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!”
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“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. At this rate, he'll be drunk in half an hour. He's lazy as a cat, continually rubbing his head or belly. He doesn't have any manners and nothing embarrasses him. He's Benoît's nightmare; constantly has an eye on him when they're invited somewhere. Michel calls him a gwo soulye.2 Besides, he knows
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that he has no self control, but it's stronger than he is. He can't not put his foot in his mouth, but it's impossible to hold it against him. He's completely disarming."
"He has a big angel's face."
"He’s an angel with no upbringing."
"Other than poetry, what does he do with himself?"
"Store clerk."
"The last one to introduce to me is Simon Nadal, then?"
"Yes, and he’s the one we're celebrating tonight."
"But, tell me, are there no women in this group?"
"Yes. Maria, Jacque's wife, and Jeanne, Edgar's wife, will arrive around 9:30 with Nadine and Jacqueline. They're taking care of the griyo3 and Simon's birthday cake."
"And who are Nadine and Jacqueline?"
"Nadine is Michel's great love. His all-consuming passion."
"Michel, that's the one that says he is..."
"A whore. That's the one."
"And in spite of that, he can have a great love?"
"You'll have to ask him that question."
"Yes. I remember his answer: 'Between making love and loving, there is one qualitative difference. For the first, all you need are the sexual organs, the second also needs the heart.'"
"So, we've fallen back to reality?"
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"Not right away. You haven’t told me who Jacqueline is."
"She's someone you should know, more so however if, as you say, you regularly listen to Benoît's literary shows."
"Oh! Jacqueline Ténier?"
"The female star of 4VPM. Benoît's favorite actress and, I suspect, his great secret love."
"You think that..."
"I said I suspect."
"In that case, they're not like you and me."
"No. not like you and me..."
"... for we are unique in the world."
"Hey! That's not fair. You're stealing my line."
"Because we've come back to reality. Today is December 8th, 1964, and
Jacqueline Ténier won't be here tonight, since she left Haiti now four months ago to settle in New York with her Husband and three children. Say, do you really think Benoît and
Jacqueline..."
"I don't know. I already told you I have no proof. I can't very well ask Benoît if he was Jacqueline's lover."
"Ah! How sad for them, if they were in love, to have been forced to see each other in secret. Paula and Marco, they don't hide, or hold back in public. If they feel like kissing, they do it wherever they are. Right here, for example." 10!
“Well, what are you two doing there?” The voice gave Paula and Marco a start.
They had not seen Michel coming to the window where he was now leaning toward them.
“You see, we were kissing.”
“I’m not blind, nor deaf, because I thought I recognized the noise of your
Volkswagen. But tell me, Marco, do you always put cement blocks like those under
Paula’s feet when you kiss her? My word, you’re a real maniac! Benoît!” He yelled while returning to the house. “Come quick! There are spies in the courtyard!”
Paula laughed as she came down from her pedestal and, followed by Marco, ran along the wall of the bungalow, turned to the left and stopped at the porch to catch her breath. Marco joined her and they excitedly went into the Couveuse.
11!
She turned off the radio and rested her head on the bare shoulder of the man stretched out at her side. The light, irregular noise of the waves acted like a continuation of the text they had just listened to. They stayed there without saying anything, just like two gisants4 on the sand of the small creek surrounded by coconut and mango trees. They were alone, living their dream far from other people. They were the sole inhabitants of a marvelous planet that was slowly drifting through space.
Little by little, though, the magic created by the poetry dissipated. The images gradually dissolved like the fleeting scenes of clouds that last only long enough to name them, to show them. The rustling of the coconut leaves, the rush of a breaking wave, the far-away motor of a truck on the road brought them back to reality, little by little, reintegrating them into the everyday world.
“How sad beauty is,” he murmured. “It makes us aware of everything we’re missing.”
A sound of agreement rose from her throat, then, after an instant, she separated from him and sat up on the beach towel.
“It’s strange,” she said, “all through the show, I had the impression of hearing the text for the first time. Even the sound of my voice was foreign to me. I suppose Benoît knew the surprise he was planning for us when he refused to play the recording for us yesterday.”
“It was truly beautiful, Paula. I think the most beautiful production of the group in four years.”
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“The credit goes mostly to Benoît. He had been wanting to do it for a long time, this recording, but we were all afraid of the text. These dialogues made up of poem excerpts weren’t easy, and I don’t think any of us would have accepted anything less than perfect. Jacqueline’s departure rushed things along, but Benoît forced us to work, literally exhausted us. We recorded each scene I don’t even know how many times. He would retake a line for one word, an intonation. I’d never seen him so meticulous, even manaical! Fifteen studio hours, can you imagine? He took a week to do the final editing, and yesterday, when we arrived at the station, he declared in a solemn tone, ‘Children, this afternoon, we celebrate. We don’t work. Tomorrow’s show is a wrap. We’re playing
L’Amour la Mort.’ He refused to play us the recording, content to tell us, ‘Believe me, you’ve all done a remarkable job. Remarkable.’ He didn’t know how right he was. I’m proud to have participated in this show.”
She was proud of the progress made in the past six months. Her voice had changed, had acquired an extraordinary suppleness. She could modify intonations with ease. She owed that to Benoît, to his advice, to his patient work with her. He had taught her everything, correcting her tendency to raise her tone on the last syllables of a sentence. “You’re pointing!” he would say, “let your voice flow.” Or even, “Add color,
Paula, color. Words don’t all have the same value. There are green ones, red ones, black ones. Your line is all gray. Give it some life.” But she always had the most trouble with
Rs. “You’re not the only one, Paula. As good creolizing Antilleans, we tend to dodge them.” Tell me; grow a great, grand grove of oranges. How many hours had she spent 13!
repeating this exercise, with and without her pencil between her teeth? Finally, she had managed to master it, this treacherous little letter.
She recalled the Saturday of her first audition at 4VPM. She had quickly gone up the stairs of the station. Her heart was beating faster than normal, not just because of the thirty-two steps, but a slight apprehension had forced her to take a break at the landing.
“So, would you be interested in participating in one of our literary shows?”
“I would really like to try, but I’ve never done theater. My only experience comes from small roles in plays in grade school with the Sisters.”
“That’s not important. It’s different on the radio. It just happens that I’m looking for another female voice, and it seems to me that yours is deeper than Jacqueline’s. Come for an audition and if that works, we’ll welcome you with pleasure. The only thing that we demand is seriousness, availability, and it’s non-paid.”
The muffled voice of Yves Montand, which softly welcomed her at the bottom of the steps, became clearer to her. She recognized the song, but could not recall the title. I need to think of it, or this will go badly. Yes, of course, it was from Prévert, but which poem?
“You understand, 4VPM can’t pay its actors. I’ve been trying in vain for years to find a backer for the Sunday radio theater. So, the boys have to be truly in love with the theater to commit to it for free, every Saturday afternoon. But, once I set a meeting of five or six actors, I have to be sure that they’ll all be there, because if one doesn’t come, it completely screws up my program. On the other hand, what can I say to the ones who let me down? Huh? The guys work for next to nothing! Oh, sure, I yell at them some, but 14!
gently, and then they always have an excellent excuse. Usually, a rendezvous with a woman. As a result, I’ve reduced the troupe to the minimum. Two men’s voices in addition to mine and one woman’s voice, Jacqueline’s.”
“In that case, it’s pointless for me to want to work with you and the others.”
“Not at all. If your voice is good for radio, you can be sure that we’ll use it. We have no shortage of texts. I do, however, want you to understand that you’ll have to dedicate all of your Saturday afternoons to us.”
Ah, Sanguine! Of course. She had remembered the title of the song a fraction of a second before its end. It was Jacques Prévert’s Sanguine sung by Yves Montand. The voice in the speaker made a brief pause: “During our half hour of French songs, we have played for you Geroges Brassens and Yves Montand. It is exactly 2:29. For a more beautiful smile, ladies...” Paula had smiled noting that she was right on time for the meeting with Benoît. “Come at 2:30, the others won’t arrive before 3:00. So, we won’t be disturbed and you’ll be more relaxed for your audition.” “Au gardol5: Makes your teeth whiter and protects them from damage. You’re listening to 4VPM broadcasting from
Port-au-Prince.” Marco had brought her to the station and had left to go for a walk. Paula had insisted that he not come to her audition. His presence would have intimidated her, would have stressed her out. When she entered the foyer leading to Benoît’s office, her apprehension had completely disappeared. Was it because of the rhythm of the merengue coming from the loud speaker or the fact that she had identified Sanguine?
“Yes” she repeated, “I’m proud to have taken part on this show.”
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Marco sat down next to the young woman. “Me too. I’m proud of you Paula. Not only for what you do at the station, but your work in the network is much appreciated, you know. We could possibly even give you some more important tasks.”
“Oh, Marco!” she cried, “I’d definitely love to get more involved.”
“I know. But, what we’re suggesting for the moment could seem simple to you.”
He reached over to his pack of Splendids, “Cigarette?”
“No, thanks. What is it about?”
“You have relatives in Léogâne, don’t you?
“Yes. A cousin of my mother’s. In fact, it’s my godfather. Why?”
“That’s going to make things easier.” He lit his cigarette and played with his lighter for an instant.
“You’re keeping me waiting, Marco.”
“Here it is. We have contacts over there, and, for some time already, these guys have been asking us to send them someone to help set up a proper network in the region.
But the comrades familiar with this type of work are more or less well known and under surveillance. Now, following recent events in the area, you know the cattle affair?”
Yes, she remembered having read something about it in Voix du Peuple.6 A group of peasants from Léogâne were tired of the presence of the A Vie’s7 cattle that were grazing freely in their fields. They led a veritable charge with machetes, chopping the heads off a dozen of them.
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“Seven of the leaders were arrested,” Marco continued, “tortured and murdered.
Two of them were our guys. This brutal repression by the Macoutes8 obviously terrified the residents who no longer dare to chase the A Vie’s cows from their land. Now the spiritual father’s livestock are in the process of becoming sacred cows. Tell me, what does your godfather do in Léogâne?”
“He has a sugar plantation and owns a store at the entrance of the town.”
“Could you ask him to invite you to stay with him for two weeks?”
“I think so, I’ve already spent vacations on his property, but why would I go over there?”
Marco put his cigarette out in the sand.
“We want to send an emissary to Léogâne, and we thought of you. You would be a sort of ambassador. Your mission will require tact, delicacy. You won’t bring any solutions to these guys’ problems. You’re unaware of everything in their environment, but you’ll be a representative of the central committee. You’ll go over there to watch and listen.”
“I don’t really know what to say, Marco, and, these peasants, how will I meet them?”
