“Culpabilité”

By Valerie Fowler

Set in the 1990s when home phones hummed, goodbyes took their time, and calls lingered in dead air before letting go.

Pastel dawn nudges night from the sky over Pétion-Ville, Haiti. Warm rays press gently against the window, caressing Pierre’s sleeping silhouette. Red hibiscus petals catch the first light, perfuming the air. The intense sweetness teases his nose. He stirs, resisting the cathedral chimes filtering into his dreams. Peace splinters as breath and shadow cling to him—a memory of something red and wrong. The ringing stops; silence settles. The church is just seven walking minutes away.

Pierre shifts. The gruesome shape turns over, snarling. He tries to escape, but his bronze legs are locked in a tangle of sheets. Freeing himself, he leaps across the floor and snatches at the door handle—but it won’t open. A tremendous pounding tugs at his chest as he curses himself for not turning the knob. Plunging down a flight of stairs, he faces a row of doors blocking his way. He glides through one made only of shadow—warped and wavering—and emerges into a churchyard drowned in murky darkness. The air reeks of red plant. Twigs snap, gravel crunches—the ogre is near. Pierre dives behind a bush, his heart tumbling. He squeezes his eyes shut as the monster trudges past. The grotesque form vanishes down stone steps, sinking into the earth. The ground rumbles; Pierre trembles.

He jerks awake, disoriented and panting. Swaddled in sheets and a blanket, he rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a dull thud. His arms and legs thrash as if still fleeing. The sharp scent of flè wouj hovers in his room.

Pierre’s deep-brandy eyes blink open. Relief washes over him as his surroundings sharpen into focus. Portraits of his loving parents, framed in cherry wood, hang on the wall. Beside them, his best friends—Jean-Paul, Michelle, and Michelle’s sister, Régine, his girlfriend—smile within a mahogany border. In one corner sit his iron dumbbells from his weight set. In another, rest his favorite running shoes and Jenny—his beloved saxophone, kept in a black alligator case. He laughs at the half-mummified figure in the mirror, unwinds the linen from his lean physique, and pauses to admire his reflection. The mirror reveals the body he’s shaped through discipline and healthy habits. Pierre pulls on his heather-gray sweats, grabs his shoes, and heads downstairs.

Pierre strolls into his well-furnished living room and flips on his Harman Kardon. He inserts his favorite Tabou Combo disc and shudders as fragments of the nightmare return—the odor of plante rouge ghosting, then fading into pleasant thoughts of his friends. Régine is a drama student. Michelle and Pierre graduated a few years earlier, and Michelle now teaches music at a Catholic high school. Pierre owns the most profitable record business in Pétion‑Ville. Jean‑Paul sells cars at the Mercedes‑Benz dealership where Pierre bought his banana‑yellow sports car. All three live less than seven kilometers from him in Port‑au‑Prince.

Pierre finishes stretching just as Claire’s Daihatsu rattles into the driveway. Claire has rich cappuccino skin and a sturdy build softened by extra weight. Her strong, pillowy arms cuddle everyone she meets with the warmest hugs. Her thick ankles rest on wide, bare feet. Today she wears a pale-blue head wrap and a white cotton gauze dress with an empire waist, which does little to hide a belly shaped by countless plates of pâté and oceans of Prestige beer. She has a radiant smile and is a gifted cook. She works as Pierre’s cook but treats him like family, and he returns the affection. After his run, he will stop by her cottage to talk about dinner.

As Pierre closes the door behind him, he inhales the early-morning air and begins his daily ritual. He jogs toward two teenage girls standing beside a vibrant display of lemon, magenta, and tangerine orchids. One of the girls whistles and sings, “Good morning, handsome!” Pierre waves, smiling. “Good morning, ladies!” They giggle as he strides by.

After a few blocks, he jets past the Texaco where he often fills his tank. In the opposite direction is a Shell station, a few miles from his parents’ place. A steep hill rises ahead, lined with rows of swaying palms. He springs uphill, reaches the top, and is hit by the pungent fragrance of plante rouge. As he bounds downhill, he sees the church in the distance—a buff-colored stone structure with dark pumpkin window molding. His pace slows as he passes the holy edifice. Just last week he missed Mass again after promising Father Croix he would attend. Pierre is a man of high morals and impeccable character. He interrupted his weekly service attendance a month ago not because he lost faith, but because he lost interest. He has been feeling guilty ever since. He rounds the corner at a moderate pace as the haunting images begin replaying in his head. He darts past a large hedge and has a strong urge to duck behind it as he glances over his shoulder into a boutique window. Pierre gasps in horror at the wretched reflection and sprints the remaining distance to Claire’s cottage.

