We are very proud to present as the second installment of Dosed
a series of texts
by our friend
Jean De Bassecour
A Haitian born musician and visual artist
he was also a founding member
of the musical group Helianthus
and co wrote some classic Farflung
Landing on Cydonia
check out his sites
Myth of one lucky bath
Kenol started to visit Foufoune sometime before he had his “ thé cloche “ trip with four of his neighborhood friends in the form of a strong tea infusion made with five flowers from the mystical tree from Kenskof. He was about seventeen. Precisely, a couple of years before his emigration to New York. USA. To some parts of the greater world, when some one says s/he is traveling to New York, it’s really another way of saying that person is going to the United States of America in general. New York is the quintessential destination for all voyages abroad even when it’s Boston, Georgia or New Jersey. “Cloche”, meaning bell in English is a plant of the nightshade family related to belladonna, a tree blooming fragrant white flowers resembling bells attractive to the bees, birds and butterflies. So, it’s called “cloche” in Haiti because of its bell shape. This peculiar plant, Brugmansia X Datura or Candida, Angel Trumpet is also known to be an important ingredient used by hougans. So it is said. Kenol was going to evening school during that period. Classes started from 2:00 PM until 8:00 or 9:00 PM depending on the schedule of a particular day or if there was no black out. In Port-au-Prince, at the end of Baby Doc’s remaining days, electricity was often cut off in different neighborhoods very often in the evenings. Knowing that he was about to go to “New York”, Kenol started to act carelessly, neglecting his school work that resulted in being expelled from a very good and respected institution only to find himself going to evening school in order not to repeat a particular grade. A student who does not meet the required point average at the end of the academic year in a grade or class is doomed to repeat that grade. As a very bad student, Kenol was expelled: “remis a ses parents” with the only option to triple that particular grade, “la cinquieme”. After being expelled from the good school in Bois Verna, Kenol forged a “carnet scholaire” and spent a year at a school in “Bel Air”, home of the famous Haitian intellectual play write allowing him to advance the year. The night school he attended in Port-au-Prince accepted him to continue his studies with the good grades he’d accumulated from the “Bel Air” establishment. That night school accepting expelled students from the so-called good establishments to resume their studies was the last scholastic experience he had in Port-au-Prince. Kenol would often attend classes under the influence of the famed international herb. A friend from Carrefour used to supply him with the best Colombian around town. They would sometimes roll the biggest “spliffs” in papier sucre behind the pissoires. From nineteen eighty to eighty two, Port-au-Prince was in a very panicky climate as if some kind of natural disaster besides hurricane David was about to take place. School works and studies were not the first priorities for him while anticipating some kind of event preoccupying his psyche. With the thought he was leaving to New York sometimes soon in the future kept him from concentrating. Coming home late every night, Kenol would take small promenades around his neighborhood to visit various friends at their houses. Going for a habitual walk in the evenings after dropping his book bag in his room became more instructive than staying home to study. It was during one of these strolls of a comfortable breezy evening that his steps brought him to the house where the women’s laughter who lived there had always lured him like a ship that had completely lost it’s course. Foufoune with her children, her mother and sister Bebe who was sick with
cancer lived there with some other women. That house was very familiar to Kenol. It was the second home his parents rented when they moved to Petion Ville around the late sixties. The property belonged to Madame Sojourns that became the heritage of her son Jean Sojourns after her passing. Since Jean Sojourns had married Bebe, her sister Foufoune, whom did not reach a certain opulence as a fille de joie ou la fraicheur in Port-au-Prince moved in to her brother in law’s with her whole family because of financial hardship. Beside the exiting laughter coming from the forbidden house that evening, Kenol’s real interest to go inside was to lure out Michou the oldest daughter of Foufoune for a conversation. Michou was fifteen.
Entering the house that had been divided into many different small rooms, Kenol walked through the long and narrow familiar hallway. Passing through the hallway, he glanced inside each of the small rooms dimly lit with kerosene lamps.