“The activists of the region will take charge of you when you get there. In fact,” he added, “ this mission is more psychological than anything. You are the only one capable of carrying it out. You’re unknown; your presence over there won’t arouse the
Macoutes’ suspicions. And then, this will be an opportunity for you to make personal
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contact with our peasantry. This experience will be very valuable to you. I hope you’ll accept.”
“I suppose I’ll have to leave as soon as possible?” Paula asked. She had lowered her head, and her face became gloomy. Marco took her by the shoulders.
“I know what you’re thinking Paula. Two weeks without seeing each other; it’s going to be long, but the summer vacation isn’t over. We still have the whole month of
September. We’ll be able to come here every afternoon.”
She picked up a fistful of sand and let it slip through her fingers. “It rains in
September,” she murmured. She immediately added, “Oh Marco! Forgive me. I’m not refusing this mission. No, I want to be useful to the party, but you know, it’s the first time that we’re going to be far away from each other. The whole time you were talking to me, it was the only thing going through my head: Paula and Marco will be separated. Paula and Marco won’t see each other for two weeks. Two weeks! Do you realize that?” Her head sank toward her chest, “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? I wonder how you’re going to succeed at making me into a true résistante if I can only think of my personal happiness.”
He lifted her chin and took her face in his hands. “Listen, Paula, a résistant isn’t a piece of wood. He experiences the same feelings as other men. When Mathieu told me about this mission, I had the same reaction, but you’ll see. After these two weeks, we’ll meet again with an even stronger joy. Our love will have entered a new stage. Absence will have strengthened it, and then, you’ll be proud to have served the party. Now let’s not think about it anymore, okay? The matter isn’t decided yet, and while we wait,” he 18!
added, getting up, “we’re together, the sun is out, you haven’t left yet, and the water must be wonderfully warm.”
He leaned toward the young woman and quickly lifted her from the beach towel.
She let out a small cry, held on to his neck, and let him carry her, laughing, toward the sea.
19!
When she arrived at the entrance of Haiti’s Institut français,9 the reverberation of the sun across the large wrought iron facade made her blink her eyes. She searched through her bag and fished out her sunglasses.
“How are you, Paula?
She turned around and lifted her head toward the man who stood above her on the spiral staircase. “Ah, hello, René! Ça va, oui, and you?”
René Dubois, the librarian at the Institut français since its founding after the war, quickly came down the metal stairs. He’s already gotten stout, Paula thought. Well... his life of “political asylum” suits him well.
“I hope it’s not too late to wish you a happy new year?” René asked as he approached.
“Not at all.” She replied, laughing. “It’s only the tenth, and since it’s the first time
I’ve come to the Institut since the holidays...” she offered her cheek. He leaned in to kiss it. “Did you have a good holiday?”
“Oh, like always! A reception at the embassy and a small New Year’s Eve dinner here with my wife and some friends.”
“It must be hard to not be able to come and go as you please, isn’t it?”
“At first, yes. It would eat away at me, but after six years, I’ve gotten used to it here. And then, I keep myself busy. I study. I have films. I see people. I’m not in hiding.
When you get down to it, it’s a golden retirement. When I think of the people in the
South American embassies, I consider myself privileged.”
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René Dubois enjoyed a special status at the Institut français. Since the Tonton
Macoutes had tried twice to assassinate him while he was going home, he no longer left the offices of the cultural mission where the French embassy had provided an apartment for him. Officially, he did not have political asylum, but since the Institut falls under the embassy, René benefitted in a way from diplomatic immunity. One or two times a month, he would go out for a short time to show films at the embassy in Bourdon. On these occasions, he made the trip under the protection of the flags of a diplomatic car.
“So you have a new professor of Haitian literature at the normal school?”
“Jean Saint-Cyr? Fortunately, I have nothing to do with him.” Paula Said. “I pity the first year students. It’s truly incredible, his selection. It’s promoting mediocrity!”
“Have you read his book?”
“Class and Literature? No, I haven’t had the courage. Flipping through it was enough for me.”
“Ah, but you must read it! It’s got blatant dishonesty, delirious Duvalierism, and to top it all off, terribly awful writing. As you say, it’s promoting mediocrity.”
“Hi, Dubois!”
“ Hello, Rivière!” René and Paula turned around. A group of students coming from the library burst into the lobby. “Bye, guys.”
“See you tomorrow.” They went through the doors and dispersed onto Harry
Truman Boulevard.
“It’s already a quarter past noon.” René said. “Excuse me for holding you up,
Paula.” 21!
“Come on, it’s a pleasure, René. Plus, I’m early. I have a date with Marco at twelve thirty at the Sunset Bar.”
“It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen Marco. How is he doing? Is he still working for Seymour and Morin?”
“Yes. The currently have a dozen villa construction project at Martissant.”
“It’s a good think. As long as the men are working, they can make it in this country, but I wanted to ask you, do you have any recent news about Lanoux?”
“Edourard? No. Nothing new. We only know that he’s at the military hospital, but we don’t know his condition.”
“He’s in perfect health and will leave the hospital in a few days.”
“Are you sure, René?”
“I have it from someone very reliable who saw Major Mollé yesterday, one of the surgeons from the military hospital. According to Mollé, Lanoux got a bullet to the knee, and his wound is almost entirely healed.”
“What good news you’ve told me, René!” Paula cried out. “We were hearing so many different things!”
After the incident of the Café du Port last December, the first informants had claimed that Edouard had been killed during a brawl with the Macoutes. Some even claimed he was riddled with bullets. A few days later, however, the new of his presence at the military hospital had been confirmed. Still, numerous rumors led to believe he was nearly dead.
“Truly, René, your story is a relief, and I’m eager to let Marco know.” 22!
“You see, fat old René can still be useful, eh? If he’s not able to act, he can still provide information! Go ahead, see you next time, Paula!” They shook hands while laughing. “Bon appetit, and give Marco my best.”
“Thank you, René. Say hello to your wife.”
She adjusted her sunglasses. Then, she left the Institut at a brisk pace and confronted the sun.
23!
The plaza at the Champs de Mars was deserted. To the right, in the parking lot of the Rex Theater, there were some rare cars that belonged to the spectators at the nine o’clock showing, a Western. She remembered seeing the poster in the afternoon. In front of her loomed the somber mass of the grandstands. She will pass behind it, in front of the old Parc d’Enfants, go along the road until the intersection, until her first stop: the School of Ethnology. She will throw five or six of them in the courtyard and will be able to attach some to the large sandbox tree that encroached on the sidewalk. She will have to act very quickly, however. Someone could see her from one of the windows facing the street. Then, she will go down the small hill, branch off to the left, and cross to the Assad
Clinic, the School of Law, and the School of Dental Arts. The School of Medicine will be more exposed. Once there she will see how to proceed. Just nearby is the mass of the
Tribunes. Soon it will be Carnival and these iron terraces will be assaulted by a multicolored, joyful crowd. The air will resonate from the sound of the drums and the best Carnival merengues will play over the loudspeakers. The plaza of the Champs de
Mars will be swarming with Carnival goers. Ribbon dancers will demonstrate their skill and grace. They will take the ends of colored ribbons attached to the tip of a large pole and will execute the crisscrossing paths of a spectacular dance that, little by little, will wraps the wooden post in a long, multicolored gown. Then, they stop. Their skirts reflect the sunlight. They curtsy, then they get up, separate, and disperse, unfurling the gown with a calculated slowness and finally expose the wooden post to the applause of the little girl, amazed, resting her elbows on her father’s head. For ten centimes, lamayottes, carriers of mystery boxes, let you see the secret of the small boxes that they lug around 24!
over their shoulders, and candy vendors incessantly ring their little bells to recapture the attention of spectators too busy applauding the king and queen of the carnival. What the little bells say is tempting. “Papa, I want a pirouli! Papa, I want a pirouli!”10 It was a time long ago when, as a little girl perched on her father’s shoulders, and her first great fear tamed, she had dared to make fun of the ugly character armed with a large cutlass who, with a sack full of papier-mâché children over his shoulder, personified the Tonton
Macoute, the terror of kids, the ogre of Haitian legend. Above her father’s head and strong with his protection, she even dared to yell at him with a sharp voice, joyful but not totally reassured: “Tonton Macoute, m’pa pè ou! You don’t scare me, Tonton Macoute!
I’m a good child and you won’t have me for dinner!” But now, the little girl had grown up, and the Carnival, permanently installed in the country had become grotesque. The music was no longer the same. There were no more smiling queens, nor good spirited kings. The Diables-pour-rire, the family with huge heads on wooden stilts, the floats and trucks had been replaced by a garish parade of Tonton Macoutes armed to the teeth and dominating the parade, leading the entire country, reigned the master ogre, the sole instigator of this carnival of demons; the spiritual leader sat and watched, the regenerator,
L’A Vie. “More like anti-vie,” she murmured as she got further from the School of
Ethnology. The sandbox tree taking up the sidewalk now wore the trace of her passing in green and white.
She went down the slope of the hill. Her sandals pushed her forward, her skirt brushed against her thighs. The black car passed by for the first time. The door of the
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "W!2T!J'&+!'!/)//0@)@X5! 25!
Assad Clinic and the School of Dental Arts had been decorated with green and white. Her movements had been precise, quick. Now her beautiful face was illuminated in profile against one of the large columns of the School of Law. Immobile, her heart pounding, but her senses on high alert, she searched the dim light of the street, because the black car had just passed by for the second time. It had gone slowly, as if its occupants had smelled easy prey. She almost stopped, but after a slight hesitation, she regained her speed and headed toward Rue Monseigneur Gouilloux. They would not come back. They had finished their round. She breathed more easily, and her hands regained their dexterity.
The job was now a simple and everyday task. Nothing would hinder the completion of her mission. No one in the street. Not a shadow. She won’t attach the last five to the back of the building as planned, but on the façade. Luck was with her tonight. She felt more daring than ever before. She leaves the porch of the School of Law and, with a determined pace, continues down the sidewalk. At the end of the street, she sees the lights of the food vendors. She will be able to stop for five minutes to have a hot chocolate once her work is accomplished.
She climbed the five steps of the School of Medicine, opening her large purse at the same time. It would not take more than five seconds to attach each rectangle of white paper. She knew this, having timed the movement in her bedroom. Two times, three times, five times five seconds. There it is, she is finished. She turns around to the middle of the porch toward the stairs. No! There’s a mistake! It’s not possible. Her ears should have warned her. She would have hidden behind the balustrade, and the black car would not have stopped. They would not be there, these four men, looking at her and sniggering. 26!
