Tout bouge autour de moi. Mémoire d'encrier
All of Dany Laferrie?re’s previous books have been written in the voice of a dandy, even if that voice has varied significantly from work to work. The author of Comment faire l’amour avec un ne?gre sans se fatiguer was a droll cocksman, while the narrator of Chronique de la de?rive douce was a cultivated but impoverished fla?neur; the essayist behind Cette grenade dans le main du jeune ne?gre est elle une arme ou un fruit? took positions on various issues of the day that were almost aristocratically idiosyncratic, whereas the atypical third person narration of La Chair du mai?tre suggested a Marlow on the other side of the colour bar. The immature chronicler of Le gou?t des jeunes filles was wise beyond his Caribbean years, while the overworked novelist of Je suis fatigue? was pretty close to the end of his ink-stained tether. As for the magic realist manufacturer of Je suis un e?crivain japonais, ethnic identity had become a football which could dribbled with insouciant panache. Only in L’e?nigme du retour, an account of the author’s return to the island he had been forced to leave thirty-three years before, do we encounter a Laferrie?re with fewer disguises and masks (despite a number of haiku-like constructions that are redolent of Heian serenity, not to mention a certain degree of cultural dislocation, a? la Aime? Ce?saire).
None of these personas are found in Tout bouge autour de moi, a book about the Haitian earthquake which the author witnessed at first hand. For once, one of life’s vicissitudes was sufficiently large to defy irony of every kind. This time out the gate, Laferrie?re had to take the role of reporter more seriously than he ever had before (which is ironic, in a way, since the man was a journalist long before he became a writer; not only that, he was a journalist brave enough to drive the Tonton Macoutes to hunt for his life).
Thus, Tout bouge autour de moi begins with a highly objective account of what Laferrie?re experienced when the earthquake struck. Facts are laid out as dispassionately as possible: “Une secousse de magnitude 7.3 n’est pas si terrible. C’est le be?ton qui a tue?.” This said, Laferrie?re’s detachment from the events can’t help but be mitigated by the fact that he was actually there when the catastrophe struck (“Je ne savais pas que soixante seconds pouvaient durer aussi longtemps”). What’s more, Port-au-Prince is a city where family matters a great deal: “Autour de moi, les gens n’arre?tent pas de crier dans leur portable: ‘Ou? es ton fre?re?’ ‘Ou? est ta soeur. . . . ’” The titles of the short chapters into which this book is divided could not be more matter-of-fact: “LES PROJECTILES”; “LA NUIT”; “LA RADIO”; and “LES PREMIERS CORPS.” Laferrie?re himself was ensconced in a hotel that was less damaged than most, but even here life assumed the dimensions of a post-apocalyptic J. G. Ballard novel. “La salle de bains est situe?e au dessous du restaurant. Personne, a? part les employe?s de l’ho?tel, ne s’e?tait encore adventure? jusque-la?. On a trouve? deux grandes serviettes blanches pre?s de la piscine.”
Soon, however, the author returns to the subject matter that propels most of his work, the people in his life who mean something to him, this time with few, if any, disguises standing in the way. These include his mother and the aunts who raised him, old friends (some of whom had previously served as mentors), and a nephew with literary aspirations who does not entirely trust his uncle’s motivations: “J’aimerais que vous n’e?criviez pas la?-dessus” (a travel journal would be okay, it soon turns out, but not a novel about this degree of human suffering and loss).
While most of this book is set in Haiti, there are side trips to Montreal, Paris, and even Tallahassee that are equally instructive. Thus, the author’s wife makes one of her extremely occasional cameos, even though “[s]a seule obsession c’est de prote?ger sa vie prive?e. C’est rare que je parle d’elle en public, plus de cinq minutes.” As for his eldest daughter, it seems that she’s now studying francophone literature at an American university because “‘Les universite?s ame?ricaines sont bourre?s de fric. . . . ’” Along the way, the author even manages to make offhand— but intensely interesting—comments on everything from Amos Oz to the truly unbounded Haitian passion for Brazil’s national soccer team.
It’s the friends and relatives who still live on the island, however, who are the real subject of this book: the quiet, stubborn, cantankerous, superstitious, and ultimately indestructible heroes who always make sure that Haiti survives, no matter what happens. Laferrie?re prides himself on not wearing his heart on his sleeve, but here he does just that. In a dry-eyed, dignified fashion, of course, but that aesthetic choice that only makes the half-concealed feelings of this former dandy all the stronger.