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Fiction

Primal Needs

By Évelyne Trouillot
Translated from French by Paul Curtis Daw
In a raw tale written only days after the 2010 earthquake, Haiti's Évelyne Trouillot documents the survival instinct.

They arrived together, a pair of butterflies with green and yellow wings, dappled and tremulous. They landed here and there on the hibiscus blooms surrounding the pool, and the youth marveled at their casual grace.

His palms itched with the urge to paint. He yearned to take up the brushes hidden in the back of his closet, away from the scornful, jeering faces of his friends and the scathing comments of his father, who would much rather have seen him wielding an architect’s triangle and drawing sketches of shopping centers, in the tradition of the architectural engineers whose youngest descendant he was.

In his mind he visualized the colors he’d use, the forms he’d create, all the beauty and fragility of a composition that would bring the canvas to life. He was seized by the impulse to go into his bedroom and sit at the table with his painting materials spread out before him; perhaps then he would feel less downcast, less useless, less lonely. He hadn’t touched his brushes in the three months since his father had called him an ingrate for daring to say that there were other paths in life than being an architectural engineer.

Yes, it was time for him to follow his dreams and to quit trying so hard to please others. But first he would stop by the kitchen to grab a few of the cheese biscuits that Josette always left sitting on the counter

*

She was hungry, again. It seemed to her that the emptiness would never go away. A few slices of bread in the morning weren’t nearly enough to sustain her until lunchtime. And yet God knows the serving was large, and the generous slatherings of peanut butter made it even heartier. Nor did the cook stint on the coffee or sugar. Even so, she was constantly hungry, no doubt because her nourishment depended on someone else, it had to be given to her, the domestics had to wait for their meals until after the masters of the house and the children had been served. That’s just how it was. Complaining about it would change nothing. It was the natural order. Besides, she was paid fairly well and had a regular day off, a decent room where she could stretch out in the evening, and two weeks’ vacation every summer.

Her employers were upright people, not malicious, sometimes aloof like so many others, they looked at you without seeing you. It wasn’t their fault that they had tons of money, or that what they spent at the Caribbean Supermarket in a week almost equaled her monthly salary. She didn’t grumble, but still she never managed to get her fill. Even when she tried not to think about food, her mind was haunted by aromas of smoked herring with rice, visions of roasted yams, and images of vegetables simmering in a spicy sauce. As a child, she’d had to fight with her siblings for a share of the food. There were five kids in the family, plus two orphan cousins taken in by her mother. The oldest ones always positioned themselves to grab the choicest morsels for themselves, the biggest servings. Younger and puny, she would often end up with her eyes wet, her nose running, her plate only half-full.

She had finished the laundry. Tomorrow she would have to tackle the ironing, the children’s jerseys—both kids attended the American school like most others in this well-off neighborhood—followed by Monsieur’s shirts, except for those that didn’t need pressing, and then Madame’s innumerable cotton skirts, which made up an essential part of her practical and casual look. One day she had noticed the price tag inadvertently left on one of Madame’s white blouses. An absurd price, an unimaginable amount for that natural and simple elegance!

Once again hunger pangs knotted her guts. She could hardly wait for the evening’s supper, the little fried fish from the corner vendor and the cheering cup of ginger tea on the January evenings that were a little cooler than she liked. In the meantime, she’d go across the street to the neighbors’ house. Josette, their cook, always kept a pot of coffee hot, along with cheese biscuits and jam for the children. She offered her some whenever they met. Yes, she had time for a chat.

*

He didn’t understand why the walls of the dining room seemed to be swaying before his eyes. Standing motionless halfway between the front hall and the kitchen, he watched the paintings crash to the floor and an entire wall erupt in cracks. How much time passed before he thought of taking shelter? Where? How? The sound of voices reached him from the kitchen, a confusion of clattering, deafening movements. He dashed there, obeying the powerful instinct that drew him toward other humans in this universe where objects seemed to follow inscrutable laws and act in defiance of people.

