Primitive People

  Primitive People

  A Novel

  Francine Prose

  For Howie, Bruno, and Leon

  Contents

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  About the Author

  “AND THIS IS THE attic,” Mrs. Porter said, “where supposedly my husband’s ancestors hid out during the Civil War. They’d heard rumors that the Confederate navy was sailing up the Hudson. Of course by then the Porters had already been inbreeding for several generations past the point of total genetic depletion.”

  Why was Mrs. Porter taking Simone on this needlessly thorough tour of her mansion, volunteering personal and historic details Simone would never need, visiting places her duties would never take her, such as, Simone hoped, the attic? You’d think Simone was buying the house instead of wanting to come and work there, applying for a job as a cook and caregiver for Mrs. Porter’s two children—two bright little spirits, their mother said, who lately seemed slightly dejected.

  Mrs. Porter took a dutiful breath—deep inside her antique fur coat, her fragile bird-skeleton seemed to rattle—and plunged ahead with the tiresome task of leading Simone through the attic, a labyrinth of gutted armchairs, fractured mirrors, curlicues of peeled veneer, lethal hairdryers, and toasters like mini-electric chairs. Simone stopped to stare—rudely, she feared—at some paintings stacked against a wall: portraits, caramelized by age, of pale ghostly men and women with ragged, empty, almond-shaped holes where their eyes should have been.

  “Oh, the family portraits,” Mrs. Porter said. “I suppose they do look affreux. When the children were tiny I used to let them cut out the eyes for their paper dolls. What could I have been thinking of? Some marvelous early primitives. Well, they’re Geoffrey’s ancestors. Probably they deserve it. How do you say? Les enfants.” She snipped the air. “Pour les poupées de papier.”

  And why was Mrs. Porter speaking French? Simone understood English and spoke with only a faint Haitian accent. In Haiti she’d studied with American nuns and then at the university, and though she worried that she sounded less intelligent in English than in French or Creole, it was difficult to tell, and in any case seemed appropriate; so many of the people to whom she spoke English expected her to be stupid. Certainly this had been true at the American embassy in Port-au-Prince, where Simone had been chief assistant to the U.S. Cultural Attaché, and also at the gallery where Simone worked weekends, persuading American tourists to buy her fiancé Joseph’s paintings.

  Joseph painted dancing couples, drummers, old women smoking cigars, black girls in white dresses carrying laundry on their heads—and told Simone he hated himself for painting the white tourist’s dream of Haiti. That was why he drank so much and ran off with every woman he met, though of course he’d given up women as soon as he met Simone. How hard it had been to see in him the person who drew those carefree figures, so relaxed they looked poured into their chairs, spilled out across the dance floor. Joseph yelled and threw beer bottles when the slightest thing went wrong. Then Duvalier left and the violence surfaced and scared off all the tourists, so that they still had the army and the tonton macoute but no more buyers for Joseph’s work. As soon as Joseph understood what had changed and what hadn’t, he first grew chilly to Simone and then ran off with Simone’s friend Inez.

  Simone and Joseph used to laugh at Inez, with her rich society-dentist husband and her crazy love affairs. But of course Simone was the crazy one for thinking Joseph wouldn’t be curious, or that it was in her interest to enlist him as an ally against crazy love like Inez’s. Inez bought six of Joseph’s paintings, the only sale that month. It was just a few nights later that Simone saw them together in a café, Joseph’s arm draped casually around Inez’s shoulders, as if they were the window frame of some hot flashy car he was driving.

  “I know what you must be thinking!” Mrs. Porter said. “You’re thinking it’s some kind of voodoo! You’re looking at these paintings and thinking the Porter family must be into some kind of black magic!”

  “No, not at all,” Simone said quickly, though the truth was: No, not exactly. Mutilating paintings was very different from, say, decapitating a rooster. But for a moment she’d thought Mrs. Porter might practice some strange religion. There were portraits of children and puppy dogs, and their eyes had been scissored out, too. Simone was Catholic, though it had been years since she’d gone to confession.

