The Act of Contrition

The summer after our vacation in Rio, we went camping at Matane Provincial Park in the Notre-Dame mountains. I really wasn't in the mood; I doubt that Chantal was either. I tried to find excuses not to go, but it was the semester break and the kids wanted to go. Avril was twelve years old while Patrick was seven, so Chantal and I decided to make the most of it now while we could; the children would soon be a bored ados who didn't want to do anything with their family anymore, so we went camping. It was Chantal's idea, really.

What can you say about the Notre-Dame mountains? Dense and wooded like it was at the Conquest of 1759, but there are lots of trails now for both bicyclists and hikers. These mountains are part of the reason why Quebec is la belle province: tall trees and mountains; clear-running streams; animals of several species, if you're alert and they don't run off before you can see them. We even saw a solitary coyote along the Navigator's Route, by the side of the road near the Trois Pistoles River — the highlight of our trip up there. Chantal took a photo of it with her cell phone, but that was when she became silent. We had driven to the mountains mostly in silence. We made an effort to sing in order to pass the time, but that stopped about halfway through the trip; nobody was in the mood for it. Nobody felt like singing.

Chantal and I weren't talking. Oh, we hadn't been fighting lately, but there was still a tension that hung about us, sort of like the fumes from a chemical truck that had turned over on the highway and released its noxious cargo into the air. I was afraid that I might say the wrong thing, and I think that she was afraid of the same thing. So we weren't talking; it was better this way, we thought.

We arrived at our campsite towards dusk, put up our tents and started to unpack. Everybody knew the routine: camping gear in the tents and all the foodstuffs in the car with the windows rolled up so that the animals couldn't get to them. There were raccoons and black bears everywhere in the park, you know, as well as opossums and squirrels. The animals had lost their fear of man.

We had two tents, our sleeping bags, and a Coleman gas stove, in case they didn't want you making campfires in the middle of the summer, what with the drought and the danger of forest fires. We had other camping gear, of course, but you don't have to paint a picture: we were a family of four from Montréal, camping in the mountains for one week.

The kids were starting to get restless, so Chantal said to me: "Please be a dear and take the kids hiking while I make supper..."

The kids and I did some hiking along a trail, then we returned just before dusk. By the time we came back, supper was ready.

At night, after supper, we had a sing-along with other campers. That is, people sang songs and told campfire stories. Then a guy named David Poile told us the story of Rose LaTulipe, the young woman who was nearly seduced by the devil into being unfaithful to her betrothed, Gabriel.

The adults all knew the story. The setting is an inn, whose owner is Rose's father. As an adolescent, I was always amused by the image of our Rose, laughing in the arms of her demonic lover as he almost tips her upside down, legs high in the air, her petticoats and her skirt almost flying over her head like the petals of a tulip. Only I thought that the storyteller was a little risqué, the way he told the story before a public that included children. The way he told it, it was understood that Rose LaTulipe had actually betrayed her beloved in the flesh, though the littlest ones might not have understood his nuances.

His wife seemed to be a little uncomfortable as well, though she said nothing. Chantal was uncomfortable — for obvious reasons, I think. I wanted to object, but I thought, somehow, that the storyteller was going somewhere with his story.

The storyteller left his public in suspense just before the denouement, where Gabriel bursts in, catches them in flagrante dilecto, and must decide whether to forgive Rose her infidelities and continue with the wedding as planned, or let the devil carry her away to hell, where she will have to be the devil's wife forever. Instead of providing an ending to the story, Poile posed a few questions to the children: "What do you think Gabriel should do, eh?" he asked his public. "Should he forgive Rose LaTulipe, or should he let the devil carry her away to hell?"

The children were about evenly divided, those that took up the challenge. One boy, who was about twelve, said: "Gabriel can always find another and let the devil take Rose. As I see it, it's one lost and ten found."

The storyteller laughed and said: "Aren't we the ladies' man, eh?"

Finally, I objected and asked: "Was that last comment necessary, my friend? Was the entire story — or rather, the way you've told it — necessary?"

The man become all serious. "I'm sorry, monsieur, if I have offended you," he said, indignant, "but as I see it, this story has always said much about us Québécois as a nation. We are a devout people, I think, one that tries to be merciful, but one who can see the humour in life as well. But each generation must find an ending for itself. I myself am a man of religion, a deacon of the Catholic Church. Voilà, my blonde, Yvette, and our three children — the reasons why I'm not a priest."

There was some laughter among the other campers at our fire as he gestured with his right hand towards his wife, who was blonde with pale skin and clear blue eyes, and the children sitting next to him; she looked to be pregnant with a fourth child, though not very far along.

"I hope to instill in these little ones the values that we have always held as a nation," he said. "As a Christian nation..."

His wife laughed agreeably and said: "Now now, don't get carried way, David! You know that the Bloc no more shares our Christian values than the Liberals...."

"Well, I have an ending," I said facetiously. "Why not have Rose LaTulipe spend half the year with the devil in hell and half the year on earth with Gabriel, like Proserpina with the Roman god Pluto and her mother Ceres. That way, both the devil and Gabriel can use her. Then, if she has lived a virtuous and Christian life in her six months here on earth every year, she can go to heaven after she dies."

