Augustino and the Choir of Destruction (16 page)

instead of seeing Valérie as a writer unconcerned with praise, as an unpretentious philosopher, Bernard's friends surely only saw in her the dark-haired woman who might have been one of Goya's models, someone they ran into early each morning during their workout, a great companion for men and women doing their workout or aerobic dance, Valérie, whose joie de vivre, better yet, her appetite for enjoyment, seemed inexhaustible, so why had these critics not noticed who Valérie was beneath the sobriety of her writing, Mère wondered, and Charles still kept the image of Frédéric before him, Caroline said, and that's why I must not let myself get to that point, and why you need to understand my abstention from food, Harriett, Miss Désirée, who wants to hit rock-bottom, reach the last degree of abandonment, in the pleasure of being held in Cyril's arms, their gaze melting into one, that's the image Charles had of Frédéric in the arms of his black nurse after his fall by the pool, Charles recalled that Pietà, the Black Virgin of pity, leaning over Frédéric's body, he had suddenly lost balance, no freezing rain or surface slippery from pool water, no special reason for a sturdy body to skid like that, it had been melting away for a while now, Charles had always known Frédéric to be hefty and ready for any and all wildness and excess, he didn't realize that his friend was depressed by the onset of old age, the sound of his fall was like something being broken, a machine misfiring, would this difficulty functioning also be mental, even in a man whose genius was well-known, he was the child prodigy, the precocious pianist, the Mendelssohn of the Los Angeles concert-hall dead, there was no way to know, as to the slowly progressing muscular deficiency, this apparition of the Pietà was a recurring one for Charles, the ageing infant Frédéric in the arms of his young Black Virgin who had washed and bathed him, everywhere this image replayed itself for him, the young, voluptuous nurse who arrived at the house on roller-blades and humming a tune, Charles was washing and bathing Frédéric who suddenly said, leave me alone, I just want to sleep, no visitors, I want to sleep for a while, that fall by the pool hurt a bit, and Charles had not thought that love could slip away like that in an image of the Pietà, he needed to go to his ashram to gather himself a bit, perhaps the time for gloomy reflection had come when the soul begs for a resting place, the strengths of the body crying out, no, not yet, it's too soon, and thus arrives an avenging angel that was not expected, exacting all latent, violet-tinged death and decay, the lover who was more than love, the imperishable guardian of declining vitality, Harriett, you think, seeing me struggle no longer, that I'd like to crumble like Frédéric in the arms of a divine nurse, for you do have such patience, I barely let you assuage my thirst with a little black tea, for this body of mine will soon accommodate itself to all its failings without complaint, one must die in harmony, though they want us to think otherwise, the wood is dry and hard, and can't take any more punishment, the bones of the carcass, I dreamed as I was dozing, that I had got dressed up in my black outfit, I don't know why black, because I don't like it, and then you lowered me into a very hot bath, I fought you, for a light snow was falling, oh how I fought you, but you wouldn't listen, why not let me go out in that hospital gown, Adrien and Suzanne will be here after tennis, they'll help me get dressed, but you say they can't get here in this sea-storm, but they'll come, because they know how to get here by boat, get the coffee ready, Harriett, Désirée, quick, get to the kitchen and stop watching me, there's a light snow falling, I recovered quickly, because all of a sudden I was able to run along a snowy road in the night, but still I could hear familiar voices, and at the end of the road was a reunion of friends, the night was not clouded but lit by huge bonfires on the snow, and all of a sudden I saw Jean-Mathieu coming towards me with his red scarf over his shoulders, come, dear friend, all this snow will be shovelled by morning, and we can get out the sleds and horses, come, we never finished our discussion of the painting of the Madonna and Child by an unknown French artist around 1480, she wears a royal crown, sapphires and pearls I think, as you first said, or perhaps rubies, a Madonna both childlike and sovereign, with a mocking smile as she strokes the feet of her child, yet the child seems older than the mother, laid bare, bald head under the halo, appearing to sink into the folds of her ample blue robe, nothing holding him up from the void but the fingers warming his feet, this is how we come into the world, hanging by a caress of the