Fon d'parikulur - 04

A Novella

9 janvye 2010

I

Last, at last, the night had come, until finally, it was past midnight – with the moon just rising in the waning hour of the morning. It gave little respite from the languid temperature that had struck Port-au-Prince, even in January it was a balmy 27°C.

Even this hour Jules was not sleeping, nor was she awake – instead it was a fitful unease of having waking that engulfed her. At least some easterly wind had crept up, to give a trifling of rest. On the second floor, in her room – she lay there on her side dreaming of the man who wanted her. She could not help herself. Though he had not made any impression – she could not help herself in thinking of him, and the soft face with a hard skull beneath it. She knew that it was wrong, that he was wrong, she could tell by the jaw that he was no good for anyone, least of all, for a woman. Least of all for a woman he desired, and she knew that her rounded shape was pleasing to him, with its large curves and robust breasts.

Somehow, his vision upon her struck a nerve – normally she would dismiss any suitor. But he was different, and he knew that he was different. And it was the sort of difference that was both ill and attractive at the same time. The hair on the back of her legs stood out as if to call his touch. She tried to put him out of her mind, she tried to put him out of her heart. It was not as if there was any reason or rhyme to this attraction.

Instead, she looked out of her window, and with a deep sigh – despite herself – she could almost imagine what his touch would be like. Even though she drove it out of her mind, she responded. This would not do.

Image was not what she wanted to do. It was not as if there were no other things to do, and she candidly admitted that she would not want a relationship of any kind with him. In fact, there was something repulsive about him that she could not put a finger on. At that point, she could recall her first boyfriend, and what a difference that he made in her life. That was the key thing: he not only was interested in the sex – or even the physicality of their relationship, he was also the person who encouraged her to pursue her dreams. She knew that nursing was only the first step, and it was only a first step because she could only get into a nursing college. What she wanted to do was something more amorphous than that.

Stared out she did, at the pavement, and saw a man trudging up towards her building – and then she realized it was the man from earlier today, a man that she could not recall the name of – if she even knew it. A warble of boom-boom from a stereo of a car – from the street, but going off into the distance. It unnerves her, but only for a moment. Gently, the moon rose over the hills that divided Haiti from the lands to the West – and eventually from Santo Domingo – which spoke a different language and lived in a different custom. She had often imagined being free – mostly Of the horrible roads. She knew that the Santa Domingo side was more livable than the Haiti's side – but she had never been there herself. Though there were imagined reasons, the real reason was that taking the pulse of the myriad of people who were important on the Haiti side had just always seemed more important than going to a magical land where they spoke Spanish and did things in a different way. She would, though, often think about who the people on the edge of the island were like – and she had a visualization. Single most important part of that visualization was that the people of Santa Domingo were a shade paler than their counterparts on Haiti, which quite frankly revolted her. It revolted her on a deep almost personal level because somewhere in the background of the person's line of descent, a white man was copulating with a black woman – because the pronouns were significant, and often it was by force. There was a voodoo about this that could not be explained, only visualized in horror.

Again to cast her eyes on the man who had not told her his name – at least she thought she did not remember. He was now closer, and she suspected, was looking for her. She could visualize him following her, at least to her street – and possibly to her building. He was not in love – but obviously lost with her curves. She again noted that this was not unusual in the men of Haiti and that she would usually ignore it – she even remembered that she had had this thought. But there were a few men who tugged at her with their voracious appetites. But even here she could usually cast them off – but not this time, or at least not yet. He was still too far off to look at, so she fancied looking into his face. He had a tall skull, and keep black eyes – of course – but it was the shape of his nose and mouth which bewitched her. There was something catlike about them because she was one of the people who assigned animals to people. Most were dogs mice or rats. Some view were short-eared owls – or another kind of bird. But here was one who was catlike in his grace, and stealthy in his movements. She imagined that he had white and black parents on his face – masked with makeup she imagined. But Of course, this was not the case, it was just a bit of light that came from the moon.

Getting close, he stopped at each doorway to check – probably its number, which he must have gotten from someone. But this was not unusual, because she was very well known in “PAP” as the foreigners called it.

Deep inside her, as her medical textbooks had told her, was the rising heat of her body, a body that wanted to couple with this man. But in her mind, she wanted no part of this – in her mind, she saw him as what he was – a predator, seeking exactly the kind of person that she was. Then there was a stillness about her movements, and she watched him intently. Breathing in and out, a kind of trance wavered over her. And she knew that she was revolted at the thought of him and at the same time a craving for that intimacy that could only be denied for a very short time. That she knew this and was willing to have the passion unraveled, was saying something distinct. Normally she knew that women would ignore such feelings until there was too little time to fight them off. It was a reflex, a reflex from time immemorial.

Now - he was only two buildings away, and the moon had risen sharply above the hills. That her desire from her body was demanding it be satiated – was winning out over her mind's desire to have nothing to do with him. This to she knew, and the struggle was becoming weaker and weaker.

Breath stopped for a time. He was now underneath her and gently rapping the door. Actuality, her mind had been made of as he paced towards the door, but she imagined that the point of decision was now and that she was making a forceful choice. Whether to sit as she was – for motion her feet to the floor, with the intent of letting him in. With a muffled sound, she scooted herself upwards and quietly moved down to the atrium, with the intent of letting him in. As she moved, off of the first floor and to her entrance, she berated herself for her weakness, even as she imagined the ardor which his touch would bring. It was a repulsive pattern that her physique had won over her psyche. She did not engage in the light but crossed down onto the floor – and quietly let him in. As they went upstairs - she turned to him after a kiss - and with a face close to his: “What is your name?”

Replying - “You can call me Jon le Bon.” And he chuckled at that because the main was the name of a king of France many centuries ago. But she knew that that King was anything other than good. It was in a history class many annuals ago. The teacher was strict and humorless, and she remembered that he wore a very tight tie – both in the sense of the knot and in the sense that it crawled as close to the Adam's apple. She did not know it then, but she knew it now, that he was probably gay – not because he looked boys, nor because he did not look at girls – but in the reading habits he had. She could remember them all of these years past. There was a pattern there that no straight man would have on his desk. There was also the way he approached men and a certain sort of look at them which she now understood as being part of the courtship of desire.

In the present, there was also the fumeur of cigarettes along his spine, and normally she would not like this, but now it had a certain attractiveness. She looked at her companion - at which point the talking was stopped, all memory was eschewed - and when they reached her room, there was a kind of lovemaking in her bed.

From her perspective, it was both intense and disgusting by turns – she wanted him inside, but not. Le poteau, c'est il, c'est il. La bitte, le con, le zizi.