Mai at the Predators' Ball (18 page)

The Destruction of War
, is this what I see beneath the coats and dresses and carnation-pink masks, the fleshy lips I drew on them, my stilt-walking Fatalités on parade, not one, not two but five of them in a procession of the dead, my princesses walking dead, is this what I’m seeing and Herman won’t, this pitiable spectacle of dying spirits on the sidewalk with their backs hunched like Fatalité underneath their coats and their dresses with silver threads, where will they go when the last show is done, back to Dr. Dieudonné’s clinic, back to some hospice on the outskirts of town, or like Fatalité will it be something grandiose, an apartment lit up all night and facing out onto the street, maybe back to their rooms and the yellow light cast on a bedside table where they get to choose between the bottle of sleeping pills and a needle to transport them to some otherwhere and a damp limbo of sleep, white, precise, and incurable, this was how Petites Cendres felt as he walked in the street deliberately steering clear of the procession and feeling Yinn’s gaze fall suddenly on him, a long, hard gaze that settled on his back and shoulders, reminding him of the Haitian doctor’s long-forgotten prognosis, a look of pity burning bright, either love or devouring pity from Yinn, indefinable to Petites Cendres yet it shook him, or was it just that Yinn, faced with this procession, didn’t know how to define what he felt for the condemned, prisoners on parole from their dungeons for only a night, did he feel awkward all of a sudden, stumbling into someone else’s nightmare, makeup, skilled prosthesis for the skin, distorted and innocent, was Yinn trying to win him over, trying to inject some vitality into his distress, a brief moment of hope and respite, for that’s all it was for any of them, like Petites Cendres himself, walking free out under the starry sky, their own personal adventure, a moment lived to the fullest rather than the reverse, facing the expiry deadline that could not be cancelled or escaped, needing to dispel the morbidity of it all and relax, giving in to nothing but the joy of these girls as long as they kept to the streets, Yinn stared at Petites Cendres as though she were about to sneak up behind him and play a trick, he did that in the bar sometimes to accolades of surprise, then saying happy to see you Petites Cendres, welcome dear friend, and massaging his shoulder with firm fingers, only to disappear back into the streets again with all its billowing skirts, a balm on his soul that quickly vanished as Yinn fell back into her role as everyone’s star, no, this wish was not to be, disconcerted perhaps but always serious about her job, the impersonal being that everyone else saw in her, including past and future audience members who’d seen the show, touching and prodding her to see if she was real, a lack of respect that drained her, hard as she tried not to feel any of its ambiguity, but majestic with barely a tilt of the head as though offended, while the girls, dolled up with plumed hats and brilliantly coloured dresses, yes while Yinn’s haughty beauties, his own creations, flaunted themselves, Yinn summoned up last night’s dream as he slept by Jason’s side, in which Fatalité appeared as the bitchiest spectre of them all, furious, truly furious and saying why have you taken it upon yourself to disturb my sleep Yinn, why, to which she yelled back so I can be closer to you, no yelled back Fatalité, you mustn’t see me, and at that moment Yinn realized the one held tight in her arms was not her Fatalité any more but a foreign shape dressed in ashes and an ugly outfit Yinn hadn’t made, look what I’ve become, this horrible Fatalité, unbearable, with holes in my clothes and a body turned to ashes, why not just let me sleep in peace, cruel, you are so cruel, and with the sound of these words ringing in her ears Yinn woke up safe in her haven with Jason whispering into her neck sweetheart what’s wrong, that’s it go back to sleep, it was only a nightmare, you think so Yinn replied, you think it was only a dream, I really thought Fatalité was there, rising up out of the troubled waters of the dreams they live in, the same but not the same, someone else, not the one we all knew, and finally the dream dissipated into this one night in which life would triumph over all humiliation and adversity, in which the girls would be seen and admired as queens, and when Herman showed his pleasure at it all, which was rare, bravo Yinn, as Herman hugged her almost to suffocation, what a terrific procession, the people in the street were captivated and amazed and so am I, Yinn wanted to say she found it a bit like a carnival considering that for many of them it was the last gasp, then she looked at Herman in his curly angel outfit, that costume said Yinn, too many fringes drooping all over, I’ll have to fix it, oh so that’s the way it is, I’m an angel who’s falling to bits mocked Herman, so just go wait for me over there in that dark corner of the bar, my tricycle, so I don’t throw something out of joint on my way home, now listen here Yinn, in a couple of weeks I’ll be walking on my own two feet all the way home, what you don’t understand, Yinn, is that these people have to be shown just what their cowardice won’t let them see, what if the black photographer Roy DeCarava, in the days when racism was a time-honoured tradition, had not recorded black dancers and musicians, the artist from Harlem pulled back the curtain the same way we’re doing, what if he simply hadn’t done it, then the world would never have known they even existed, but suddenly the photographer’s