There's a Monster Behind the Door by Gaëlle Bélem - read an extract

We present an extract from There's a Monster Behind the Door, the acclaimed novel by French author Gaëlle Bélem, published by Bullaun Press, a new Irish publishing house with literature in translation as its focus.

The name Dessaintes is one to reckon with. A bombastic, violent and increasingly dangerous clan, little do they know that their downfall is being chronicled by one of their own.

This is La Réunion in the 1980s: high unemployment and low expectations, the legacy of postcolonialism. One little girl makes a bid for escape from her sadistic parents' reign of terror and turns to school for salvation...

Judging by the multitude of photographs exhibited in their sitting room over the following months, they considered the wedding a success. The same woman appeared again and again in the oblong frames: small, dark-haired, expressionless, rigged out in a stiff wedding dress, a cheap headband clasped around her head. My father, who at barely twenty-one was already holding his belly in, had managed to squeeze in between her left arm and the edge of the frame. As was the case with the four other weddings celebrated that day, after a brief walk down the aisle, they had blindly complied with the most worn-out social conventions at the church altar. There had been a scramble for portraits at sunset with the calm, blue ocean as a backdrop, then in front of every waterfall that appeared along the path of the wedding procession, and later in the fiery golden savannah, surrounded by a flock of kids who had come from God knows where, and last but not least, in front of the wedding cake sipping from each other's champagne flutes, their arms entangled like small, clumsy snakes.

Curled up on the sofa that had a view of the town, each morning before going to school I would look at the wall and this totally kitsch mise-en-scène, with its artificial flowers, paste jewellery, fake diamond necklaces and oversize limo (which had cost an arm and a leg – there was a rumour that, because of it, they had to serve rough plonk from Cilaos instead of Champagne and everyone had ended up with heartburn).

The icing on the cake was one last photograph where the young bride bent backwards from the waist simulating a plunge into rapture – her eyelids half closed, her hair ruffled like the crest of the red-whiskered bulbul. It was supposed to be like the cover of Mariage & Délice magazine, but what might have been graceful on glossy paper came across like an old flour sack in a cheap frame. She looked like the Tower of Pisa about to collapse onto the groom’s over-polished shoes! But what did it matter? The guests were all happy and Grandfather even shed a tear on their wedding day. Love conquers all. Amor omnia vincit!

The banquet, as Reunionese tradition dictated, was held in the restaurant where Father still worked. On the previous day, long wooden tables flanked by hastily constructed benches had been set out on the terrace for the party area. At the start of the evening, a hundred cars poured through the heavy gates. Every parking space, every bed of herbs and every daisy bed sustained an onslaught of worn tyres; ruthless high heels advanced, stacks of fluorescent gifts piled up – a tower of ungainly packages, with pan handles or the ears of a Chinese pressure cooker sticking out of them. Twelve months of gardening wrecked by one wedding and two attempts at parallel parking! At the sight of the chaos, the attendant let out a cry like a sick beast. If it hadn’t been for the arthritic torment that paralysed two fingers on his right hand, he would have stuck them into the eye-sockets of one of those showy guests – he knew they were slightly worse for wear and didn’t even have driver’s licences, let alone insurance.

'I hope this isn’t a problem? All the spaces are taken and we’re late.’ He nodded or perhaps shook his head, but it no longer mattered. People were already parking their cars at an angle on his orchids and crushing his cacti the way you might stub out a cigarette. A procession of loafers and high heels then tramped into the restaurant and covered the floor with soil and bits of dead plants.

The day of the big feast had arrived!

In the space of one night, the restaurant, usually so quiet, was turned into a veritable beehive – hundreds of couples with their children (and their naughty habits) were buzzing around. But at least they had left their dirty mongrels at home.

The guests, greater in number than anticipated, arrived joyful and pot-bellied. Many of them had skipped lunch and were now hungry for anything they could get. They stamped with irritation in front of the narrow entrance that led to the reception room where an amateur photographer was capturing their nervous, impatient faces. At this stage, everyone was still with their family – clean-shaven faces, impeccable hairdos, quiet children. Nothing in the rustling of the evening dresses, the constant whispers of the impatient couples or even in the heady scent of aftershave hinted that a category-five hurricane was on its way.

As soon as they entered, the guests ran to the newly-weds to offer awkward compliments and fervent best wishes. The most generous put a half-sealed envelope in the wedding basket. The others piled up gifts on a wobbly sideboard – household linen, porcelain dishes, a chopping board, a salad spinner, even a pillow. They then sat down at a table, waiting for what they hoped would be a copious dinner while assessing how long the couple – destined to either break up or stew in the acrid waters of frustration and resentment – would last.

There's a Monster Behind the Door is published by Bullaun Press