changed.
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Life has denied you certain pleasures, my child; try not to seek them in sin.”
“There is no call for such vile accusations,” I answered, shaking with rage.
“I am a priest, I am fulfilling my priestly duty in protecting you from yourself…”
I interrupted him impertinently.
“Yes, but I don’t like priests who preach slander by example.”
“You are defending those who live in sin so bitterly that you have forgotten yourself in this case. I don’t recognize you anymore. Don’t you know that men visit her at night?”
I turned my back on him and went to knock on Jane’s door. She immediately realized I was beside myself.
“You’re shaking,” she said, “are you sick?”
She read my silence. Her face became sad.
“They’re giving you a hard time on account of me, aren’t they?” she continued. “I know they condemn me. Your friendship is precious to me but I won’t ask you to come back.”
She had me sit and then returned to her work.
“I don’t know how to make these people happy,” she continued. “Because I had a child outside of wedlock, I am guilty of every possible sin; you deprived yourself of everything, yet they don’t spare you either. I really don’t know how to make them happy.”
She took her son in her arms and kissed him tenderly.
“Well, I’m happy, too bad for them,” she added.
“I’m not.”
She pushed the child toward me.
“Give Claire a kiss too,” she said. “Give her a big hug.”
And the child, putting his arms around me, gave me a gentle peck on the cheek.
“He’ll be a man soon enough,” Jane added. “And you’re never lonely with a man when you love him.”
I am surprised by my interest in Jean Luze and Joel Marti’s discussions. They could never accuse me of buzzing around them. No, I sit too humbly in my chair with my sewing. Who would ever look askance at me? Therein lies my strength. I am also surprised by the sympathy I suddenly feel for Joel. This Joel whose birth I witnessed without ever taking the slightest interest in him. That was true even when he became an orphan, because you can look without seeing, meet without knowing, give without sharing. From the outset, I refused to have anything to do with others and remained neutral. Now I am becoming too human, too involved. It’s Jean Luze’s fault. It’s dangerous. I am taking on too much. I am making everything my business. But oh, my head spins! It releases secret enthusiasm in me!
Felicia is bedridden again. Could she be pregnant again? Jean-Claude is only six months old. She doesn’t deprive herself of anything. In any case, I’m taking care of the child now. He spends more time with me than with her. I soothe and coddle him.
This morning, while I was strolling with him on the veranda, Jean Luze addressed me, somewhat uncomfortably.
“Claire,” he said, “though I am a little ashamed to take advantage of your kindness, I’m going to ask you to take Jean-Claude into your room for a few days. I’m worried about Felicia’s health.”
He wanted to take the crib to my room right away but I stopped him, panic-stricken.
“Give me a minute to make room for him,” I protested, trembling to see him enter my sanctuary unexpectedly.
“Of course,” he answered. “By the way, while we’re on the subject, why do you lock your door?”
The minute he left, I ran to put my treasures in a safe place. I hid the doll as best I could in the wardrobe, made sure that my books were back under the bed, and opened my door, shivering as if I personally were about to be violated.
Jean-Claude has been my guest for several days now. I wake up at night to change and rock him to sleep. This hot, living little body against me. I’m happy to see him soil his diapers, empty his bottle, whimper for more. The smell of talcum powder and milk, it all makes Felicia ill. She kisses her son and throws up. She is definitely allergic to her condition. Jean Luze lives in my room. Blessed be this new pregnancy, this new pregnancy that tortures her. May she give birth ten, twenty times more so that she will give him to me. I will be nanny to all these children. I will work myself to death for them as long as their father is somewhat mine. He’s rolling around on my bed playing with his son, he’s resting on my bed. On my sheets he leaves behind the smell of a man’s body, of tobacco, of clean rough sweat. I deeply inhale the pillow where his head was resting; I kiss his son where he kissed him. I bask in my good fortune. He often returns from work with groceries, holding them out to me as if I were his wife. His eyes rest on me and he pinches my cheek to thank me, probably for taking such good care of Jean-Claude. I run to the pantry to get him that steaming cup of black coffee he loves above all things.
“You,” he says to me, “are a pearl among women.”
It’s been a month since I added anything to my journal. I have had neither the time nor the desire. My life is so full! I have a son and a man. My door is open all day long to Jean Luze. Why would I need an outlet? I live fully.
Felicia is four months along and her morning sickness is getting worse instead of better. She is wasting away even as her belly grows larger. Her cadaverous appearance is hard to look at. Dr. Audier gives her daily injections because she throws up the little she eats. She kicked out Jean Luze from their room the other day because she claimed he smelled of tobacco. Is she also allergic to love? Abstinence will make him easy prey.
Annette comes to the house almost every day. She is splendid in her maternity blouse. Triumphant, she continues to torture Felicia.
“Poor sweetie,” she cries out, kissing her, “you look so awful! It’s a crime! Your husband shouldn’t get you pregnant!…”
This in the presence of Jean Luze.
With mimicry impossible to reproduce she recounts Eugenie Duclan’s wedding. She imitates the pharmacist’s stiff walk and Eugenie’s childish posturing.
“And she had the gall to wear a crown of orange blossoms in her hair. It just made her look even older. Nothing draws one’s attention like contrast. What a dreadful display! At that age one should have the decency to have a simple wedding.”
Youth is pitiless, and with good reason!
I saw Dora Soubiran fall. She was walking with legs spread apart, a basket on her arm; she stumbled on a stone and fell. I ran down the stairs. I gave her my hand in the middle of the street and walked her home. Caledu happened to go by just then. He stopped. I did not look at him. Eyes glinted behind drawn blinds. Charles Farus stood behind his counter with his eyes wide and his hand over his mouth. Several beggars blocked our way.
“Let us through!” I shouted at them impatiently.
I led Dora inside her house and we stayed there a long time stirring up old memories.
“Watch out for the commandant,” she whispered suddenly, “watch out for him.”
“I will come back every day,” I replied firmly.
“Watch out for him,” she repeated.
Suddenly she began to shiver as if she were cold.
“With each blow, he would yell: ‘snobs, you bunch of snobs, mulatto snobs, I’ll make cripples of all of you, you snobs…’”
She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.
“He hates us! Claire, he hates us!”
The cause of this hatred is beyond her: she has never understood much about politics and her suffering is of the most useless, most unfair variety that Caledu has ever inflicted on anyone.
The whispers from behind the blinds followed me home. Why was I afraid? And how little effort it takes to be rid of that feeling!
“Do you remember,” she said to me the next day, “our wonderful evenings together in the old days, back in
