Colour of Dawn Read Online Free
Author: Yanick Lahens
Dieuseul, taciturn and with a sombre regard, is the only one to spend the brightest part of the day claiming that whatever will happen, he has already seen it. That what has already happened is nothing compared to what awaits us.
Here, every smile has its measure, every word its weight. In this neighbourhood we play out muted wars. Wars without victory, without outcomes and without glory. These are petty wars. Wars in which, every day, we examine our defeats a little more closely. Wars of the vanquished, whose history is nothing but a great dark play, full of noise, fury and blood. A history that makes us hate our very presence in the world, the black humiliation of our skin.
In the central space between the beds aligned on either side of the ward, I move with a steady pace, chest squared, feet turned slightly outward, to prevent myself from being caught by the exhaustion that I drag behind me like a convictâs ball and chain. This stiffness in the way I walk comes also from everything my nostrils breathe in between these walls, these images like a release of wild birds. From all that my ears have heard expressed by mouths twisted by pain. From that which my hands have touched, living or dead. A great tangle of nerves constantly re-awoken beneath my skin. Itâs amazing that Iâm still sane. Surprising that madness has not devoured me to the marrow.
Joyeuse says I must have swallowed a broomstick, the way I walk so straight, without the slightest sway of my behind, without that rowboat roll that is expected of a woman, a real woman, so she says. Especially a woman from round here. She often seasons her own bitterness with a hint of contempt.
âUnbelievable,â she repeated again this morning, as she applied her lipstick and twirled in front of her mirror.
SIX
I âm hardly able to drag my thoughts away from the metallic object on top of the cupboard. I hardly dare put a name to it in my head. Too many questions torment me and threaten to become an obsession. Why this gun? Does Fignolé believe heâs in danger right now? Why hasnât he spoken of it? Why did he leave it in that cupboard if heâs in fear of his life? Perhaps heâs not himself a target but heâs protecting a friend? Who knows? I open my bag quickly, thinking to find an answer to my questions in those few bits of paper left by Fignolé. There is a telephone number, Ismona, the forename of his girlfriend, written in capitals, the district of Martissant underlined in red and a line of verse: The heart yearns for a bullet while the throat raves of a razor. Beneath, in small, fine writing, Mayakovsky. Knowing Fignolé as I do, none of it is written at random. Everything has a reason, which I will come to decipher. Fignolé learned all these grand, fine words on a few forays into gatherings in Pacot, Laboule or Pétion-Ville where, seated on comfortable sofas, they enacted the Revolution surrounded by glasses of wine and the sounds of the trumpet of Miles Davies or Wynton Marsalis.
Fignolé, why make us breathe at such giddy heights? Recalcitrant, rebellious Fignolé, inhabited by poetry, crazy about music. Fignolé has no place on this island where disaster has broken spirits. Fignolé, can you hear me? Pass through the lightning and the fire of this city unharmed if you will, but come back to us⦠Come back to us soon. Unhurt, uninjured. More alive than a living soul in this land ever was. Fignolé, can you hear me?
I leave the house at the same time as Mother, who refused to wear the dress with little sun-yellow flowers that I bought for her during the last sales at Madame Herbruchâs shop. Not content with merely refusing to wear this dress, Mother tied a scarf round her head like a peasant. I didnât dare say anything to her. She had that expression I know so well, that âyou donât want to cross meâ expression. No loa had yet ridden her, but even so, she had already
Here, every smile has its measure, every word its weight. In this neighbourhood we play out muted wars. Wars without victory, without outcomes and without glory. These are petty wars. Wars in which, every day, we examine our defeats a little more closely. Wars of the vanquished, whose history is nothing but a great dark play, full of noise, fury and blood. A history that makes us hate our very presence in the world, the black humiliation of our skin.
In the central space between the beds aligned on either side of the ward, I move with a steady pace, chest squared, feet turned slightly outward, to prevent myself from being caught by the exhaustion that I drag behind me like a convictâs ball and chain. This stiffness in the way I walk comes also from everything my nostrils breathe in between these walls, these images like a release of wild birds. From all that my ears have heard expressed by mouths twisted by pain. From that which my hands have touched, living or dead. A great tangle of nerves constantly re-awoken beneath my skin. Itâs amazing that Iâm still sane. Surprising that madness has not devoured me to the marrow.
Joyeuse says I must have swallowed a broomstick, the way I walk so straight, without the slightest sway of my behind, without that rowboat roll that is expected of a woman, a real woman, so she says. Especially a woman from round here. She often seasons her own bitterness with a hint of contempt.
âUnbelievable,â she repeated again this morning, as she applied her lipstick and twirled in front of her mirror.
SIX
I âm hardly able to drag my thoughts away from the metallic object on top of the cupboard. I hardly dare put a name to it in my head. Too many questions torment me and threaten to become an obsession. Why this gun? Does Fignolé believe heâs in danger right now? Why hasnât he spoken of it? Why did he leave it in that cupboard if heâs in fear of his life? Perhaps heâs not himself a target but heâs protecting a friend? Who knows? I open my bag quickly, thinking to find an answer to my questions in those few bits of paper left by Fignolé. There is a telephone number, Ismona, the forename of his girlfriend, written in capitals, the district of Martissant underlined in red and a line of verse: The heart yearns for a bullet while the throat raves of a razor. Beneath, in small, fine writing, Mayakovsky. Knowing Fignolé as I do, none of it is written at random. Everything has a reason, which I will come to decipher. Fignolé learned all these grand, fine words on a few forays into gatherings in Pacot, Laboule or Pétion-Ville where, seated on comfortable sofas, they enacted the Revolution surrounded by glasses of wine and the sounds of the trumpet of Miles Davies or Wynton Marsalis.
Fignolé, why make us breathe at such giddy heights? Recalcitrant, rebellious Fignolé, inhabited by poetry, crazy about music. Fignolé has no place on this island where disaster has broken spirits. Fignolé, can you hear me? Pass through the lightning and the fire of this city unharmed if you will, but come back to us⦠Come back to us soon. Unhurt, uninjured. More alive than a living soul in this land ever was. Fignolé, can you hear me?
I leave the house at the same time as Mother, who refused to wear the dress with little sun-yellow flowers that I bought for her during the last sales at Madame Herbruchâs shop. Not content with merely refusing to wear this dress, Mother tied a scarf round her head like a peasant. I didnât dare say anything to her. She had that expression I know so well, that âyou donât want to cross meâ expression. No loa had yet ridden her, but even so, she had already
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