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IMPACT OF THE A-VIE: TRANSLATING SCENES OF RESISTANCE IN DUVALIER’S HAITI A thesis submitted to the Kent State University Honors College In partial fulfillment of the requirements For University Honors by Joseph Mario Cancelliere May, 2014 ! ""! Thesis written by Joseph Mario Cancelliere Approved by ________________________________________________________________, Advisor _______________________________________________, Chair, Department of Modern and Classical Languages Accepted by _____________________________________________________, Dean, Honors College ! """! ! "#! TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . .vi TARGET TEXT . 1 SOURCE TEXT . 29 TRANSLATION ANALYSIS INTRODUCTION . 57 PHELPS AND HAITI LITTERAIRE . 59 PORT-AU-PRINCE . .60 DUVAVLIER AND THE TONTON MACOUTES . 61 CREOLE AND CULTURE . 62 SCENE ONE: THE PARTY AT LA COUVEUSE . .63 SCENE TWO: PAULA’S ASSIGNMENT . 66 SCENE THREE: RENE DUBOIS AND THE INSTITUT FRANCAIS . 69 SCENE FOUR: PAULA’S DEMISE . .71 CONCLUSION . .73 WORKS CITED . .74 ! #! ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to express my thanks to my friends and family, who have supported me throughout the process of writing this thesis. I also want to thank Dr. De Julio, Dr. Mbaye, and Dr. Newman for reviewing my translation and analysis. Lastly, I want to express my gratitude to Dr. Bell, who has helped me and guided me through this process from the beginning. ! #"! TARGET TEXT 2! Marco stopped his small Volkswagen behind Pegasus, the old mustard-colored Willys that belonged to the poets. “I hope Jeanne and Maria are already there,” his companion said. “I could eat a horse.” A small laugh escaped her throat, and she got out of the car. The cul-de-sac was calm, faintly illuminated by a single streetlamp. Across from them, an exposed light bulb cast a raw light into the courtyard of the Galerie Brochette, and the strident song of crickets competed with the rumble of Port-au-Prince where the sound of vodou drums reverberated, more or less softened by the breeze. Crickets and drums still reigned supreme over the nights of Haiti, conversing freely through the air. Marco joined the young woman. Looking up, she contemplated the December sky studded with an infinite number of diamonds. “Isn’t it marvelous?” he said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Yes. It’s the time of year when the sky displays all of its stars. What a fascinating show! Say, Marco, do you know which ones are which? Do you know their names?” “Some of them. For example, that little constellation just above our heads, that’s the Little Dipper.” “They all look alike to me. I’ve never been able to tell the difference. On the other hand, I can show you Venus. See, there. The most beautiful one that doesn’t twinkle.” “No. The most beautiful one is here,” he said, “in my arms, and it’s Paula, my star on Earth.” 3! He held her against him and they were still for a moment, then she freed herself from his embrace. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand, “I have an idea.” She led him to the wrought iron gate of the Couveuse.1 Muffled voices and music wafted towards them from the bungalow at the end of the alley, and, from time to time, the silhouette of one of the guests passed in front of the living room’s large window. “What’s your idea?” She looked at him, her face serious. “Do you promise not to make fun of me?” “I promise.” “Well, let’s do what we did last year.” “Last year?” “You don’t remember? Before going in you were eager to introduce me to everyone through the back window.” “Oh! Yes!” he said, laughing, “I remember. You were a little intimidated by that first meeting.” “More like a lot. Are you in?” He looked at the beautiful face lifted toward him. Though he had met her over a year ago, he still hadn’t gotten used to this side of her personality that would suddenly surface. Every time this breath of fresh air came over the other Paula, the precise, effective, realistic résistante, Marco always uttered the same prayer: “May she never completely lose this marvelous naiveté of youth!” !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "!#$%!&'(%!)*!+$%!$),-%.!#$%!/0+%1'/!+1'&-/'+0)&!0-!20&3,4'+)15! 