She walked right into their trap. She was surrounded. No possible exit. Tonton Macoute, m’pa pè ou! You don’t scare me! But she searches in vain for her father’s head, his protective shoulders. The turbulent, garish procession surrounds her, submerges her. She is the queen of the Carnival. Everyone cheers for her. She is what rests inside the mystery boxes. Ten centimes to see the lamayotte! She has stilts. The family of huge heads fights over her. The ribbon dancers pass back and forth while dancing around her, and the colored ribbons intertwine along her entire body, the strips make a slow sheath that compresses her, strangles her, suffocates her. Air! Air! The little girl lost her paternal shoulders, thousands of feet crush her without pity. She grabs on to a pant leg. A boot forces her to let go. Her cheek feels the hardness of the ground. How did she end up in this place? That should have been grass. They were on the lawn next to the Tribunes when she fell. She began fighting in every direction, biting an arm, scratching a hand, running into a leg, and the crowd opened up, throwing her back to her father. But, why are they coming back to the attack? Hitting too hard, much too hard, dazing her with one hit. She sees them distinctly now. She hears them. She does not feel pain any more. She no longer feels the boots against her stomach, her legs, her back. Not the rough hands grabbing her hair. Nor the fingers kneading her face. She hears orders. Curse words. She sees the wall of the School of Medicine approaching her face. The leaflet grows, blurs, shifts out of sight, and then slowly comes toward her at face level. It is vague and blurry.
Her head is abruptly pulled back, and everything becomes precise again, like when
Benoît adjusted the lens of his projector. WE WILL STRIKE AGAIN. Her tongue forms each green letter with difficulty, one by one, as if she no longer knew how to read. 27!
HARDER AND HARDER. The words enter her mouth with their taste of ink and glue mixed with the dust of the wall. HIGHER AND HIGHER. She tastes them, inhales them.
VIVE LA REVOLUTION. She caresses them with her cheek, her torn lips catch on them, detach them. LONG LIVE THE STUGGLE OF THE HAITIAN PEOPLE. The pamphlet is salty, sour, and the slogans stay on her tongue. Ah! Her tongue! My tongue, Marco, like an unknown mass fills my mouth. It’s rigid, leaden, and I’m speaking to you from my heart. Tell them not to doubt any more. That I held out until the end. Lips sealed, closed tighter than a grave. For you, for me, for the network. There are things I wasn’t supposed to know. Elementary caution, Benoît would have said. The first rule of secrecy, Mathieu would have specified. It’s a serious mistake against the security of the network, Edouard would have added. But you and I, we were two sides of the same coin. There wasn’t a single secret between us. Our love and this struggle completed one another, fed each other. But why talk about it in past tense, as if everything had fallen into the shadows?
My life is wavering on the outside, the flame isn’t extinguished yet. Ah! Put out my burns. Some water for my swollen face, my split lips. What hand is this here refreshing me? Is it yours? So you’ve reached me, Marco? How did you do it? Who gave you the power to walk through walls and doors? Some water on my forehead, my neck, my arms, for my mouth most of all. Water me like a young almond tree scorched by the August sun. Erase all the traces of the horrible nightmare so I can wake up brand new! I can hardly see your dark, leaning silhouette through my eyelashes. I’m opening my eyes as wide as I can, my eyelids don’t open anymore. But that’s better. So, I won’t see you watching me... Talk to me, Marco. Tell me about the sea, the smells of the city. Explain 28!
the stars to me. I never could recognize the constellations, do you remember? Tell me about the cane fields, the men and the animals, the mountain coupled with the sky. Sing me the song of the wave on the sand, of the taste of fruit. Tell me of the sun, Marco. Tell me in just one line of living life. The life that we had barely begun to liberate, you and I.
Just barely, Marco…”
29!
SOURCE TEXT
30!
Marco stoppa sa petite Volkswagen derrière Pégase, la vieille Willys couleur moutarde des poètes.
- J’espère que Jeanne et Marie sont déjà arrivées, dit sa compagne. J’ai une faim de loup.
Elle eut un petit rire de gorge et descendit de la voiture. Le cul-de-sac, faiblement éclairé par son unique réverbère, était tranquille. En face, une ampoule nue jetait une lueur crue dans la cour de la Galerie Brochette et le chant strident des criquets luttait contre la rumeur de Port-au-Prince où dominait, plus ou moins atténués par la brise, les sons du tambour vodou. Criquets et tambours régnaient encore en maîtres sur les nuits d’Haïti, dialoguant librement à travers l’espace. Marco rejoignit la jeune femme. La tête levée, elle contemplait le ciel de décembre semé d’une infinité de brillants.
- N’est-ce pas que c’est merveilleux, dit-il en lui entourant les épaules.
- Oui. C’est l’époque de l’année où le ciel sort toutes ses étoiles. Quel spectacle fascinant ! Dis, Marco, sais-tu les reconnaître ? Par leur nom ?
- Quelques-unes. Par exemple, cette petite constellation juste au-dessus de nous, c’est la Petite Ourse.
- Pour moi, elles se ressemblent toutes. Je n’ai jamais pu les distinguer. Par contre, je peux te montrer Vénus. Tiens, là. La plus belle, celle qui ne clignote pas.
- Non. La plus belle est ici, dit-il. Dans mes bras. Et c’est Paula, mon étoile de terre. 31!
Il la serra contre lui et ils restèrent immobiles quelques instants, puis elle se dégagea de son étreinte.
- Viens, dit-elle, en lui prenant la main. Jai une idée.
Elle l’entraîna vers la barrière en fer forgé de la « Couveuse ». Des éclats de voix et de musique leur parvinrent en sourdine du bungalow au fond de l’allée, et de temps à autre, la silhouette de l‘un des invités passait devant la large baie de la salle de séjour.
- C’est quoi, ton idée ?
Elle le regarda, l’air sérieux.
- Tu me promets de ne pas te moquer de moi ?
- Promis.
- Alors, faisons comme l’an dernier.
- Comme l’an dernier ?
- Tu ne t’en souviens pas ? Avant d’entrer, tu avais tenu à me les présenter à travers la fenêtre du fond.
- Ah ! oui, dit-il en riant. Je me rappelle. Tu était un peu intimidée par cette première rencontre.
- Un peu beaucoup. Alors c’est d’accord ?
Il regarda le beau visage levé vers lui. Depuis plus d’une année qu’il la connaissait, il ne s’était pas encore habitué à cet aspect de sa personnalité qui brusquement faisait surface et, chaque fois que cette montée de fraîcheur submergeait l’autre Paula, la militante réaliste, précise, efficace, Marco refaisait la même prière : 32!
puisse-t-elle ne jamais complètement se débarrasser de cette naïveté merveilleuse de l’adolescence !
- Viens, dit-il
Ils ne prirent pas l’allée de gravier, quelqu’un aurait pu les voir arriver par la grande baie qui leur faisait face. Ils prirent à gauche, traversant le jardin en évitant les rosiers, les touffes de fougères, les dahlias. Ils enjambèrent un bac d’œillets puis longèrent le mur du bungalow. Les bruits de la joyeuse réunion augmentaient et des bribes de phrases leur parvenaient.
- Tu penses qu’ils sont tous là ?
- Les cinq poètes y sont, en tout cas. Pégase est dans la rue.
Ils tournèrent à droite et s’arrêtèrent un peu en retrait devant la fenêtre. Marco avait la pièce en enfilade.
- Tu vois bien ?
- Oui, mais je suis obligée de me hausser, ce n’est pas confortable.
C’est vrai qu’elle était plus petite que lui.
- Attends, on devrait bien trouver quelque chose.
Il se retourna vers la masse sombre du hangar au fond de la cour.
- Ah, ces blocs feront l’affaire.
Il se dirigea vers le hangar de construction récente, préleva deux blocs de ciment sur une pile de surplus de matériaux et les apporta à leur poste d’observation.
- Voilà qui te fera un bon piédestal.
Elle monta sur les blocs. 33!
- C’est parfait. Je suis aux premières loges. Tiens, je suis presque aussi grande que toi.
Il lui passa le bras autours de l’épaule.
- Alors, on commence ? D’abord le maître de la « Couveuse ». C’est le grand type en train de servir du rhum. Tu le reconnais ?
- Oui, le poète Benoît Pardeau.
- C’est ça.
- Pourquoi a-t-il appelé son bungalow « la Couveuse » ?
- C’est Michel qui a trouvé le nom et il convenait si bien à l’atmosphère de cette maison, que nous l’avons adopté.
- C’est vrai qu’on s’y sent bien. On éprouve une sensation d’enveloppement, de chaleur. Ça doit provenir des livres, des toiles...
- Teuteuteu ! tu anticipes, Paula. Tu n’es encore jamais entrée dans cette maison, souviens-toi. Nous sommes à l’an dernier.
- C’est juste, dit-elle en riant. Bon, on continue.
- Où en étais-je ? Oui. Depuis trois ans, ce bungalow est devenu notre point de chute. Mais faut pas te laisser tromper par ce surnom de « Couveuse ». Il signifie surtout création, pépinière et non pas douceur, protection. D’ailleurs, son propriétaire est loin d’être une mère poule. Il serait plutôt une sorte de tyran qui nous force à travailler, à produire. Et des fois, tu as envie de lui tordre le cou. Il est têtu comme une bourrique. Sentencieux comme un Chinois. Enragé de la cigarette. Quarante et plus par jour. Aucun autre vice connu. 34!
- Pas de femme?
- Ce n'est pas un vice. Co-propriétiare, avec ton oncle, le Père Emile, de la station 4 VPM.
- Dont je suis religieusement les émissions littéraires du dimanche.
- Faudra le dire à Benoît, il aimera ça.
- Le petit mince, au profil d'oiseau de proie près de la table, qui est-ce?
- Michel. Un autre poète. Michel Lacroix. Mécanicien de profession, poète par nécessité. Ou vice versa. Propriétaire de Pégase, la voiture décapotable jaune moutarde que tu as vue à l'entrée. Pégase est le moyen de transport favori des poètes, et Michel est son chauffeur attiré. Farouchement opposé à l'engagement politique en poésie. Il écrit de très beaux poèmes et pourrait passer se vie à discuter littérature et philosophie. Boit comme un trou. Devient fou dès qu'il voit une jupe. "Mon cerveau est dans mon sexe." "Je suis un putain." Ce sont ses deux phrases-clefs. Il est toujours en mouvement et ne peut pas rester assis dix minutes. Le voilà justement qui se lève.
Si Benoît est le cerveau, le moteur du groupe des poètes, Michel en est l'âme.
- Il a l'air sympathique
- Oui, et tu l'aimeras tout de suite. Bon, le gars à lunette auquel il s'adresse en ce moment, tu le connais.
- Oui, c'est Mathieu Jean-Louis. Il a terminé l'Ecole normale l'an dernier, section histoire.