In the kitchen, she was raising the coffee cup to her lips when the house began to tremble with such violence that the cup flew out of her hands and the scalding liquid spattered her feet. She didn’t have time to notice the pain. To her right, Josette murmured, “God is great,” before crumpling to the floor under a large, light-colored, wooden buffet that toppled over and landed with a crash.

The youth and the woman lunged toward the back door. She was closer to it, but he was younger and more agile, so they reached it simultaneously. Sections of wall, bricks, cinder blocks, fragments of the dishes that Grandma Yvette had brought back from Italy for his parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary, a left shoe—how had that ended up here?—so many obstacles were blocking their way. Fortunately, his younger brother wasn’t home, but where was he? And in what condition? Better not to think about it. A thick murk of dust obscured the space around him. “I have to get out of here,” he thought. He stretched out his hands and encountered a woman’s chest, a pair of breasts that were heaving, alive. The acrid smell of sweaty armpits reached him at the same time as the curious lemony scent of laundry detergent. It wasn’t Josette; he’d glimpsed her broken legs protruding from under his mother’s china cabinet on the tile floor of the kitchen. A familiar face, though, someone from the neighborhood. Yes, she worked across the street at the house of Michael and Sophia’s parents. So where was his mother? She’d been upstairs, doing her workout routine. Was there still a second floor? Don’t think about it. Again he touched the body of the woman beside him, long enough to confirm that she was very much alive. She pushed his hand away and let out a groan, more from irritation than from pain.

She had immediately recognized the son of the house, a scrawny little runt, always acting ill-at-ease and wearing clothes that seemed to have been chosen against his wishes. She could barely see him now in the tomblike darkness that surrounded them. The yellow ochre walls, the arched windows, the linen curtains—all these had disappeared. Where had the sun gone? She thought of her own five-year-old child, whom she had accidentally conceived at seventeen and who lived with her mother at Anse à Foleur. Would he be orphaned for good before the day ended? Was he alive? Her panic blunted her usual hunger and twisted her innards. She groaned reflexively, though she knew she had no broken bones. She wanted to stand up but realized she was pinned and only able to move her upper body.

How much time passed before his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to see his surroundings and push aside objects and rubble, maneuver into a more comfortable position, make out the woman’s features, formulate a thought that wasn’t sheer terror? He had decided to strike out in a westerly direction, which by his reckoning had to lead to the back door. Since the collapse of the walls on the west side prevented him and the woman from standing upright, they worked from a crouched position, clearing away all kinds of debris: wooden shelves from a flattened closet, the shattered remnants of a ceramic countertop, shards of glass. His thirst disoriented him and he leaned briefly against the wall of what had been the kitchen. Visions of his brother and his mother brought tears to his eyes, but he quickly choked back his anguish. The woman, who kept muttering something incomprehensible, worked without let-up. At one point she told him in a categorical tone, “I have to find us something to eat!”

They sank into a rhythm of removal work interspersed with breaks of numb inertia. She had foraged almost everywhere and recovered cheese biscuits and cans of soda and fruit juice. He would often hear her munching, and he sensed something like exuberance in the noisy workings of her jaw. From time to time, after minutes or hours had passed, they would both slump to the floor. Quite spontaneously, he turned toward her. The woman’s breast moved closer and pressed against his torso. As he sensed its warm roundness, he forgot his exhaustion and fear. For the moment. Seconds later, they had both fallen asleep.

When he woke up, her back was turned away from him. With her sky-blue skirt wrapped around her legs, her curled-up body was a round splash of vivid color. He was astonished by the intensity of his desire. It was an uncontrollable urge, not like the lukewarm, unemotional attraction of his sexual experiments with a girl from school, punctuated by the whispered English words, “Fuck me please! Baby, oh baby, it’s so good!” Their encounters took place in deserted corridors, in his room while his parents were out, or at those parties where adolescents did whatever they wanted under subdued lighting, with the amused tolerance of the adults, who were convinced that this was chic since it was what sophisticated foreigners did.