But my daughter, Avril, shook her head and said: "No, papa, I think it's better to forgive, because we all make mistakes. Where would we be if our parents never forgave us after the first time we disobeyed them?"

My son, Patrick, readily concurred: "I'm always bad," he said, "but maman always forgives me..."

Chantal rubbed Patrick's shoulders, kissed him on the back of the head and whispered something into his ear. Then she spoke for the first time: "I think that he should forgive her," she said slowly, "but she must be patient with him. She hurt him very much, you know, and it will take some time for the hurt to heal."

Then she looked up at me and said in a low voice: "Healing always takes time, Robert..."

Yes, it would take a lot of time. Our marriage was still reeling from our Christmas vacation in Rio, where both of us committed adultery. She had a fling with the taxi driver who had picked us up at the airport. They met at the beach, and then went all the way to his place in the "North Zone" of Rio and did it there. Oh, I put two and two together — she had love bites on her neck. I don't have to draw you a picture. She tried to deny it at first, though she admitted it in the end.

For a while, there was some anxiety about her being pregnant; she wasn't sure who the father was, or if she was pregnant.

Me, I met a Brazilian woman at the beach. We went to her hotel room, where she "welcomed" me to Brazil. My wife, a very beautiful woman even in her middle thirties, was more beautiful than this woman, whose name was Flora, but I was drawn to Flora like a fly to fly paper. I was in a trance as I followed her back to her hotel room, where we broke the Sixth Commandment in the bedroom.

Oh, Chantal suspected immediately; she insisted that she had "tasted" Flora when we did that night. "Must be," I replied, "it was saltwater from the sea."

I had jumped into the ocean immediately after I was done with Flora, to conceal the smell in my beard, but Chantal doesn't miss much — she knew right away that something was wrong. Eventually, I admitted what I had done as well, after we were home from Rio. She slapped me across the face when I admitted it.

Our sexual life was different now; there was a certain aggression to it, a certain animal frenzy. Sometimes, I wanted to tear into her breasts with my teeth while shaking my head like a dog. When her praline was exposed, I sometimes wanted to tear into that as well. She, on the other hand, seemed to want to hurt me. She would squeeze my pine hard with her hand, while looking up at me to see if my faced betrayed any pain. Then she would smile malevolently.

Though she was only of average size, she was incredibly strong, with the body of a swimmer from years of swimming laps in a pool. With the muscles of her vagina, she could squeeze very hard — she could hurt you. When I took her from behind, en lèvrette, she would scream long and hard into a pillow when she came, so that she children wouldn't hear it. However, I'm sure that the children heard it anyway.

We were like Adam and Eve in paradise in Milton's Paradise Lost, after they had eaten of the forbidden fruit and their marital relations had changed from love and intimacy to animal lust.

That night, while the kids were asleep, we sat by a fire, talking about anything, yet talking about nothing at the same time. She was subdued, and I felt the same. We knew what we wanted to say, but we didn't know how to say it. Finally, I just said it.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and said: "I don't know, Robert. If you don't forgive me now, do you think the devil's going to carry me away to hell like Rose LaTulipe? And what good would that do if he did?"

I didn't reply. A man who has been betrayed by his blonde wants — has the need for — an act of contrition, but when she asks forgiveness, is it enough? No matter what, you can't change the past, but you have to reinvent it somehow or you can't move on. In order to forgive, you must forget the wrong against you with the ease of the evildoer: "I couldn't have done that," says the evildoer. "You're right," says the one who was wronged. "Must be, I was mistaken..."

Chantal and I have always exchanged excuses: the one will ask forgiveness for something, and then the other will ask forgiveness for something else. That way, we have both admitted our wrongs and tried to make amends for them.

As she sat on a log before the dying embers of our little fire — of David and Yvette Poile's fire, actually — I did something that I hadn't done before: I knelt in front her, put my arms around her lower legs and laid my head upon her knees. Then I said that I was sorry. I was sorry for what I had done in Rio, and all the other things that I had ever done since we had been married; I was sorry that I was a bastard sometimes.

She only kissed me on my head and covered me with her arms and her torso; I felt the nipples of her breasts against the top of my head. "I'll try to forgive you too," she said, "but you must be patient with me..."

When I looked up at her, she held my head in both of her hands and kissed me twice on the lips. Then she looked into my eyes, smiled and said, ironically: "I won't let the devil take you away to hell, Monsieur LaTulipe..."

Just then, what looked like multi-coloured lightning started to flash in the north. Your first reaction is a terrified one: "Oh, shit, what's happening?" Then you're struck with a sacred awe the moment when you realize what it really is.

No matter how many times you have seen it, you can't believe what is happening when you first see it. Is this the way the world ends: with lights of all different colours flashing and zig-zagging across the sky, or with little white dots and green beams descending from heaven? No wonder the ancients were afraid! We were both afraid, yet struck with a terrible sense of beauty as something otherworldly — something that we cannot understand. Somehow, the meteorologists telling us that this phenomenon is caused by a disturbance in the Van Allen radiation belt that surrounds the planet cannot explain away this mystery.