  “Oh, Haiti,” Mrs. Porter was saying. “People used to go there. That marvelous creepy Graham Greene hotel and all that great naïve art. But AIDS didn’t do it a favor, exactly, and then there was all that violence, drowned boat people washing up on the beach all over the Florida Keys. I hear Port-au-Prince is a nightmare. Dead bodies on the street.”

  In fact, there had been a body on the sidewalk near Simone’s house. One morning almost a year ago, on her way to work, she’d found a man sliced open from his collarbone to his waist. From a distance Simone thought the man was wearing a flower-printed shirt, but up close the print turned out to be dirt and hibiscus-colored bloodstains. Two fat crows hopped around, poking the corpse, interested and efficient.

  Even so, even with the daily riots and killings and strikes, Simone might have stayed in Haiti. She wasn’t the type of person to just move to another country. She was more likely to stay put and pray that nothing too awful happened to her. Inertia would have reconciled her to remaining where she was, insofar as you could be reconciled to gunfire rattling all night and the smoke of burning cars hanging over the morning.

  But seeing Joseph with Inez had sent her into a kind of panic in which she acted on instinct and faith, stealthily and in secret—as if one part of her had to sneak past the part of her that would have stayed. She had to get away, show everyone, leave Joseph and Inez. In that way emigration was like suicide without having to actually die. Of course escape required money, and luckily Simone had some: the money Inez had given her to pay for Joseph’s paintings.

  Simone intercepted Inez’s money, the fee for Joseph’s work, and bought an illegal marriage certificate to a citizen of the United States. Though she knew technically what crime she had committed, she could never think of herself as a thief or even as guilty of theft. She believed that a person could do something so utterly uncharacteristic that this isolated act filled just one line on a page in the book of the rest of their lives.

  She spent the plane flight from Haiti to New York practicing telling the officials that she’d come to join her husband, not a name she’d gotten from the travel agency in Port-au-Prince, but a man she had loved and lived with and missed since he’d been gone. But the husband of her dreams resisted imagination; the image that kept coming to mind was, inconveniently, Joseph’s. At Immigration she produced her documents with a vaguely combative air, as if the officers should have been proud of her for having any papers at all.

  The INS man took his time riffling suspiciously through Simone’s papers. She was a head taller than he was, and when he asked if she’d had a job, it was from the regal top of her height that she replied, “In Haiti I was chief assistant to the U.S. Cultural Attaché at the embassy in Port-au-Prince.” It was the kind of long sentence that insisted on being heard to the end, and Simone, who was by nature reserved, felt she had transcended herself in this extreme situation. The Immigration man goggled at her, then grew markedly distracted and seemed to fall under a spell of momentary indecision, from which he emerged bewildered to see Simone, and shrugged and waved her through.

  Simone met her husband only once: a nervous, freckle-
faced man named Emile. He picked her up at Kennedy in his cab and drove her out to Brooklyn. He couldn’t decide whether to dance with the steering wheel or talk politics with Simone, and seemed afraid that the slightest friendliness might cause her to lose all control and confuse business with romance and throw herself into his arms. He kept popping in Haitian music tapes and bumping his chest against the wheel, then pressing the eject button and asking for news of home, then starting the music loud again before Simone could answer. This social torment should at least have absorbed Simone’s full attention, but instead it stretched the minutes and gave her lots of time to consider her problems with men, her great awkwardness in talking to them and sustaining their interest, when ugly, stupid, nasty girls seemed to have no trouble at all.

  Simone stared out Emile’s windshield at the boxy, colorless buildings and the razory slivers of light glinting off the dusty plate glass. The angular streets were, by Haitian standards, tidy and deserted, washed clean of dust and fruit rinds and sleepy or menacing dogs. Here no one sold cigarettes or fried food, no one ate or smoked or milled around in bored, volatile crowds. No one squatted, everyone walked. Everyone had a job or somewhere to go and good clothes to wear there. The only thing reminiscent of home was all the writing on the walls. They passed a sprawling graveyard, jammed and bristling with tombstones. Even these crowded dead had more room than those in the National Cemetery, where Simone’s parents lay in a marble crypt the width of a single bed.

