A Country Wedding

Dany Laferrière: A Special Section

I had completely forgotten the exhibit of Jacques Gabriel’s latest paintings in that stylish art gallery in Pétionville. Carl Henri is the friend who, for some time, has been hounding me about his Jacques Gabriel. Jacques this, Jacques that. Jacques Gabriel is some sort of demigod for him: talented, modern, iconoclastic, a free spirit. He has special antennas that let him pick up the most subtle political vibrations, a talent that helps him survive (since he lives so dangerously) in the strange universe of Duvalier. He has a worldwide network of friends that keep him informed of the latest cultural styles (although he still swears by Max Ernst’s glacial surrealism). And then, according to Carl Henri, he is the only man in this country who is able to traverse effortlessly all barriers between the social classes. He seems to be as relaxed with the wife of the French ambassador as with the young prostitute from the Macaya Bar who runs around with him everywhere. He talks to the prostitute the same way he does to the ambassador’s wife. And both women seem to be delighted with this new method.

As I arrive, the official reception is over, but a more limited group of the painter’s personal friends and admirers are lingering on the sidewalk in front of the gallery.

Carl Henri welcomes me with a knowing smile and introduces me to Jacques Gabriel. With his height, shaved head, and insolent mouth, the man is intimidating at first. Then he gives me a warm, reassuring glance, but speaks with unceremonious finality.

“The reception is over.”

“I didn’t come to see the exhibit.”

Carl Henri pales.

“Fine!” returns Jacques Gabriel, caught short.

“I’m kind of old school . . .”

“What does that mean?” he asks in a harsher tone.

“I like to meet the man before I see his work.”

Taken aback for a second, Gabriel smiles.

“I’m that way, too. If I don’t like the man, his work doesn’t interest me, even if he’s brilliant. Glad to meet a young man who thinks for himself.”

“Now you’re playing the old fool.”

Carl Henri turns pale again. I feel sorry for his poor heart.

“Jacques,” says a woman, “it looks as if you’ve met your match.”

“The hell you say!” barks Jacques Gabriel. “You think with your cunt. Whatever he may be doesn’t interest you in the least. You’re simply wondering whether you’ll be able to drag him home with you afterward.”

“Oh, Jacques!” she answers in a sweet, plaintive voice.

Everybody laughs (even the accused woman). The iconoclastic painter has just used his proven technique of insulting the upper class to win the cynics to his side.

“There’s more to him than that,” whispers Carl Henri.

“I suppose so.”

“OK, let’s go,” says Jacques Gabriel. “Do you want to come with us? We’re headed for Croix-des-Bouquets,” he asks me almost respectfully—a different tone from the one he uses with the others (even with Carl Henri).

“I’ll come along.”

“Good, let’s go. Everybody in the car! Carl Henri, you,” he says to me with that irresistible smile, “Fifine [the little prostitute], Mariela Righini [a journalist from the Nouvel Observateur]—you come in my car. The others can follow if they’re able,” he says laughing.

Jacques Gabriel drives without the least concern for the law. Fortunately, we’re making it through Port-au-Prince without incident, other than the little duel between the beautiful, but snobbish journalist and the painter! The second car is right on our coattails.

“What’s your attitude toward power?” she fires at him.

“I’m only interested in general questions.”

“I’m talking about the way you use power.”

There is a brief pause.

“Be more specific, Madame.”

“Alright,” she takes a deep breath. “With that young woman, just now . . .”

“What happened to her?”

The journalist is a bit astonished at such outright dishonesty.

“Why you insulted her.”

“I simply told her the...