Okay then, you can predict the next time there will be sunspot activity, but who understands the relationship between the Aurora Borealis in Canada and a tsunami in Asia on Boxing Day a few years later? Who knows how it will affect a man and a woman watching it?

For a moment, we forgot the uncomfortable drive to Matane Provincial Park, the boorish storyteller, and our awkward attempt to come to an understanding; we even forgot Rio. We forgot about all that in the sun's baptism with its ultraviolet rays, in heaven's anointing us with its colours. We forgot everything. Some things are bigger than we are, you know — like the sky and its many colours.

Having been married twice, I know from experience that you never know what you're getting into when you first get married. If you knew, you might run out of the church screaming like a madman, or come to wish that the car had overturned while en route to your honeymoon, crushing you both to death while you were still happy.

Some things are beyond all understanding, like the forces of nature, or a woman who commits adultery and then crawls on her hands and knees to beg forgiveness. I don't understand that woman any better than I understand the Aurora Borealis. I only know that she has the compulsion to slide down bannisters and throw mashed potatoes at everybody during supper.

There's a logical explanation for everything, but logical explanations aren't always enough. When the parishioners ask the Reverend David Poile why God lets tragedy happen to them, they don't want a lot of science, but peace and understanding. They're looking for some kind of sense in life.

Under the Aurora Borealis, with the sky flashing like crazy, we exchanged our excuses, me, with my head on her knees, her, with her torso shielding my head as if to protect me.

Then I felt a single tear fall on the bald crown of my head. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry that I have ever hurt you..."

I was sorry too, for everything.

There was just the sky above us, with flashes like multi-coloured lightning, and then it stopped. It might have lasted twenty minutes.

When we made love in our little tent, we did it slowly, taking our time, but she gasped when I first penetrated her. Then we cuddled after we were done, her, with her head in the curve of my shoulder.

"I would like another baby," she said afterwards.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She merely nodded.

I felt absolved, but so did she, I think. But healing always takes time, though we felt healed that night.

*****

Just Beyond the Mountain/Au-délà la montagne

I have published versions of this story in both English and French. If you want to read it in both languages, feel free.

Just Beyond the Mountain

There are some things explainable, some things unexplainable in the world. It is possible to explain why an apple falls to the earth, or why the waves in the Golf of Mexico or the Atlantic Ocean flood the state of Florida from time to time. It is impossible to explain why a man has a dream of his mother the moment that she dies. It is just coincidence? It is a message from the afterlife? Who knows?

Toussaint was a taxi driver in Miami, between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, but he looked like an old man: bald on top of his head, with rounded shoulders like someone who was old. He had a weary smile, with sad eyes whose white part had little red lines. He looked tired; he had a face deeply lined that showed a hard life.

Toussaint was born in Haiti, near the city of Cap-Haitien, which is on the northern coast, with its fleets of little fishing boats at the dock, with sails torn and full of holes. Once a country of dense jungle, the country is nothing but desert and mountains denuded of trees now. It's because the agriculturalists have chopped down the forests, and because they have set fire to the grass for several generations. So there's a problem with erosion of the topsoil. Today, there exists vast stretches of limestone where topsoil existed one time.

It is an accomplished fact that Haiti is the second country in the western hemisphere to win its independence, after the United States, but Haiti is almost the poorest country in the world today. Why? Is it because Haiti was a country of illiterate slaves before the successful revolt against their former masters, the French? Is it because of its long history of bad government? Who knows? The Duvaliers, father and son, were only a few of a long line of tyrants, you know; Jean-Bertrand Aristide as well.

There's a Haitian proverb: Beyond the mountain, another mountain. This proverb reveals the nature of the countryside in Haiti, because the country is very mountainous. But it also reveals the daily tribulations of living that the people there must endure, because life is very difficult in Haiti, and the people there are very poor. The people live in such poverty that there are children who eat pies of clay fried in grease. Haiti is a country like a child whose face is always dirty: the other children don't want to hang around with him.

But the Haitians have always know how to survive: the condition of the people, according to the historical chronicles, was so terrible there, during the time of their captivity under the French, the lords of the sugar plantations had to replace their slaves, who always died en masse, every twenty years with new arrivals from Africa. It is no great surprise then that the slaves revolted against their masters, but the Haitians have always been rebellious anyway.

But let's get back to our sheep, eh? Toussaint was staying at a dormitory in the slums of Miami, in an ugly building of grey cinder blocks among a group of other Haitian taxi drivers. They sent most of their meagre wages back to Haiti by post to support their families there. However, their money disappeared en route to Haiti from time to time, because the couriers had light fingers. Go figure! Oh, well! At least Haiti was a successful kleptocracy.

It was Friday evening, but Toussaint was alone in the dormitory now. He didn't want to go out with the others; he preferred to amuse himself by reading a newspaper in English, the Miami Herald, on his cot.

