Fon d'parikulur - 01
A Novella
8 janvier 2010
I
It was a time, a time of happenstances - a time of coincidences. A time of nicotine in cigarettes, and mother's milk set as wine and rhum. The people move to unfelt force which sways back and forth - to a rhythm unseen. This was Port-au-Prince - a town, the city-estate beyond all redemption, where only those not left behind watch as the sun sets on their dignity. You might think, therefore, that all was misery, and perhaps it was, but it was the misery with a happy face, primarily from alcohol and marijuana. A land of palm trees, and low tide water basins, of two enormous peaks of mountains. Since most people do not have jobs, most of the population gets by on finding anything for anyone and keeps a secret as to where to find it. Thus it could be said that everyone lives by a date, close by, but without a specific nature. It was, perhaps, tomorrow, or next week. Some people are lucky enough to have it next month, and they count themselves among the fortunate few. It was among the poorest countries in the world, which means it had a few very rich people. Pennies and lucre were there to extremes.
Dezafi - which was written by Franketienne, in all of its slow majestic glory - was a tragic comedy, by a man who was a painter as well as a writer, and dramaturge. It is said that he was the product of a rape of an Ayisyen woman at 13 by an American industrialist. In the Creole - Kreyol in its native form - he promised a rude awakening from French literature to Ayisyen vernacular. “We remember. We forget. We remember droplets.” This was the beginning of Ayisyen literature, which backed its way to backward breach, a baby coming feet first into the world. Elsewhere, the drone speaks of a never-ending occult visage; which whenever it looks, produces a small imperfect chink or cracks, even if looking at the stone. It was a gift from the father of literature to all his descendants. They called it mining, where you don't know what you are looking for and have forgotten all that you knew. One might almost say that you are in the moment, and just mining for mining's sake.
Look at the moment of noon, when most people were sleeping off the hot part of the day when everything which was slow-moving, ground to a stop. Flies were buzzing, but everything else, from cats to dogs, and even the people whom they sometimes served, relaxed into a dream state, each communing with his own angelic thoughts, and distant rumblings from the gut demons. Only the machinery of state held even a glimmer at least to seem in motion, of doing their duty. But all else creaks to a turgid halt. And that would remain so until at least 14:30, when people started to glimmer in the eye and make plans for the evening. Mostly to celebrate a victory, or to find some, rather belated, activity – or they were trying to find someone from out of town to rob.
Never rob anyone, either man or woman, who takes no nonsense from you – you are a clear target. But please don't think that everyone else is a target, you have disposed of the obvious targets, and you still have to recognize the less obvious targets.
Eyes snapped, onto a decidedly wrong figure. Amidst the tree-lined belts covering the city, just outside of the government-populated belt, was a man who was dressed in what looked like a scarlet and white button-down dress and that kind of short pants that hung down around his knees. He, of course, wore a silver chain, though she could not see if it had a cross or some other figure. He was wrong because he looked from out of town, and his demeanor said he only spoke Kreyol, but she could tell that he spoke French as well, though his stress was shabby, as eyes were piercing here and there. This was not the norm in the middle of the day. Most of the people were, at best, shambling along, but he was walking with purpose, at least much of the time. It was obvious that he started to shamble when someone noticed him. She moved her eyes upon him, but not fixed inside of her gaze. It would be impolite in the best of circumstances, let alone with the eyes of suspicion upon him.
Breeze would be left the trees, then it might be bearable, but that was not to be. The air was still with calmness that suffocated everything, except the man, who wandered with a purpose that was unknown to any but him. So she watched and listened for any clue that he might have, a misstep that would say what he was doing. A clue, a hint, some rustle in his fabric, perhaps even a pistol hidden amidst all his clothes. Something which would tell her why he was there, and looking for someone, or something. But instead, she watched until he turned up the street and disappeared.
Everyone but a few would have forgotten the men at this point and turned to other things, unimportant things – such as the fingernails if a woman. But she was not that low, and she was obscured by the probability that she worked for someone, someone domestic. This was because while his clothes were shabby, they were also new even down to his sandals, of the newest style. So new clothes meant that he was from either the government or one of the tons-tons macouts. Which meant to her that he was searching for someone, rather than something. This was important to her because, with the last man she had been with, she agreed to carry some packages, and only later did she find out they were cocaine, and relatively high-grade at that. And she didn't think he was the kind who got things from binding the scales, that is, he stole it from someplace, though she didn't know where. Of course, within a couple of weeks, the body was found, necklace from right shoulder to left buttons as a warning to anyone else that light fingers did not pay.
