Colour of Dawn by Yanick Lahens

into a piece of bread and sat down on the ground, making light of the injury to his hand. I still love this image of him. Sitting with his knees bent under him, his torso half naked, his head inclined. All I have to do is go back over those few weeks to be fully immersed in these images. Again and again.
    Always quick to assess and take advantage of a situation involving the opposite sex, Lolo quickly introduced us.
    â€˜I’m Marie-Lourdes, Lolo to those who know me, and my friend is Joyeuse.’
    I finished my drink quickly and replied with a trite, meaningless comment. I then thanked them and said we should be getting back. They reminded us that we could not yet be sure that the streets were safe. The Sacré-Coeur clock was striking three by the time we left them. There were no longer any clouds of black smoke from burning tyres drifting up from the four corners of the city. Fear was spreading its wings more insidiously. Furtive shapes slipped along the walls. We crossed deserted streets as if on the outskirts of a dream. And I thought of your face, Luckson, your mouth and your face. And already I wanted to taste it. To touch you. I wanted you to be mine. The whole world could vanish leaving just you and me.
    Seeing me arrive home, Fignolé stopped strumming his guitar and looked at me.
    â€˜What’s happened to you? You look all shaken up. What’s with that blood on your T-shirt?’
    â€˜I’m not hurt, don’t worry. I was caught up in the incidents at the top of Rue Pavée. Someone helped Lolo and me.’
    â€˜That’s all, you’re sure?’
    Something must have been written all over my face, giving me away.
    â€˜What else do you want there to be? I could ask you the same thing.You’re lathered in sweat.Where have you been to get like that?’
    â€˜You know perfectly well. So don’t ask questions. You’ll risk upsetting Mother.’
    Without explaining any more, he simply took off his T-shirt, picked up his guitar and played the first notes of Redemption Song by Bob Marley, his favourite music.
    Redemption song
Emancipate yourselves
From mental slavery
    Listening to the news the next day I understood that he had followed at arm’s length those who were carrying the coffin of young Maxime, circling the city centre.The journalist’s words on that day still resonate with me: ‘Students hostile to the Prophet-President insisted on accompanying the body of Maxime as far as the southern exit from the city towards Martissant… Everything went tragically wrong when several hundred of them came up to the railings outside the National Palace… Some demonstrators were injured when stones were thrown by the Prophet-President’s supporters. Later on, four of them were wounded by bullets and another shot while they were trying to run away towards Rue Capois.’
    These events happened exactly one month ago. I had just met Luckson, a strong-willed man, a man of love. This meeting did nothing to uproot the certainty I feel that Fignolé is gambling with his life.

FIFTEEN
    I n the cafeteria there is a pervasive smell of medicines and blood. And if there is anyone who thinks that we are not surrounded on all sides, all they need to do is to sit by the windows for the smell of fried fish and rancid oil, the powerful taint of rubbish, to persuade them to the contrary.
    Port-au-Prince, the outpost of despair. Port-au-Prince, a great settlement of concrete and mud on a grassy plain. Port-au-Prince, my torment and my punishment. All these images, all this past history. Two centuries of secret misdeeds inscribed in the walls.The city’s descent into Hell began too long ago for me to complain about it. As for the absence of Fignolé, I’m not complaining about that, either. I phone Madame Jacques. She sends for Mother, who tells me that Paulo has gone to look for news around Martissant and has not yet returned. After a few seconds she adds in