In one of the front rooms Kenol noticed two women he did no recognized. They were the voices he heard laughing. The current bills have not been paid probably he thought to himself. It must be the reason there is no light in the house. Besides the smell of the burning fuel in the hallway, there was also the strange fragrance of mixed herbs and Florida water, a sure indication that he was in the territorial ground of believers. When he’d finally reached the end of the hallway towards the back of the property he could see the row of the small rooms made of thin roofs built right in front of the small ravine planted with mango avocado and the calabash tree where he used to play when his parents rented the place in the late sixties. As he stood scrutinizing the back yard in deep darkness, he heard a voice saying to him sarcastically if he was searching for his grand mother’s bones at this time of the night. He recognized that voice to belong to Foufoune, the mother of the girl he was looking for. She stood in front Kenol with a towel around her body, covering her bosom to her knees. Foufoune face was wet with her hair partially covering her bare shoulders. Startled by her imposing presence, he told her rather nervously that he heard some people laughing and that he wanted to know if Eric her son was around. She automatically knew that he was lying because Eric was not one of the kids that he usually hangs out with in the neighborhood. She also knew and understood that Kenol wanted to see her daughter Michou since he’d noticed him talking to her on several occasions before. She went on to tell Kenol that she was an older woman with wisdom and that it was not necessary for him to lie. She continued by telling Kenol if he had nothing to do she could put him to good use since she was looking for some one to apply moisturizing lotion on her back. That privilege would be his she uttered, considering her children and the rest of the household were not home.
It was such a strange coincidence that her daughters, her son and mother went to see a relative in Petion Ville that evening and would not be back home for a couple of days. She turned toward the door leading to the right wing of the house underneath the big mango tree that was casting a gentle wind. On the left side of the property divided in two aisles was the house Madame Souverain, the mambo of the neighborhood. Kenol saw his first vodou ceremony under her peristile. Along with her husband, boss Souverain, they would hold a ceremony for each and every occasion marking an event in the calendar of the Haitian vodou pantheon. Kenol and Foufoune were standing on a cistern that collected both rain as well as water from a tap. It was an elevated square opening with four to five steps leading down to the row of the small rooms horizontally adjacent to the ravine.
There was a very strange and bright moon that lustrously shone her wet skin onto an indescribable violet. She lead her way to the living space she shared with her family while telling Kenol that she’d just finishing taking a long bath and she liked her back rubbed with skin moisturizer. His heart was pounding as if when one’s taking a walk in a dark street overpowered by the fear of “loup garou” as he followed her passing through the threshold entering the poorly lit room. They passed a make shift living room with a huge bed at a corner underneath a small window where Kenol could see the mango tree and other small plants garnishing the small yard on the right side of house. In the room she had candles burning in front of a small shrine comprising of different pictures of saints with accessory of perfume bottles. From the diverse pictures, there was the saint with a sword piercing a black devil under his feet along with the virgin Marie and her baby the savior. She cleared some lingerie from her unusually high tall bed. She talked about Kenol’s parents, especially his father whom she praised as a serious gentleman. She also told him about the disadvantage of children for not being with their parents. As she spoke, Kenol’s eyes traveled the walls of the room that was in darkness as he stood breathing in an exuding fragrance of Florida water mixed with other moist scents that he could not distinguished. She told Kenol to make himself comfortable as she searched for matches to light a kerosene lamp placed on a small stand near the massive bed. He asked her why the current was cut off. Foufoune responded that they’ve been paying their bills and it’s also a mystery to her as for the past few days the house have been in a complete black out. Total darkness. She climbed on the bed that was up to his waist as he moved toward her handing him a small bottle. The small bottle containing the body lotion felt greasy in his hands. Kenol smelt his fingers. It was Johnson and Johnson baby lotion. She instructed him just to put some…there, on her back pointing to one of her shoulder blade comfortably exposing her breasts to Kenol as she leaned face down removing the towel that wrapped her body. He stood frozen with the bottle in his hands. She punctuated that he should at least sit on the bed close to her because she did not want the lotion spilt on her bed sheet. Kenol’s feet did not touch the ground as he sat