feet, this picture, dear Caroline, was painted in 1480 or 1490, and I'd really like to talk about it with you, come now, and let's get out the sleds and continue our journey, you and I together at last, Caroline, but why are you hesitating to give me your hand, think about the painting you liked, that's how we set ourselves apart from the rest of the world, like that little bare-headed child, a bit ugly and alone in the arms of the Madonna holding him only with a subtle caress of the feet, yes, you were right to say it was painted in1480 by an unknown French master, I have to tell you now, you were often right, it was a dream, said Caroline, I'll never see Jean-Mathieu again, or if I do, when do you think, Harriett, when will I see him, will it be a cloudy night lit up by huge bonfires on the snow? In the Vendredi Décadent Bar, Petites Cendres saw the boy with straight blond hair, he must have been set free during the night, and he thought, my boy, mine, he's even charmed the cops, a magician, an enchanter, Petites Cendres saw him in the street, as he walked with a heavy heart, not having come up with anything that night, he'd probably have to meet the man from the hotel, the one in whom a beast lurked, though he was used to this kind of customer, this one repulsed him, or maybe it was fear of outrage or humiliation, look at that little treasure with his round face like a little boy, and so well brought up, affable, almost chivalrous toward a companion who was at least thirty years older, that's what happens when kids are left alone, they prove attractive to adults and then inflict redemptive love upon them, if you have to show up in the New York office wearing a nice suit, then I'll dress up too, the boy said, anything suits me, if I have to show up nude, I'll do that too, how do you like that, he laughed, kids now aren't afraid of anything, I really liked going out in the boat with you, I didn't even know about those barges with young prostitutes, isn't it risky, I don't think I'd go for that, I'd rather be with you, I'm safe with you, in fact, my parents would be impressed by your taste and culture, that silk shirt really suits you, do you trade in those, I think it would look good on me too, I like smart things, boy, we sure have got a tan out here on the bridge, can I have a taste of your martini, oh you're giving me one, great, I mostly like the olives on ice, thanks, another one would be nice, especially the olives, it's true, I'm going to get a shirt like yours, touch my skin, see how hot it still is from the sun, I feel sorry for those girls lost out on the water, you know, a nut-job, any kind of nut-job might attack them, it's not legal what they're doing, it's better to stay on the right side of the law, I mean you never know, what if someone decide to throw them overboard, what mother would go into town and say, yes, that's my daughter you've killed, who'd dare do that, eh, you think there's any future for them in a profession like that, cruising around out in the open, I feel sorry for them, hey you got tanned too, it suits you, pink cheeks, we have all the time in the world, we could take one cruise after another if you didn't have to be in the office by Thursday, how cool you look, I will too, you've got to do what you want in life, I liked that dangerous swim we took in the shark bay, young people, what do we really worry about except not having money, nope, I really don't like that, I need lots of it every day, I'd really like to have shorts and a camera like you do, is it way too expensive, if you can't, just say so, our skin is glowing, you seem years younger since we've been together, even if it's only been a few hours, most of all, I want you to be satisfied, absolutely, your satisfaction is all that counts, you have to say what you want, said the boy with straight hair, Petites Cendres seeing his round cheeks and the way his hair moved around his face from far off, leaning his elbow on the bar window, he listened sadly to the monologue of dizzying material greed from the boy he called his own, having got a nice smile from him, the kid does alright, Petites Cendres thought, if he was materialist first and foremost, he wouldn't fall victim to his own naïveté, people who plucked his flower knew the price, and it didn't grow everywhere, despite the moment of grace in a smile, Petites Cendres was saddened that this fresh-petalled rose was not for him, poor junkie that he was, who wanted an undernourished junkie with broken teeth, often broken by other junkies and nude dancers, often wearing the socks they tossed to the audience at the end of the show and trod underfoot on the dancefloor, there was no one quite so hard up as Petites Cendres, a dope addict inhaling the brown sugar no one else did anymore for lack of anything better, who'd want to take that crude brown