Augustino and the Choir of Destruction (12 page)

Mississippi Goddam
, sang the voice, liberated but so pained, so that's what it all comes down to for us, passion and pain, Olivier thought, this music was once banned in the southern states, still no matter, passion and pain have survived, you know, I don't regret a thing I said or sang, said Nina Simone's contralto voice, nothing, I don't regret a single word, might that voice have warded off the hatred of the skinhead, a killing in broad daylight from a grey convertible,
Mississippi Goddam
, cursed be you for killing the black fiancée of the white boy, you've killed love, destroyed two lives and more besides, cursed be you, whether free or in jail, may you never enter into the kingdom of men or of God, Olivier thought, for they had to be examined rather than cursed, what purpose did it serve, and did Olivier have the right to punish and hate when he had a wife and son who adored him, what is the point to our love and our tolerance and our pity, what point, for every day hate kills, hate kills, and Ari looked at his daughter as she slept with her toys all around her, she was already asleep on his shoulder when he walked to the car amid the rumbling of the waves and the wind on the beach, there were stains of brilliant colour on Lou's round fists, she so loved to cover herself in the gooey gouache in her father's studio, and it wouldn't come off with soap and water in the bath, it was even in her tangled hair, soon Ari would teach her to cut her own hair, essential lessons were the ones that taught autonomy, you need to have the courage to discover that you are practically alone in the world, even if you have parents, Lou would be able to muddle through, you have to be able to find your way out of any mess in life, even if you had good parents, Ari and Ingrid were, and before she was ever born they too had been abandoned, Ari said Chagall's lovers were flying up to a red sky holding one another in their arms, it now seemed to him that the reproduction was inappropriate for Marie-Louise's room, for the charming bodies, no longer feeling desire for one another, were not flying up to their charnel ascension any more, as seen in the painting, drifting joyfully over the rooftops of the city into a red sky with unusual creatures orbiting around them, a man with a fish-head coming to offer them a bouquet of lilacs, a bird that ran but did not fly, this was the sweet story told by the Russian painter, Ari said, but life was very different, two lovers could suddenly find themselves waging interminable battles, hating one another, for love was also a world of pettiness, a terrain of rivalry, in his profound naïveté, the painter of fairy modernism had seen nothing of these base squabbles, in gentleness he had painted a world where order reigned, what would Chagall think of this order or communion between the animal world and God when he returned to his country torn by war and revolution, well, if Marie-Louise liked the painting, lovers in the red sky of revolution, he wouldn't take it from her, Daddy, Mama, she said, what was true yesterday is no longer so, fallen from their flight, her parents were separated and wounded, Ari thought, but Lou would be with him until Sunday, he was happy after all, and as soon as the winds calmed, the boat would be ready, he had explained to Lou that her first boat would be shaped like a ballet slipper with a reinforced toe, he'd call it
Lou's Slipper
, the boats and yachts were anchored in the marina of the sailing club, and that's where they'd go tomorrow, Ari had washed and polished the mahogany sides of her boat ceaselessly, on the water it was a marvel of agility, though for now, Lou wasn't sure she liked the sea and big waves that pushed at you all the time, and those noisy gulls everywhere, the pelicans gathered in so close to the fishermen's cabin, Lou's boat looked as though it would hold up well at sea, how pleasant it will be to live in our cabin at anchor, just the two of us under a perfect blue sky, father and daughter at work on their gouaches, today's conceptual artists are so entirely different from Chagall and his mystical thinking or his dreams of a Russia without madness, they're loaded down with instruments, videos, installations, sound effects and stimulation, sets of posters and collages, their voluntary distortion of painting, the life-shock of these contemporaries, how restful and fresh were Chagall's lovers in a red sky, what culture is it we're living in when we can't even recognize beauty, tomorrow Lou's boat would be ready, Ari was never through polishing the hull, it was for her, so beloved of her father, they'd have a little time, as long as the winds died down, and Julio thought that this night would be a memorable one; he'd seen them before the navy officers and Coast Guard, they were a woman, three children, and a few men, who had arrived, compass in hand, in a boat they had built themselves, a huge pile of wood and steel sixteen feet long that sank in the water before the officers on night patrol or the Coast Guard heard their cries, Julio had thought, those are my people, what storm with easterly winds had brought them here, are there broken bones, why no baggage, yet cards hanging like medallions from their necks with addresses of those they hoped to find almost erased and illegible, then an officer appeared on the scene saying, I'll translate for them, but they just looked at him, suddenly wordless and voiceless, the addresses and phone numbers were their families, but where were they, we don't know them, they were given blankets and energy drinks, they had to be identified, those who had made it to shore could stay, those caught at sea had no rights and would be sent back, what Atlantic storm brought them here on the easterly winds, and that was the end of a memorable night, Julio thought, among them a woman and children, no baggage, Ramon, Oreste, their mother, they'd been calling