next to Foufoune at the edge of a rather hard mattress. She ordered him to take his shoes off. Laying face down with her hands clutching a pillow underneath her head. She occupied the center of the bed with her thighs wide spread that he could distinguish despite the lack of light the hair between and around her crouch. Kenol was overwhelmed by both fear and bravado for even being in Foufoune’s room in the first place. But, it was too late to even think. She laid still, face down over the white sheet that made the unusually tall bed. Kenol removed his shoes without unlacing them by violently rubbing his heels against each other. Timidly, he sat next to her a little perplexed with paralysis holding the bottle in his hands. She pointed again to one of her shoulders while assuring him there was no need to be afraid of anything since no body will come in her room at this late hour of the evening He hesitantly poured a small amount on her back. Kenol started to rub the baby lotion on the shoulder blades and around her neck. She told him sternly to put it in hands first before he could apply it on her body. Her skin moisten by the lotion had the smell of inviting flesh ready for consumption. His imagination raced with his hands emulating the very gestures of a masseur. She complemented him on his hands. Kenol poured more lotion in his hands this time than rubbed her vigorously by putting more pressure on her muscles while moving slowly toward the center of her back following the spine down towards her posterior. Foufoune automatically threw a rather amusing moan warning Kenol that she did not send him there where he had not lost anything. He was in complete silence and embarrassingly overjoyed while developing the hugest erection ever. He completely ignored her by slowly stroking the soft pubic hair between her thighs.
She was still laying face down with both arms clinching a pillow when Kenol suggested to her to turn on her back in order to continue the body lotion application that had turned into a sensuous massage. As Foufoune turned on her back to the bed, she commented on the fact that if she knew Kenol had turned into such a poison she would have never asked him to come to her room to put lotion on her back. Never in life Kenol had contemplated such voluptuous bosoms that his heart pounded just like the Rada drums that he often heard coming from Madame Souverain’s peristile. He noticed her looking at him with a fixed gaze, arms and legs wide open. Kenol tried to hide his discomfort accentuated by the aroma of the room that somehow gave him a sense of aphrodisiac. He felt light headed as if transported into a deep swoon. For a split second he thought of himself as if he was being ridden by a “loa” ... He was not a believer. He suddenly climbed down from the tall bed holding the small greasy bottle containing the lotion. His started to breathe harder as if he’d just ran three full laps around Parc Sainte Therese, the football stadium in Petion-Ville. Foufoune, noticing that he was a in a state of awe softly reminded him he had nothing to be afraid of anymore since he’d gone so far making her turn on her back with her breasts exposed to him. You’ve already seen too much already she said to him. She also asked him to turn down the flame from the kerosene lamp.
There were small white candles on the ogatoire in front of the Virgin and the baby savior. Kenol blew very hard on the candles and turned down completely the flame from the lamp out of his boyish excitement. Foufoune was shocked. He’d extinguished the candles with his breath. She explained to him that it was bad luck to blow out a lamp or a candle burning in honor of a saint. But, because he did not know of such matter, she did not think what he did was wrong. Kenol was about to light the candles again but Foufoune ordered him to continue what he was doing and not to worry about the sacrilegious act he’d just committed. Without hesitation, he started to rub her neck and shoulders gently moving down her breasts chest. With an amusing laugh, Foufoune inquired if he’d massaged a woman before. He said yes. Kenol fondly touch her voluptuous breasts, pinched her nipples while slowly stroking her hair that was still moist from her bath. A raging erection had already passed his slip as he continued to caress her belly with one hand while the other was touching her pelvic area running his fingers through her pubic hair. She kept repeating to him with an almost fainting voice how he has grown up so fast and that he should come every night to massage her back. Kenol took these words as an open invitation. He decided he could let himself be imaginative at this moment of such a great bliss. Laboriously, he started to lick her nipples with one hand traveling softly towards her pelvis. Her whole body quivered in small tremors as Kenol put his tongue in her left ear. Assuming a reclining position elongating himself like a snake next to her body, he was sucking Foufoune’s neck with his right hand between her thighs. Moving his hands like a magician performing the most natural trick ever to every part of her
body, Kenol seemed to be emulating the moves he’d sneaked in (since he was under eighteen) to see on porn nights Thursday at Cine Cabanon in Petion-Ville.