powder, this generation of nude dancers stayed clean, didn't fool around injecting poison into their veins, once in while, not like coke, Petites Cendres would clumsily line up the spoon and syringe, sick of this burning furnace of want, nothing, empty pockets, stuck with the thug that looked like a boxer, such rotten conditions, but he felt he had no choice but to go to this man and just see what happened afterwards, brown sugar, smoking heroine made you want to throw up, while . . . where was Timo anyway, probably somewhere down by the keys, waiting, this would be when they started dancing and shouting and carrying on, closing time, we're closing in a moment, and in the wee hours the sun would be burning everywhere, lighting on faces and faded sheets in the rooms, an indecent sun when night had honoured, not persecuted, the hungry unfortunates, so much the better if the kid, my kid, has that self-assurance, he's tough, and he's only here on the island for a few days, then he'll follow his companion to New York or somewhere else, this hell, this furnace of want is mine, I can't leave, Petites Cendres thought, still everything might still work out with Timo, I wonder if my boy cries when he's alone with his multiple-choice video games, a virtual kingdom based on the real world, with the same corruption, the same serial rapes and killings, the gamer giving vent to his worst impulses, did the languid boy cry, stretched out on the sofa with his games, round cheeks on his hands, saying to himself, I watch because I'm bored, give me porn or give me crime, manipulate me, anything so I'm not bored, I quit school too soon, why is that my fault, I'm just waiting for my lover to get back from the office, and tonight we're going out, so what did he do all day waiting for his friend, hang out in the streets, work as an escort, already into high-tech, what didn't he have, whereas Petites Cendres was just a poor transvestite junkie with nothing going for him, he thought, with sunrise, life became a handicap, a setback, but at night, everything was the same colour, so did rust-coloured men and lost dogs, jazz sextets improvised in bars on the theme of the soul lamenting its fate with the soft growl of metal, Petites Cendres listened as he thought, spirit, soul, keep going, don't die, all you want is a little more powder, an electric guitar duet, drums, soul, go forward, not back, I'll go see Timo, he must be down on the jetty with a cigarette hanging from his lips, now the percussionists, good group this, I'll be back for a beer, two floors for dancers and one downstairs for skaters, you'd hear the brass at daybreak, forward, soul, onward, Petites Cendres thought, daybreak would mean a handicap, a setback, God who made the world, the earth and the flowers, and me as I am, me, Petites Cendres at the Porte du Baiser Saloon, where's my powder, I sometimes wonder if he cries when he's alone in men's luxurious apartments, that boy of mine, suddenly Petites Cendres felt himself rocking, won over by the music, sliding languidly on the soles of his sandals, he'd go all the way to Atlantic Boulevard, he thought, it was the end of a night like all the others, too bad there was no antidote for the impulse to love or want powder, a night like any other in the furnace of want, except that this boy, his boy, had smiled at him one day, still maybe it was in vain, and I still remember the clouds of flies on the foreheads and eyes of the little kids found by the side of the road, Nora thought, and the lack of running water, even in the hospital, other wings badly needed to be opened, one was donated by an Italian doctor, but charity from benefactors like that was precarious and very rare, a washer and dryer were essential, nothing ever dried by itself in this terrible climate, and because of Cayor worms, everything had to be ironed, diapers, bed-linen, kids' clothes, what miraculous sunsets and starry nights, yet still the devastating image of children being eaten up by worms was forever present, worms and bouts of diarrhea on beds and sleeping-mats, the same distressing spectacle everywhere, sometimes there was a bright spot in the afternoon when Nora brought milk with banana-, mango- or papaya-quarters to the bigger ones in Room 7, some of them suddenly came to life and pushed a wooden scooter with one wheel missing around in the dirt, others played with sticks and bits of metal, the little girls stretching the fabric of their shoes when they had them, Nora was pained by their weight-loss and thinness when she checked on them, she remembered the cloudbursts that fell on the corrugated tin roof over her room at night, the breeze on her sweaty body through the mosquito-netting, and the death one morning of a child with severe Vitamin A deficiency, another suffering from Pott's