personal experience became everybody’s, behind that curtain were people, people who had to be seen, no longer hidden from those who wanted to know nothing of their lives, their songs and dances, their trumpet playing, an entire population which had been invisible for so long, d’you hear Yinn, what gets camouflaged by complacency needs to be seen out in the open, the unsaid needs to be said, and by revealing these black dancers in the streets of Harlem it’s as though he was saying see, they do exist, here they are, you may not like their colour but still here they are, dancing under the neon lights, singing in the rain, playing their horns, someplace deep in this enclave where you couldn’t reach they had the courage to live free behind the walls you made to keep them invisible, with the curtain gone these intimate scenes came to be known far and wide, no way now to deny their existence, but before that, long before dancers and musicians in the streets of Harlem, it all had to begin with a red and yellow sign that said
STOP THE LYNCHING, STOP ALL OF IT
, so you could know what those words meant and who was behind it, men, thousands of them, had to scream in revolt so you wouldn’t forget over the years, yes they were still lynching less than a century ago, and remember it took open and visible pressure, even unbearable pressure, for human nature tends to forget its crimes, and listening to Herman, Yinn, now no longer listening, thought of My Captain out on his yacht as she went back over the nightmare night when Fatalité was so outraged and she was so grateful for Jason’s lighting the lamp on her side of the bed before he went back to sleep, the wood-framed photograph of Yinn at twenty with the Captain’s arm round her shoulder, and on the same shelf a recent picture of Jason in evening wear holding Yinn in one of her more eccentric dresses, all the more ironic for the fact that Jason had been unwilling to dress up for this publicity still for some holiday show, that’s why Jason seemed to be sulking or feeling timid under the forced smile, his firm hand on Yinn’s waist, two pictures in similar frames restore Yinn’s faith in the future as well as confirming his present happiness, and although he and the Captain had been photographed together by Jason only ten years ago, he was struck by their youthfulness, a mere thirty or so, Yinn’s hair down over her shoulders but the Captain’s short, much as they still were now thought Yinn, yet what freshness in their gaze, sweetness freed of the longing for conquest, perhaps effaced or over-asserted on the Captain’s part, a leftover from his days as a professional model, and Yinn’s tanned features perhaps more oriental and refined then next to the pale pink face of the Captain, cheek to cheek with her, possibly exaggerating her tan and curved forehead, the racial difference between the two was countered by their affection for one another,
DEAR YINN, FOREVER YOURS
the Captain had written on the photo, and admittedly their affection for one another compensated for it but still you could see it thought Yinn, astonished to be suddenly aware of it, and it was striking as he told his mother, love being stronger than all else in his life, Jason, My Captain, and he were serene and full of vitality, here and now enjoying their existence while Fatalité no longer did, and out in the street the near-death princesses paraded, his sisters, sisters and friends, and there were no tears to be shed for life that went on, My Captain, Jason, Geisha, Herman, and all the rest, no, never a tear should be shed thought Yinn, for life’s continuing chain of reincarnations, and maybe these souls, wandering through an imperfect world into another, less flawed and knowing only this one, couldn’t conceive of a better one to come, still even in this one with its share of splendours, barring disaster one could partly be master of one’s life, still be able to metamorphose oneself as Yinn, My Captain, and Jason had done, though Jason’s discomfort in the clothing for the photo reminded Yinn how he’d been mocked and jeered in the schoolyard as Jason, fat Jason, and the photo almost made it look as if those days had returned to haunt him in the wooden frame, fat boy, fat boy, tormented as he was wearing evening clothes when he was so used to bare arms, but he had struggled into this unwanted layer just to please Yinn, fat boy he could almost hear them saying once more, as though right there at the photo session, hence the vague smile as if waiting for the axe to fall, but in his transformation he had also learned to fight just as Yinn had done among the L.A. street gangs, and so dodge the insults and blows, and this was how you lived, always preserving our right to change, to transform oneself as surely as the Captain had stepped out of his role as a revered model and turned wild out on the water, where he was mostly alone though not always in need of that much solitude he’d say, returning soon to his friends, but when exactly was it wondered Yinn, that the Captain had sensed this fissure opening in him as he prepared to start all over again, maybe it followed a fashion show or a visit to designers and couturiers in the villas of Brazil or the coastal region of Santa Catarina facing the lagoon and looking out to sea or at the beach, perhaps some chic villa with artists and intellectuals, adored and admired for his body at the non-stop billionaires’ parties at home or at the club, when their jets flew in a short way from the fine and powdery sands of the beaches that made you want to languish for all eternity, as the Captain said, on these very private beaches at Ponta dos