most talented of the bunch study electronics, diesel mechanics, or business. The mediocre ones become dishwashers, dog groomers in New York, or cannon fodder in Vietnam. The people, filled with complexes, blinded by color prejudice, are only too happy to see their daughters married to some cowboy or gringo from Texas. They see it as a true godsend, manna from heaven. All of them flee Haiti, which, in their spite and resentment, they see as no more than savage-filled bush country. Bitter farewell to the good old days at the Club, where any black person who dared come in was looked upon disdainfully like a dirty black fly in a glass of milk. That’s all gone for good!
Pensively, Raynand takes a drink, draws exaggeratedly on his cigarette. Paulin, eyes shining, head resting against a sign, continues talking. With his resonant voice. Passionate. A convincing tone that, in its fluctuations, manages to find just the right way into the heart or the mind. An empathetic understanding, without artifice or oversensitivity. A flood of emotions, but without flashy hysterics or embittered violence. A strong temperament, neither tough nor dogmatic. In short, a striking sensitivity. A generous connection. An elevating glimmer.