- C'est le plus jeune de la bande. Théoricien et homme d'action. Il adore
Pardeau. C'est d'ailleurs Benoît qui lui a mis en main ses premiers livres marxistes. 35!
En rapport direct avec Mathieu, tu vois celui qui change la bobine bu magnétophone?
Le grand type avec la chemise bleu?
- Qui est-ce?
- Edouard Lanoux
- Le nom me dit quelque chose.
- Tu a dû lire ses articles sur le vodou. C'est sa spécialité. Il est ethnologue.
Sur le plan politique, lui et Mathieu sont à la tête du groupe.
- Je croyais que c'était Pardeau.
- Benoît est un polyvalent. Mais son véritable champ d'action, c'est la littérature. C'est lui qui a forcé le dialogue entre les politiques du PEP11 et les littérateurs, les créateurs. Ah ! celui qui entre maintenant, c'est Gabriel Luckner, l'un de nos meilleurs peintres. Il habite tout près d'ici et dirige la Galerie Brochette qui, comme tu le sais, est en face de la Couveuse.
- J'aime beaucoup ce qu'il fait. Mais, dis-moi, celui qui est assis près de
Matthieu, ce ne serait pas Jacques Marchand?
- Oui. Le poète le plus haïtien du groupe des cinq. Il utilise systématiquement les expressions, les images créoles dans sa poésie.
- Et celui-là? celui qui chante. J'ai l'impression de l'avoir déjà vu avec toi.
- Ah! c'est Edgar Délose. Poète épicurien. Mange comme dix. Boit très mal.
C'est la troisième fois déjà qu'il remplit son verre. Tu as l'impression qu'il craint que les autres finissent la bouteille avant qu'il ait eu son compte. A ce rythme, il sera
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 11 Parti d’Entente Populaire, fondé par le romancier Jacques Stéphen Alexis 36!
saoul dans une demi-heure. Il est paresseux comme un chat, se frotte continuellement le dessus de la tête, ou le ventre et n'a aucune gêne, aucune manière. C'est le cauchemar de Benoît, qui le surveille constamment, lorsqu'ils sont invités quelque part. Michel l'appelle « un gros soulier ». Il sait d'ailleurs qu'il n'a aucune retenue, mais c'est plus fort que lui, il ne peut pas ne pas faire de gaffe. Impossible de lui en vouloir, cependant, il est tellement désarmant.
- Il a une grosse face d'ange.
- C'est un ange sans éducation.
- A part de la poésie, qu'est-ce qu'il fait dans la vie ?
- Employé de commerce.
- Le dernier que tu ne m'as pas présenté est donc Simon Nadal.
- Oui, et c'est lui que nous fêtons ce soir.
- Mais dis-moi, il n'y a pas de femme, dans ce groupe ?
- Si. Maria, la femme de Jacques et Jeanne, celle d'Edgar, arriveront vers neuf heures et demie avec Nadine et Jacqueline. Elles s'occupent du griot12 et aussi du gâteau d'anniversaire de Simon.
- Et qui sont Nadine et Jacqueline ?
- Nadine c'est le grand amour de Michel. Sa passion dévorante.
- Michel, c'est celui qui dit qu'il est...
- Un putain, c'est bien ça.
- Et malgré cela, il peut avoir un grand amour ?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 12 Viande de porc frite. 37!
- Faudra lui poser la question.
- Oui. Je me souviens de sa réponse : « Entre faire l'amour et aimer, il y a une différence qualitative. Pour le premier, le sexe seul suffit, le second a besoin aussi du cœur. »
- Alors, nous retombons dans la réalité ?
- Pas tout de suite, tu ne m'as pas dit qui est Jacqueline.
- C'est quelqu'un que tu devrais connaître, pourtant, si, comme tu dis, tu suis régulièrement les émissions littéraires de Benoît.
- Oh! Jacqueline Ténier ?
- La vedette féminine de la 4 VPM. L'interprète favorite de Benoît et aussi, je le soupçonne, son grand amour secret.
- Tu penses que...
- J'ai dit que je le soupçonne.
- Dans ce cas, ils ne sont pas comme toi et moi.
- Non. Pas comme toi et moi...
- ... car nous sommes uniques au monde.
- Eh ! ce n'est pas juste, tu me voles ma réplique.
- Parce que nous somme revenus à la réalité, et qu'aujourd'hui est le 8 décembre 1964 et que Jacqueline Ténier ne sera pas ici ce soir, puisqu'elle a quitté
Haïti voici quatre mois, pour s'installer à New York avec son mari et ses trois enfants.
Dis, tu penses vraiment que Benoît et Jacqueline... 38!
- Je l'ignore. Je t'ai déjà dit que je n'avais aucune preuve. Je ne peux tout de même pas demander à Benoît s'il avait été l'amant de Jacqueline.
- Ah! Quel dommage pour eux, s'ils s'aimaient, d'avoir été obligés de se voir en cachette. Paula et Marco ne se cachent pas, eux. Ne se retiennent pas en public.
S'ils on envie de s'embrasser, ils le font là où ils se trouvent. Ici, par exemple.
- Mais, qu’est-ce que vous faites là, vous deux ?
Paula et Marco sursautèrent. Ils n’avaient pas vu arriver Michel qui maintenant se penchait vers eux à travers la fenêtre.
- Tu vois, on s’embrassait.
- Je ne suis pas aveugle. Ni sourd non plus, car j’avais bien cru reconnaître le bruit de ta Volkswagen ; mail dis-moi, Marco, tu mets toujours comme ça des bloc de ciment sous les pieds de Paula quand tu l’embrasses ? Tu es un vrai maniaque, ma parole. Benoît ! cria-t-il en se retournant vers l’intérieur de la maison, viens vite, il y a des espions dans la cour.
Paula descendit en riant de son piédestal et, suivie de Marco, elle longea en courant le mur du bungalow, tourna à gauche et s’arrêta sur la galerie pour reprendre souffle. Marco la rejoignit et ils entrèrent tout excités dans la Couveuse
39!
Elle ferma la radio puis reposa sa tête sur l’épaule nue de l’homme allongé à ses côtés. Le bruit léger, irrégulier des vagues faisait comme une suite au texte qu’ils venaient de suivre et longtemps ils restèrent sans rien dire, pareil à deux gisants sur le sable de cette petite crique entourée de mangliers et de cocotiers. Ils étaient seuls, vivant leur, vivant leur rêve loin des hommes. Ils étaient les uniques habitants d’une planète merveilleuse qui dérivait lentement à travers l’espace.
Peu à peu cependant, la magie créée par la poésie se dissipait, les images se dissolvaient graduellement comme ces fugaces dessins de nuages qui ne duraient que le temps de les dire, de les montrer. Le bruissement des feuilles de cocotiers, un brusque coup de vague, le lointain moteur d’un camion sur la route les ramenèrent par paliers dans la réalité, les réintégrant au monde quotidien.
- Comme la beauté est triste, murmura-t-il. Elle nous fait prendre conscience de tout ce qui nous manque.
Elle approuva d’un bruit de gorge puis, après un instant, se décolla de lui et s’assit sur la serviette de plage.
- C’est curieux, dit-elle. Tout au long de l’émission, j’ai eu l’impression d’entendre le texte pour la première fois. Même le son de ma voix m’était étranger. Je suppose que Benoît savait la surprise qu’il nous ménageait en refusant de nous passer la bande hier.
- C’était vraiment très beau, Paula. Je pense que depuis quatre ans, c’est la plus belle réalisation du groupe. 40!
- Le mérite en revient surtout à Benoît. Ça faisait longtemps qu’il voulait le réaliser, ce découpage, mais nous avions tous peur du texte. Ces dialogues formés d’extraits de poèmes n’étaient pas faciles et je crois qu’aucun de nous n’aurait accepté une demi-réusite. Le départ de Jacqueline a précipité les choses, Benoît nous a forcés à travailler, nous a épuisés littéralement. Chaque scène a été enregistrée je ne sais plus combien de fois. Il nous faisait reprendre une réplique pour un mot, une intonation. Je ne l’ai jamais vu aussi méticuleux. Maniaque même ! Quinze heures de studio, tu te rends compte ! Il a pris une semaine pour faire son montage final et, hier, lorsque nous sommes arrivés à la station, il nous a déclaré sur un ton solennel : « Les enfants, cet après-midi c’est fête. Nous ne travaillons pas. L’émission de demain est en boîte. Nous passons l’Amour la Mort. » Il a refusé de nous faire entendre l’enregistrement, se contentant de nous dire : « Croyez-moi, vous avez tous fait un travail remarquable. Remarquable. » Il ne pensait pas si bien dire. Je suis fière d’avoir participé à cette émission.
Elle était fière des progrès accomplis en six mois. Sa voix s’était posée, avait acquis une extraordinaire souplesse. Elle pouvait avec aisance en modifier les intonations et cette flexibilité, c’était à Benoît qu’elle la devait, à ses conseils, à son travail patient avec elle. Il lui avait tout appris, la corrigeant de sa tendance à lever le ton des syllabes finales d’une phrase. « Tu pointes ! disait-il. Laisse couler la voix. » ou encore : « Mets de la couleur, Paula. De la couleur. Les mots n’ont pas tous la même valeur. Il y en a de verts, de rouges, de noirs. Ta réplique est grise. Donne-lui de la vie. » Mais c’est surtout avec les r qu’elle avait rencontré ses plus grandes 41!
difficultés. « Tu n’est pas la seule, Paula. En tant que bons Antillais créolisants, nous sommes portés à les esquiver. » Dis-moi, gros, gras, grand grain d’orge. Combien d’heures n’avait-elle pas passées à répéter cet exercice, avec ou sans crayon en travers de la bouche ? Finalement, elle avait réussi à la maîtriser, cette petite lettre traîtresse.
Elle se rappela ce samedi de sa première audition à la 4 VPM. Rapidement, elle avait monté l’escalier de la station. Son cœur battait plus vite que de coutume, non point à cause des trente-deux marches, mais une légère appréhension l’avait obligée à faire une pause au palier.
- Comme ça, cela t’intéresserait de participer à nos émissions littéraires ?
- J’aimerais bien essayer, mais je n’ai jamais fait de théâtre. Mon expérience ne dépasse pas de petits rôles dans des pièces de collège, chez les Sœurs.
- Ça n’a aucune importance. A la radio, c’est différent. Je cherche justement une autre voix de femme et il me semble que la tienne est plus grave que celle de
Jacqueline. Viens passer une audition et si cela marche, nous t’accueillerons avec plaisir. La seule chose que nous exigeons, c’est le sérieux. La disponibilité. Le bénévolat.