Ganchos, and adored all the while, loved for what he was not, explored by a man’s hands, and there the Captain, Thomas, felt the loosening of the bonds tied round him for so long by lucre, a man’s hand on his thigh shook him from the torpor into which he’d sunk for days on end in the sun, along with excess of alcohol and many other delights, the man said there remained about thirty more beaches to go and see, every one of them private, and as beach followed beach, depravation followed depravation, he’d become drunk on the paradises of the rich, sated and intoxicated till he found himself stumbling with shame, oh yes he said to Yinn, I suddenly felt I had to be reborn or else die in that rot of corruption, vanity, and adulation, even my body had had enough of it, not so thought Yinn, each of us is master of his own destiny, and like Fatalité, one bold, bitter stroke of fate,
my colours are blue, gilt, and green
sang Robbie, heading the parade with his wavy blonde wig over his broad forehead, dressed in a pleated robe that he hiked up just as far as he liked to show off his black satin jockeys, hmmm, too sexy for the time and place thought Yinn, but what can you do with him, Robbie with his tricks and jokes and teasing and droll indecencies, his way of suppressing pain he didn’t need as though locking it away in someplace safe, and the tears held in with it of course thought Yinn, and sure enough here he was saying something that made Yinn laugh, you and your reincarnations Yinn, so what about Fatalité, when we asked her how she wanted to return, whimsically hesitant as usual, she said she didn’t know and that had been her existential question always, which way to turn, what to learn, who to belong to, like some lost pup the way she always came back shamefacedly after leaving this kind of life, so Yinn, what do you say, do we change between incarnations, I mean is it really something completely different or would that be too disorienting if Fatalité, say, found herself living the life of a virtuous housewife all at once, boy what a shock that would be mocked Robbie, filling the surrounding night air,
yep my colours are green, gold, blue, and tenderness
he sang as the line of girls advanced through the night, Yinn remarked how orderly it all was, a truly fine procession, Herman deserves to be congratulated, really. The lights on the terrace added to the nighttime glow and Nora’s self-portrait was nearly finished, though so huge one person could barely carry it, she herself being just able to but not without complaining loudly, the picture appeared to undulate as the night sky threatened to obliterate it with fog that was gathering bit by bit, absorbing both the oil marks and the liquidity of colours from the sky reflected in the pool, but perhaps it was overly dramatic around the eyes, especially Nora’s, which were striking against the sky, above all in their expression, suddenly enlarged beneath the dark circles at her temples, yet the wrinkles and lines were unavoidable even though she’d painted this for her granddaughter as a memento to keep in her room, Greta had wanted it for her daughter while she grew up but Nora wondered if something so large and imposing was really the thing for Stephanie to have hanging over her bed, but of course it is Mama, Greta had said, Stephanie adores you, but it was probably more for Greta herself to remember her own mother by, she must be struck by her mother’s approaching end to think about this, for she had always seen Nora as being still a young woman like herself, no, no time for such thoughts, focusing solely on the eyes, wouldn’t that be a bit too intense for a child’s room while the thirteen-year-old read or did her homework, awkward perhaps though at that age Nora herself had no longer been a child, she already wanted to be a surgeon like her father, that was when they were in Africa and already she went everywhere with him, caring for the sick, nowadays a woman just under sixty was still considered young, Greta would realize one day, Nora’s hands often rough then, especially since she chewed her nails as she waited for him to pay attention to her, in the fall you’ll go to boarding school in Europe with your brother, oh for just a thought, some attention from this gruff oracle perpetually irritated by us both, even when Mother served him his meal, always having to leave quickly and be useful, headed off again into the thorny bush, you will be, yes you will, a clever, learned girl, nevertheless pushing her and her skillful healing hands away, yes this is not for a woman, oh no, now for the facial expression to be so dramatic I must have overdone a line or a wrinkle somewhere, perhaps a little more white just here, muted, not too bright, perhaps I can just smooth it with my finger a bit, and on went her smock again, she knew she wasn’t going to sleep after this, too many details streaming out of the portrait and demanding her attention, her smock, originally blue, was stained with so many coloured splotches and smears it looked like an abstract all by itself she thought, so stiffened by now there was no way to wash it, what joy it would have been to greet her husband at the airport tomorrow with the picture for Greta already finished, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen, maybe he would understand her spending more time on it with her life dispersed into a thousand and one things to do, chores, shopping, one-way conversations with her children on the computer with their images appearing and dissolving again on the screen, their lives often just as closed off from her from living so far away, visiting several times a year