I talk to myself in a low voice (and if we shoot at the height of a man, where will I take refuge? What if I’m kidnapped? What if someone comes to kill me tonight in my apartment? I’m afraid of so-called stray bullets). A lot of ideas run through my head. I walk, my eyes wide open, attentive to the slightest whisper. I sweat profusely. The sun is overwhelming. My life is very difficult and I know moments of despair in Port-au-Prince. I stumble. My bag is heavy. Inside this gray bag, a diary, a JBL speaker, an extra fine v5 precise pen, my Lenovo computer, a key ring, a 1000 gourde note, the printed photo of a woman I love, some business cards, The murdered siesta by Philippe Delerm The book of illusions by Paul Auster and Story of a castaway by Tonton Marquez.
It is noon and more than twenty minutes. I go to the Librairie Solidaires Haïti, located in the heights of rue Grégoire in Pétion-Ville. The streets, almost deserted. The students from the Lycée de la commune wandering around Saint-Pierre square give me the feeling that I am not lost in the middle of a jungle. These bursts of laughter, these murmurs and the sound of their footsteps on the dead leaves of the square gave me the strength to continue my journey.
With each breath, I feel discomfort. With each movement, my breathing becomes a painful, painful effort. As if I was climbing a roller coaster. Is it the effect of fear? A gentleman with a round face, gaping teeth, a huge nose in the middle of his face type bow bow on an aluminum plate. In front of the door of the Saint Pierre church. He looks like a hungry wolf. Every time he hits the plate, I feel like running. Go, eyes closed, to other horizons. I’m almost scared to death of the cacophony of the city.
Cn the last few months, we have all been attentive to the sounds of the city. We hear the squeal of the brakes, we think it’s a bullet. A homeless child puts his feet on an inflated bag in the middle of the street, pow ! We think it’s a bullet. Everyone is running. All noises are bullets. Except in the morning, in the freshness of dawn, life is calmer, more beautiful to live.
I am the character of my novel and sometimes I leave it
I cross the barrier of the bookstore with alacrity. I’m sweating. The smell of my perfume mixed with the smell of my sweat is pleasant. I take great pleasure in smelling my scent. The security guard, in a half-joyful, half-stern tone, asks me for my identity card. He looks like an old macoute. I’ve been coming here since 2016, I’m always asked for an ID card (I find it absurd to ask someone for their identity card to cross the walls of a bookstore). “Sir, people who read don’t steal!” He bursts out laughing.
Every Thursday, I have coffee at the bookstore. When I arrived, I greet Mirlande and Béa. We discuss a bit of political news and I tell them about my latest readings. (Memories of my sad fucking Tonton MarquezThe Sun of Scorta from Laurent GaudeThe Stranger’s Bed Mahmoud Darwish). They take me very seriously when I talk about books. For them, I spend all my time with my nose in a book. As if I wasn’t making love, as if I wasn’t cooking for my friends or drinking cold beer, or discussing literature with the waitress Nephtalie in this bar in Delmas 75. (When Mirlande thinks of me, she thinks I’m reading Marquez or Flaubert).
The door of this bookstore is always open to me. Here, I met many faces. The two booksellers are so kind and passionate that all the customers have become their friends, their family. They both possess the virtues of a Haitian friendship: kindness, sensitivity, fraternity. Books are a real way to get closer to others. When I’m in this bookstore, I take all my time to make friends with young people.
Right now the country is divided. We need to build Haitian friendships. Haitians are people who believe in brotherhood, living together and konbitism. Haitian friendship is a strong, close-knit friendship. Solid like our mapous. When there is Haitian friendship, there is coffee, water, food, love, joy and gaiety.
I type these words in the garden of the bookstore. My coffee is cold. The wind turns the page of my book. I think of all the people who know what a Haitian friendship is. Books in Port-au-Prince are a real way to get closer. It is needed everywhere.