Then, while he sat reading his newspaper, the concierge of the dormitory shouted at him, "Hey Toussaint, a letter!"

The concierge entered the dormitory and threw the letter on the cot before he left. Toussaint read the letter, which was from a sister. There was some bad news: his mother and some other old women had been attacked by a group of Tontons Macoutes led by a voudounist along the way to church the Sunday after Mardi Gras. The bus that brought the women to church was tipped over, but the extent of his mother's injuries wasn't serious, thank God. The sister advised him not to worry; their mother was going to recover, she said. As well, the sister added that his woman, the mother of four children, had run off with another man.

Oh, well! It was all the same to Toussaint: his woman had always been unfaithful to him; she always had light thighs. He had been waiting for his woman to leave him for a long time — her, always a doormat for other men. He had even beaten her a few times, all in vain; she only laughed at him afterwards. Nobody took Toussaint seriously, because he was weak and ineffectual, everybody thought — too easygoing with his woman. Besides, he was more worried about his mother now, in the ways of his culture; you only have one mother, you know.

His mother was old, of course, the mother of several children, spending all her life in wretched poverty. She was only able to read a few verses from the Bible, her, the member of a sect of evangelical Christians, the Pentacostalists. Like the voudounists, the Pentacostalists seek ecstasy as they worship their god, Jesus. They wait for the Holy Spirit to come down from heaven as they sing and dance while speaking in the "tongues of angels." The Pentacostalists believe that the voudounists are possessed by the devil, on the other hand, during their bacchanals at night, but their styles of worship are really similar ; both groups search for ecstasy as they worship, placing little emphasis on formal doctrine, as they seek to be "mounted" by spirits.

It seemed to Toussaint, having spent some years in Miami, that almost the entire country was wretched and weary: the adults, the children and the babies. Those who laughed, it seemed, were merely the teens armed to the teeth with big pistols and big machetes, the Tontons Macoutes led by the voudounists, called Houngans in Creole, or by the gangsters.

You can recognize the Tontons Macoutes by their navy blue sports shirts and their dark sunglasses. At night, they look almost like the bouncers, with the same air of menace, in the classy bars for the tourists. But that's Haiti.

Toussaint went to Catholic school as a boy, with the tuition paid by his family, then he was a minor civil servant before he entered the United States.

Like many cities in the United States, there is more crime in Miami than before, since the past few decades. However, Miami is clean in comparison to Cap-Haitien: there are city workers who are supposed to pick up the garbage at the curb every week (though they will sometimes fail to do that from time to time.) Unlike Miami, the streets and alleys of Cap-Haitien are covered with mud after it rains; the inhabitants live in filth and in misery, in an open sewer. Miami resembles a Third World city, with both slums and beautiful suburbs in the same city, but the streets are paved with gold in the United States in comparison to Haiti.

However, Toussaint wasn't thinking of conditions in Haiti or the United States. Rather, these conditions formed a mental tableau for the Haitian taxi driver, an unconscious tableau of his experiences since his youth. He wasn't thinking of his unfaithful woman either, since you can always find another woman, but only of his mother. You only have one mother, you know.

While Toussaint was reading his newspaper on the cot, another taxi driver, Prosper, entered the dormitory and approached him. Like Toussaint, Prosper was from Haiti, but he was in his twenties, not over thirty like Toussaint. Tall and strong, he measured at least seventy-five centimetres in height, proud, with a certain self-confidence that came because of his youth and his relative lack of experience in life. Unlike Toussaint, Prosper was born in Port-au-Prince, which is the capital of Haiti, known for its large and vast shantytown, Cité Soleil.

Prosper smiled broadly and asked:

— Hey Toussaint, what do you say to a night on the town tonight with my friends and me? We pick up a few women, and we'll feel better the next day.

But Toussaint shrugged his shoulders and sighed, doubtful:

— I don't know, Prosper...

— Why, Toussaint? You're always depressed. It isn't good for the soul to stay indoors all the time.

— I don't have a cent. Money burns in my hands, you know.

— And I make money like water? I don't have lots of piastres either.

Toussaint shrugged his shoulders again and sighed:

— Okay then.

— Now you're talking, good buddy, Prosper replied. Now you're talking...

With two others, Prosper and Toussaint took the bus to downtown Miami, where they had a night on the town. They danced with a few women, they drank lots of alcohol. In the bar, Toussaint talked a little about his troubles with his woman. Prosper listened with sympathy, and then he said:

— Love and hate, he said, are like two hands that rest side by side. It is as rare as teeth on a chicken that you only have one hand. Or maybe they're like two halves of the island of Saint-Domingue, which mostly ignore each other. However, there's always enmity below the surface...

Prosper and his friends had some success with the other sex; they checked into some hotel rooms with some women of the night. But what of our Toussaint? He got so drunk that he remembered nothing of the night before the next day. Prosper and his friends had to help him get on the bus, and then they had to help him climb up the stairs to the second floor of their dormitory without him falling back down the stairs.

During the morning, before dawn, when the sun entered the little dormitory like a drunk staggering into the house after the bars have closed, Toussaint was about to fall asleep when he heard someone staggering up the stairs. The poor devil, he even fell down a few times. The poor devil cursed loudly each time he fell back down the stairs.

