Tragedy (Part 2)

Written November 24, 2011
Fort Dauphin

    I walked to the Lutheran church, and then to the hospital’s chapel, looking for Donaly’s wake, but both were dark and silent.  Even though I was in a perfectly safe part and relatively well-lit part of town, I was still a bit nervous.  Walking anywhere after dark is something that most Manambaroans just don’t do.
    Bewildered, I was on the point of going back to the house when I ran into Pascaline.  She led me off the main street and down some twisty sand paths to a house where the wake was being held.  A gently curving hill formed a natural amphitheater around the house, where fifty or so mourners sat on tarps and mats, solemnly talking amongst themselves. 
    I followed Pascaline inside, where the rest of the family sat on the floor.  Donaly’s body lay on a bed, tightly swathed in white cloth that covered all but his face.  People always say the dead look peaceful, but Donaly’s expression conveyed something else.  Something sad and joyful at the same time, a kind of very faintly amused resignation.  As if to say, “Oh, is that it?  Is that all there is in this world?  Okay, let’s see what’s in the next one...”
    A trio of women entered.  Upon seeing Donaly, their wails exploded and rent the air.  That’s really the best way to describe the screams, as almost physical things tearing through the weighty atmosphere of the house, like blunt blades ripping through thick wool.  And yet the screams were good, justified, cathartic.  Donaly’s dead, why aren’t more people wailing?
    A man with a carefully cropped mustache sat down next to me.
    “I apologize for this,” he said.  “It’s really just our custom here.”
    “It’s all right.  We have much the same custom in America,” I lied.  But at the time it seemed true.  Aren’t traditions of mourning basically the same everywhere?
    Desmond got up and I followed him outside, to where Fafa and Rodin sat on a dusty tarp.  We sat for about an hour, quietly talking.  Some of the other mourners offered us rum, but we declined.  Someone started singing a slow, rising folk song, and about half the people joined in, achieving a harmony that was as magnificent as it was impromptu.
    We went home about ten, leaving the old-timers to hold the traditional all-night vigil for the dead, a custom that, it appeared, was disappearing among the new generations.
    And the next morning, everything seemed to go back to normal, almost eerily so.  I got up, ate eggs and rice, swept the house, washed dishes, showered.  Then I went to see the mayor’s staff for a second round of meetings about education.
    The pigs seemed just as happy with Desmond feeding them instead of Donaly.
    The truck to take Donaly to Ambovombe arrived at two.  As I walked toward the main road to see it off, I saw about twenty men, clad in orange and white, running in a tight group toward the colossal vehicle.  Their faces were jubilant and the ones on the sides of the group carried traditional spears and everyday axes.  Those in the center raised Donaly’s white-clad form above their shoulders, as if he weighed nothing at all.  They must have loaded him onto the truck in seconds, because by the time I got to the road it was already pulling away, with the crowd of men running after it.
    That evening, Desmond, the twins, and I sat on my porch, eating lychees and watching the light fade from the sky.
    “Éric, Donaly’s in Heaven now,” Rodin said.  It was the kind of thing you’d say to a child, and Rodin said it slowly, as if I probably wouldn’t understand the Malagasy word for heaven.  But from the context I understood perfectly.
    I smiled.
    Yeah, I thought.  Where else could he be?