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  “It’s all show, Maryse. When the fun and games are over, by which I mean when your final exams are done, they’ll all go back to their own social class.”

  She gives me a lingering, sidelong glance.

  “That’s all you see, isn’t it? Sometimes I think you’ve already gone sour. And I don’t understand why you’re like that. You don’t owe anything to anyone.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve never let myself owe anything to anyone.”

  “But where does it get you, hating people like that?”

  “It isn’t that . . . What are you talking about? You sound like someone else when you talk like that.”

  “What is it, then?” she says sharply, with her patented frown of disdain.

  “I simply want to know what kind of world I live in, Maryse. I want to know how it works . . . I’m sure there’s a trick to it, and I want to know what it is. That’s all.”

  My mother comes into the room with a huge bowl of cornmeal mush and a large slice of avocado, which she sets on the table after pushing back piles of catalogues and bits of cloth.

  “Mama, why do you choose to pay such a high rent that we’re practically starving to death instead of moving to Tiremasse Street, where we could maybe save a bit of money?”

  “Who lives on Tiremasse?” my mother says disdainfully. “Listen, Fanfan, if I ever move even one rung down the ladder, I’d get no more clients. Do you think my customers would follow me into that dangerous part of town? They wouldn’t even go to Magloire Ambroise Avenue. They’re too worried about their cars. And there’s all that garbage on the street, and the mud, and the sickening smell . . . What kind of customers would I have then? Tell me. The kind who would want me make them a blouse for eight gourdes, that’s who. Besides, your father wouldn’t want us to live there . . .”

  “My father is dead, mama.”

  “He’ll be dead when I say he’s dead,” she shoots back, turning sharply towards me.

  “Maybe I could find a job, Mama.”

  “No, you are not going to work. You are going to go to law school, like your father wanted.”

  “But Mama, my father is my father, and I am me . . . That makes two people.”

  She looks fixedly at me as though she can see something or someone behind me.

  “You sound exactly like him,” she says, her voice drawn.

  “All right, you win. I’m going out.”

  “Where are you going?” she asks, worried.

  “To the Rex Café.”

  “Will you be home late? The dogs are out in the streets these days.”

  “I’m not afraid of the tontons-macoutes. It’s them who’re afraid of me.”

  “Be careful, Fanfan!”

  “Oh, he’s just teasing you. Let him go, Mama,” my sister says, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “It’ll be better here with just us two women.”

  Give me some air!

  I DROP IN on Gérard, the museum guard, who owes me money. There are still a few people hanging around the main room. I’ve never been able to understand what makes people want to spend hours looking at bits of painted cloth hanging on a white wall. It would take me five minutes, if that. These people must have nothing else to do. I know life can be depressing at times, but not that depressing . . .

  Chico motions for me to join him at the Rex. I cross the street in the direction of the café. People pass me without seeing me. In a hurry to get home. What for? I’d rather die than live such a shitty life. Going nowhere. Totally inert. I go into the Rex Café. The old Hindu is still behind the counter. He’ll die behind that counter. I order two hamburgers and a glass of pomegranate juice. I’m down to my last three gourdes. Chico also orders a glass of juice. Broke again.

  “Simone was here a minute ago. She just left.”

  I shrug.

  “How do you do it?” Chico asks me. “Get women to fall for you like that? It’s unbelievable! She was barely able to sit still. I’ve known Simone for a long time, and I’ve never seen her like this before . . . She just met you last week, and she’s acting like a drug addict who can’t get a fix. Tell me your secret, master, I’ll do whatever you ask . . .”

  Laughter.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Your problem, Chico, is that you talk too much.”

  “What? What am I supposed to do, take off my clothes, maybe?”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  “But Fanfan, if I stop talking, she’ll leave.”

  “You don’t know that if you haven’t tried.”

  “It seems too risky to me.”

  “She’ll be quiet for a moment, and if she sees that you aren’t getting up to leave then she’ll start talking . . . As long as she opens her mouth first, then half your job is done.”

  “I know myself, Fanfan. She’ll take off the minute I stop talking.”

  “You’re right.”

  He gives me a stunned look.

  “Is that all you can think of to tell me?”

  “Listen, Chico, to each his own. You, you’re not a lover, you’re a friend. A confidant. Women like talking to you. You make them feel better. Sometimes I even envy you.”

  “You’re making fun of me, you bastard.”

  “You’re right. Let’s go to Denz’s to listen to music.”

  DENZ ALWAYS HAS something new to listen to. He’s just received an album by Volo Volo, a new group based in Boston. They really did a good job on it—each cut goes somewhere different. I think they’re as good as Tabou, but as far as Denz is concerned, Tabou is still Tabou.

  “Look, Fanfan, I admit this is a good album, maybe even a great album, but Tabou has put out a dozen albums that are just as good. It’s always the same with you: whenever a new act comes down, you get as het up as a flea on a hot rock. Relax, man.”

  Denz is a bit older than Chico and me. We call him the Godfather. He loves Marlon Brando. He’s seen the Coppola film at least a dozen times. But it’s only the music that interests him. He hardly ever leaves his place. Doors and windows shut. He spends his days listening to music in the dark. People (mostly musicians) come to him from all over. Sometimes girls from Pétionville come as well. Everyone thinks he’s a genius. It doesn’t seem to bother him much. As long as he can listen to his music without too much interference.

  “Look, Fanfan, I’ve listened to this album more than a dozen times, and, like I say, it’s very good, but before I can say that they really have guts I’ll wait until they’ve put out at least a half-dozen albums. You see, for me it’s endurance that counts.”

  There’s a knock on the door. Denz goes to open it.

  “Hey, Denz!”

  It’s Simone. She comes straight in without even looking at me.

  “Denz, can I talk to you?” she says, moving towards the small room at the back.

  Denz mimes to us that he has no idea what she wants, but he follows her anyway. They stay in the room for a good twenty minutes. Finally Denz comes back in time for the final cut of the Volo Volo.

  “Look, Fanfan, it’s up to you to solve the problem.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “It seems that Minouche went to Simone’s place and tore a strip off her. I get the impression that it has something to do with you. Go in and see her, she’s waiting for you.”

  “It’s just show, Denz. Simone is yanking your chain.”

  Denz shrugs his shoulders.

  “I don’t know anything about women, you know? Go tell her what happened and let me listen to my music. I’d like to see how you get out of this one, anyway, just out of curiosity.”

  “Denz, Fanfan couldn’t care less,” Chico puts in. “He even enjoys seeing women fight over him.”

  “Chico! Chico!”

  Simone is calling him from the back room. Chico gets up quickly. I suspect he falls in love with all the women I get mixed up with. He goes into the room and comes out right away.

  “She wants to see you.”
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  “Why didn’t she call me herself ? She called Denz. She called you. I’m not going in if she doesn’t call me.”

  “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?”

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nbsp; “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.