The Restless. Gerty Dambury

her?

      He’s probably already messed his pants with all the events going on, and it’s not like he’d be the one to ask questions about a teacher who’s gone missing. I even wonder how upset he’d be if someone told him one of his kids had been wounded during the rioting. Maybe he’d say, “What in hell was he doing there?”

      As if the fact of sidling into an alley and getting yourself beat up by a band of crazed soldiers proves how wrong you were to walk, just to walk, to get home from school or to run an errand for your mother—a simple everyday activity turned catastrophic.

      I’ve only ever thought of the child’s father as a castrated rooster, as cowardly as a fart in the wind, a conseiller-j’applaude, agreeing with everyone—except (I’d almost forgotten this) when he screams that old refrain, the one we were taught a long time ago, the one we repeat without a second thought: “You need a whip to get those blacks moving!”

      His thunderous voice could be heard even in the farthest corners of our neighborhood’s courtyards, especially when he went after his children, usually the boys—because his daughters were princesses and untouchable, at least most of the time. And we heard that voice too when he went after his wife; then it seemed to occupy the entire street, becoming a kind of sheet that swelled in the wind, growing bigger, flying horizontally, and projecting its shadow on the ground. But after having really strutted its stuff—pecs, tummy, ass—a sheet in the wind will suddenly lose its volume and hang limply from a clothesline. Now it’s big in front, now it’s big in back, but now—flop!—the wind stops, and it falls flat, lifeless, all dried up.

      Well, Sauveur Emmanuel is just like that sheet when his wife gets angry. She’d finally snap and jump on him or throw a jug of wine in his face. He never expected it, and from the black fellow he was, he’d turn gray and trembling, calling out for help or stuttering, “Mé ka i rivé’y?” And again, “But what’s got into her?”

      Then his voice would shrink to a mere hesitation, stammering accompanied by a little smile, a smile seeking forgiveness. “Come on, you know my yelling doesn’t mean anything!”

      After that tiny embarrassed smile, he’d shrug his shoulders and flee, while the mother’s voice would grow louder and faster, penetrating our streets, our little homes, even our bedrooms like a strong draft—while we kept prudently silent.

      Frankly, when I say he’s a coward, I know I’m judging him too harshly. Of course he’s not the only person like that; his whole family is careful not to take too many risks. They take some, just what’s necessary to move up in the world, slipping in here and there, moving if possible without a hitch from one rung of the ladder to the next. And all of this carefully, slowly—but sometimes they explode without warning, as if to loosen the reins of their silent rage.

      Really, when I think about it, this cowardice disguising itself as excessive caution is pretty much the norm for the entire neighborhood. Sometimes even the roosters won’t crow. They’re being prudent, as if their singing might reveal an opinion.

      You might say I’m exaggerating, but I swear it’s true. All a politician has to do is show up, and the chickens kneel while the bull turns into a field mouse. The men’s voices, usually heard loudly complaining about the mayor, turn to whispers. Their heads incline, as if begging for something. They stammer; they laugh with the mayor or his lackeys; they offer him a shot of rum and charge it to the account they’ll have to pay later with money they aren’t earning. A total transformation.

      I mean, when I think about it—or think about it again—why should I use the word “cowardly”? What makes me think they aren’t courageous? If you really dig into this story, you’ll see that everyone has a hell of a burden to carry, just with getting up in the morning and continuing to live their lives, with customers who don’t pay, salaries that never come in. There are so many songs about it; we can’t pretend it’s only a matter of complaining. And those hordes of children tumbling out of their wives’ bellies like red ants streaming out of a discarded loaf of bread during Lent, those debts accumulating in little shops—and that impression of never quite getting on top of things, that blacks are damned for all eternity, from century to century.