disease had been saved, or when she had made funeral clothes in the laundry for the little child who had died, and what was to be done about those babies on perfusion who weren't eating or taking in anything anymore, kids infected with AIDS, an entire population was infected and arriving with all these dying children, wasn't it? Nora fetched water in buckets along with the mothers of the children, or those that remained, sick mothers who nevertheless went on working, clouds of flies covered the baby bottles, this was the despairing picture Nora saw there every day and never forgot, even back home with her own family, or were they still her own, my family and friends living out their lives so far from all this misery, maybe they'd have felt sickened by these revolting diapers just tossed on the floor before carting them off to the straw hut near the playground used by the orphans in Room 9, perhaps they would all have felt some repugnance for the fact that humanity had sunk so low, with no hope of progress or resources, for they did not know what Nora did, they knew nothing of it, despite being told and shown what she had seen, not the reflection of a nightmare, but inexorable reality, and in the glimmer of dawn on the blinds, the odd, well-shaven young man was there in Mai's room again, from one instant to the next, he'd disappear, he said, because the nanny would waste no time coming in to wake Mai up, since she always slept in too long, listen Mai, the young man said, I've served out my sentence and now here I am, a free man, that's what the court decided, and I can't change that, I'd already done ten years in prison out on the California coast, wasn't that enough, the sentence was twenty, it was my good conduct that influenced the court and the judge, I was once a kid just like you, back in Idaho, always had a dog held close to my chest, small and fluffy he was, and was I a monster, no, my father was a monster to me, and I was just a kid like any other in Idaho, at twelve I was convicted of making obscene phone calls, I learned martial arts, Haïkido and Kendo, so I could get even with a father who beat me up, tied me up with rope, you should have seen me at that age in my white kimono, I remember rope, because I used it later in my rapes and murders, first it was only students, too bad they decided to take the bridges back to campus, bridges and ropes, those were my fascination, when was it my father forgot me all night on a bridge in the cold, when was that, I don't know, but better not stare at my shadow on a bridge when I had on my Hallowe'en mask, the bridges were called Jennifer or Rachel, the names of the ones I strangled, ropes and bridges were all I could think of at home in my bungalow, first the wrists, then the ropes and silence, a real Feast of All Saints, Jennifer Bridge, Rachel Bridge, I had them all, one by one I buried them under the floorboards of my bungalow with a pile of wood I'd cut, sometimes I'd knock on doors and say I was a carpenter looking for things to repair, and then quick, I'd run down to the bathroom and wait and wait, so, if I'm not a monster, what am I, tell me Mai, what's going to happen to me, I'd wait behind the shower curtain, the court decided, and now here I am with you, so close you could hear my breath, want to come to the bridge with me, want to follow me, I've got a Hallowe'en mask in my case, you'll see this scar on my face, when I rape them I get scratched, like in a blackberry bush, their nail-marks, it does me good, if I'm not a monster, who am I, but it isn't me, it's him who never had to face a sentence or a court, who tied me to chairs with ropes, stifled me and my cries with pillows, from then on, ropes were my fixation, you should have seen me at twelve doing martial arts, that was me, the tough guy no one felt sorry for, come with me, I don't want to hurt you, I'm just your brother in his white kimono, I can hear the cocks crowing, soon it will be time for you to wake up, Mai, you've wet your pyjamas again, what will your mother say, I told you not to drink all those glasses of water your nanny gave you yesterday evening, you'll get scolded, they'll call your pediatrician, I got punished too and look what happened to me, Mai, tell me, am I a monster in my white kimono, what will happen to us, you and me Mai, when we're free, and Olivier after hours of writing in his hut, raised his head to the red line over the ocean, how reviving it felt to feel the immensity of water around him, and the silence after all the noise of the party, why hadn't he listened more attentively to Mélanie, especially since she confided so rarely in others, this doltish silence men use to cut themselves off, was that how he'd been with Mélanie in his fear that she would get hurt like other women activists as devoted as herself, even though the house was protected from vandals and thieves, he thought he heard