for help a long time in the night, then carrying blankets and sweet drinks to them, Julio said, don't be afraid, you've reached shore, I'm Julio, the one you're looking for, there's a house ready for you on the Island, you can rest at last, come, quietly stumbling, the survivors had followed Julio along the sandy paths between the pines to the house of refuge, and Marie-Sylvie was delighted that at last Mai had closed her eyes and seemed to be sleeping, now she'd stop asking for things, Marie-Sylvie left a small light on, she could read while she kept watch over this child her parents had spoiled too much, what wouldn't they buy for her, just as many electronic games as her brother Augustino, though their grandmother disapproved, a more rigorous upbringing would have been better, no one knew why such a little girl was always running away or why she still wet her bed, the pediatrician they went to spoke in veiled terms, it's true kids nowadays are sexually precocious, he'd added, fixing Mai in the ambiguity of her unease, who knows what, thought Marie-Sylvie, to whom all this concern seemed unnecessary, this pediatrician hadn't seen the kids in her country covered with flies, did he even know they existed, Marie-Sylvie was irritable around Mai, though she'd been her nanny ever since replacing Jenny in the household, she despised being in Mai's service without Vincent around to coddle, frail Vincent, but what an illusion it was that one could give love when it wasn't a choice, naturally, all others were just a burden, with Jenny's letter in her trembling hands, she thought, you left me alone Jenny, as soon as your studies in medicine were over, you left, Doctors Without Borders, when am I going to see you again, I know so much less than you do, I used to keep bony goats on a hillside with my brother, you Jenny, you're different, you have a destiny, we'll always be stripped of everything, poverty stricken, Jenny wrote, in this remote Chinese province we're living a hot, steamy, suffocating summer, just me and a few doctors, these poor farming areas are hit by an epidemic, a short while ago we weren't even allowed to name the sickness, everyone is masked, and there is a crisis in these mountainous areas that they would rather not know about, every day, we stop before huge granite blocks which stand as tombstones for those buried (names withheld) under the scrubby grass, no one has any respect for them, just humble villagers who received transfusions from an infected blood-bank, now they have no names or identity either, as though they had never existed, couples who had worked hard on this land for their children, worthy men and women worn down by farming soy and corn, even whole families disappeared, fathers, mothers, children, sometimes aged grandparents take care of the orphans, many thought they could cure their skin lesions with herbs without knowing what was wrong, someone told them medicines bought in Thailand would help, that a vaccine would save them, but help could not reach them from so far away, we went to the dangerous parts of town where young prostitutes die every day, like the heroine addicts that visit them, with our surgical masks on, who could we help with so little medication and vaccine, I am haunted by the tombstones with no names on them that spring up everywhere, even between hills, in valleys under the sun-scorched grass, an epidemic they long refused to name, yet the number of victims kept growing, it must be nice where you are, Marie-Sylvie, far from the sepulchres and this humid heat, how can I see the unbearable things I witness here every day, parents of decimated families too weak to walk, pushing their ten-year-old children before them in squeaking wooden wheelbarrows, packets of bones, fleshless arms on stretchers, how I envy you where you are with healthy children, and Marie-Sylvie thought, why doesn't she stop talking, I wish she'd stop writing, what's she doing in China when she ought to be here with me, all at once she had the impression Jenny was writing in order to crush her, grind her up, working her indignation like a woman subjected to the laws of the rich, of course Mélanie's children were healthy, well-loved, if love was that superabundance, excess of caresses from Mélanie on Mai's hair and forehead, kisses and cuddles that so annoyed Marie-Sylvie who had never had any of that, the little girl need only scrape her knee and her mother was down before her, weren't those three women — Esther, Mélanie, and Mai — more than blood relations, more like sharing a single wavelength, possessing the same certainties, and also gifts of sensibility as well as seductive qualities which made them disrespectful of a creature so undone and wounded as herself, thought Marie-Sylvie, born under a bad sign . . . didn't they all, Mélanie, Daniel, and Esther, try to detach her from the only one she loved, Vincent, taken away from her for the whole summer; her long silhouette curved towards Mai's bed, she thought of herself as a dried stem bending under every servitude, as though without Vincent, she was just another black servant, she heard Mai murmuring in her sleep, however imperceptible her moan, her mother would have heard right away, woken her daughter and asked, what is it sweetheart, another one of those nightmares, whereas Marie-Sylvie steeled herself and pretended not to hear, what could Mai be complaining about since she had everything, Marie-Sylvie touched Mai's brow with her fingertips and said, it isn't day yet, you have to sleep, Mai trembled in her sleep, walking alone without Augustino, her parents had told her so many times not to go along the sea by the path to the stadium alone, where they practised team sports like football or beach hockey under the midday sun, there never seemed to be anyone in the bleachers or on the stands, nor on the pathway that Mai took alone with her skateboard under her arm, she could feel the silence dripping down into her footprints, nobody