No longer drunk now, Toussaint felt some pity for the guy, but his pity turned into anger when the guy began to sing.

— Hey, shut your yap! Toussaint shouted. We're trying to sleep!

But the guy, still on the stairs, continued to sing in very loudly in a voice unpleasant and out of tune.

Of course, Toussaint expected to see someone who looked like himself: a man with black skin and frizzy hair cut close to the scalp. In short, he expected to see another Haitian.

However, that man didn't look very much like any ordinary man that Toussaint had ever seen before. Rather, he looked more like an animal: with red eyes like those of a dog, with tawny skin like that of an animal in the wild. Though this beast wore a panama hat on his head, a multi-coloured Hawaiian shirt, and a big tie yellow around its neck with the words "I love Miami," it had hooves like a goat. The moment that Toussaint saw a long tail suspended from the rear of the beast, he was dumbstruck!

The beast mockingly made reverence and said:

— Good evening. Or, good morning, since it's now morning. How are you doing, eh?

Shocked, Toussaint stuttered with fear:

— You, y-y-you're Satan!

— Oh, good God, no, my friend! I'm the devil, that's true, but not Satan. I'm not your adversary...

— What do you want with me? Toussaint asked angrily. If you want me to sell my soul, forget it! It's not for sale.

But the devil laughed loudly with contempt:

— I don't need to buy your miserable soul, my friend. I'm free to take any soul that I want without paying a cent. But I have some news...

With chills in his spine, Toussant asked the devil:

— What news?

— It's getting worse and worse in Haiti, said the devil, mocking poor Toussaint. It's raining nails. There are always hurricanes. There are lots of diseases and lots of miserable poverty. The rich are getting richer while the poor are eating clay fried in grease. There is always violence in the streets, and the sacrifice of chickens. There are food riots in the capital. Your woman, she has run away with another without benefit to her children or herself. But she is on the moon now, unlike you, who is always miserable. And your mother...

— And my m-m-mother ? asked Toussaint, stuttering with fear again.

The devil looked at Toussaint without pity in his red eyes, eyes as hard as a knife of the hardest steel. He smiled with certain meanness and licked his lips red as blood with his tongue. As he smiled, he showed fangs like those of a dog.

— It's sufficient to say, my friend, said the devil, that doctors are timid rather than gamblers. For the price of a few chickens, the doctor wasn't willing to treat your mother. Your relations, they sacrificed chickens, but all in vain. Haiti is no country for either humans or chickens, but that's Haiti...

Then the devil laughed out loud one more time before he vanished. With terror, Toussaint cried out loud, and some of the other taxi drivers in the dormitory shouted at him:

— Shut your yap! We're trying to sleep!

The others hurled shoes at Toussaint, who had to cover his face with his hands. It was likely that the others hadn't heard the devil and Toussaint speaking.

Some weeks later, after work, Toussaint received another letter by post. The devil had told the truth on the morning after the night on the town with Prosper and his friends: his mother had suddenly died of an unexpected illness. The doctors couldn't do anything, neither could the voudounist houngains.

There are some things explainable, some things explainable in the world. For example, why would the devil bother to tell Toussaint the news of his mother's death?

Who knows? But Haiti is never very far Toussaint's thoughts: it's always just beyond the mountain.

The End



Voici la version en français. Si vous voulez lire ce conte-ci en français, ayez de libre...



Au-délà la montagne

Il y a des phénomènes explicables, des phénomènes inexpicables dans le monde. C'est possible d'expliquer la raison pourquoi une pomme tombe à la terre, ou la raison pourquoi les vagues sur le Golfe du Méxique inondent l'état de la Louisiane de temps en temps. C'est impossible d'expliquer la raison pourquoi un homme fait rêve de sa mère le moment qu'elle meurt. Est-il juste coïncidence ? Est-il message de l'au-délà ? Qui sait ?

Toussaint Séjournier était chauffeur de taxi à Nouvel-Orléans, passé l'âge de trente-cinq ans, avant de l'âge de quarante-cinq ans, mais il ressemblait bien à un vieillard : chauve en haut de la tête, aux épaules courbes comme quelqu'un qui était vieux. Il souriait d'un air las, aux yeux tristes dont la part blanche était aux rouges lignes miniscules. Il faisait dure, lui, au visage profondement ridé qui montrait une vie difficile.

Toussant naquît au Haïti, près de la ville littorale de Cap-Haïtien, qui est au nord du pays, aux flotilles de petits bateaux de pêches mis à quai, à voiles maganées et trouées. Une fois un pays de jungle dense, le pays n'est rien que désert et montagnes dénuées d'arbres maintenant. C'est en raison des agriculturalistes avoir coupé de la hache la forêt, en raison d'eux avoir mis le feu à l'herbe depuis plusieurs siècles. Il y a donc le problème d'érosion de la couche arable. Il existe aujourd'hui des étendues vastes de calcaire où il existait jadis la couche arable.