He moved closer and placed his hand on one of her breasts, and immediately a powerful vibration arose somewhere deep inside him and gradually intensified as it spread through his body. The trembling was as gentle as the fluttering wings of the butterflies. Quite spontaneously, she slid under him and pulled up her skirt.

When they emerged from the ruins, three interminable days after the earthquake, into the pandemonium of reunions, grief, and horror, no one noticed that they were holding hands. She was the first to let go, and she walked away from him without a backward look.

January 27, 2010


© Evelyne Trouillot. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Paul Curtis Daw. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

They arrived together, a pair of butterflies with green and yellow wings, dappled and tremulous. They landed here and there on the hibiscus blooms surrounding the pool, and the youth marveled at their casual grace.

His palms itched with the urge to paint. He yearned to take up the brushes hidden in the back of his closet, away from the scornful, jeering faces of his friends and the scathing comments of his father, who would much rather have seen him wielding an architect’s triangle and drawing sketches of shopping centers, in the tradition of the architectural engineers whose youngest descendant he was.

In his mind he visualized the colors he’d use, the forms he’d create, all the beauty and fragility of a composition that would bring the canvas to life. He was seized by the impulse to go into his bedroom and sit at the table with his painting materials spread out before him; perhaps then he would feel less downcast, less useless, less lonely. He hadn’t touched his brushes in the three months since his father had called him an ingrate for daring to say that there were other paths in life than being an architectural engineer.

Yes, it was time for him to follow his dreams and to quit trying so hard to please others. But first he would stop by the kitchen to grab a few of the cheese biscuits that Josette always left sitting on the counter

*

She was hungry, again. It seemed to her that the emptiness would never go away. A few slices of bread in the morning weren’t nearly enough to sustain her until lunchtime. And yet God knows the serving was large, and the generous slatherings of peanut butter made it even heartier. Nor did the cook stint on the coffee or sugar. Even so, she was constantly hungry, no doubt because her nourishment depended on someone else, it had to be given to her, the domestics had to wait for their meals until after the masters of the house and the children had been served. That’s just how it was. Complaining about it would change nothing. It was the natural order. Besides, she was paid fairly well and had a regular day off, a decent room where she could stretch out in the evening, and two weeks’ vacation every summer.

Her employers were upright people, not malicious, sometimes aloof like so many others, they looked at you without seeing you. It wasn’t their fault that they had tons of money, or that what they spent at the Caribbean Supermarket in a week almost equaled her monthly salary. She didn’t grumble, but still she never managed to get her fill. Even when she tried not to think about food, her mind was haunted by aromas of smoked herring with rice, visions of roasted yams, and images of vegetables simmering in a spicy sauce. As a child, she’d had to fight with her siblings for a share of the food. There were five kids in the family, plus two orphan cousins taken in by her mother. The oldest ones always positioned themselves to grab the choicest morsels for themselves, the biggest servings. Younger and puny, she would often end up with her eyes wet, her nose running, her plate only half-full.

She had finished the laundry. Tomorrow she would have to tackle the ironing, the children’s jerseys—both kids attended the American school like most others in this well-off neighborhood—followed by Monsieur’s shirts, except for those that didn’t need pressing, and then Madame’s innumerable cotton skirts, which made up an essential part of her practical and casual look. One day she had noticed the price tag inadvertently left on one of Madame’s white blouses. An absurd price, an unimaginable amount for that natural and simple elegance!

Once again hunger pangs knotted her guts. She could hardly wait for the evening’s supper, the little fried fish from the corner vendor and the cheering cup of ginger tea on the January evenings that were a little cooler than she liked. In the meantime, she’d go across the street to the neighbors’ house. Josette, their cook, always kept a pot of coffee hot, along with cheese biscuits and jam for the children. She offered her some whenever they met. Yes, she had time for a chat.