La voix de Montand qui l’avait accueillit en sourdine, au bas des marches, lui parvenait plus clairement. Elle avait reconnu la chanson, mais n’arrivait pas à lui mettre un titre. Il faut pourtant que je le trouve, sinon, ça ira mal. Oui, bien sûr, c’était du Prévert mais quel poème ?
- Tu comprends, la 4 VPM ne peut pas payer se comédiens. Voilà deux ans que j’essaie vainement de trouver un commanditaire pour le théâtre radiophonique du 42!
dimanche. Alors, il faut que les gars soient vraiment amoureux du théâtre pour lui consacrer gratuitement, tous leurs samedis après-midi. Toutefois, lorsque je fixe un rendez-vous à quatre ou cinq comédiens, je dois être sûr qu’ils y seront tous car si l’un d’eux ne vient pas, ça me fout en l’air mon programme. D’autre part, que puis-je dire à celui qui m’a fait faux bond ? Hein ? Le gars travaille pour des prunes. Oh ! bien sûr, je l’engueule un peu, mais doucement. Et puis, il à toujours une excellente excuse. Le plus souvent, un rendez-vous avec une femme. J’ai donc réduit la troupe au minimum. Deux voix d’homme, en plus de la mienne et une voix de femme, celle de Jacqueline.
- Dans ce cas, il est inutile que je songe à travailler avec vous autres.
- Pas du tout. Si ta voix est radiophonique, tu peux être certaine que nous l’utiliserons. Ce ne sont pas les textes qui manquent. Je tenais cependant à te faire comprendre qu’il faudra désormais nous consacrer tous tes samedis après-midi.
Ah !... Sanguine. Mais oui. Elle avait retrouvé le titre une fraction de seconde avant la fin de la chanson. C’était Sanguine de Jacques Prévert, chanté par Yves
Montand. La voix du speaker avait fait une brève pause. Au cours de notre demi- heure de chansons françaises, nous vous avons présenté Georges Brassens et Yves
Montand. Il est exactement deux heures vingt-neuf minutes. Pour un plu beau sourire, mesdames. Paula avait sourit en constatant qu’elle était exacte au rendez-vous de
Benoît. « Viens à deux heures et demie, les autres n’arriveront pas avant trois heures.
Nous ne serons donc pas dérangés et tu seras plus à l’aise pour ton audition. » Au gardol. Rend les dents plus blanches et les protège de la carie. Vous écoutez la 4 43!
VPM émettant de Port-au-Prince. Marco l’avait amenée à la station et était parti faire un tour, Paula ayant insisté pour qu’il n’assiste pas à son audition. Sa présence l’aurait intimidée, lui aurait coupé ses moyens. Lorsqu’elle était entrée dans le hall en se dirigeant vers le bureau de Benoît, son appréhension avait complètement disparu.
Grâce au rythme de la méringue qui sortait du haut-parleur ou bien au fait d’avoir identifié Sanguine ?
- Oui, répéta-t-elle, je suis fière d’avoir participé à cette émission.
Marco s’était assis auprès de la jeune femme.
- Moi aussi, je suis fier do toi, Paula. Pas seulement pour ce que tu fais à la station, mais ton travail dans le réseau est très apprécié, tu sais. Et il est même possible qu’on te confie des tâches plus importantes.
- Oh ! Marco, s’écria-t-elle, j’aimerais tellement m’impliquer d’avantage.
- Je sais. Toutefois, ce qu’on te proposerait pour le moment pourrait te sembler facile.
Il allongea la main vers son paquet de Splendid.
- Cigarette ?
- Non, merci. De quoi s’agit-il ?
- Tu as des parents à Léogâne, n’est-ce pas ?
- Oui, un cousin de ma mère. En fait, c’est mon parrain. Pourquoi ?
- Voilà qui va faciliter les choses.
Il alluma se cigarette et joua un instant avec son briquet.
- Tu me fais languir, Marco. 44!
- Voilà, nous avons des contacts là-bas, et depuis quelque temps déjà, ces types nous demandent de leur envoyer quelqu’un pour les aider à monter un véritable réseau dans la région. Mais les camarades familiers avec ce genre de travail sont tous plus ou moins connus et surveillés. Or, à la suite des récents événements dans la zone, tu sais, l’affaire des vaches ?
Oui, elle se souvenait d’avoir lu quelque chose là-dessus dans Voix du
Peuple.13 Un groupe de paysans de Léogâne, fatigués de la présence des vaches de l’A-vie14 qui passaient librement dans leurs champs, avaient lancé une véritable charge à la machette, coupant la tête à une dizaine de ces ruminants.
- Sept des meneurs on été arrêtés, poursuivit Marco, torturés et assassinés.
Deux d’entre eux étaient des types à nous. Cette brutale répression des macoutes a
évidemment terrifié les habitants qui n’osent plus maintenant chasser de leurs terres les vaches de l’A-Vie. Et les ruminants du Père Spirituel sont en passe de devenir des vaches sacrées. Dis-moi, ton parrain, qu’est-ce qu’il fait à Léogâne ?
- Il possède une plantation de canne et tient un bazar à l’entrée de la ville.
- Pourrais-tu te faire inviter chez lui pour deux semaines ?
- Je crois. J’ai déjà passé des vacances sur sa propriété. Mais pourquoi irais-je là-bas ?
Marco enfonça sa cigarette dans le sable.
- Nous voulons envoyer un émissaire à Léogâne, et nous avons pensé à toi. Tu serais une sorte d’ambassadrice. Ta mission réclamera du tact, du doigté. Tu ne vas !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 13 Journal clandestin du Parti d’Entente Populaire. 14 Surnom de Duvalier, Président-à-vie. 45!
apporter aucune solution aux problèmes de ces gars. Tu ignores tout de leur milieu.
Mais tu seras une représentante du comité central. Tu iras là-bas pour voir et écouter.
- Je ne sais vraiment pas quoi te répondre, Marco. Et puis, ces paysans, comment vais-je les rencontrer ?
- Dès ton arrivée, tu seras prise en charge par les militants de la région. En fait, ajouta-t-il, cette mission est plus psychologique qu’autre chose. Tu es la seule capable de mener à bien. Tu n’es pas connue, ta présence là-bas ne suscitera pas la suspicion des macoutes. Et puis, ce sera une occasion pour toi de prendre un contact humain avec notre paysannerie. Cette expérience te sera très précieuse. J’espère que tu accepteras.
- Je suppose que je devrai partir le plus tôt possible, demanda Paula.
Elle avait baissé la tête et son visage s’était rembruni. Marco lui pris les
épaules.
- Je sais à quoi tu penses, Paula. Deux semaines sans se voir, ça va être long.
Mais les grandes vacances ne sont pas finies. Il nous restera encore tout le mois de septembre. Nous pourrons venir ici tous les après-midi.
Elle ramassa une poignée de sable et la laissa filer entre ses doigts.
- Il pleut en septembre, murmura-t-elle. Elle ajouta aussitôt : Oh ! Marco, pardonne-moi. Je ne refuse pas cette mission, non, je veux être utile au Parti, mais tu comprends, c’est la première fois que nous allons être éloignés l’un de l’autre. Tout le temps que tu me parlais, c’est la seule pensée qui me tournait dans la tête : Paula et
Marco vont être séparés. Paula et Marco ne se verront pas pendant deux semaines. 46!
Deux semaines ! tu te rends compte ? Elle se retourna contre sa poitrine. Je suis une idiote, n’est-ce pas ? Je me demande comment tu vas réussir à faire de moi une vrai militante, si je ne fais que penser à mon bonheur personnel.
Il lui releva le menton et lui entoura le visage de ses mains.
- Ecoute, Paula, un militant, ce n’est pas un morceau de bois. Il éprouve les mêmes sentiments que les autres hommes. Lorsque Mathieu m’a parlé de cette mission, j’ai eu exactement ta réaction. Mais, tu verras, après ces quinze jours, nous nous retrouverons avec une joie plus forte, notre amour aura franchi une nouvelle
étape, il se sera fortifié par l’absence et puis, tu sera fière d’avoir rendu service au
Parti. Maintenant, n’y pensons plus, veux-tu ? L’affaire n’est pas encore décidée et, en attendant, ajouta-t-il en se levant, nous sommes ensemble, il fait soleil, tu n’es pas encore partie et l’eau doit être merveilleusement tiède.
Il se pencha vers la jeune femme et la souleva brusquement de la serviette de plage. Elle poussa un petit cri, s’accrocha à son cou, et se laissa emporter en riant vers la mer.
47!
Quand elle arriva dans le hall de l’Institut français d’Haïti, la réverbération du soleil à travers la grande façade en fer forgé, la fit cligner des yeux. Elle fourragea dans son sac, pêcha ses lunettes fumées.
- Comment vas-tu, Paula ?
Elle se retourna, leva la tête vers l’homme qui se tenait en haut de l’escalier en colimaçon.
- Ah ! bonjour, René. Ça va, oui. Et toi ?
René Dubois, bibliothécaire à l’Institut français, depuis sa fondation après la guerre, descendit rapidement les marches métalliques. Il a encore pris de l’embonpoint, pensa Paula. La vie d’« asilé » politique lui va bien, ma foi.
- Il n’est pas trop tard pour te souhaiter une bonne année, demanda René en s’approchant.
- Pas du tout, répondit-elle en riant. Nous ne sommes qu’au dix et comme c’est la première fois que je viens à l’Institut depuis les fêtes...
Elle lui tendit sa joue. Il se pencha pour l’embrasser.
- Tu as passé de bonnes fêtes ?
- Oh ! comme d’habitude : réception à l’ambassade et un petit réveillon ici, avec ma femme et quelques amis.
- Ça doit être dur de ne pas pouvoir aller et venir comme on veut, n’est-ce pas ?
- Au début, oui. Cela me démangeait, mais après six ans, j’en ai pris mon parti. Et puis, je m’occupe. J’étudie. J’ai des films. Je vois des gens. Je ne suis pas au 48!
secret. Au fond, c’est une retraite dorée. Quand je pense à ceux qui sont dans les ambassades sud-américaines, je me considère comme un privilégié.
René Dubois jouissait d’un statut spécial à l’Institut français. Depuis que les tonton macoutes avaient tenté par deux fois, de l’abattre, alors qu’il regagnait son domicile, il ne quittait plus les locaux de la mission culturelle où l’ambassade de
France lui avait aménagé un appartement. Officiellement, il n’était pas un « asilé » politique, mais l’Institut relevant de l’Ambassade, René bénéficiait en quelque sorte de l’immunité diplomatique. Une ou deux fois par mois il faisait une courte sortie, pour aller projeter des films au siège de l’Ambassade, à Bourdon et, à ces occasions, il faisait le trajet sous la protection du petit fanion de la voiture diplomatique.
- Alors, comme ça, vous avez un nouveau professeur de littérature haïtienne à l’Ecole normale ?