Partikularly of those who came off of the plantations, that there is one family of languages in Haiti, but each one speaks it their own way. Even people who don't speak it, make a pretense of knowing what they are talking about. Primarily, it is French with a patina of the Western African language Fon, which is spoken in the name Benin, Togo, and slices of Nigeria and Ghana. Of course, it has evolved since then and is the largest known Kreyol in the world as of the early 20th century. But as said, you need to realize that there are northern and southern styles, as well as the pride of place: Port-au-Prince, many of whose inhabitants pretend that what is spoken there is more like French than other places.
Winter, again, was not a concept here - the climate touched 31°C, and in January there was almost no prekipitation to speak of, kertainlie not like May or September, the twin peaks of what could be described as the devil of rain. Horns that grew out of the heated scraps of canopy that littered almost all of the low-lying ground. In the high backdrop were steps that ringed the bay, looking down upon them. Though they were not above the clouds, it seemed like it. Amazing buildings with white sides were spekkled throughout the West. To the south, however, there were many fewer trees and the buildings went up a third of the way to the peak.
Looking from its peak, it would seem like the overlay was a flat pool of water, surrounded by chasms of high cliffs. She looked at the cliffs, high to the east, and wondered what the rich mulatoes were doing with their time, when in every direktion from her vantage point the women in dresses, and the men in short pants, at best, were talking rather much, and not listening to each other. It was almost passed the middle of the day, and only flies were listening to each other.
Well-to-do part of town they called it, kould be if you look at it kwickly. Not that there were jobs, per se, but people had sufficient grease to oil the palms with bribes, collected in one of a dozen ways. And this was the part of town where they knew all of them. She, herself, made up a cog in this machine. A cog that delivered its role, by Aeschylus, too small to see the vast machine - or what it did. Who would have to have it explained by someone like a god.
Why did she know that the man had been important? Because someone had mistook one of his operators, for someone who could be fleeced. And it was an important enough job for him to do it himself, and not just a couple of his ton-ton boys. She imagined what kid behind those eyes of his. Was it vengeance? Was it hot lust for inflicting pain? Or cold calculated precision, stripping off one by one of his limbs, and then to necklaced him for his trouble. Should he live that long, of course.
Which was why the man cropped up again on the other side of the street. This meant he had seen something that caught his eye and had decided to look. It was obvious, to her anyway, that he had rounded the corner because he did not want to reveal any feathers. Then he came back around from a different angle and hoped to surprise him. It was the middle of the day, so it did not take much to surprise someone who thought he had gotten away with it.
Ce foolish people men est, they kome to life, and roar, avek that is enouf. That was her first thought in words, and it betrayed a contempt for most people. It's Simple to speak Kreyol, but it is hard to live it, convinced millions of people, each one of whom does not just breathe, but dreams in it.
Widely wobbling her form, with its gushing curves and outrages boomed to boom lips of fashion, she was a new petite girl, but an outrageous woman whose form drew stares from every man that had been infected with that voluptuous looking stare. Each one of them knew that he wanted a large woman to take his feet into, and needed to need as if taking a mound of flesh. Then he would take the breast and back and forth – it was such delight that he could not think of everything that he wanted to do.
She knew the streets she lived on, but for those of us who do not, she was on a narrow thin Street, which in the morning and the evening block up, but in the middle of the day was quiet. On the left, there was a building that stored food and other essentials, because the Presidential Palace was only a few blocks over, and this was the district where all of the debris from serving the Palace was hidden from view. If this were the West or even some important outpost of the world, there would be lorries coming and going, with dozens of crates lined up at the far end that one could just see from the window. But this was not the case. There was in front, a few dozen petitioners, but after that, the only people were sitting around collecting what meager salary could be had.
Break between the bustle of business and the more sedate realm of residential. The streets were crammed in, each one with just enough room to say to the world, “I'm here”. Because that was more important than being anyplace else. “I'm here.” “ I'm here.” “ I'm here.” each one of which was dilapidated enough in that grand way that being there was enough. In every little house was some picture or other, which proclaimed why the inhabitants should be there. Oftentimes, it would be scratched out, saying that the current inhabitants through the old out, but they wanted to say that they had thrown people have who were important, and thus they were important too.
American city it wasn't, with rows upon rows of buildings. That would not do, rather each building was its own, because each building wanted to proclaim why it was there. Down at and off the block were permanent buildings, row upon row of them, because that area was for important people – workers in either the state or municipality. Close enough to get there by walking, but enough so they knew who the real power was – the people who would drop everything and run at the back and call off some personage or other who wanted something done. You would not notice it, but any new citizen would see that there were boundaries on the inside of the building, which was a sign of richness. This layout meant that people like her were not important, but they were important to important people, and they knew it. Then some people lived in buildings that gave them access, you could see phase just at the end of the street, where the man had just barely come into view.