*

He didn’t understand why the walls of the dining room seemed to be swaying before his eyes. Standing motionless halfway between the front hall and the kitchen, he watched the paintings crash to the floor and an entire wall erupt in cracks. How much time passed before he thought of taking shelter? Where? How? The sound of voices reached him from the kitchen, a confusion of clattering, deafening movements. He dashed there, obeying the powerful instinct that drew him toward other humans in this universe where objects seemed to follow inscrutable laws and act in defiance of people.

In the kitchen, she was raising the coffee cup to her lips when the house began to tremble with such violence that the cup flew out of her hands and the scalding liquid spattered her feet. She didn’t have time to notice the pain. To her right, Josette murmured, “God is great,” before crumpling to the floor under a large, light-colored, wooden buffet that toppled over and landed with a crash.

The youth and the woman lunged toward the back door. She was closer to it, but he was younger and more agile, so they reached it simultaneously. Sections of wall, bricks, cinder blocks, fragments of the dishes that Grandma Yvette had brought back from Italy for his parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary, a left shoe—how had that ended up here?—so many obstacles were blocking their way. Fortunately, his younger brother wasn’t home, but where was he? And in what condition? Better not to think about it. A thick murk of dust obscured the space around him. “I have to get out of here,” he thought. He stretched out his hands and encountered a woman’s chest, a pair of breasts that were heaving, alive. The acrid smell of sweaty armpits reached him at the same time as the curious lemony scent of laundry detergent. It wasn’t Josette; he’d glimpsed her broken legs protruding from under his mother’s china cabinet on the tile floor of the kitchen. A familiar face, though, someone from the neighborhood. Yes, she worked across the street at the house of Michael and Sophia’s parents. So where was his mother? She’d been upstairs, doing her workout routine. Was there still a second floor? Don’t think about it. Again he touched the body of the woman beside him, long enough to confirm that she was very much alive. She pushed his hand away and let out a groan, more from irritation than from pain.

She had immediately recognized the son of the house, a scrawny little runt, always acting ill-at-ease and wearing clothes that seemed to have been chosen against his wishes. She could barely see him now in the tomblike darkness that surrounded them. The yellow ochre walls, the arched windows, the linen curtains—all these had disappeared. Where had the sun gone? She thought of her own five-year-old child, whom she had accidentally conceived at seventeen and who lived with her mother at Anse à Foleur. Would he be orphaned for good before the day ended? Was he alive? Her panic blunted her usual hunger and twisted her innards. She groaned reflexively, though she knew she had no broken bones. She wanted to stand up but realized she was pinned and only able to move her upper body.

How much time passed before his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to see his surroundings and push aside objects and rubble, maneuver into a more comfortable position, make out the woman’s features, formulate a thought that wasn’t sheer terror? He had decided to strike out in a westerly direction, which by his reckoning had to lead to the back door. Since the collapse of the walls on the west side prevented him and the woman from standing upright, they worked from a crouched position, clearing away all kinds of debris: wooden shelves from a flattened closet, the shattered remnants of a ceramic countertop, shards of glass. His thirst disoriented him and he leaned briefly against the wall of what had been the kitchen. Visions of his brother and his mother brought tears to his eyes, but he quickly choked back his anguish. The woman, who kept muttering something incomprehensible, worked without let-up. At one point she told him in a categorical tone, “I have to find us something to eat!”

They sank into a rhythm of removal work interspersed with breaks of numb inertia. She had foraged almost everywhere and recovered cheese biscuits and cans of soda and fruit juice. He would often hear her munching, and he sensed something like exuberance in the noisy workings of her jaw. From time to time, after minutes or hours had passed, they would both slump to the floor. Quite spontaneously, he turned toward her. The woman’s breast moved closer and pressed against his torso. As he sensed its warm roundness, he forgot his exhaustion and fear. For the moment. Seconds later, they had both fallen asleep.