C'est fait accompli que le Haïti est le deuxième pays de l'hémisphère occidentale de gagner son indépendance, après les Etats-Unis, mais le Haïti est presque le plus pauvre dans le monde aujourd'hui. Pourquoi ? Est-il en raison du Haïti avoir été un pays d'esclaves inalphabetés avant la révolte avec réussite contre leurs anciens maîtres, les Françaises ? Est-il en raison de l'histoire longue de gouvernement mauvais ? Qui sait ? Les Duvalier, Papa Doc et Bébé Doc, ils étaient seulement quelques entr'une série longue de tyrans, tu sais, Jean-Bertrand Aristide aussi.

Mais les Haïtiens ont toujours su survivre : La condition du peuple, selon des chroniques historiques, était si terrible là-bas, pendant l'époque de leur captivité sous les Françaises, il fallait que les seigneurs des plantations de sucres remplaçassent leurs esclaves, qui mourraient toujours en masse, tous les vingt ans avec des nouveaux arrivés de l'Afrique. Ce n'est pas grande surprise donc que les esclaves révoltèrent contre leurs maîtres, mais les Haïtiens ont toujours été rébelles de toute façon.

Voici un proverbe haïtien : Au-délà la montagne, une autre montagne. Ce proverbe révèle bien la nature du paysage au Haïti, parce que le pays est très montagneux. Mais il révèle bien aussi les tribulations quotidiennes de vivre que le peuple doit y endurer, parce que la vie est très difficile au Haïti, et le peuple là-bas est très pauvre. Le peuple vit en tant de pauvreté qu'il y a enfants qui mange de tortières d'argile frites en graisse ! Le Haïti est un pays comme un enfant dont la figure est toujours sale : les autres enfants ne veulent pas le côter.

Mais revenons à nos moutons, hé ? Toussaint restait à un dormoir aux bas quartiers de Nouvel-Orléans, dans une petite bâtise laide et sale de blocs de cendre gris, parmi un group d'autres chauffeurs de taxis haïtiens. Ils envoyaient par poste la plupart de leurs salaires maigres au Haïti pour y soutenir leurs familles. Cependant, c'était adieu le bel l'argent, qui disparaissait en route au Haïti de temps en temps, en raison des courriers avoir les doigts de fées. Figurez-vous ! Hé bien ! Au moins, le Haïti était kleptocratie avec réussite.

C'était vendredi soir, mais Toussaint était tout seul dans le dormoir présentement. Il ne voulait pas sortir avec les autres ; il aimait mieux s'amuser en lisant un journal en anglais, le Pecayune-Tribune, sur son petit lit.

Alors, pendant qu'il lisait son journal, le concierge du dormoir cria aprés lui : « Hé Toussaint, Toussaint Séjournier ! une lettre ! »

— C'est moi...

Le concierge entra dans le dormoir et jeta la lettre sur le petit lit avant de s'en aller. Toussaint lisait la lettre, qui était d'une sœur. C'était des nouvelles mauvaises : sa mère et quelques autres vieilles eurent été assaillies par une meute de tontons macoutes mené par une vaudouniste le long la route à église le dimanche après le Mardi gras. L'autobus qui émmenait les femmes à église fut capoté, mais la mesure des blessures à sa mère ne fut pas très grave, merci Dieu. La sœur le conseila de ne pas s'inquiéter ; leur mère allait reprendre, écrit-elle. En plus, la sœur ajouta que la femme de Toussaint, Didi, la mère à quatre enfants se fut enfuite avec un autre homme.

Hé bien ! Ce n'était pas grand-chose à Toussaint : sa femme avait toujours fait des infidélités contre lui ; elle avait toujours les cuisses légères. Il s'était longtemps attendu sa femme à le quitter — elle, toujours une palaisson pour des autres hommes. Il doutait que ses enfants étaient à lui. Il eut même battue sa femme peu de fois, tout en vain : elle se rît seulement de lui après. Personne ne prenait pas Toussaint au sérieux, lui, faible et ineffectueux, croyait tout le monde — trop relaxe avec sa femme. Ailleurs, il s'inquiétait de plus de sa mère présentement, d'après la mode de sa culture. On n'a qu'une mère, tu sais.

Sa mère était vieille, bien oui, la mère à plusieurs enfants, en passant toute la vie en pauvreté immonde. Elle n'était que capable à lire quelques vers de la Bible, elle, la membre d'une secte de chrétiens évangelistes, des pentacostalistes. Comme les vaudounistes, les pentacostalistes cherchent extase en adorant leur dieu, Jésus. Ils espérent descendre de ciel l'Esprit-Saint, qu'il leur possède les âmes, on dit, pendant qu'ils chantent et dansent en parlant en « langues des anges ». Les pentacostalistes croient que les vaudounistes sont possédés par le diable, en revanche, pendant leurs bacchanales pendant la nuit, mais leurs modes d'adorer sont vraiment pareilles ; chaque group cherche extase en mettant peu d'emphase sur la doctrine formelle, comme ils veulent être « montés » par des esprits.