footsteps nearby, there were all kinds of gangs and networks on Bahama and Esmerelda Streets, could they burst in from the park or the street or the suddenly unoccupied space around the pool, were those shots Olivier heard, five maybe, black bandannas over their foreheads, running their knives over him in his sleep, furtive aggressions, drug deals, where were Chuan and Jermaine, although Olivier felt he knew his son, could he have dealings with them anyway, one of them, Carlos, had been accused of homicide, though involuntary, although he had not caused the death of Lazaro, voluntarily or not, he tried to kill me, Lazaro had cried, Chuan welcomed him into her house, and as for Carlos, who, by belonging to a gang had shown his will to kill, even if it was just play, because he thought the gun wasn't loaded when it was, besides, who knows whether Olivier, also a child of the African and Haitian ghettos, might not have been accused of murder himself, voluntary or not, just like poor Carlos, who was now imprisoned by mistake if you thought about it, right, by mistake, the community ought to protest but said nothing, knowing how the town was divided into zones of violence, from the Bad Niggers to the Latino Gang, ten of them with black bandannas around their foreheads, and Lazaro would be one of these, saying, I'm just biding my time, my arsenal's all ready, first Jermaine and his mother, then the man, while he's at his table writing, that black senator no one listens to, just writing out his anger in lacklustre prose, but for us, life is a blood sport, just that, an act of pure violence, Olivier thought he heard footsteps very nearby, although the immensity of water was all-enveloping, and he saw the red line of sun on the horizon from his window, and he heard nothing but bird-song at this hour, he where Chuan and Jermaine were, mother and son had danced the night away, was this the time for frivolity, for laughing and dancing while on the alert, everywhere the tolling of gunshots, alert for the gangs on our doorstep, on Bahama and Esmerelda Streets, Carlos or the others, had anyone really taken into account that they were the sons of slaves, like Bigger Thomas, the hero of novelist Richard Wright, although Olivier wasn't much for reading novels, in fact he was embarrassed that there were so many around him whose books he had not read, he remembered Bigger Thomas, the one they called nigger, and his descent into crime in a white world, for a long time, he thought, wasn't that the only way, that hellish route through betrayal, those with no country, ashamed of petty crime, rape or theft, whether in Chicago, or here in this town, Bigger Thomas or Carlos, all sons of slaves and unable to get over it, although it had been abolished long ago, no, there were still plenty of slavers at work in the world, yesterday Bigger Thomas, trapped and defenceless, today Carlos; whole museums were devoted to the numberless slaves of the past, built along riverbanks, reminders that not long ago, along these same rivers, women, men and children had been bought and sold, these structures and buildings recalling the fate of black merchandise, its price often less than that of a chair or a stove, sold in the public square like livestock, what impact would this memory of the shadowy part of themselves have had on Bigger Thomas or Carlos, if not that an entire lifetime was not enough to get away, really free themselves from it, still guilty in the white world that had given them a chance, a historic chance, that they inherited without gratitude, cursing that fortune called racial equality, at long last the triumph of justice, for where was that justice when Emmett Till died at the hands of two white assassins, Emmett Till, another Bigger Thomas from Chicago, but innocent, taken from his bed late at night, beaten, tortured with a Colt .45 in the face, by two men beside themselves with rage who ended up killing him and throwing him into the river, what would Olivier have done if he'd had to identify the disfigured face in his white school shirt and tie, like Emmett's mother, no, he wouldn't have recognized his son Jermaine either, the two men were acquitted by a white court, acquitted and bragging of their victory to their wives, united in this base betrayal of justice, deceitful and victorious, and what would Olivier have done if they brought him Jermaine's body by train, like Emmett's to his mother, upon returning from a family visit to Mississippi and being shown her son's body at the station, who is that, she had asked looking drawn, who is that, what have you done to him, that isn't my son anymore, but this is what she said, you are going to be shamed, because the coffin's going to be open for several days, so nothing can be forgotten, and they said to her, you know, if your son came to this sad end, though he