When he woke up, her back was turned away from him. With her sky-blue skirt wrapped around her legs, her curled-up body was a round splash of vivid color. He was astonished by the intensity of his desire. It was an uncontrollable urge, not like the lukewarm, unemotional attraction of his sexual experiments with a girl from school, punctuated by the whispered English words, “Fuck me please! Baby, oh baby, it’s so good!” Their encounters took place in deserted corridors, in his room while his parents were out, or at those parties where adolescents did whatever they wanted under subdued lighting, with the amused tolerance of the adults, who were convinced that this was chic since it was what sophisticated foreigners did.

He moved closer and placed his hand on one of her breasts, and immediately a powerful vibration arose somewhere deep inside him and gradually intensified as it spread through his body. The trembling was as gentle as the fluttering wings of the butterflies. Quite spontaneously, she slid under him and pulled up her skirt.

When they emerged from the ruins, three interminable days after the earthquake, into the pandemonium of reunions, grief, and horror, no one noticed that they were holding hands. She was the first to let go, and she walked away from him without a backward look.

January 27, 2010


© Evelyne Trouillot. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Paul Curtis Daw. All rights reserved.

Besoins primaires

Ils arrivèrent ensemble, une paire de papillons aux ailes jaunes et vertes, bariolées et frémissantes. Ils se posèrent ça et là sur les fleurs d’hibiscus entourant la piscine et le jeune garçon s’émerveilla de leur grâce si insouciante.

 

            L’envie de peindre lui gratta les paumes. Envie de prendre les pinceaux qu’il cachait au fond de son placard, à l’abri des regards méprisants et moqueurs de ses camarades, des commentaires acerbes de son père qui aurait voulu qu’il manie plutôt l’équerre et dessine des croquis de  complexes commerciaux à l’instar de cette lignée d’architectes-ingénieurs dont il était le dernier descendant.

            Dans sa tête, le jeune garçon imagina les couleurs à utiliser, les formes à créer et toute la charge de beauté et de fragilité à faire revivre sur le canevas. L’envie le prit d’aller dans sa chambre, de s’attabler devant son matériel de peinture ; peut-être qu’alors il se sentirait moins triste, moins inutile, moins seul. Depuis trois mois, il n’avait pas touché à ses pinceaux, depuis le dernier esclandre de son père qui l’avait traité d’ingrat, parce qu’il avait osé dire qu’il existait d’autres avenues dans la vie que d’être ingénieur-architecte.

            Oui, il était temps pour lui de faire ce dont il rêvait et d’arrêter d’avoir si mal en voulant plaire aux autres. Mais avant, il passerait par la cuisine rafler quelques uns des biscuits au fromage que Josette laissait toujours sur le comptoir.

 

            Elle avait faim, encore. Il lui semblait que la faim ne la quitterait jamais. Ces pains de mie qu’on lui servait le matin ne la remplissaient qu’à demi jusqu’au repas du midi. Dieu seul sait combien ils étaient lourds pourtant, et la généreuse couche de beurre d’arachide dont ils étaient couverte les rendait encore plus costauds. La cuisinière ne rechignait ni sur le sucre ni sur  le café. Pourtant elle avait toujours faim, sans doute parce que sa nourriture dépendait de quelqu’un d’autre, il fallait qu’on la lui donne, il fallait attendre que les maitres de maison et les enfants soient servis avant que les domestiques reçoivent leurs repas. C’était ainsi. De se plaindre n’y changerait rien. C’était l’ordre des choses. D’ailleurs, elle touchait relativement bien, avait son jour de sortie, une petite chambre décente pour s’allonger le soir, deux semaines de vacances chaque été.

            Des gens corrects ses patrons, pas méchants, parfois indifférents comme tant d’autres, ils vous regardaient sans vous voir. Ce n’était pas de leur faute s’ils avaient beaucoup d’argent, si ce qu’ils dépensaient en une semaine au supermarché Caribbean couvrait largement son salaire mensuel à elle. Elle ne se plaignait pas mais elle avait toujours faim. Même lorsqu’elle essayait de ne pas penser à la nourriture, des odeurs de riz au hareng, des images d’ignames douces et de légumes à l’étouffée venaient la hanter. Enfant, elle avait du se battre pour se rassasier. Ils étaient cinq à la maison, plus deux cousins orphelins recueillis par sa mère. Les plus grands s’arrangeaient toujours pour s’approprier les meilleurs morceaux, les plus grandes parts. Elle, chétive et plus jeune, se retrouvait souvent, le nez coulant, les yeux larmoyants, l’assiette à demi vide.          