Il semblait à Toussaint, en ayant passé quelques ans à Nouvel-Orléans, que presque le pays entier était immonde, d'un air las : les adultes, les enfants, les bébés. Ceux qui risaient, il semblait, n'étaient que les ados armés aux dents de gros pistolets et de grosses machettes, les tontons macoutes menés par les vaudounistes, appelés les « houngans » en créole, ou par les gangsters.

On peut reconnaître le tontons macoutes par leurs bleus marines chemises sportives, par leurs lunettes de soleil sombres. Les nuits, ils ressemblent presqu'aux videurs, au même air de menace, dans les bars de luxe pour les touristes. Mais c'est le Haïti.

Toussaint alla en école catholique comme un garçon, la tuition payée par sa famille, puis il était fonctionnaire public peu important avant d'entrer dans les Etats-Unis.

Comme plusieurs villes dans les Etats-Unis, il y a plus de crime à Nouvel-Orléans aujourd'hui qu'avant, depuis il y a peu de décennies. Cependant, Nouvel-Orléans était propre en comparaison à Cap-Haïtien : il y avait des travailleurs civics qui sont censés de ramasser les ordures aux coins de rues chaque semaine (quoiqu'ils en failliront le faire de temps en temps). Différent que Nouvel-Orléans, les rues et les allées de Cap-Haïtien sont couvertes de boue après qu'il mouille, couvertes d'ordures ; les habitants vivent en saleté et en misère, dans un champs d'épandage. Nouvel-Orléans ressemblait bien à une ville du tiers monde, à tous deux les bas quartiers et la belle banlieue dans la même ville, mais les rues était pavées d'or dans les Etats-Unis en comparaison au Haïti. Mais c'était avant l'ouragan Katrina. Depuis lors, Nouvel-Orléans ressemble bien à Cap-Haïtien.

Cependant, Toussaint ne pensait pas des conditions au Haïti ni dans les Etats-Unis. Plutôt, ces conditions comprenaient un tableau spirituel pour le chauffeur de taxi haïtien, un tableau inconscient de ses expériences depuis sa jeunesse. Il ne pensait pas de sa femme infidèle, puisqu'on peut toujours trouver une autre femme, mais il pensait à sa mère. On n'a qu'une mère, tu sais.

Pendant que Toussaint asseyait lire son journal sur le petit lit, un autre chauffeur de taxi, Prosper, entra dans le dormoir et l'approcha. Comme Toussaint, Prosper était du Haïti, mais il était des vingtaines, ne pas passé le trentaine comme Toussaint. Grand et fort, il mesurait au moins que cent soixante-quinze centimètres en hauteur, orgueilleux, ayant certaine confiance à soi qui lui arriva à cause de sa jeunesse et de sa manque d'expérience relative dans la vie. Différent que Toussaint, Prosper nâquit à Port-au-Prince, qui est la capitale du Haïti, connu pour sa grande bidonville vaste, Cité Soleil.

Prosper sourît large et demanda :

— Hé Toussant, qu'est-ce que tu dirais à une tournée des grands-ducs avec mes copains et moi ce soir ? On drague peu femmes, on ira bien le lendemain. Songez-y !

Mais Toussaint haussa les épaules et soupira, douteux :

— J'sais pas, Prosper...

— Pourquoi, Toussaint ? On fait toujours dépression. Ça va mal pour l'âme à rester dedans toujours.

— Mais moi j'ai pas un sou. L'argent me brûle dans les mains, tu sais.

— Moi, je fais de l'argent comme de l'eau ? J'ai pas tant de piasses non plus.

Toussant haussa les épaules encore et soupira :

— Okay d'abord.

— Là tu parles, bonhomme, répondit Prosper. Là tu parles...

Avec deux autres, Prosper et Toussaint prirent l'autobus au centre-ville de Miami, où ils firent la tournée des grands-ducs. Ils dansaient avec peu de femmes, ils buvaient de l'alcool en masse. Dans le bar, Toussaint parlait un peu de ses chicanes avec sa femme. Prosper écoute donc avec sympathie, puis il dit :

— L'amour et la haïne, mon ami, ce sont comme deux mains qui restent côté à côté. C'est rare comme les dents de poule qu'on n'a qu'une main. Ou, peut-être, ce sont comme deux moitiés de l'île de Saint-Domingue, qui s'ignorent à plupart. Cependant, l'enmitié s'en trouve toujours, sous le surface...

Prosper et ses amis eurent du succès avec l'autre sexe ; ils enregistrèrent dans des chambres de hôtel avec des femmes de la nuit. Mais quoi de notre Toussaint ? Il s'enivrait tant qu'il ne se souvenait rien de la nuit dernière le lendemain. Prosper et ses copains devaient l'aider entrer dans l'autobus, puis ils devaient l'aider montrer en haut de l'escalier au second étage de leur dormoir sans qu'il retombât en bas de l'escalier de retour.

