Haiti Noir 2, The Classics [PDF] Free Download

 

Haiti Noir 2: The Classics Book [PDF] Free Download

ABOUT THE BOOK

Editor: Edwidge Danticat

Genres: Mystery, Noir fiction

Page Count: 237

Language: English

Year: 2010

File Format: PDF

File Size: 1.55 MB

INTRODUCTION

Noir Deux

How often are you asked to put together an amazing literary party? In my case, a mind-blowing two times. The lit party of my dreams has been Haiti Noir, and lo and behold, I get asked to do it again. As you can imagine, I wanted everybody to be here. The noir genre, or elements thereof—however stretched—narrowed that a bit. The contributions had to be, well, “noir” and they had to not only be about Haiti, but be set there as well. It also helped if they could be pinned down to a particular neighborhood—real or imagined—so that we could make a map. (All the books in Akashic Books’ award-winning Noir Series have maps.) Like all parties, this one began with a dream list, and the narrowing of it. Because there was still so much ground left to cover after the January 2011 publication of the original Haiti Noir—which comprised brand-new stories—those writers who had been in that volume could not be included in this one. Though the term “classics” in this project’s subtitle made it seem as if everyone had to be ancient or dead, there was thankfully some wiggle room to allow in contributions which are nearly vintage. As with the first book, the idea of all these writers—dead or alive, classic or vintage or almost new—being together between these pages thrills me to no end. And I can’t help imagine them joking, laughing, as well as arguing about Haitian politics and culture, all while swapping their unique stories. Like all parties, not everyone we invited could make it. (The cost of reprint rights or the difficulty locating heirs for several writers were insurmountable obstacles.) So we are grateful and celebrate those who could, keeping in our hearts those who cannot be with us. Besides, a book like this is meant to be a sampler anyway, something to give you a desire, a yearning for more. So for every writer here you should seek out at least ten more, noir or otherwise, in the cannon of Haitian literature. This is especially important for a country that is unfairly known more for its natural and political disasters than its exciting and vibrant literature. After the first Haiti Noir was published, people kept asking if I wasn’t contributing to a negative image of the country by editing a book filled with so many “dark” stories about Haiti. My answer was, and remains, that showing the brilliance of our writers and their ability to address Haiti’s difficulties through their art can only contribute to a more nuanced and complex presentation of Haitian lives. After all, the writers here are not Haiti virgins, to paraphrase from “Heading South,” Dany Laferrière’s story, included here, of sex tourism gone wrong. They are all old hats, either by blood or their deep love for Haiti. Also, the beauty of using, unlike the last time, previously published writings, is that they have been tried and tested and have already traveled their own paths in the world. For this is not just a party, folks, but also a costume party, a noir party. The author of each story, poem, or novel excerpt has shed his or her skin and has sunk into the deepest and most revealing places of the human heart. Most of these works remain timeless and one imagines might be written the same way today as they were seventy, fifty, or even just three years ago. Others display their visions of their time, especially when it comes to Vodou. While some of the older writers handle the subject of Vodou in the same way that an outsider might, there is still an attempt to adjust their initial approach and show its misuse rather than blame it. And though the police procedural is hinted at in a few of the stories—Jan J. Dominique’s “A White House with Pink Curtains in the Downstairs Windows,” for example—most of the time when crimes are solved, this is done by individuals, either through confession, personal endeavors, or communal action. Recently, Haiti saw its own “you can’t make this up” high-profile crime stories explode then fizzle, in a way that might intrigue then disappoint any noir reader. The son of a very rich family was revealed to be part of a massive kidnapping ring. He had abducted the son and daughter of another rich family, with whom his family was feuding. He was arrested then forced to lead an elite police team to the house where his victims were being held. The kidnapping victims’ rescue and subsequent reunion with their families was all captured on tape and later aired on a Cops-like television program called Alo Lapolis (Hello Police). Aside from a single brief court appearance, the kidnapping ringleader, as of this writing, was never heard from again. He had supposedly been taken to a brand-new American prison, where he and his comrades were the sole inmates. Then, in another case, a judge died while investigating the first family. His doctors said he suffered a stroke, but many, including members of the judge’s family, believed that he was poisoned via a glass of whiskey. Several weeks later, the man who had filed the corruption complaint against the first family was arrested for an unsolved murder from a few years earlier. His future, as of now, is unclear. These events could inspire several noir novels. Yet beyond the realm of fiction, they might never be resolved. That elusive justice might never come. Which makes the noir genre rather redemptive in Haiti. At least justice can be found in our writers’ imaginations. At least justice can be found in art. Children who suffer abuse can find revenge. Nature can join the fight against invaders and occupiers with surprising results. Choices can be made, good or bad, in marital beds, hotel rooms, and prison cells. Dreams, though perhaps not the dreams one expects, can still be had. We lose our way, but not all in the same manner. We are haunted and hunted by ghosts as real as kidnappers and as imaginary as fairy tales. But as Jacques Roumain’s novelist-protagonist soon discovers in “Preface to the Life of a Bureaucrat,” sometimes art creeps into life and sometimes life creeps into art. This is why we open each of the sections of Haiti Noir 2: The Classics with a poem to set the mood. I am grateful to Danielle Legros George, Emmelie Prophète, and Èzili Dantò for allowing us to include their work. Their poetry definitely adds a special element to this book. Some years ago, when I met the late American writer Kurt Vonnegut through his wife Jill Krementz, he mentioned in passing that he had been to Haiti and had incorporated some of his experiences there in a book called Deadeye Dick in which, as he explains in the preface, the country becomes New York City. I chose a scene from Deadeye Dick as an epigraph at the front of this book not so much because of his notion that Creole has no past tense—it does—but because I like the idea that a dead man can paint. I am also grateful for the prerogative that is offered the editors of the Akashic Noir Series to also contribute a story when possible. I am the only repeat offender here. My story “The Port-au-Prince Marriage Special,” though set in a hotel, doesn’t take place at Vonnegut’s or anyone else’s version of the Oloffson Hotel, which appears in various noir and ghost stories, including a most famous novel by Graham Greene called The Comedians. Once again, as the humble hostess, I am happy and proud to introduce you to this book filled with both my literary ancestors and my contemporary peers. It is wonderful to have them here—and it is wonderful to have you here with us—from the oldest, Ida Faubert, one of Haiti’s first published female writers, to Roxane Gay, a rising literary star on the verge of publishing her first novel, An Untamed State, which grew out of “Things I Know About Fairy Tales,” her story in this anthology. I imagine Ida and Roxane, and many of the other contributors, being very happy to meet at my little party and kissing one another on both cheeks as a roomful of other illustrious literary lights look on. And while some konpa or rasin music and even some blues is playing in the background, I am still bringing out the salt cod–filled chiktay and the Barbancourt rum, and putting the finishing touches on my welcoming address. And it would be rather brief, my welcoming address. It would begin with “How often are you asked to put together an amazing literary party?” and end with a traditional welcome. “Onè,” I would say. Honor. Then “Respè.” Respect. Much respect indeed.

Edwidge Danticat October 2013

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