            Elle avait fini sa lessive. Demain, il faudrait entamer le repassage, les maillots des enfants qui fréquentaient tous deux l’école américaine, comme la plupart des gosses de ce quartier de gens aisés, les chemises de monsieur, à l’exception de celles qu’ils n’envoyaient pas au pressing, les innombrables jupes en coton de madame qui constituaient une part essentielle de son look pratique et confortable. Une fois elle avait vu l’étiquette oubliée par mégarde dans une de ces chemises blanches. Un argent fou, une somme inimaginable pour cette élégance naturelle et simple!

            La faim la reprit aux tripes. Elle ne pourrait pas attendre la petite collation du soir, les fritures de la marchande du coin et la tasse de tisane au gingembre qui rendait plus agréables les soirées de janvier  un peu trop fraiches à son gré. En attendant, elle allait traverser chez les voisins d’en face. La cuisinière gardait toujours du café au chaud avec des biscuits au fromage et de la confiture pour les enfants. Elle lui en offrait à chaque visite. Oui, il était temps de faire une pause.

            Il ne comprit pas pourquoi les murs de la salle à manger semblaient danser devant lui. Debout, immobile à mi-chemin entre le hall et la cuisine, il regarda les tableaux s’écrouler et tout un  pan de mur se fendiller. Combien de temps  avant qu’il ne songea à s’abriter ? Où ? Comment ? Des voix lui parvenaient de la cuisine, tout un ensemble de mouvements bruyants, assourdissants. Il s’y précipita, obéissant au puissant atavisme l’exhortant à se rapprocher des autres humains dans cet univers où les choses semblaient obéir à des lois inconnues et se démarquer des hommes.

            Dans l’arrière-cuisine, elle portait le café à ses lèvres lorsque la maison se mit à trembler avec une telle force que la tasse lui échappa des mains et que le liquide brulant éclaboussa ses pieds. Elle n’eut pas le temps d’avoir mal. A sa droite, Josette murmura « L’Eternel est grand » avant de s’affaler sur le sol sous l’impact d’un grand buffet en bois clair qui s’écrasa avec fracas.

            D’un bond, le jeune garçon et la femme se précipitèrent vers la sortie arrière. Elle était plus proche mais il était plus jeune, plus habile, ils y arrivèrent en même temps.  Les pans de murs, les briques et blocs de ciment, les bris de vaisselle que grand-mère Yvette avait ramenées de son dernier voyage en Italie pour le 25ème anniversaire de ses parents, une chaussure gauche, comment avait-elle atterri ici ?, tant d’obstacles leur barraient la route.  Heureusement que son petit frère n’était pas à la maison, mais où était-il ? Dans quel état ? Surtout, ne pas y penser. Une poussière intense obscurcit l’espace. Il faut que je sorte d’ici. Il longea les mains et rencontra une poitrine, des seins de femmes, palpitants, vivants. Une odeur forte d’aisselles en sueur lui parvint également avec une curieuse senteur de savon de lessive au citron. Ce n’était pas Josette, il avait aperçu ses jambes brisées dépassant du vaisselier de sa mère, sur le carrelage de l’arrière-cuisine. Un visage familier cependant, quelqu’un du quartier. Oui, elle travaillait en face chez les parents de Michael et de Sophia. Où était donc sa mère à lui ? En train de faire ses exercices au sol, là haut à l’étage. Existait-il encore l’étage ? Ne pas y penser. Il tata à nouveau le corps de la femme à ses cotés, assez longtemps pour confirmer qu’elle était bien vivante. Elle repoussa sa main d’un geste brutal et geignit avec plus d’irritation que de douleur.

