Maman found a new job as a laundress, to appease him. He was wiser than most children his age, and she left him alone on the days she took the bus to collect and deliver laundry, knowing he would stay inside and care for himself. She was afraid for anyone else to watch him.
She told him he’d been sent to the earth to expose men’s evil ways, that God himself formed his vocal cords of truth serum. Because his songs not only brought his listeners to tears, it sliced their hearts open and forced them to look upon their vilest secrets—sins they’d blotted out with the ink of repression in hopes never to remember.
She insisted he would not be safe if anyone knew, and begged him to stop singing. But Etalon couldn’t, for by then he understood that music gave him power. One autumn afternoon, Batilde came to prey upon Etalon while his mother delivered laundry. The hag threatened that Nadine would be punished if she failed to fulfill her contract with Arnaund, but that Etalon could fulfill it for her and save his mother’s life.
Her words scared Etalon, and birthed the most powerful song he’d ever sung. The poignant melody forced Batilde to confess the affair she’d had with her sister’s husband, that it was the real reason her husband left her. And that she was to blame for her poverty-stricken state. After her confession, Batilde scooted out of their house on her hands and knees, like a whipped dog.
She stayed away after that, and each time Maman would hang laundry outside with Etalon handing her the clothespins, Batilde would slam all her shutters and doors closed.
On the eve of his seventh birthday, Etalon’s mother didn’t return from delivering laundry to her patrons in Bobigny. By morning, news had reached their hovel that she’d been killed by Arnaund.
Etalon stood on his porch with the basket of clothespins cradled to his chest. It was his fault. He hadn’t traded places with her; he could’ve given himself for Maman. Now she was gone, as far out of reach as the invisible father he’d never know.
Etalon crumpled on the concrete step, remembering Maman’s hand when it patted him to sleep after a nightmare . . . the way they danced through the sheets that flapped on the lines during sunny afternoons, playing hide and seek. All of it was gone, just like his chance to buy her the things her heart longed for, so he could see her smile.
No song could appease the ripping sensation in his heart. So he remained quiet as tears crept along his cheeks and lips.
Batilde slithered out from her house and wrapped her arms around him, lulling Etalon within her familiar, sweaty, onion-scented embrace. He didn’t see the burlap sack until it came down, binding his head and arms. By then he was sobbing too hard to save himself.
Strangling on snot and gasping for breath inside the scratchy cloth, Etalon passed out. He woke up deep in the catacombs—a windowless, loveless world with walls made of skulls and bones—imprisoned with other children, who like him, had no family or place to go. His cell smelled of urine and the same desperate sour stench his Maman had worn like a second skin while working as a whore.
Batilde had sold him to Arnaund, and it was too late for escape. Being without Maman, haunted by his part in her death, Etalon’s music stayed locked inside.
Three months passed without a glimpse of sky or sunlight. Etalon watched other children suffer unspeakable acts at the hands of Arnaund’s henchmen, being “taught” the skills they’d need to make themselves worthy of a good price. His heart ached for them—some younger than his seven years and gaunt as skeletons with paper-thin flesh that showcased blue veins. Etalon felt guilty for being spared. So he asked a guard why . . .
The ugly man smiled, his teeth stained by tobacco, and his eyes vacant of any emotion. “Why? Why are ya spared?” He snorted. “Feeling neglected, hmmm?” He ruffled Etalon’s unruly waves, which now reached past his shoulders. Etalon winced and stepped back, leaving the man’s filthy hand in midair. The man laughed. “I’d like to help ya out, but Arnaund has marked ya untouchable. Your beauty makes ya worth a fortune already without all the . . . lessons.” The guard leaned in and slid a calloused finger down Etalon’s neck and chest, barely covered by the fraying rags draped over him. A nauseous chill raced through Etalon’s body. “Your innocence, well, that just makes ya extra special.”
The way he slurred the word special, the way his breath cloaked Etalon’s face like sticky, whiskey-scented fog as his gaze traversed him from head to toe—triggered a white flash of hatred, and Etalon found his song once more. His melody brought the henchman to his belly on the floor like the snake he was.