around my temples loosens.
Then suddenly the wind falls and once again we are surrounded by a profound silence. We can hear water trickling everywhere, on the roof, in the trees, even in the house, thousands of rivulets trickling down. The bamboo is cracking. Daylight returns, little by little, and it is the soft, warm light of dusk. Mam opens the shutters. We just sit there, not daring to move, clinging tightly to one another, looking out the window at the shapes of the mountains emerging from the clouds, and they are like familiar, reassuring people.
Thatâs when Mam begins to cry, because she has no strength left and when calm is suddenly restored she just canât hold up any more. I remember that Laure and I begin to cry too, I donât think Iâve ever cried that much since. Afterwards we all lie down on the floor and sleep, huddling together because of the cold.
We are awakened at dawn by the sound of our fatherâs voice. Had he arrived during the night? I remember his distraught face, his mud-stained clothing. Then he tells us how, at the height of the hurricane, he jumped out of his carriage and lay down in a ditch at the side of the road. Thatâs when the tempest passed over him, sweeping the carriage and the horse away God only knows where. He saw incredible things, boats hurled inland that landed in the branches of the trees of the Intendance. The swollen sea invading the river inlets, drowning people in their cabins. Above all the wind that tossed everything upside down, that tore the roofs off houses, that snapped the smokestacks off sugar mills and demolished the hangars and destroyed half of Port Louis. When he was able to get out of the ditch he took shelter for the night in one of the blacksâ cabins over by Médine, because the roads were flooded. At daybreak an Indian had given him a lift to Tamarin Estate in his wagon, and to reach Boucan my father had to cross the river with the water up to his chest. He also talks about the barometer. My father was in an office in Rempart Street when the barometer fell. He says it was incredible, terrifying. Heâd never seen a barometer go so low in such a short time. How can the fall of mercury be terrifying? Itâs something I canât comprehend, but the sound of my fatherâs voice when he spoke of it rings in my ears and Iâll never be able to forget it.
Later on thereâs a sort of fever that heralds the end of our happiness. Now weâre living in the northern wing of the house, in the only rooms spared by the cyclone. On the southern side the house is half caved in, devastated by water and wind. The roof has holes in it, the veranda no longer exists. Another thing I wonât be able to forget is the tree that crashed through the wall of the house, the long black branch that came through the shutter of the dining-room window and remains there, immobile like the claw of some fantastic animal that struck with lightning force.
Laure and I have ventured up into the attic using the mangled staircase. The water gushed in furiously through the holes in the roof, devastating everything. Only a few soggy pages remain of the piles of books and journals. We canât even walk around in the attic any more, because the floor is torn up in several places, the roof beams are disjointed. The mild winds that come in from the sea every evening make the whole of the weakened structure of the house creak. A wreck, thatâs what our house truly looks like, the wreck of a sunken ship. We roam around the grounds to assess the extent of the disaster. We look for what was there yesterday, the handsome trees, the planted palmettos, guava trees, mango trees, flower beds of rhododendrons, of bougainvilleas, hibiscuses. We wander about, teetering as if we were recovering from a long illness. Everywhere we see the battered, defiled earth, strewn with crushed grass, with broken branches, and the trees with their roots turned skyward.
Then suddenly the wind falls and once again we are surrounded by a profound silence. We can hear water trickling everywhere, on the roof, in the trees, even in the house, thousands of rivulets trickling down. The bamboo is cracking. Daylight returns, little by little, and it is the soft, warm light of dusk. Mam opens the shutters. We just sit there, not daring to move, clinging tightly to one another, looking out the window at the shapes of the mountains emerging from the clouds, and they are like familiar, reassuring people.
Thatâs when Mam begins to cry, because she has no strength left and when calm is suddenly restored she just canât hold up any more. I remember that Laure and I begin to cry too, I donât think Iâve ever cried that much since. Afterwards we all lie down on the floor and sleep, huddling together because of the cold.
We are awakened at dawn by the sound of our fatherâs voice. Had he arrived during the night? I remember his distraught face, his mud-stained clothing. Then he tells us how, at the height of the hurricane, he jumped out of his carriage and lay down in a ditch at the side of the road. Thatâs when the tempest passed over him, sweeping the carriage and the horse away God only knows where. He saw incredible things, boats hurled inland that landed in the branches of the trees of the Intendance. The swollen sea invading the river inlets, drowning people in their cabins. Above all the wind that tossed everything upside down, that tore the roofs off houses, that snapped the smokestacks off sugar mills and demolished the hangars and destroyed half of Port Louis. When he was able to get out of the ditch he took shelter for the night in one of the blacksâ cabins over by Médine, because the roads were flooded. At daybreak an Indian had given him a lift to Tamarin Estate in his wagon, and to reach Boucan my father had to cross the river with the water up to his chest. He also talks about the barometer. My father was in an office in Rempart Street when the barometer fell. He says it was incredible, terrifying. Heâd never seen a barometer go so low in such a short time. How can the fall of mercury be terrifying? Itâs something I canât comprehend, but the sound of my fatherâs voice when he spoke of it rings in my ears and Iâll never be able to forget it.
Later on thereâs a sort of fever that heralds the end of our happiness. Now weâre living in the northern wing of the house, in the only rooms spared by the cyclone. On the southern side the house is half caved in, devastated by water and wind. The roof has holes in it, the veranda no longer exists. Another thing I wonât be able to forget is the tree that crashed through the wall of the house, the long black branch that came through the shutter of the dining-room window and remains there, immobile like the claw of some fantastic animal that struck with lightning force.
Laure and I have ventured up into the attic using the mangled staircase. The water gushed in furiously through the holes in the roof, devastating everything. Only a few soggy pages remain of the piles of books and journals. We canât even walk around in the attic any more, because the floor is torn up in several places, the roof beams are disjointed. The mild winds that come in from the sea every evening make the whole of the weakened structure of the house creak. A wreck, thatâs what our house truly looks like, the wreck of a sunken ship. We roam around the grounds to assess the extent of the disaster. We look for what was there yesterday, the handsome trees, the planted palmettos, guava trees, mango trees, flower beds of rhododendrons, of bougainvilleas, hibiscuses. We wander about, teetering as if we were recovering from a long illness. Everywhere we see the battered, defiled earth, strewn with crushed grass, with broken branches, and the trees with their roots turned skyward.
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