  While Emile’s tape was reversing, Simone said in Creole, “I saw a body on the sidewalk. On a street near my house. All the time we used to see crowds, looking down at something, and we would know from the look of the crowd that someone was lying there dead. But this was different. Me and this dead man alone in the street with two crows, his body parts in the road …”

  Long before she’d finished, Simone knew she’d made a serious mistake. She sensed immediately that this was very inappropriate, very unfeminine conversation. But wasn’t it relevant to Emile’s asking how things were in Port-au-Prince? In fact, he had not asked about body parts in the road. How easy it was to say too much, how much wiser to say nothing.

  A silver crucifix on Emile’s dashboard wore a wreath of pink cloth roses. Emile gazed out the window and drummed his fingers on the wheel. The front seat was upholstered with a blanket of wooden beads that rolled disconcertingly under Simone every time she moved. An awful smell filled her nostrils—the smell of the corpse on the street. What man would want a woman who had smelled something like that? Relieved that Emile seemed uninterested in exercising his conjugal rights, Simone nonetheless felt that he was judging her as a woman, rejecting and divorcing her after forty-five minutes of marriage.

  Emile turned to Simone and whispered, “The CIA is behind all the killing. Everybody knows that.”

  Then Simone thought sadly of the embassy in Port-au-Prince, where she’d worked for Miss McCaffrey, the Cultural Attaché. Miss McCaffrey was thirty-five, ten years older than Simone, a sweet, polite, pretty woman with the voice of a two-year-old child. Simone liked and respected Miss McCaffrey, despite her many naïve ideas. Miss McCaffrey believed that world harmony could be achieved through the arts and by following the rules of diplomatic protocol with an almost religious devotion. Miss McCaffrey told Simone that being an agnostic made it easier for her to live in many countries for only three years at a time.

  She was the only person Simone told about her plan to leave Haiti. Miss McCaffrey offered to help Simone get a job in New York and a green card, and when Simone politely refused, Miss McCaffrey looked hurt and bewildered. But Simone was in a hurry, she knew how long those things could take, and besides, Miss McCaffrey was about to be rotated to another Caribbean post. Bill Webb, her replacement, had already toured the office. He was round and pink and shook Simone’s hand with miniature cocktail-sausage fingers as he gazed up at her, shading his eyes, as if she were taller than she was. Several times she heard him say, “I don’t know why they gave me this post. I’m from South Carolina. My idea of culture is comic books and Elvis paintings on velvet.”

  For a long time Simone had felt that she and Miss McCaffrey were descending a staircase while a continuous procession of men streamed up the other side—good old boys in shirtsleeves and psychotics in stay-pressed suits. She could tell Emile these men were CIA; probably it was true.

  She could also tell Emile that on the plane from Haiti she’d opened the lavatory door and walked in on an American man urinating into the toilet. He wore a gray suit and had gray hair and eyes that snapped on her like a crocodile before she shut the door and retreated. On his way out he’d smiled at her—a little strangely, she thought. Inside, she found the toilet seat shiny and wet with urine, and she knew what his smile had meant: he had known what she would find.

  But what words, what actual words could she have used to tell this to Emile? It all seemed too complex and intimate to tell this stranger, her husband. Probably Emile had a wife and a dozen children already. Simone and Emile’s marriage was purely a business transaction; that had been made very clear by the travel agency from which she’d bought the illegal papers and whose name she’d heard through embassy gossip.

  Simone weighed the importance of informing Emile that the travel bureau was an embassy joke—a joke that someday, possibly, the wrong person might not find funny. But all she’d heard was gossip, not news of an official investigation, and it was so rare at the embassy that one thing led to the next. If Emile was really a citizen, they wouldn’t send him back—but there might be a fine or jail, for which he should be prepared.

  She said, “When the U.S. invaded Panama, it was either going to be Panama or they were going into Haiti.”