- Jean Saint-Cyr ? Heureusement que je n’aurai pas affaire à lui, dit Paula. Je plains les étudiants de première année. C’est vraiment incroyable, cette nomination.
C’est la promotion des médiocres !
- As-tu lu son livre ?
- Classes et Littérature ? Non. Je n’en ai pas eu le courage. Le feuilleter m’a suffit amplement.
- Ah ! mais, il faut le lire ! C’est d’une criante malhonnêteté. D’un duvaliérisme délirant. Et avec ça, affreusement mal écrit. Comme tu dis, c’est la promotion des médiocres.
- Salut ! Dubois ! 49!
- Allô ! Rivière !
René et Paula se retournèrent. Un groupe d’étudiants venant de la bibliothèque avait fait irruption dans le hall.
- Salut, les gars.
- A demain.
Ils franchirent le portail de l’Institut et se dispersèrent sur le boulevard Harry
Truman.
- Il est déjà midi et quart, dit René. Je m’excuse de t’avoir retenue, Paula.
- Voyons, ça me fait plaisir, René. De plus, je suis en avance. J’ai rendez-vous avec Marco à midi et demi au bar Sunset.
- Ça fait un bout de temps que je n’ai pas rencontré Marco, dit René.
Comment va-t-il ? Il travaille toujours pour Seymour et Morin ?
- Oui. Ils ont actuellement un projet de construction d’une dizaine de villas à
Martissant.
- Tant mieux. Aussi longtemps que les gars ne chôment pas, ils pourront tenir le coup dans ce pays. Mais, je voulais te demander, as-tu des nouvelles récentes de
Lanoux ?
- D’Edouard ? Non. Rien de neuf. Nous savons seulement qu’il est à l’hôpital militaire. Mais nous ignorons dans quel état il se trouve.
- Il est en parfaite santé et sortira de l’hôpital d’ici quelques jours.
- Tu en es sûr, René ? 50!
- Je le tiens de quelqu’un de très fiable, qui a vu hier, le major Mollé, l’un des chirurgiens de l’hôpital militaire. Selon Mollé, Lanoux avait reçu une balle au genou et sa blessure est presque entièrement cicatrisée.
- Quelle bonne nouvelle tu m’annonces là, René, s’écria Paula. On avait fait courir tant de bruits !
Après l’incident du café du Port, en décembre dernier, les premiers informateurs avaient affirmé qu’Edouard avait été assassiné, au cours d’une rixe avec les macoutes. Certains prétendaient même qu’il avait été criblé de balles. Quelques jours plus tard, cependant, la nouvelle de sa présence à l’hôpital militaire avait pu être confirmée, mais là encore, les rumeurs le donnait pour quasi mort.
- Vraiment, René, ta version me soulage et j’ai hâte d’en faire part à Marco.
- Tu vois que le gros René peut encore être utile, hein ? S’il est incapable d’agir, il peut quand même fournir des renseignements ! Allez, à la prochaine, Paula.
Ils se serrèrent la main en riant.
- Bon appétit, et mes amitiés à Marco.
- Merci, René. Bonjour à ta femme.
Elle ajusta ses lunettes fumées et, d’un pas alerte, sortit de l’Institut affronter le soleil.
51!
La place du Champ de Mars était déserte. A droite, dans le stationnement du
Rex-Théâtre, quelques rares voitures des spectateurs de la séance de neuf heurs. Un western. Elle se souvenait d’avoir vu l’affiche dans l’après-midi. En face, la mass sombre des Tribunes. Elle passera derrière, devant l’ancien Parc d’Enfants, longera la rue jusqu’au carrefour, jusqu’à son premier arrêt : la faculté d’Ethnologie. Elle en lancera cinq ou six dans la cour, et pourra peut-être en coller sur le gros sablier qui empiétait sur le trottoir. Mais il faudra agir très vite, toutefois. Quelqu’un pourrait la voir de l’une des fenêtres donnant sur la rue. Puis elle descendra la petite côte, bifurquera à gauche, traversera vars la clinique Assad, la faculté de Droit, la faculté d’Art Dentaire. La faculté de Médecine sera plus exposée. Sur place, elle verra comment procéder. Tout près, la masse des Tribunes. Bientôt, ce sera le carnaval et ces gradins de fer seront pris d’assaut par une foule bariolée et joyeuse, l’air résonnera du son entraînant des tambours et les meilleures méringues carnavalesques monteront des haut-parleurs. La place du Champ de Mars sera grouillante de masques. Les tresseuses de rubans feront démonstration d’habileté et de grâce. Elles saisiront l’extrémité des rubans de couleurs accrochés au sommet d’un grand mât et exécuteront, en s’entrecroisant, les figures d’une danse spectaculaire qui, peu à peu, tissera autour de la tige de bois, un long fourreau multicolore. Les voici maintenant qui s’arrêtent. Leurs jupes chatoient dans le soleil. Elles font la révérence, puis se relèvent, se démêlent, se défaufilent, défaisant le fourreau avec une lenteur calculée et, finalement, dénudent la tige sous les applaudissements de la petite fille
émerveillée, appuyée des coudes sur la tête de son père. Pour dix centimes, les 52!
lamayotttes, porteurs de boîtes à surprises, te laissent voir le secret de ces coffrets qu’ils trimballent en bandoulière et le marchands de sucreries font inlassablement tinter leurs clochettes, se rappelant à l’attention de ces spectateurs trop occupés à applaudir le Roi ou la Reine du carnaval. Et ce que disent ces clochettes est tentant.
« Papa, je veux un pirouli.15Papa, je veux un pirouli. » C’était l’époque lointaine où, fillette juchée sur les épaules de son père, et sa première frayeur apprivoisée, elle osait taquiner ce vilain masque armé d’un grand coutelas et qui, un sac chargé d’enfants en papier mâché sur l’épaule, personnifiait le Tonton Macoute, la terreur des gosses, l’Ogre de la légende haïtienne. Par-dessus de la tête de son père, et forte de son protection, elle osait même lui crier d’une voix aiguë, joyeuse, mais pas tout à fait rassurée : « Tonton macoute, m’pa pè ou ! Je ne te crains pas, Tonton macoute, je suis une enfant sage et tu ne m’auras pas pour ton souper. » Mais la fillette avait grandi et le carnaval, installé à demeure dans le pays, était devenue ubuesque. La musique n’était plus la même. Il n’y avait plus de Reines souriantes ni de Rois bons enfants. Les diables-pour-rire, la famille des grosses têtes et des jambes de bois, les chars et les camions avaient été remplacés par un criard défilé de tonton macoutes armés jusqu’au dents et, dominant la parade, coiffant le pays tout entier, trônait le maître Ogre, l’unique instigateur de ce carnaval de déments; veillait le chef spirituel, le régénérateur, l’A-Vie. A privatif, murmura-t-elle en s’éloignant de la faculté d’Ethnologie. Le sablier qui empiétait sur le trottoir portait la trace de son passage en vert et blanc.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 15 Sucre d’orge en baton 53!
Elle avait descendu la petite côte, ses sandales la poussaient en avant, se jupe battait contre ses cuisses. La voiture noire passa pour la première fois. La porte de la clinique Assad et l’entrée de la faculté d’Art Dentaire, avaient été décorées en vert et blanc. Ses gestes avaient été précis, rapides. Et maintenant, son beau visage se profilait contre l’une des larges colonnes de la faculté de Droit. Immobile, le cœur battant, mais les sens en alerte, elle scrutait la pénombre de la rue, car la voiture noire venait de passer pour la deuxième fois. Elle a roulé lentement, comme si ses occupants avaient flairé la proie facile; elle s’est presque arrêtée, mais après une légère hésitation, elle a repris de la vitesse et s’est dirigée vers la rue Monseigneur
Guilloux. Ils ne reviendront pas. Ils avaient terminé leur ronde. Elle a respiré plus librement et ses mains ont retrouvé leur agilité. Le travail était simple et banal, maintenant. Rien n’entravera le déroulement de sa mission. Personne dans la rue. Pas une ombre. Les cinq derniers, elle les collera non à l’arrière de l’édifice comme prévu, mais contre la façade. La chance était avec elle, ce soir. Elle se sentait toutes les audaces. Elle quitte la galerie de la faculté de Droit et d’un pas assuré, s’avance sur le trottoir. Au bout de la rue, elle aperçoit les lumignons des marchandes de fritures. Elle pourra, son travail accompli, s’arrêter cinq minutes pour boire un chocolat.
Elle a grimpé les cinq marches de la faculté de Médecine, ouvrant en même temps son grand sac à main. Cela ne prendrait pas plus de cinq secondes pour fixer chaque rectangle de papier blanc. Elle le savait, ayant minuté le geste dans sa chambre. Deux fois, trois fois, cinq fois cinq minutes. Et voilà, c’est fini. Elle revient 54!
au milieu de la galerie, vers l’escalier. Non ! Il y a erreur ! Ce n’est pas possible. Ses oreilles auraient dû l’avertir. Elle se serait couchée derrière la balustrade et la voiture noire ne serait pas arrêtée. Ils ne serait pas là, tous les quatre, à la regarder en ricanant. Elle a donné tête baissée dans le piège. Elle est cernée. Pas d’issue possible.
Tonton macoute m’pa pè ou ! Je ne te crains pas ! Mais en vain chercha-t-elle la tête de son père, ses épaules protectrices. Le cortège houleux et criard l’entoure, la submerge. Elle est la Reine du carnaval. On l’acclame. C’est elle qui repose au fond de la boîte des marchands de surprises. Dix centimes pour voir le lamayotte ! Elle a des échasses. La famille des grosses têtes se la dispute. Les tresseuses passent et repassent en dansant autour d’elle et les rubans colorés s’entrecroisent le long de son corps, les bandelettes lui font un lent fourreau qui la comprime, l’étrangle, l’étouffe.