Finally, Kenol had the greatest opportunity to make use of his hands and his tongue the way he never did before. When he tried to kiss Foufoune, she swallowed his tongue in its entirety. She became forcefully aggressive as she sucked his mouth. That was radically different from the capricious kisses of his girl friend that had recently rejected him. Foufoune kisses and the manner she locked him with her thick thighs were over powering him to the point when he began to move his whole body toward the bottom of the large bed. Foufoune started to caress Kenol’s back as she tried to have his shirt removed. He took the shirt rapidly but kept his pants on. He did not know what was really happening. She pulled him violently on her chest with his face already lost between her breasts.
He never saw breasts like these before ever. Everything was happening with tremendous speed. Her left nipple was being delicately chewed as she started to make a squeaky poppy sound. He continued to bite, chew and suck her nipples when he felt a strange biter sweet taste in his mouth. One of the nipples he was sucking on was letting out a light milky liquid that took him by surprise. Trying to savor the strange taste, he decided to forgo the nipple only to make his way down on both knees around her body towards the bottom of the bed by randomly kissing her chest to her stomach and belly bottom that he cleaned out with his tongue while fingering her genitalia that felt like a bowl of warm bouillon calalou. She started to move her hips very slowly in sensuous circular motions. At that moment Kenol turned into a ball on his knees like a contortionist, his face on her pelvis with his tongue slurping her clitoris. There, Kenol found his long sought after domain. Foufoune kept pressing down with tremendous force his head already caught between her legs with both hands that made it difficult for him to breathe. Kenol felt he was experiencing a sort of drowning incident. In order to catch some air he forced his head up from her crouch that he did not really want to leave for anything in the whole wide world. Every time he would lift his head to catch to breathe, he would locate his fingers inside her vagina. She uttered in a serious tone that she was not a mother chicken since there was not a chance he would find an egg nor that he’ll come up with his grand mother’s bones. After he’d fondled her genitalia just like a juvenile would, her moaning came to a complete halt as she started to ease her body away from him. She decided at that moment it was time for him to go home. Just like that. She had to take care of for business in the morning and that it was very important for her to get a full night rest she asserted. Kenol found his shoes. His shirt was buried among some clothes piled on a chair near the tall bed. He was about to explode since he had never experienced an erection of such a magnitude. Amused by his confused disposition, Foufoune reassured him he should come to see her again one of these evenings. Kenol was putting his shirt on as she came closer to him pressing her lips against his. She swallowed his tongue and pressed his penis with her hand saying sarcastically that she can hardly wait to find out what he can do with a woman. Kenol walked back home. It was very late to be out on such a school night. He was in deep pain carrying this discomfort all the way home He took numerous stops on the way to piss. It was impossible. To get back inside his family home, he had to jump the elevated wall from the back yard since he did not want to wake up his grand mother who was a very light sleeper. He surely did not want her to
see him coming home smelling like some one who’d just bathed with some aged old Florida water. Kenol quietly ventured into his room silently to find his younger brother sleeping. He took off his clothes. His underwear was filthy wet. His testicles never hurt him like this before even when he’d experienced a football kicked directly onto his groin. That night he wished he’d mastered the art of touch and release.
Within less than a week there was a rumor running around the neighborhood that Kenol has been seen leaving Foufoune ‘s house late at night. One evening, walking about the neighborhood he finally had the opportunity to explain in his own words to his friend Henry whose girl friend Carmen was the cousin of Kenol’s long distance “virgin” girl friend. Kenol whom Henry would sometimes called “brick” used to stand on a slant (a brick) to kiss Mimi his girl friend because of her taller height. An other friend later told Kenol that his long distance “virgin” girl friend was actually getting a lot of action from a buddy of his who lived in Fontamara where she also resided.