of course and talking every day on their cellphones as well as seeing them on the screen, but still so far, not really there, each saying in turn sure everything’s fine Mama, gotta go, the little one’s got dance lessons, bye, talk to you tomorrow, yes everything’s fine dear Mama, each one in turn, say how’s your self-portrait coming, nearly finished, good, no they never had time to stop and hear what she had to say, they had their own lives, almost as if they weren’t somehow part of hers, none of them being artistic like her, never mind the music schools, they hadn’t kept up with it, yet for her it was the purpose in life along with her marriage to Christiensen, and now they’d enlarged the house and built another next door ’specially for them, but would they come any more often, she’d love to know what it was they did every hour of every day, nothing, nothing is so bewildering for a mother, losing control of everything, her own fate included, futile and maybe even useless, how could she make them understand that, or would they be indifferent just the same, well at least she’d got them all married, no, not exactly, well at least the girls had good husbands, but Hans, all right, a charming family when they managed some time together, but as flight attendants the father and son were both up there right now over different continents, oh Lord don’t think about that, life was one long set of perils and some thoughts should just remain in the shadows, okay so a brush stroke here or else a smear of light blue with her fingers the way Georgia O’Keeffe used to do, she’d have completely changed the background though, a boiling stew of rainbow colours, not reality as it stood before her, Nora’s face seemed too sunlit, eyes wide beneath blue circles or blue eyes under grey circles, what exactly was this, like Georgia O’Keeffe she’d launched herself into this world at twenty-seven, her world constructed from within using her palette, and when Nora couldn’t reproduce what she saw around her, she managed at times to define her own inner reality instead when she painted the silhouettes of African women from memory, for instance they came out simply as dark lines against an orange sky, abrasively orange, and that was the day she knew, like O’Keeffe, that she was taking a leap into the void that might offer up a sort of absolute memory, African shapes lying dormant in her subconscious, the very treasures that O’Keeffe had looked for tirelessly, unknown or blank memory, but Nora stopped at that point, not wishing to plunge any further into whatever deranging unfathomable abyss her search for those forms and colours might lead her into, certainly a dangerous exploit taking her to lands and oceans of world-shaking upheaval, no, and knowing that O’Keeffe’s work from the start was labelled as the work of a woman rather than a work of genius, much in O’Keeffe’s work, rough reds and oranges, was as African as Nora’s paintings had been for a long time, reds and oranges she carried with her in her very bloodstream, much as if she’d borne the world within her entrails of the same colours, oranges and reds that scorched her, in Nora’s first paintings, before she feared going too far, conjured up the image of O’Keeffe portraying the red tides and the fertility of woman, and making her art nominally feminine reduced it as Nora would say to Christiensen when she saw him and ran to him with that straw hat of hers in the airport, yes at last it’s finished, my self-portrait for Stephanie’s room, I’m not crazy about the expression in the eyes though, too narrow, I don’t know, something too introverted I think, the blue in them is good though, but something’s still missing, perhaps they don’t want to see or understand too much, they appear to be looking straight ahead, but aside from a fierce will to live I’m not sure what, a longing for speed, glancing too quickly hither and yon to the future, I don’t want it to be overly volatile, too much white surrounding the bluish glance no doubt, I’ll go back over it Christiensen, no it’s far from finished, she had a way of disappointing those she loved, her thirst for life kept her spirit and actions forever at a feverish pace but her children found it too much, too tiring for her, yet that is how she was, but she needed time off to rest they said, when do you ever get a full night’s sleep they asked, never they answered themselves, the inner pressure she bore created a constant atmosphere of urgency, all-consuming, and with it the allure of someone much younger, as her husband remarked, he enjoyed her tastes and the fact that she was almost eternally slim, discounting the time five years ago when their daughters on holiday had left their tops and jeans out to dry in the sun by the pool, then tried them all on for size, and how similar they all were, jeans just barely stretched over her stomach, and how the girls had laughed, see Mama you’re as young as ever, not quite like five years ago, modelling for them in their intimacy, for children born of her flesh, Marianne the youngest had been a bit hesitant, no Mama you’re going to stretch my jeans too much, they’re not right for you, oh I’m bigger than you are, so she gave up the game as just a little too competitive and vain, they also told her she’d been out in the sun too long, that she was drying out her skin, she needed to feel its warmth all day long, rushing around doing a hundred things at once she was unaware of its boiling intensity, but she was aware of disappointing her children and she told them so, whether it was her painting or one of her charities in town or buying too many presents for her grandchildren, she