4! “Come,” he said. They didn’t take the gravel alley. Someone could have seen them coming through the bay window facing them. They went to the left, crossing the garden while avoiding the rose bushes, clumps of ferns, and dahlias. They stepped over a tray of carnations, then followed the wall of the bungalow. The noise from the joyful get-together grew louder and parts of sentences reached them. “Do you think they’re all here?” “The five poets are there, in any case. Pegasus is in the street.” They turned to the right, stopped and stood back from the window. Marco had the room just in front of him. “Can you see everything?” “Yes, but I have to stand on tiptoe: it’s not comfortable.” It was true that she was shorter than he was. “Hang on. We should be able to find something.” He went toward the dark mass that was in the shed at the back of the courtyard. “Ah, these blocks will fit the bill.” He went to the shed, built for some recent construction, took two cement blocks from a pile of surplus materials, and brought them to their observation post. “Here, these will make a great pedestal for you.” She climbed up onto the blocks “It’s perfect. I have a front row seat. Look, I’m almost as tall as you.” He put his arm around her shoulder. 5! “So, shall we begin? First we need the leader of the Couvueuse. He’s the tall guy pouring the rum. Do you recognize him?” “Yes, the poet Benoît Pardeau.” “That’s him.” “Why did he name his bungalow ‘la Couveuse’?” “Michel thought of the name, and it fit the atmosphere of this house so well that we adopted it.” “It’s true that you feel at ease in there. You feel the sensation of an embrace, of warmth. It must come from the books, the paintings…” “Ah, ah, ah! You’re jumping ahead, Paula. You’ve never been in this house, remember? This is last year.” “That’s right!” she said, laughing. “Okay, let’s continue.” “Where was I? Yes. About three years ago, this bungalow became our place to crash. But don’t let this ‘Couveuse’ nickname fool you. Above all, it means creation, growth and not gentleness or protection. Besides, its owner is far from a mother hen. He would be more like a tyrant who forces us to work, to produce, and there are times when you want to wring his neck. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Sententious as a Chinese. Crazy about cigarettes. Over forty a day. No other known vices.” “No women?” "They're not a vice. He's a co-owner with your uncle, Father Emile, from the radio station 4VPM." "Whose Sunday literary broadcasts I follow religiously." 6! "You should tell Benoît. He'll love it." "Who is that? The short thin guy with a nose like a hawk by the table?" "Michel. Another poet. Michel Lacroix. Mechanic by profession, poet by necessity. Or vice versa. He owns Pegasus, that mustard yellow convertible you saw at the entrance. Pegasus is the poets' preferred mode of transportation, and Michel its appointed driver. Completely opposed to political engagement in poetry. He writes very beautiful poems and could spend his life discussing literature and philosophy. Drinks like a fish. Goes crazy as soon as he sees a skirt. "I think with my other head," and "I’m a whore." Those are his two key sayings. He is always moving and can't sit still for ten minutes. There he is, getting up right now. If Benoît is the brain, the motor of the group of poets, Michel is the soul.” "He seems nice." "Yes. And you'd like him right away. Good. The guy in the glasses that he's talking to right now, you know him." "Yes, it's Mathieu Jean-Louis. He finished normal school last year, history section." "He's the youngest of the band. A theoretician and a man of action. He adores Pardeau. After all, it was Benoît who gave him his first Marxist books. Do you see the one talking directly to Mathieu, changing the tape in the tape player? The big guy in the blue shirt." "Who is it?" "Edouard Lanoux." 7! "His name sounds familiar." "You must have read his articles on vodou. It's his specialty. He's an ethnologist. Politically, he and Mathieu are at the head of the group." "I thought it was Pardeau." "Benoît is a jack of all trades, but his true field of action is literature. It was Benoît who forced the dialogue between the politicians of the PEP (Parti d'Entente Populaire) and the writers, the creators. Ah! The one entering now, that's Gabriel Luckner, one of our best painters. He lives nearby and directs the Galerie Brochette which, as you know, is across from the Couveuse." "I really like what he does, but tell me, the one sitting next to Mathieu, isn't that Jacques Marchande?" "Yes. The most Haitian poet of the five. He always uses creole expressions and images in his poetry." "And that one? The one who’s singing. I have the impression that I've already seen him with you." "Ah! It's Edgar Délose. Epicurean poet. Eats like ten men. Drinks very badly. He's filling his glass again for the third time. You get the impression he's afraid that the others will finish the bottle before he gets his share.

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