Concentric circles: government, thugs, petitioners, radiated out from the Presidential Palace which would have been vaguely disturbing – though outsiders would not know why. It was a different order.
Fish in its element, both she and he tracked each other, for both had realized that they were interlocked. And at this point, both knew it. Each one of them was trying to peter out some excuse, but they knew it was not going to happen, because the face that they saw was a reflection, trying to make an excuse, and also knowing that the other would not accept this. Thus, step by step, they ran out of choices and were only feet apart when he began:
“Bonjour, how are you, what brings you out to me?” When someone speaks, they speak in French – for that is the native tongue and less speaking to an American or British person.
Slowly, he looked down at her body, and she could see that despite himself he was aroused; excited; bewitched. Thus, she began to employ her wiles upon him, though very subtly and primarily with her eyes.
“I was just going to ask you the same thing; I live here. So there is no mystery about me. What about you.” She put just a little bit of air on him, both to push him away and to pull him back. Already both of them were shutting out the noise and concentrating on what could be said to be a dance. It was a slow dance, and full of nuance. Each phrase, each syllable, every hesitation, was filled with onomatopoeia– drifting along with half singsong rhythm that was Haiti in its natural voike. It was great along with k's and y's, which was different from francais. It came from Africa, from the language group Fon, spoken in Benin, Togo, Ghana, and a little bit of Nigeria. But the people of Haiti did not know this, it was to them just the Kreyol Asiyen – the native language of Haiti.
He almost said that he was just looking around, but not only would that be a lie, but it was also a lie that would be caught. Then as quick as a wink, he told another lie which would not be believed – but would not leave a trace to catch him on.
“I was hoping to find someone who needed a person who had certain skills.” He left a certain emphasis, implying killing skills, as opposed to anything else that could be imagined.
“What kind of skills?” pretending she did not know, though she did.
“Maybe I could get to speak with someone.” Implying, someone important.
No motion came from her, no motion, at all. Instead looked deeply into his smooth skin, because he was not yet 40, and said:
“What kind of man you want?” Though she knew quite well if the game would be played.
“Is there any sort of person in charge of things here? I think he would understand, and not bother them...” he was about to say the women with business, but he stopped. It was clear she was important too, and his game would not work with her. So tried a different tact.
“Maybe you and I could sit down someplace and talk because I can look for someone to...” Again he stopped because again wanted to say “the womenfolk” when he was talking to one. Then he realized that while she was young, she also had authority, like one of the old women in a bazaar – and woe betides the man who upset her.
His face was uncomfortable- and she knew it -he wanted to slot her into a young woman who could be used and forgotten. But try as he might, he was seeing that while her face said young woman, her manner and stands said otherwise. Thus the konfusion.
“Maybe you can help me? I seem to be lost, and I would like to get down The ocean near the long docks.” while he opened strongly, he ended weakly, though she could not tell if that was happenstance or devike. She decided that it would be better to treat it as devike, because his manner was precise, for example, his feet did not move. Nothing about him said he was trying to eskape.
“You're long away from the ocean, and anyone can see the Palais from here.” She was answering the question, that was not asked. He now had to decide whether he was going to engage in a konversation, or whether he would move along.
“Is there a better way than down Presidential Boulevard? It's both that walking around the building is, fortunately. As I will have to a long way, and among all the places, that is the one place which has people.”
Now it was her turn to decide if she wanted a konversation. After all, she could just point him out the docks, which would be shorter. Or she could engage him on some other point, striking up a konversation. It was clear that while he had a mission, that mission was the be-all and end-all of his koncern. Kontrast this with today, who would be obvious in what is desired. He would also be dense as to the standing of her in the scheme of things, not realizing her importance. Toadies were dense in that way. Far too dense. Like a stone – a stone which had no life in it.
She walked away, and he did follow with his body – but with his eyes. She could feel them glistening on her hips and other places that she did not care to think about. What the caressing called to her. But as she walked away, she remembered that she had to be someplace – to arrange a meeting between a local official and someone who said he was from the United Nations. Whether this was true or not – in both directions – was not really of her concern. She just had to arrange a meeting.
Tale that will be told, will restrain itself, mostly to English. Because English – more or less is the language of it is time – with only a few bits in français ou haïtien créole, ou Kreyol – to remind the reader that there were only fragments which were spoken in any one language. It was a mélange. Remember, however, that it is thus and so and but and which you must hold on to – because they are the words that tell the story, everything else is an explanation. Tired and old and formed into a story, for the readers' pleasure and profit.