Corner of Chavannes and Capois Streets, in the Flow of My City Memories

There is a geography of the heart, secret and stubborn, where Chavannes Street embraces Capois Street. It's not just a crossroads: it's an emotional anchor point, a territory of the soul. Once, a small hourly hotel discreetly survived there, but even it could not withstand the wear of time. Bregard and his crew, in an improvised baptism, had named this place: Tèt Chavannes. A sketch on the map, an almost erased place, but in memory, it's a vivid furrow: here begins the memory. We are less than a kilometer from the Champ de Mars. But between us, it's not about distance; it's a matter of echo. The Palace, that grand hotel on the corner, once proud and luminous, was brought down by the January 12 earthquake. Since then, it lies there, as if suspended, awaiting a glance, a hand, a project. Nothing has been done. Silence has become its facade. Leaning against the walls of the Art Museum, I remember. From here, one can easily see Collège Saint-Pierre. One could almost touch it, so long is the arm of memory. It was in this neighborhood that the city spoke to me in a low voice. The stones whispered. The sidewalks knew my name. Christophe Avenue is a stone's throw from Capois Street, through the Bois-de-Chêne corridor. There was also Sandy's house. Sito Cavé says it so well in his writings, and Allan sang it as one cries while dancing:
“Champ de Mars pa tap chan’n Mas si m pat konn ale la…” Nothing would be the same without that corner. Without this confluence of memories, smells, clacking boots, and school children's voices. Tèt Chavannes is not just a crossroads; it's a beating heart, a lost beat, an exile's compass. It was once a quiet neighborhood, before becoming a lively, pulsating crossroads where something is always happening. The boot shiner is still there, at the corner, in front of the Gattereaux house. Behind him, the itinerant barber, almost sacred, performs his penance by coming and going, to the rhythm of visits to Radio Caraïbes. Politicians, senators, deputies, ministers, thieves, villains, passersby, students, journalists, children… all paraded there, in an urban procession, Haitian to the core. And every time I think of it, it's as if I return there. Marcelin Street always had a bland taste. Cantave Alley too. I liked to contemplate the oblique extension of Waag Street, hesitating between the Bar de l'Ère and Fleur de Chêne Street. A fond thought for Doctor Eddy Arnold Jean, who often stopped me in passing to talk about Foucault and Deleuze, before we went to Gran'n V's to enjoy a stew or a well-spiced fish. I often think of Capois Street, this common thread of my dreams as a city builder. The urban planner I had met at Tèt Chavannes had confided to me that this street absolutely needed to be widened and extended to Delmas. I didn't have time to debate the project. The architects, it seems to me, have forgotten their craft, just as Ti Malice left school to make a quick buck… and even the butter dish. Last night, I spoke to Albert Mangonès. Yes, in a dream. He was explaining to the Governors of the Dew how to rebuild. When he has finished transmitting his knowledge to us, I will be the first to come and rebuild my city. Ti Zando, ti Zando, fèy nan bwa rele mwen…
Ti Zando, ti Zando, fèy nan bwa rele mwen… (Azor) Yves Lafortune
Miami, July 17, 2024