was only fourteen, it is because he whistled at a white woman as she passed by, and that just isn't right, and that's why you've got your son in this awful state, the coffin will be open so the world can see and never forget his dishonour, Emmett's mother said, and pilgrims came by the thousands, joining hands around his martyred body, what would Olivier have done at the open coffin of his son, surely he would have wept every tear in his body like Emmet's mother, but Jermaine was alive, and by noon Olivier would be seeing his son slicing through the waves on his sailboard, fascinating because so different from his father, not an intellectual but a high-liver who rejoiced in physical existence and sought out the joy in life, while his father was more taciturn, his son with wide, slanted eyes under his dark glasses, the living Jerome was the image of his mother, Jermaine, so beloved, Samuel thought a time for life and for love would be time taken away from dance, he wouldn't be just the disciple of Arnie Graal the master, one day he'd be the master and teach choreography himself, wouldn't it have been better for Vincent to dance at day-camp on the mountainside or on a sunny beach than under the close watch of his doctors, he'd have learned to design costumes, he would have been supported by his strengths instead of just being considered too weak, he would have lived in a musical theatre, and Samuel would have helped him learn some basic steps, first tap-dancing, he would have done anything for Vincent to be cured of his cough and bouts of pain, Vincent would have been amazed to hear the metallic clink of tap-shoes, he'd have sung and danced, the forest air would no longer rasp at his lungs, and although Arnie's choreography was admirable, it was exhausting for the dancers as they dropped one by one from high scaffolding into the void, turning over in a gradual but impressive slowness, arms and legs, then head, still more softly, a structural choreography that evoked admiring dread in the way the subject took hold of something in the dancer that became more real than reality when expressed in thunder and blood, Samuel pondered what had been left out, all those high-rise windows suggested by the choreography, glass should have been added to the labyrinths, every window suddenly as mobile as stained glass, with tableaux of characters in the last scene of the sacrificial jump, bustling, alone or in groups toward the jump that ended on cement in the streets, it needed the thousands of faces stuck to the glass and transparent plexiglass forever in an immutable expression of terror so that none could ever forget their imprint, the shroud of their features etched by fire and ash into the melting glass and gradually given a patina by the sun, the rain and the snow, those faces need to be there constantly, between frames of plaster, so the parents, spouses, and children of those caught so unexpectedly under beams and glass liquefied into fiery larvae can make heard to those ears and brows and cheeks in their bloody cut-outs the immense call of their choir, the diffuse lament of their prayers in every voice and language, for what words could say these words, and the wave, the narrative waves of all these faces, for they would have spoken if they could, and one could practically feel the trembling on their lips, the ravaging astonishment on their faces, the pressure from the impacts on their tear-glands, but most of all, they would forever be there in the joints of the glass-work, all those face hoping for deliverance and another life, as if each one were saying, remember, it's me, your neighbour, brother, child, keep the vigil a long time, our faces like those of the saints, don't forget us, but Arnie Graal had been annoyed at Samuel's idea of memory ongoing into the dramatic present, what was one to think of all those who should have been there and all the glassed-in hallways in the buildings, towers and skyscrapers, Arnie Graal's entire people swallowed up into forgetful sleep, though some did not forget and had since rehabilitated by law what had once been a series of massacres against an entire race, so many swollen faces, hundreds of thousands, an incalculable number should have been there, Arnie said to Samuel, including the sacrificed perpetrators of the suicide mission, they too had been duped by their superiors and obsessed by the thought of all those faces, walls of icons, all incinerated, yet still breathing, like images painted onto ivory with eyes that would have cried, all those faces coming toward him while he walked the streets of New York and making his sleep a restless one, Samuel thought that only the art of dance could embody and communicate the amount of lamentation for which he had become the unwilling receiver, he who was born to happiness, this joy of living was part of him along