  She expected him to ask how she knew, and she could tell him impressively how rumors traveled the embassy grapevine. Then she might mention the rumors about the travel agency. But Emile put his finger to his lips. He said, “Quiet! Are you crazy?”

  He said, “Panama or Haiti, nobody here knows the difference. To these whites, all blacks are the same, no matter where we come from. But blacks and Haitian people and Spanish know, we know who to hate and fear. In the Bronx evil priests from Brazil and Puerto Rico are telling their followers that they can be healed with the severed hand of a Haitian, and Haitian boys are turning up dead with their arms hacked off at the wrists.”

  After this it was awkward to steer the conversation back to the travel bureau. Besides, Simone reasoned, why risk needlessly alarming Emile and further complicating a tricky ride they were trying so hard to keep simple?

  Cutting across three lanes of traffic toward the parkway exit, Emile handed Simone a matchbook on which was printed the address of an employment agency where his cousin worked. Emile dropped Simone off in Grand Army Plaza—where, disorientingly, she spotted the Arc de Triomphe. In school the nuns had taught them to recognize the great tourist landmarks of the United States and Europe, but later, in a brochure at the American Center, Simone had seen London Bridge stuck in the Arizona sand.

  Emile left her in the center of the plaza amid honking cars she had to dodge in order to reach the sidewalk. But how green and leafy and quiet it seemed, compared to Port-au-Prince!

  Miraculously, there was an agency and Emile’s cousine worked there; miraculously, there was a caregiver job for which, Emile’s cousin said, Simone seemed perfectly qualified.

  Overqualified, Simone would have said, to care for some rich woman’s children. Tears of insult had welled up in her eyes when she realized that “caregiver” meant au pair. She said, “In Haiti I was chief assistant to the U.S. Cultural Attaché.” But it sounded less important than it had in the airport and failed to work the same magic it had worked on the INS man. Emile’s cousin’s eyes narrowed—with hatred, it seemed to Simone—and she brushed the air with the back of her hand, sweeping away Simone’s past, her education, her embassy job, anything that might have set her apart from any Haitian girl who would be lucky to get a job taking care of some rich
woman’s children.

  Emile’s cousin put Simone in a cab to Grand Central Station and repeatedly reminded her to buy a ticket to Hudson Landing. At the last moment she opened the taxi door and kissed Simone goodbye on both cheeks. She said, “You are lucky to have a job and a place. Many Haitian people are freezing to death in camps on the Canadian border.”

  In the vast granite hive of Grand Central Station everyone was swarming, and Simone lifted her suitcase and ran, though she had plenty of time. She found the right track and the right train and a seat in an empty car, but doubted herself and grew faint with fright when the train pulled out, still empty.

  Simone watched the play of light on the wide, flat river, mentally pleading with it not to leave the side of the train. As long as they followed the Hudson, they weren’t hurtling out into space. She had seen pictures in magazines of American trees turned orange, but they were brighter and stronger than the whiskery saplings sprouting above the tracks. Some of the hills were barren rubble, like the mountains in Haiti. Every pretty town they passed seemed to be turning its back—on the train, Simone cautioned herself, it had nothing to do with her.

  It was a hot September afternoon. Mrs. Porter met Simone at the Hudson Landing station wearing a paint-spattered mouton fur coat, visibly chewed and balding, as if it were made from the pelts of creatures who died gnawing themselves out of traps. The coat was one reason Simone could have believed that Mrs. Porter might practice some strange religion. She was glad when their talk about the paintings in the attic clarified all that.

  “Believe it or not,” Mrs. Porter said, “I requested someone from Haiti. The children’s wretched public school can hardly manage English. And the dollar being what it is, you can forget the French mademoiselle. Right now, top priority is that I get some work done. When you become a sculptor at forty you’ve got to hustle to catch up.”

  Mrs. Porter pursed her lips and blew a thin stream of air up at her frizzy yellow bangs. “Of course when I started sculpting it drove Geoffrey straight up a wall. Three-dimensional things that were me—he could not endure it. I’ll spare you the details of the vicious ways he communicated that fact. It’s a trial separation, so called. But between us, the verdict’s in.