De l’air ! La fillette a perdu les épaules paternelles, des milliers de jambes impitoyablement l’écrasent. Elle s’accroche à un pantalon. Une botte l’oblige à lâcher prise. Sa joue éprouve la dureté du sol. Comment a-t-elle été transportée dans cet endroit ? Cela aurait dû être du gazon, ils se trouvaient sur la pelouse, à côté des
Tribunes, lorsqu’elle est tombée. Elle s’était mise à cogner dans toutes les directions, mordant un bras, griffant une main, frappant contre une jambe et la foule s’était ouverte, la rejetant à son père. Mais, pourquoi reviennent-ils à la charge ? Tapant trop fort, beaucoup trop fort, l’anesthésiant d’un coup. Elle les voit distinctement, maintenant. Elle les entend. Mais ne sent plus la douleur. Ne sent plus leurs bottes contre son ventre, ses jambes, son dos. Ne sent plus leurs mains rêches qui lui empoignent les cheveux. Plus leurs doigts qui lui pétrissent les joues. Elle entend les 55!
ordres. Les mots grossiers. Elle voit le mur de la faculté de Médecine se rapprocher de son visage. Et le tract grossit, se rapetisse, bascule hors du champ, puis vient lentement vers elle, à sa hauteur. Il est flou, brouillé, sa tête se relève brusquement et tout redevient précis, comme quand Benoît ajustait la lentille de son projecteur. Nous frapperons de nouveau. Sa langue épelle avec difficulté les lettres vertes, une à une, comme si elle ne savait plus lire. De plus en plus fort. Les mots lui entrent dans la bouche avec leur goût d’encre et de colle mêlé à celui de la poussière du mur. De plus en plus haut. Elle les lèche, les aspire. Vive la Révolution. De la joue elle les caresse, ses lèvres râpées les détachent, le cueillent. Vive la lutte du peuple haïtien. Le tract est salé, amer, et les slogans lui restent sur la langue. Ah ! sa langue ! Ma langue, Marco, comme un corps étranger me remplit la bouche. Elle est rigide, plombée et c’est dans mon cœur que je te parle. Dis-leur de ne point douter. Que j’ai tenu jusqu’au bout.
Scellée, aussi fermée qu’une tombe. Pout toi, pour moi, pour le réseau. Il y a des choses que je n’était pas censée savoir. Elémentaire prudence, aurait dit Benoît. ABC de la clandestinité, aurait souligné Mathieu. C’est une faute grave contre la sécurité du réseau, aurait ajouté Edouard. Mais toi et moi, nous étions l’envers et l’endroit d’un même corps. Il n’y avait aucun secret entre nous. Notre amour et la lutte se complétaient, se nourrissaient l’un de l’autre. Mais pourquoi en parler au passé, comme si tout était retombé dans les ténèbres ? La vie est vacillante à l’extérieur, la flamme n’en est point encore éteinte. Ah ! éteindre mes brûlures. De l’eau pour mon visage tuméfié, mes lèvres fendues. Quelle est cette main qui me rafraîchit ? Est-ce la tienne ? Tu es donc arrivé jusqu’à moi, Marco ? Comment as-tu fait ? Qui t’a donné 56!
pouvoir de traverser murs et portes ? De l’eau sur mon front, ma nuque, mes bras.
Pour ma bouche surtout. Arrose-moi comme un jeune amandier brûlé par le soleil d’août. Effaces les traces de l’horrible cauchemar et que je me réveille neuve !...
Entre mes cils, à peine je devine ta sombre silhouette penchée. J’écarquille les yeux, mes paupières ne se décollent point. Mais c’est mieux. Ainsi, je ne te verrai pas me regarder... Parle-moi, Marco. Dis-moi de le mer, les odeurs de la ville. Explique-moi les étoiles. Je n’arrivais jamais à reconnaître les constellations, tu t’en souviens ? Dis- moi les champs de canne, les hommes et les bêtes, la montagne accouplée au ciel.
Chante-moi le chant de la vague sur le sable, du fruit dans la bouche. Raconte-moi le soleil, Marco, raconte-moi la vie vivante, d’une seule coulée. La vie que nous avions
à peine commencé à libérer toi et moi. A peine, Marco...
57!
TRANSLATION ANALYSIS
58!
INTRODUCTION
Literature in Haiti is very often linked to the history of the country. The life-long presidency of François Duvalier was no exception to this link. In fact, his regime’s harsh oppression likely further linked literature to history. Anthony Phelps’s first novel, Moins l’Infini (Minus Infinity), serves as a link to his life in Haiti as well as to Duvalier’s presidency and the effects his Tonton Macoutes had on daily life. Born in 1928 in Port- au-Prince, Phelps grew up and lived there until his arrest and subsequent exile from Haiti in 1964. Moins l’Infini was then published in France in 1973. While it is a work of fiction, Phelps’s writing includes many aspects of real life in Haiti. Phelps was a founding member of Haïti Littérature, a group of writers who could have been the inspiration for the group of writers in his novel (Maïa). Although many characters are writers and poets, politics plays a much larger role in the story.
This translation deals with the beginning of Moins l’Infini. The text is divided into four sections. The first of these sections depicts a party scene in which a group of writers and poets are introduced. Most importantly, the reader is introduced to Paula and Marco, whose relationship is a central aspect of the novel. In the next part of the text, Paula recalls her experience working for a radio station run by one of the group’s writers. She also discusses her involvement in the resistance against Duvalier with Marco. This concept of resistance continues into the third section in which Paula meets with a librarian at the Institut français who was a target of multiple attacks by the Tonton 59!
Macoutes. Last, the fourth section describes Paula as she goes on an assignment for the resistance network and is attacked and killed by the Tonton Macoutes.
All of these stories show the drastic impact of Duvalier’s regime, with increasing importance, on daily life in Haiti. The following analysis is broken into four parts corresponding to Phelps’s divisions of his novel in order to examine these instances more closely. The analysis will deal with the strategies used before and during the translation.
There are also several themes that are found throughout these four sections that Phelps addresses in his writing.
PHELPS AND HAITI LITTERAIRE
The very first section of the translation introduces the reader to the group of writers in La Couveuse. This group bears a very close resemblance to Phelps’s own Haïti
Littéraire. This first section is the only one that does not reference Duvalier or the Tonton
Macoutes directly. Phelps does, however, mention that the writers are part of a Marxist group. While this is not a direct reference to Duvalier, Marxists were just one group that was opposed to Duvalier both before and after his election. Marxists were an enemy of the noiriste 1946 revolution along with the United States, the bourgeoisie, light skinned haitians, and others (Smith, 38). Since a decade before his election, then, Duvalier had been an opponent of Marxism.
During Duvalier’s regime, Phelps and the members of Haïti Littéraire were aware of his opposition to Marxism. While recalling his first meeting with the poets and writers of Haïti Littéraire, Phelps says, “Ils voulaient savoir si je connaissais Saint John Perse, si j'avais lu Henri Michaux, ce que je pensais de Lautréamont. Puis les noms de Plékanov, 60!
de Marx, d'Engels etc. ont fait surface... Tout bas, bien entendu” (Phelps). Phelps adds,
“Tout bas, bien entendu” in reference to the connotation of Marxism under Duvalier’s government. This group of writers is very similar to the group listed in Phelps’s book, and it is likely that some material he uses is of an autobiographical nature and based on his time in Haiti before his exile.
PORT-AU-PRINCE
All of the scenes from this translation take place in Port-Au-Prince. Some places mentioned in the source text include neighborhoods like Bourdin, as well as specific locations like the Galerie Brochette and the Institut français. These are real places that
Phelps uses as a backdrop for his story. He also has listed locations such as, the Galerie
Brochette, his own home, and the home of Marie Vieux Chauvet in Bourdin, as buildings that Haïti Littéraire frequented. These places were commonly incorporated into the group’s poetry and writing (Phelps). Again, the author is combining his own life with the book he has written.
The third scene of the translation takes place at the Institut français.
Unfortunately, the structure of this building, like many buildings in Port-au-Prince, was severely damaged in the earthquake of 2010 (L’Insititut Français en Haïti). Because of this tragedy, many places Phelps mentions may not exist in the way he has described them anymore.
The final section of the translation takes the reader through much of Port-au-
Prince as Paula walks from building to building distributing revolutionary flyers. Many of the buildings she visits are part of the University. When translating the different names 61!
of buildings using the term “faculté,” the target text contains the calque “School of..” which shows the reader that Paula is around the University. At the same time, the names
“Champs de Mars” and “les Tribunes” were borrowed to keep an element of the source language in the target text (Hervey, 35).
DUVALIER AND THE TONTON MACOUTES
In addition to drawing from his personal experience as a writer, Phelps also deals with Dulvalier and the Tonton Macoutes, his secret police throughout the novel. The name “Tonton Macoute” (literally “Uncle Knapsack”) comes from a Haitian boogeyman who would kidnap bad children and keep then in a knapsack. James Ferguson remarks in his book, Papa Doc, Baby Doc: Haiti and the Duvaliers, that, “... their function was clear: to act as political cadres, secret police and instruments of terror (40).” This function is felt throughout the story Phelps tells in Moins l’Infini.
Throughout the book, Phelps rarely refers to Duvalier by name, but by terms like
“l’A-vie” or “le Père spirituel.” These terms are used with a strong sense of irony by
Phelps, who is strongly opposed to Duvalier’s regime. He described how the Tonton
Macoutes would come at night and take people away to the prisons. This included Phelps himself, who was imprisoned for three weeks before his exile from Haiti to Canada
(Phelps). Much like how he writes about his personal experience with his fellow writers in Haïti Littéraire, Phelps also is writing his reality when describing the scenes of terror and repression by the Tonton Macoutes.
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CREOLE AND CULTURE
Phelps does not only write about political influences in Haitian life, but he writes about Haitian culture as well. He often uses Creole words and phrases in the text. These phrases posed a difficulty because Phelps wrote some words in Creole and others in
French. One example from this section is the term “gros soulier” which is spelled
“grosoulye” in Creole. To keep these terms consistent throughout the target text, borrowed Creole words and phrases are all written in Creole and italics. The two Creole dictionaries used in the translation are Freeman and Laguerre’s Haitian-English
Dictionary and Valdman’s Haïtian Creole-English-French Dictionary.
In reading this text, it is important to note that Creole is its own independent language. Former colonial perceptions of Creole languages were that they were inferior to western traditional languages. Europeans often considered Creole “linguistically inferior” (DeGraff, 393). These different views of Creole and Haitian culture also carry into the practice of Vodou. Many western readers may interpret Vodou as witchcraft or black magic, but this is not the case. Vodou developed from the beliefs of African slaves brought to Haiti and incorporated elements of western Christianity as well (Michel, 282).
Today, rather than being seen as dangerous and exotic, it is a more commonly accepted religion that includes aspects of both its African origins and Christian ideas and even saints (Ferguson, 4).
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SECTION ONE: THE PARTY AT LA COUVEUSE
Phelps’s novel begins by introducing the reader to a group of artists, who also work together to fight against François Duvalier. Among them are writers, poets, and painters. The majority of this first scene takes place through a Dialogue between Paula and Marco. As the two stand behind La Couveuse, they look through the window at the party taking place inside, and Marco describes each of the different members of the group. In addition to this introduction, the reader also learns about the group’s resistance network.