            Elle avait tout de suite reconnu le fils de la maison, un gringalet ayant toujours l’air mal dans sa peau, avec des vêtements qui semblaient avoir été choisis contre son gré. Elle pouvait à peine le voir maintenant dans le noir caverneux qui les entourait.  Disparus les murs jaune ocre, les fenêtres en arc et les rideaux de toiles. Où donc était parti le soleil ? Elle pensa à ce fils de 5 ans qu’elle avait eu par erreur à 17 ans et que gardait sa mère à Anse à Foleur. Serait-il orphelin pour de bon avant la fin du jour ? Serait-il vivant ? La panique  coupa sa faim habituelle et lui tordit les entrailles. Elle gémit par réflexe mais savait qu’elle n’avait rien de cassé. Elle voulut se relever mais se sentit coincée et ne put que soulever son buste.

       

            Combien de temps avant d’arriver à s’accoutumer au noir pour y voir assez et pousser les objets et débris, trouver une position plus confortable, distinguer les traits de l’autre, formuler une pensée qui ne soit pas pure terreur. Il avait décidé de s’attaquer au coté ouest qui selon lui devait correspondre à la porte arrière. L’effondrement des murs ne leur permettant pas de se tenir debout, accroupis ou couchés, ils écartaient des objets de toutes sortes : des planches de bois sortis d’un placard démoli, des morceaux de céramique vestiges d’un comptoir détruit, des bris de verre.   La soif le désorienta et il s’appuya une seconde contre les parois de ce qui fut la cuisine. L’image de son petit frère et de sa mère lui mit les larmes aux yeux mais tout de suite il réfréna son angoisse. La femme marmonnait des mots incompréhensibles mais travaillait sans relâche. Un instant, elle lui jeta d’un ton catégorique : «  Je dois nous trouver à manger ».

            Ils sombrèrent dans un rituel de déblayage entrecoupé de pauses engourdies. Elle avait fourragé un peu partout et récupéré des biscuits au fromage et des canettes de jus de fruits et de sodas. Il l’entendait souvent grignoter avec comme de la joie dans le bruit de sa mâchoire. De temps à autre, après des minutes ou des heures, ils se laissaient tomber sur le sol. Tout naturellement il se retourna vers elle. Le sein de la femme vint se blottir contre son torse, il en sentit la chaude rondeur et en oublia sa fatigue et la peur. Pour un moment. L’instant d’après ils avaient tous deux succombé au sommeil.

            Lorsqu’il se réveilla elle lui tournait le dos, la forme de son corps replié évoquant une tache claire et ronde à cause de la jupe bleu ciel qu’elle avait enveloppée autour de ses jambes.    

            Il fut le premier surpris de l’intensité de son désir. Un sentiment sauvage, non pas ce besoin sans conviction ni passion qui précédait les attouchements ponctués de mots d’anglais qu’il chuchotait lorsqu’il faisait l’amour avec sa condisciple de classe « Fuck me please ! » « Baby !oh baby ! it is so good ! ».  Dans un couloir  déserté, dans sa chambre en l’absence de ses parents, dans ces parties où les adolescents faisaient n’importe quoi sous des lumières tamisées, avec la tolérance amusée des adultes, convaincus que c’était chic puisque cela se faisait « à l’étranger » !          

            Il s’approcha d’elle et posa sa main sur un sein, comme un tremblement violent qui lui venait du dedans et grandissait au fur et à mesure qu’il sortait de son corps. Un tremblement aussi doux que les ailes frémissantes des papillons. Tout naturellement, elle se laissa glisser sous lui et remonta sa jupe.

            Lorsqu’ils sortirent des décombres, trois jours d’éternité après le séisme, dans le brouhaha des retrouvailles, des pleurs et de la peur, nul ne remarqua qu’ils se tenaient par la main. La première, elle se dégagea et sans se retourner, s’éloigna de lui.      

27 janvier 2010

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