“He’s dead,” the commandant answered. “At least, that’s what they’ve told me.”
“Do you hear the cry that resounded: ‘To arms!’” Andre said suddenly in deep, low voice.
“Silence!” the commandant shouted, “or I’ll break your neck… That verse, we checked it out and it really is from the poet Massillon Coicou. I thought a good beating and six months of detention would be enough punishment.”
“They’re making an ass out of you, Commandant,” one of the three men sniggered. “All one has to do is look in their eyes to see that they’re making an ass of you. That verse by Massillon Coicou, they’re using it to express their own feelings.”
“They’ll live to regret it, I swear,” the commandant hastened to assert.
“I find your zeal to be somewhat tepid,” added the one who had spoken first. “Don’t forget, we were ordered to suspect our own shadow and spare no one… Why don’t you begin the interrogation, Commandant Cravache?”
“You, white man, come forward,” the commandant said.
“Last name, first name, address and occupation,” one of the patrol members recited slowly while dipping a quill in an inkstand.
“Simon de la Petaudiere, French poet, residing in this province, cohabiting with Germaine, merchant on rue Chochotte.”
“Spare us the details,” one of the men pronounced slowly, “and go put yourself against the wall, arms crossed, feet together.”
“Next! Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“Andre, son of Julie, poet, born and residing in this town, rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Speak up, imbecile!”
“Rue du Diable-Vauvert.”
“Have you heard of it, Commandant Cravache, Devil ‘Green Calf’ Street?” [60]
“No, but we’ll find it. They’re always holed up in ridiculous places, the swine.”
“Next! Hurry up. Last name, first name, address and occupation?”
“Rene, son of Angelie, malnourished poet.”
“Spare us your tales of malnutrition and just answer the questions.”
“Rene, son of Angelie, born in and residing in this town, rue de l’Enfer.” [61]
“Quite a brotherhood,” the commandant declared in annoyance. “All obsessed with the same fixed idea: speak French, write verse.”
“Rue de l’Enfer! Rue de l’Enfer! The streets of this town have ridiculous names!” exclaimed the patrol member who was writing everything down. “No wonder they shelter so many subversives.”
“Bring in the girls,” the commandant then ordered.
The adjutant entered, roughly pushing Marcia and Cecile before him.
“Here they are, Commandant.”
“You, the maid, come over here.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Tell us your name.”
“Yes, sir. It’s Marcia, sir.”
“Marcia what?”
“Marcia Nanpetrin, yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
“At Madame Magistral’s, sir. Since I was ten.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“Do you have parents?”
“Yes, sir, in the mountains, far away. Up in the coffee farms.”
“You were the first to hear the bottle crash. Tell us what happened?”
“Here is what happened, Commandant! I was leaving Madame Magistral’s house when I saw the door of the shack open-it had been closed for eight days. The mulatto came out, eyes closed and hand lifted high. He walked like a blind man, hesitating, and then he threw the bottle under the balcony. I saw flames running along the ground and then the mulatto threw himself on the ground screaming and the black guy and the white guy came out of the shack, and the white guy stamped out the flames and lay down on the mulatto and starting saying something in his ear.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, yes, sir. I swear on my mother’s life.”
“Fine, go stand by the wall and wait.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Come forward, you. Last name, first name, address and occupation.”
“Cecile Magistral, born and residing in this town, teacher at the Holy Sisters School.”
“What do you know about this twisted plot against the security of the State?”
“I don’t know anything about it, Monsieur.”
“Talk or you’ll regret it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Two men came down from the platform on which the table stood and loomed before Cecile.
“Talk,” one of them said.
“I swear I don’t know anything.”
“You want a beating? Huh!”
One of them tore off her blouse and grabbed a bundle of leather straps that lay on the table.
“She doesn’t know anything, she doesn’t know anything,” Simon yelled.
“Tell them, Cecile,” I begged. “Tell them what you know.”
“I don’t know anything,” Cecile said.
“Fine. I am going to loosen your tongue. You’ll see.”
He shoved her to her knees and struck her. The straps marked her flesh with long red streaks.
“No! No!” I couldn’t stop yelling.
“Let him kill me,” Cecile shouted to me.
“No! No!”
“I won’t be able to live after all of this. Let them kill me!”
Two patrol members had to hold me back. I had rushed at them like a lion. They twisted my arms and I fell to my knees.
“Cecile, think of your mother,” I begged again, “tell them what you know.”
“I don’t want to live anymore, I don’t want to live anymore,” she sobbed.
“You bastards,” Simon shouted.
And he leaped on one of the men and hit him in the head with his handcuffed fists.
“Shoot him,” ordered the patrol member who had remained at the table with the commandant.
“I am French, I invoke my flag,” Simon protested.
“We shit on your flag,” one of the men answered. “You struck law enforcement personnel.”
“My embassy will be notified. You’ll have to answer for my death.”
“You were conspiring against the security of the State.”
“You’re lying There was never a conspiracy.”
“And the petrol bombs? Where did they come from?”
“They’re no more threatening than firecrackers, they’re stuffed with rotting cotton and
“Hah! Hah! Hah!” one of the patrol members sniggered. “He thinks we have time to waste. How many days did you stay locked up in the shack with the conspirators?”
“I repeat, there was never any conspiracy,” Simon roared.