knew they were let down, and no one as much as herself, now Mélanie and Daniel wanted her to come and visit Esther, what a comfort it would be, Christiensen had already been a few times before he went off to the Republic of Niger, but alone, Nora had refrained for exactly that reason: she was afraid of falling short somehow, how could Esther know what a disappointment she was, very overrated, as a mother too of course, at Esther’s birthday party given by Chuan and Olivier, Nora had promised Esther she’d go back to Africa, promised repeatedly, Chuan’s son was the DJ that night and Olivier complained about the deafening volume, Rwanda is staggering beneath the weight of its dead Nora told Mère, I will, I must go back and help heal and comfort them, just like my father, I know I just got back but I’m going again, not up to her promises and knowing it, judging herself harshly whenever she sought to help, she knew already that she wasn’t going to do it, no she wouldn’t go, too much to do right here, her children, then of course that portrait for Stephanie’s room still not done, the children and chatting with them every single day on the computer, nothing spectacular, maybe not even worth it, but it was a duty that had its imperative, they must always know she was there for them, amid all this how could she just up and leave for such numbing struggles rather than lull herself in the tropical comfort of her garden, pool, two houses, one of them freshly done over, surely these would lure her children back home to her for longer holidays than usual, not a sure thing of course, but there were often friends who came for her exquisite dinners, always so hurried she barely had time to sit down with them, listening with one ear to their conversations while she laboured in the kitchen, such knowledgeable people her friends were, and sometimes not sure how to intervene, she injected a misplaced comment, or so her husband commented, loud and imposing he said, it just seemed to shoot out and stand on its own, she didn’t talk as much when Christiensen was home, knowing he’d upbraid her for it in front of everyone, especially if she was off base or not quite focused, no no no it’s not like that at all he’d say before bringing to bear his own superior knowledge, Nora would listen in silence, scolding herself once more for not keeping up with her friends’ expectations, not as brilliant as them of course, this led her to resent them all, Christiensen and friends, all of them, no, no room for her despite the spectacular banquet she’d unveiled before them, no space of her own, never able to affirm herself, thus she’d decided not to visit Esther, why of course she was bound to let the venerable old lady down, but Mama is ailing badly Mélanie would say, we count the seasons as we never used to before, that too scared her, the thought of seeing Mère no longer the woman she was, for now Nora was the healthy, dominant one, no, Nora couldn’t bear to witness the decrepitude of one so dear to her, if one day they announced something like this to her she couldn’t stand it, she’d defeated all kinds of torment when the children were young, no more now she thought, no, this was one of those disconcerting remarks she blurted out sometimes at home, sickness no, death no, she had another solution for them, a definitive one, of course they’d rush in to cut her off at such a thought, why how could she say or even think such a thing, and she found herself wondering if this was her way of testing her friendships, their abhorrence must surely be a testimonial to their love, provocation was her way of eliciting a reaction, shock them with something outlandish, in that case why bother weighing each word so carefully before uttering it, well no, after all Christiensen did weigh his words carefully, fine but why had she followed suit, to be heard and thought to be as brilliant as her husband, even more intuitive in fact, because after all she was an artist, she might not have his abilities, how could they not see that she above all deserved to have him by her side, an able economist and diplomat, of course that was his career, the untangling of human relations, whole countries, nations, with Nora in her perpetual modesty cocooning her children and home for so long as they wandered from country to country, quickly learning each new language, whether in Italy or Russia always quick to learn, never consenting to domestic help, just an au pair girl, her home so often open to her husband’s African friends and their families, Nora, always modest, gradually learning the self-assurance of diplomats’ wives, planning and organizing everyone’s life, gradually daring to express herself more and more, it was she who kept things running, school for the kids, visits and receptions wherever they happened to be, knowing that the impact of everything she was doing with such quick enthusiasm would not last, no nothing would last except her love of painting, portraits, self-portraits, always with her and part of all she planned, and now she was finally settled and no longer trundling along behind her husband, the children grown up and married, yes finally here she was, everyone well set, so why now all was in its place was she so dissatisfied, like Christiensen she was growing old and soon the children would refer to them as ageing parents, that would be unbearable, now on the edge of a maturity not built around their offspring or Christiensen’s travels but around themselves, their own leisure and rest, though Christiensen hated the thought of it, never stopping, and why would he want to he wondered, only by remaining active can one transmit