Claire welcomes Pierre in her customary Creole. He lunges past her, winded, apologizing for his abrupt entry. She is used to his routine and does not notice his breathing is more labored than usual, but she does catch his jittery demeanor. She wipes his sweaty skin with a cool, wet cloth, and his breathing and composure soon return to normal. The cozy cottage is filled with the delicious aroma of cantaloupe, cassava, and coffee. Claire tells him that griot and conch will be ready at seven for him and his friends.

Pierre enters the kitchen, lifts the breakfast tray from the counter, and turns around. He is startled by the sight of an eerie little vodou doll swinging from a nail in the wall and calls out to his cook.

“Bon Dieu, Claire! When are you going to dispose of your false charms and witchcraft?

Nothing good can come from it, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She assures him that her true practices—candle burning and channeling—surround her with good fortune and keep evil spirits from creeping into her dreams.

“The vodou dolls and amulets are used to repel evil, not to harm anyone!” Claire adds.

She offers to burn a white candle for Pierre and pray for his soul. Instead of refusing, he kisses her shiny cheek, thanks her for breakfast, and slips out through the other kitchen door.

On the other side of that kitchen door lies a pomegranate-scented pathway leading Pierre home. Once inside, he switches on his sound system and puts on a soca disc. Before enjoying his breakfast, he blesses his meal and thinks about how he will entertain his friends later.

Just as he swallows his last drop of coffee, the phone rings.

“Allô,” Pierre answers in a melodic, tranquil tone.

“Allô, Pierre, c’est papè!”

“Allô, papè, how are you and mamè?” he inquires in French, and the rest of the

conversation continues in that language.

“Mamè wishes to speak with you, Pierre.”

“Allô, mon cher, I’ve been worried about you. You haven’t called in over a week, and we missed you at church last Sunday. Father Croix said you gave him your word that you would be there. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m sorry, mamè. I’ve been so busy with the business that I’ve regrettably neglected you and papè.”

“But more importantly, you’ve forsaken your religious duties. Have you no room in your heart for God and His son, mon fils?”

“I have plenty of room for all of you, and I do apologize for not calling more often.”

“It is not from me you should seek forgiveness. Please don’t close your heart to the faith.”

“I still practice the faith mamè. Must a person be judged so harshly because he does not worship in a public building? As long as I believe and pray, shouldn’t that be enough proof of my devotion?” he insists.

“No, Pierre, it is not. I expect to see you sitting in a pew, alert and ready this Sunday

morning. He will be waiting. I love you my one and only.”

“I love you too, mamè. Tell papè au revoir and I will see you both real soon.”

Pierre absently listens to dead air until the line disconnects. He peers down into the silver serving tray, and what glares back at him is more frightening than any small, hairy vodou doll. He shoves the tray away from him, knocking it into his coffee cup. The porcelain crashes to the floor.

Claire pounds on the door.

“Are you all right, Pierre?”

“I’m fine, please come in.”

She opens the door and steps inside the dining area.

“Ah, what has happened, Pierre?” she asks in Creole.

“It was an accident, I’m sorry. I’ll clean up the mess, Claire,” he says, clearly shaken.

“Sit right there. You know I came to clear the dishes.” She looks at him with great

concern. “Your nerves were shaky this morning, but not as bad as they are now. What is wrong with you Pierre?”

“Ah, Claire, I don’t know what’s happening to me. For weeks now I’ve been having the strangest nightmares, and I don’t understand the reason why!”

“Ah, Pierre, that is prophetic. You shouldn’t open your window at night. That only invites wicked specters into your dreams. You need my help!” she offers confidently, with arms akimbo.

“No, Claire, none of that mambo stuff. You’re a compassionate woman, but I do not

believe in talisman magic. The answer lies elsewhere,” Pierre says, his thoughts

trailing off.

“OK, but if you ever need my assistance, I’m here for you, Pierre.” She sweeps up the

broken pieces and collects the other dishes. “Take care of yourself, Pierre!”

Pierre is perched in his bedroom window with Jenny to his lips. Jenny and Pierre shimmer in the sunlight as soulful notes flavor the late-afternoon air. His first jazz tune is mellow, matching his blue mood. Jenny’s smooth sound soothes his spirit—rhythm and tempo dancing with time until his body droops from fatigue. Pierre hugs Jenny close and hops down from the windowsill. The platinum crucifix around his neck clatters and catches on one of the brass keys. As he unhooks the cross from the sax, he remembers how church once occupied a very special space in his heart. He carefully places his horn in its black gator case and snaps it shut, wondering if his absence from chapel has any connection to his bizarre delusions.

Pierre dozes soundly for over an hour, then jolts upright at the dreadful howl tearing through his open window. He takes the stairs in one giant leap and spins toward the walls, searching for doors that aren’t there. He cowers at the bottom of the staircase as the fiend closes in. Pierre screams, kicking at the bedspread and sheet wrapped around the lower half of his body. He sits up and stares at himself in the looking glass. He resembles a dark caterpillar, its lower section bound inside an enormous cocoon. He peels away the covers, steps unsteadily to the window, and shuts it, trapping the earthy smell of plante rouge on the other side of the glass. Leaving his bedroom, he slowly descends the stairs.