would find her here, there was a black telephone near the stands she'd rather not hear ring, might it be a connection to her parents, but she was a separate person from them and her brothers, wasn't she, and why was she strictly forbidden to come to the stadium alone, strange people went through there, her mother said, and especially Mai was not to talk to strangers and certainly not take it into her head to follow them, you never knew what to expect with Mai, said Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint, Mama kissed her in the morning and said, Mai dear, today try not to upset me the way you did yesterday, you wouldn't answer when I called, how am I to know where you are when you won't answer my call, if she were a boy, they'd have more respect for her, for several minutes no one showed up, and Mai didn't hear a sound, it was as though the grass-lined road beyond the stadium was being petrified in the sun, there wasn't even an occasional lost egret or heron to be seen, but someone had whispered and laughed, and this eruption of voices in the all-enveloping stillness had made her start from the highest platform, she'd seen him and her, but they hadn't seen her, a very young couple, the boy was pulling the girl's hair, Mai couldn't tell if this game was playful or nasty, but she didn't like hearing them quarrel, then all of a sudden, the girl didn't seem to be laughing anymore, but shouting and weeping, Mai was far enough away that they could not see her, was he teasing the girl or bullying her violently, she couldn't tell, although the girl stopped crying after a few moments, they were haranguing and tormenting each other now, her mother was right, you did see some weird people here, if she were asleep and this were a dream, she would wake up from this painful dream and not hear the screams of the girl being beaten by the boy anymore, was he beating her, or was it a game like when she had let him pull her hair and laughed, about-facing in an instant, Mai couldn't really tell who these adolescents were, the way their shadows flailed about on the stands, or if the boy was beating the girl, oh why didn't her nanny wake her up, Mai should never have come to the stadium, and Marie-Sylvie saw Mai tremble in her sleep, touched her forehead and said, it's nothing, just a nightmare, I'm putting the light out and going to my room now, as Mai half opened her eyelids, she saw the silhouette of Marie-Sylvie disappear down the hallway, where is Mama, she asked, but got no answer and so went back to sleep, the cries had stopped now, and Caroline repeated, Harriett, Miss Désirée, all this degradation isn't the fault of Charly but those young people she hangs out with in bars and discotheques, she comes back to me at dawn looking devastated and tottering, doesn't even recognize me, as though all at once she doesn't know who I am, this degradation, this being shut up with you in this house, Harriett, meanwhile an exhibition of my photography is touring the world, London, Paris, here you are treating me like a retarded old woman, when my mind is clear as it's ever been, this is not all Charly's fault, it's fate that caused us to meet, just as surely as it did Charles and Cyril, and whether that's sad or happy, it's our fate, even as a child, I knew nothing could be done about that, on beautiful days by the sea, when my mother had appointments to go to, her lover used to beckon me into his room, sat me down beside him and said, my, how you're growing, come over to the bed (their bed), and even as he was stroking my hair, I could see outside the window my cousin on his pony saying in his child's voice, Caroline, come and play with me, the man's hand slid along my back, hmmm it's rounded-in here, he said at the start of my waist, when a servant approached, he said in a low voice, you absolutely must not say anything about this, it's between us, isn't it now, let's just keep quiet about it, I kept quiet, complicit in the fate that gives each one of us our share of experience, intrigues and ruses, do we have any choice, running headlong over myself to perdition, as I ran to the man whenever my mother went out, the lovers' bedchamber, their love and pleasure, the man opened his arms to me, I was an accomplice in their affair, this conspiracy of the flesh they kept up night and day under sheets washed and ironed by the servants, my mother was not aware of my carryings-on with the man and his too-intimate kisses, of him, of us, of our silence, he said come, and there I was, what should we go discover this long afternoon, my cousin asked wandering through the dunes on his pony, I lost no time in joining him, slowly, gently, showing him how to bridle our skittish pony, my cousin was so naïve, he knew nothing about man or woman, and my sweet afternoon indulgences with my mother's lover who derived a special pleasure from picking up little girls, I loved the fact that this man was destined for me, because it was something forbidden, unimaginable, and that's how destiny got its claws into me, close against one another, my cousin and I went down to the dunes on our pony to where the waves broke, he candid, me uncontrollable, because I wanted to know everything about life, just as well you aren't listening to me Désirée, for you life is simple, you have God, I don't want this bouillon you've brought me, I don't want anything, you look on me with kindness and take my hand, I'm telling you I don't like the smell of that soup, I can't eat it, your black hand in mine, a union of pity or desolation, here we are the two of us, the way we used to be in my parents' house when you used to tell me to say my prayers and I wouldn't listen, uncontrollable, uncontrollable, you said, Harriett, Miss Désirée, in your hand I see a vigorous nobility, mine, well look at these fingers that drop everything, no longer agile, these knotted joints, this isn't me anymore, these are the hands of blind people I photographed, frozen