Because of the light and conversational style of this first section, a major goal of translation strategy was aimed at producing an idiomatic target text. It is necessary for the dialogue between Marco and Paula to have a good flow and sound normal to an
American reader (Hervey, 16). To achieve this sense of normalcy, the target text contains contractions as well as a lower, more informal register. An idiomatic exchange between
Paula and Marco will make the text more believable. In addition to this strategic approach used during translation, several terms and expressions required more specific strategies.
The most common issue was incurred with the word “La Couveuse.” This is the name of the house where the party is taking place, and it literally means, “the Incubator.”
Since this word was used as a name for a building, the name in the target text was written in French. Along with discerning the name of the house, the use of this French term also adds an element of exoticism to the text. This will remind the reader that he or she is 64!
reading a story that takes place in a different country (35). La Couveuse may also be a reference to Le Perchoir d’Haïti (The perch of Haiti), a restaurant where Phelps’s own literary group, Haïti Littéraire would meet weekly to do public readings of poetry. The poets of Haïti Littéraire normally drove around in a Jeep that they had named “Pégase”
(Phelps). This is also the name of the jeep that the poets of the text drive. This term, however, has been translated to the English name “Pegasus,” because an English speaker recognizes the name while still maintaining the mythological reference of the source text more easily.
Although some terms are borrowed from the original French, other phrases required cultural substitution, specifically idioms:
J’ai un faim de loup (9). I could eat a horse.
Boit comme un trou (13). He drinks like a fish.
Both of these examples have been replaced with idioms that are commonly used in the
English language. The first example is translated with an idiom of equivalent meaning, but a different construction (use of the verb “to eat” as opposed to “avoir faim”), while the second example uses a verb meaning “to drink” on both the source and target texts
(Baker, 72). The use of these equivalent idioms helps to create a more balanced target text.
This section of the text was considerably light compared to the rest of the translation. As the story progresses, more characters are affected by Duvalier’s regime.
There is one character mentioned in the first section, Jacqueline Tenier, who has left Haiti for New York City, but the text remains happy for the most part. Phelps even dates the 65!
story to December 6, 1964 in this section. As the story progresses, however, more and more instances of terror will enter into the daily life of these characters as they work to combat what is happening under Duvalier.
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SECTION TWO: PAULA’S ASSIGNMENT
This section could easily be classified as a flashback. Paula and Marco have just finished listening to a radio program of Benoît’s that Paula acted on, and she goes on to recall her experience auditioning for the role at the radio station 4VPM. Once done remembering her experience at the station, Paula and Marcon then discuss a new assignment for Paula that involves traveling to the country and meeting with the peasants in the resistance network, and the reader learns more about Duvalier and the acts of terror carried out by the Tonton Macoutes.
A major difficulty in translating this section of the text was figuring out the distinction between Paula’s own thoughts, Benoît’s dialogue, and the text’s narration.
Because French does not distinguish dialogue with quotation marks like English, parts of this translation require some rearranging when being translated into English. At one point, Phelps is narrating, while writing dialogue for both the radio announcer, Benoît, and Paula’s thoughts in the same paragraph:
Ah !... Sanguine. Mais oui. Elle avait retrouvé le titre une fraction de seconde avant la fin de la chanson. C’était Sanguine de Jacques Prévert, chanté par Yves Montand. La voix du speaker avait fait une brève pause. Au cours de notre demi- heure de chansons françaises, nous vous avons présenté Georges Brassens et Yves Montand. Il est exactement deux heures vignt-neuf minutes. Pour un plus beaus sourire, mesdames. Paula avait sourit en constatant qu’elle était exacte au rendez-vous de Benoît. « Viens à deux heures et demie, les autres n’arriveront pas avant trois heures. Nous ne serons donc pas dérangés et tu seras plus à l’aise pour ton audition. » (21)
Because of the multiple sources of dialogue and thoughts, as well as narration of the text, this passage was very complicated and somewhat difficult to translate. 67!
To make this section more understandable for an English speaker, this passage is broken up though use of both italics and quotation marks in the target text. Paula’s thoughts are shown in italics, while Benoît’s dialogue and the speech of the loud speaker are surrounded by quotation marks. The resulting target text is easier to read for an
English speaker:
Ah, Sanguine! Of course. She had remembered the title of the song a fraction of a second before its end. It was Jacques Prévert’s Sanguine sung by Yves Montand. The voice in the speaker made a brief pause: “During our half hour of French songs, we have played for you Geroges Brassens and Yves Montand. It is exactly 2:29. For a more beautiful smile, ladies...” Paula had smiled noting that she was right on time for the meeting with Benoît. “Come at 2:30, the others won’t arrive before 3:00. So, we won’t be disturbed and you’ll be more relaxed for your audition.”
The quotation marks and italics to separate section of this passage are meant to increase the coherence of the text to a reader of the target language. While the effect of all of these different speakers may not seem very cohesive to begin with, the added punctuation allows the reader to move through the text with more ease than with a text that does not delineate the different dialogues happening at once (Hervey, 115).
After Paula returns to reality, Marco discusses a new assignment for her concerning the Haitian countryside and the peasants that live there. This is the first time that the reader encounters the term A-Vie, referring to François Duvalier. In 1964, a referendum to the constitution names Duvalier “President-for-life” (“a-vie”), and there was no longer a need for elections (Ferguson, 49). This phrase is the most common reference to Duvalier in Phelps’s novel, and the target text borrows the French term to keep the notion of “president-for-life” while maintaining its cultural origin in the French language. 68!
This section also deals with an area of Haiti outside of Port-au-Prince. Paula is supposed to meet with members of Haitian peasantry to help set up a resistance network there. Phelps describes a small peasant uprising against the livestock owned by Duvalier and its brutal repression. Paula becomes discouraged at the thought of being separated from Marco, and the two discuss what it means to be a true “militant” (24). This term has been translated as “résistant(e)”. Because these characters are members of the resistance against Duvalier, the target text uses a term borrowed from the French résistance against the Nazis in World War II (Hervey, 45). This term, while not referring to the occupation of France, conveys the same meaning of resistance against a dictator.
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SECTION THREE: RENE DUBOIS AND THE INSTITUT FRANCAIS
In this section of the translation, Paula encounters René Dubois, a librarian who lives permanently at the Institut français due to multiple attacks attempted on him by the
Tonton Macoutes. The two discuss every day subjects like the New Year and then continue to address more serious topics like Duvalierism and Edouard, who is hospitalized after a run-in with the Tonton Macoutes in a café.
Since this section is shorter than the rest, and much of it is dialogue, the translation was not very difficult in comparison with the other parts of the text. The biggest challenge in this section was distinguishing specific places like the Institut
Français and the neighborhood of Bourdin. The Insititut français was likely the building built during the 1950s facing the sea. It was considered a success until the Institut’s relocation in the 1990s to a new building in a different neighborhood (L’Institut Français en Haïti). Similar to the borrowing strategy used in translating La Couveuse, the name
Institut français” is left in French in the target text as a proper noun. This again reminds the reader of the story’s setting in Port-au-Prince. Bourdin was also determined to be a neighborhood of Port-au-Prince, as mentioned by Phelps when discussing regular meeting places for Haïti Littéraire.
The term “asilé politique” also required some thought in the translation. “Political exile” was considered as a translation, but the calque “political asylum” was used instead, because Dubois is not exiled from Haiti, but rather stays in the Institut to avoid repression from Duvalier’s government. While this phrase is not exactly common in English, it does 70!
not detract from the meaning or flow of the text overall (Hervey, 35). Much of the rest of the third section is translated in a similar way to the first section. Paula and René carry on with their conversation until they say goodbye, and Paula leaves to meet Marco.
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SECTION FOUR: PAULA’S DEMISE
The last section of this translation was approached with a very different strategy from the rest of the text. There is no dialogue or speaking, and Phelps gives little information concerning Paula’s mission until the end of the section. The style is more surreal, and it is a very violent scene in the end. Because of the effect of Phelps’s writing style, the target text of this section is more faithful to the source text than the previous sections, which were more balanced translations (Hervey, 16). This strategic decision was made before translating, and all the verb tenses were kept the same between the source and target language. This plan included syntax and sentence structure when possible.
The violence of this section is played out with the metaphor of Paula’s childhood memories of Carnival. As she is distributing flyers near the stands of Les Tribunes, she recalls different costumed characters and vendors. The term “masque” is used by Phelps to describe the costumed Tonton Macoute at the Carnival. In Freeman’s dictionary of
Haitian Creole, the term maskawon is defined as a “grotesque Carnival figure” (612).
Since this scene uses the context of Carnival, the phrase “vilain masque” was then translated as “ugly character.”
Another term that posed a problem was the word “ubuesque.” Phelps uses this word to describe the Carnival parade under Duvalier. It is a reference to playwright
Alfred Jarry’s grotesque character Ubu. This is a very unflattering comparison for
Duvalier, but very few, if any, American readers would understand this reference. The word has been translatd in the target text as “grotesque,” but this word results in a 72!
translation loss. The word translates the meaning of the character Ubu, but the target text loses the comparison of Duvalier to a specific character from the theater and is less culturally relevant (Hervey, 21).
Tense is also a very important part of this section. Much of Paula’s mission is narrated in the present tense, but there are points when Phelps changes to the past or future tenses. Toward the end of the section, the narration suddenly become Paula’s own thoughts as she reaches out to Marco in her mind as she is attacked. Like any languages,
English and French have differing tense values (Baker, 101). However, the effect of
Phelps’s writing in this section is such that the reader experiences the events firsthand.
Because of this style in Phelps’s writing, the target text is translated much more closely to the source text than other parts of the text.
The ending of this section brings the reader full circle from the beginning of the book. Paula and Marco began by admiring the stars before heading into La Couveuse. As
Paula loses consciousness, she again recalls the constellations she was never able to name and the life she had with Marco. Her death shows the ultimate cost of living under
Duvalier’s regime, which she and Marco hoped to resist. The effect makes for a very powerful scene in the book, and the reader will continue to see the effects of Duvalier and the Tonton Macoutes throughout the rest of the book.
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CONCLUSION
These four different scenes are all linked by the common thread of the characters’ desire for a free Haiti. Unfortunately, Duvalier’s harsh repression of any resistance affects the lives of everyone involved in the resistance. Each scene shows a new impact of life under the A-Vie, usually with increasing brutality and oppression. The presidencies of Duvalier and his son had a lasting impact on Haiti that can still be seen today as the country is still in the process of recovering from this turbulent time period and continued hardship.
Translating Haitian texts into English can be a way of connecting American readers to Haitian culture and the Haitian experience. While America is linked to Haiti through history, both in the occupation before 1945 and relations with the Duvaliers
(Ferguson, 29), this country can sometimes be forgotten by Americans today. Perhaps by maintaining memories of Haiti preserved by authors like Anthony Phelps, it could be possible to steer Haiti toward a better future.
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