Henry’s girl friend Carmen, a very good friend of Kenol’s family used to dance with him to the point he would get frontally embarrassed at parties he used to throw at his house They danced DP Express “Corriger”, Freres Dejean’s “Pacade”, Scorpio’s “Christiane”, Sugar Combo’s “Lelene ”. Henry was very anxious to find out indeed if the rumor running about was true. Kenol gave him the tale in explicit graphic details since he knew Henry was an expert in such matter. But to Kenol’s surprise, Henry did not seem to be entertained by the remarkable tale he’d just heard. With a concerned tone he replied to Kenol that he should never do such to a “bouzin ma divine aise” He continued by saying to Kenol that his innocent gesture had just invoked the worse sort of maledictions that could fall on any young man full of promise like himself. He quickly suggested to Kenol that he should consult at once some one who could administer a “beigne chance” (a lucky bath) in order to clean off what he just picked up from Foufoune. As they parted Henry went his way Kenol walked straight to Foufoune house. Ever since he had that conversation with Henry, Kenol still carries with him the belief that he had contracted some sort of malediction from the sexual relation he had with Foufoune. Until today, Kenol has been experiencing thrills from the most acute fever of frivolity along with a certain twist of bad luck.
Myth of one lucky bath
An attempt at coordinating a montage.
Context for direction:
Consult wise women/men, addressing questions of ingrained taboos regarding performing a particular sexual act for a woman of a certain reputation.
Warm bath of wild oranges and wild orange leaves, basilique leaves with Florida water.
Golden shower by seven wise women, each wise woman would each take turn pissing on the head of model (sick patient) sitting in bath tub soaking in the wild orange bath.
Offering to Erzulie: In the forms of sexual sacrifices by satisfying the Goddess of love channeled through a servant believer.
Rice cake, a bush of sprouts.
It was around twelve forty five one afternoon at the designated humble kitchen in the basement further east from the carpeted room where all the yoga classes were usually held. There where also two other very small offices on the left side of the small kitchen where the manager mister Charmin had his private phone next to the other gentleman, the accountant, who whore various three piece suits to work. The later also listened to the most conservative talk shows on the amplitude-modulated dial. Usually around lunch this particular gentleman would parade with his toothbrush stacked in his vest pocket, a sure indication that he had a very good dental hygiene. As we were getting ready to have a quick bite before going back to resume our day shift, around the table in front of the stove and near the counter, Ronnie finishing warming up his meal (some rice and beans with his special recipe sauce for his barbeque chicken) slowly turned toward me to inquire about what I had brought for lunch. That I was startled by the most asked question around lunch when coworkers hurry down their throats some sort of nourishment, I could not come up with a name for what I still had packed in my bag as lunch as I nervously try to expose my package. I could not stop myself from inhaling the inviting spicy aroma his all of a sudden exquisite meal was dissipating. Well, he repeated. What did you bring for lunch? As I fold the brown bag back into my backpack, after putting the content on the table, he laughed. Before I could ask him what was so amusing, he exclaimed, assuming a serious tone; what is that… brother…? I went along to tell him that I did not have time to cook last night and again this morning on my way out from my house when I decided to make a sandwich to bring to work, to my surprise I did not have any bread. To really answer his question that I was trying to avoid, I told him how I have combed my refrigerator in order for me to bring this artwork for lunch. I finally told him what he exactly saw, a rice cake, a thick spread of humus, a bush of sprout and an apple. After a rather long pause as I started to gulp down this embarrassing moment, he empathized that I have been hanging too much around the white ladies and that I should start thinking about bringing some real food for lunch. He continued to tell me that it was not necessary to have an expensive lunch considering Fifth Avenue with my wage behind the register ringing these various pricy books and notes on spirituality. I flushed down my shame with orange juice that I bought from the store at the corner of west thirteenth street and fifth. I cleaned my part of the table where I ate to the trashcan. I did not taste his rice and beans with the secret sauce and barbeque chicken. I went back up the stairs, walked out and stood under the canopy in front of the store near the vitrines towards fourteen street. Sometimes when I stand out side in front of the bookstore taking a break, I would ask a pretty white girl from the NYU and the New School passing by for a cigarette. I thought to my self, maybe Ronnie is correct, it seems that I like to hang around the white ladies after all. As he keenly observed, by bringing rice cake and sprout for lunch was a strong
and significant evidence indicating my cultural downfall neglecting my own rice and beans, the corner stone of certain diet.