With thirty minutes left before his friends arrive, Pierre decides to have a quick snack. He loves kenep and keeps a large bowl of them in a mini-icebox. He finishes the tangy fruit, then retreats to his bathroom and twists the squeaky knobs. His shower is brief, but relaxing.

Régine, Michelle, and Jean-Paul are lounging and tapping their toes to reggae. Jean-Paul is the clown of the group and tells a funny, risqué joke. Everyone roars with laughter. Pierre offers Kremas, then finds a deck of cards after Michelle suggests they play Spades.

Michelle shuffles the cards while Régine quietly questions Pierre in French.

“Pierre, you seem a little preoccupied tonight. Is something bothering you?”

She rests a gentle hand on his forearm, steadying him as she studies his face.

She sips her drink as Pierre rubs his temples.

“Ah, Ré, I must confess that for a month now I’ve been having these spooky dreams.

They all seem a little different, but they all end the same. I can never tell if I’m awake or dreaming, and to be honest they’re scaring the hell out of me! Do you think I need dream therapy?”

“I don’t know about that, but I do have a good dream-interpretation book that might help you. I study it all the time and often consult it when I have a weird dream.”

“I’m desperate, Ré. Can I borrow it?”

“No problem, Pierre. You know I always say if I can help you, I will. I’ll drop it off

tomorrow at the record shop. But I can tell you now that recurring nightmares signify that you have an unresolved conflict that needs your immediate attention. Ignoring a personal issue is like disregarding a part of your spiritual self just because it has lost its luster.”

Michelle interjects. “The cards are dealt. Let’s play!”

The liter of Kremas is drained, all the food has been gobbled up, and once again Pierre is alone. He doesn’t want to look toward the stairs, but he must climb them to reach his bedroom. Pierre is exhausted and wastes no time undressing. He soon drifts into a somnolent scene with Régine cradling a book of dreams and Claire encircled by flaming white candles. He can hear Jenny wailing in the background as he gapes in awe at his parents and Father Croix waving at him from a mountaintop surrounded by billowy clouds. He glides toward them with outstretched arms and tries to scale the mountain, but he keeps sliding back on satin sheets.

Pierre awakens to the stench of red plant sneaking in with the wind, but it is a bit early for him. He curls into a more comfortable position, and the beast grunts. Pierre bolts for the door, but there is no door to unlock. His king-size mirror stands majestically against the wall where the door once hung. Pierre is terrified but can’t break his gaze from the hideous creature watching him in the mirror. It is a giant vodou doll with the head of a warthog, and around its neck hangs a brass key. Pierre thrusts his hand through the yielding surface and seizes the key. The mirror is neither solid nor liquid—it doesn’t shatter or cut. Instead, it ripples into a luminous membrane, parting soundlessly around his hand. With the key clenched in his fist, the phantom morphs into a familiar presence in sacred vestments as the apparition dissolves. It is too late for his morning run, but Pierre has just enough time for a long shower and strawberry-guava jam on cassava.

Régine arrives at Pierre’s shop as promised.

“Allô, Pierre, here’s the book you asked for. I hope you find the solution to your

mysterious nightmares. Oh, before I forget—do you carry a song called ‘The Truth Lies in the Heart’ by Clear Conscience?”

Pierre laughs. “No, but I can order it for you. By the way, I won’t be needing this book. I realize how to resolve my problem. In fact, I want to thank you and Claire for helping me rekindle and strengthen my faith. I see what works for you two, so I must truly embrace what I believe in as well! I’ll come over later to explain, merci beaucoup, Ré.”

Régine looks puzzled, as if she has missed a beat in the conversation, but cracks a smile and stuffs the dream book into her handbag. “À bientôt, mon amour!”

Her words land softly, unsettling him in a way he can’t quite name. Pierre feels the last of his hesitation melt away. A truth as steady as a summer breeze—welcomed and undeniable—rises in him, like dawn pushing back the night.

“Allô mamè! Why don’t you and papè meet me for seven‑o’clock Mass tonight? I can’t wait until tomorrow’s service, and I won’t rest until I see you and papè!”

Before hanging up, Pierre invites his parents over after Mass for Creole chicken with mango, plantains, pigeon peas, and rice.

After Father Croix’s sermon on Revelation 3:14‑22, Pierre embraces his parents and hurries home. He rushes upstairs, opens the window wide, and stands before the mirror as moonlight settles across his face. His reflection smiles back, calm and untroubled. Pierre sleeps deeply that night, untouched by dreams.