La matinée, avant de l'aube, lorsque le soleil entre dans le petit dormoir comme un saoûlard qui entre en titubant dans la maison après des bars sont fermés, Toussaint étaient après s'endormir lorsqu'il écoutait tituber quelqu'un qui montrait en haut de l'escalier. Le pauvre diable, il retomba peu de fois également. Il sacra bien fort chaque fois qu'il retomba en bas de l'escalier de retour.

Ne plus ivre à cette heure, Toussaint avait de pitié pour le diable d'abord, mais sa pitié se transforma en colère le moment que le diable se mit à chanter haut en voix.

— Hé, ferme-toi la gueule ! cria Toussaint. On tente à dormir !

Mais le diable, à l'escalier encore, il continua à chanter tout haut en voix désagréable et désaccordante.

Bien oui, Toussaint s'attendait à voir quelqu'un qui ressemblait bien à lui-même : un homme à la peau noire, aux cheveux frisés coupés à cuir chevelu. En bref, il s'attendait à voir un autre Haïtien.

Cependant, cet homme-là ne ressemblait pas bien à tout homme d'ordinaire que Toussaint eut jamais vu avant. Plutôt, il ressemblait plus à un animal : aux yeux rouges comme ceux de chien, à la peau fauve comme celle de bête du désert. Quoique cette bête portait un panama blanc à la tête, une chemise hawaïenne multi-colorée, une grosse cravate jaune autour du cou aux mots « The Big Easy », elle était aux sabots de chèvre. Ayant vu pendre d'arrière de la bête une queue longue, Toussaint se resta bête !

La bête fit révérance moquémment et dit :

— Bonsoir, monsieur. Ou plutôt, bonjour. C'est matin présentement. Comment allez-vous, hé ?

Choqué, Toussaint bégayait de peur :

— Toi, t-t-t'es Satan !

— Ah, bon Dieu, non, mon ami ! J'suis le diable, c'est vrai, mais pas le Satan. J'suis pas ton adversaire...

— Qu'est-ce que tu veux de moi ? demanda Toussaint, fâché. Si tu veux acheter mon âme, n'y compte pas ! c'est pas à vente !

Mais le diable rît fort avec mépris :

— Il ne faut pas acheter ton âme misérable, mon ami. J'ai de libre à prendre toute âme que je veux sans payer un sou. Mais moi j'ai des nouvelles...

De froid dans le dos, Toussaint demanda au diable :

— Quelles nouvelles ?

— Ça va de pire à pire au Haïti, dit le diable, moquant Toussaint. Ça tombe des cloues. Il y a toujours ouragans. Il y a des maladies en masse et beaucoup de pauvreté misérable. Les riches vont de plus à plus riches pendant que les pauvres mangent de l'argile frites en graisse. Il y a toujours violence dans les rues et le sacrifice de poules. Il y a des émuetes de nourriture dans la capitale. Ta femme, elle s'est enfuit avec un autre sans bénéfice à ses enfants ni à elle-même. Mais elle est sur la lune présentement, différente que toi, qui es toujours misérable. Et ta mère...

— Et m-m-ma mère ? demanda Toussant, bégayant de peur à nouveau.

Le diable regarda Toussaint sans pitié dans ses yeux rouges, les yeux durs comme un couteau de l'acier le plus dur. Il sourît avec certaine méchancité et lècha de la langue ses babines rouges comme le sang de martyres chrétiens. En souriant, il montra des crocs comme ceux de chien.

— Ça suffit à dire, mon ami, dit le diable, que les médecins sont timides, pas flambeurs. Aux prix de quelques poules, le médecin n'était pas prêt à traiter ta mère. Les tiens, ils ont fait sacrifice de poules, mais tout en vain. Le Haïti n'est aucun pays ni pour les humains ni pour les poules, mais c'est le Haïti...

Puis le diable rît fort une fois plus avant de se volatiser. De terreur, Toussaint cria fort, et quelqu'uns entre des autres chaffeurs de taxi dans le dormoir crièrent après lui :

— Ferme-toi la gueule ! on tente à dormir !

Les autres lançaient des souliers vers Toussaint, qui devait se couvre la figure des mains. C'était peu vraisemblable que les autres avaient écouté parler le diable et Toussaint.

Quelques semaines plus tard, après le travail, Toussaint reçut une autre lettre par poste. Le diable lui avait vrai dit la matinée après la tournée des grands-ducs avec Prosper et ses amis : sa mère fut soudaine morte d'une maladie à l'improviste. Les médecins ne pouvaient rien faire, les houngans vaudounistes non plus. Ni les drogues de médecins ni le sang de poules ne pouvaient sauver sa mère.

Toussaint s'assit sur son petit lit dans le dormoir, étonné, incapable à faire rien. Il n'avait plus de mère, il n'avait plus de père. Le lendemain, il fallut demander quelques jours à congés pour retourner au Haïti pour les funérailles de sa mère.

Il y a des phénomènes explicables, des phénomènes inexplicables dans le monde. Par exemple : pourquoi le diable s'intéressa-t-il à dire à Toussaint des nouvelles de la mort de sa mère ? Qui sait ? Mais le Haïti n'est jamais très loin dans les pensées de Toussaint : c'est juste au-délà la montagne toujours.

La fin