The Land Without Color

When Marcel Deneuve was born, everyone knew there was something just not right about him. Walking awkwardly into the classroom on his first day of school, with his large nose and crooked smile, some of the kids began to talk about him and point behind his back as he passed them.

When he began to draw a picture like everyone else, the picture he drew got everyone’s attention almost immediately. When some of the boys pointed and chuckled at the picture he was drawing, he told everyone in his class about the colors of a rainbow and the hues of a sunset.

“You’re crazy.” Jacques waved his hand in frustration at Marcel during art class, Marcel used a wide array of colors. Colors none of the other kids had or even recognized.

“You know we are not allowed to use all those colors, right?” Joline explained as he continued to use all the colors in a box of crayons he had found in a dark part of the cabinet.

“Marcel!” Miss Boudreaux the teacher yanked the paper Marcel was drawing on. “I am sending you to the principal’s office.”

“Good morning, Marcel.” Principal Martinique held out his hand for Marcel to take a seat in the chairs lined up in front of the desk where he was sitting.

“Bonjour.” Marcel nodded as he sat down. He had no idea hey Miss Boudreaux had sent him to see Mr. Martinique.

“Miss Boudreaux sent you here because you were using colors during art.” He shrugged a shoulder as he continued to scan the offensive drawing, “We have do not use colors anymore.”

“How come?” Marcel asked innocently as he looked at Mr. Martinique.

“Colors were made illegal about ten years ago.” He ran his finger around the collar of his gray shirt. “We allow black only and the lighter shades of black only.”

“Why?” The boy asked questions that made Mr. Martinique uncomfortable.

“You see, back the people were felt colors were unnecessary. We didn’t need them any longer.” He smiled, but this issue wasn’t easy for him to explain to a child who was attending his first day of school. He would later had a discussion with Miss Boudreaux as to why she still had colored crayons stashed in her classroom.

He also did not want to explain the decision from the government on why colors were made illegal in the first place. There was a procedure where all newborns were genetically altered to only see the black the lighter shades of black. The idea was to keep all things neutral since there were fierce debates over the matter that caused civil rioting and threats of violence throughout the country. Children altered genetically to only see the naturalness of black never questioned the reason why they were unable to see different colors.

Most of those who needed the simple procedure had become used to not being able to see colors. As far as Mr. Martinique was concerned, colors only complicated the cognitive perception of the world. Just as the mandate promised, the world had become a matter of seeing things in black and white.

He was also aware that some parents had found a way to avoid the procedure with their newborns. When violators were found, the parents would be incarcerated, and their children would be forced to have the procedures no matter what age they were. It was his duty to report Marcel. It wasn’t the child’s fault, but the authorities would make Marcel feel otherwise. Worse, his parents would be hauled away for their disregard to the ordinance. Most offenders were getting up to five years.

As he viewed the drawing on his desk, it was hard for Mr. Martinique to believe that a child had drawn this. The colors exploded off the page even though he could only see the picture before him in shade of black and white. His memory could recall colors and hues of a sunrise. He closed his eyes walking on the beach as a younger man and seeing the beauty of the moment when the sun appeared over the horizon spilling out over the ocean in indescribable color.

Gone. All of it gone now.

“Marcel, I need to report this.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Are the police going to arrest me?” He asked. His question stuck him like an arrow.

“They will not put you in jail.” He assured Marcel, but the tide was changing and taking a child into custody wasn’t out of possibility.

“How could you do this?” Louisa screamed as she fought her way into Mr. Martinique’s office.

“He can see colors.” Mr. Martinique stood up in case he would have to defend himself physically.

“Honey, what have they done to you.” Louisa Deneuve sat next to Marcel and ran her hand over his cheek.

“Hi mama.” He nuzzled against her.

“Why didn’t you have the procedure done?” Mr. Martinique sat down behind his desk.

“Because it’s barbaric.” She closed her eyes.

“It’s the law.” He shrugged.

“A law that is barbaric.” She turned her head to look at him with her eyes filled with tears.

“It makes us all equal though.” Mr. Martinque shook his head.

“Equal how? Equal because we are left with seeing the entire world around us in black and white only? When I was a little girl, I used to get up early before school just to look at the sunrise. I remember colors even though I can’t see them anymore.” She let a few tears loose to run down her cheeks. She wiped them off with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Mrs. Deneuve?” A uniformed policeman appeared at the door.

“Yes.” She sniffed.

“You are under arrest.” He stepped into the office holding his handcuffs.

“No, no, mama.” Marcel reached out to grab her arm, but the police officer turned her away from him so he could put the handcuffs on her. “Nooo.”

Mr. Martinique stomach turned to hear the youngster cry out for his mother as the policeman led her in handcuffs out of his office.

“Marcel.” He squatted down to look the boy in the eye.

“Why did they take my mama?” He pointed frantically.

“She broke the law. He was just doing his job.” He was devasted as he looked into the face of the distraught child in front of him.

“She is a good mama.” Tears began to roll down Marcel’s face.

“I know.” He said and then repeated himself in a whisper, “I know.”

“I was the one who found the crayons.” He confessed.

“I have your drawing on my desk.” He sighed, “It is quite remarkable.”

“I saw the sun this morning and I wanted to draw what I saw.” He explained as Mr. Martinique handed the boy his drawing. As his hands passed over the crude drawing, he felt the colors even if his eyes could only detect the black and white. “Do not show anyone this drawing.”

“Is it ugly.” He squinted as he looked at Mr. Martinique.

“On the contrary, it is beautiful.” He shook his head and held it up so he could see the entire drawing. Marcel managed to smile. For all the fuss, Marcel knew he had done the right thing.

He bowed his head remembering when he went to the Louve in Paris as a boy and saw some of the greatest masterpieces ever created lined up in front of him for his viewing. His teacher told him about each of them from the Mona Lisa to Manet and Picaso. He remember the bold colors and the arrangements from the hands of the most skilled artists in history.

All of that beauty was taken away, because of the law to prohibit use of color.

It all started with a unplanned protest over attaching meaning to certain colors based on political affiliation until chaos and violence ruled.

“Blue is the color of cowards!” One faction would yell while those wearing blue would yell, “Only traitors wear green!”

From there it would escalate to a full fledged brawl right in the streets until the blood would flow like rivers into the gutters leaving hundreds maimed and dead.

One night Mr. Martinique’s father came home covered in blood. His mother was quick to his side to help stop his bleeding.

“What happened?” She asked in terror.

“Oh, I ran into some Roughans who took issue with my brown jacket when I left the office.” He lay on the sofa while his mother attended to his father’s wounds.

“This is becoming insane.” She shook her head as she applied some balm and ointment. Each time she touched an open wound, he would wince. “Like still, Jules.”

“It hurts, Claudette.” He would say as she continued to apply the ointment. She would turn to him, “Rene, get some more bandages in the closet for your father.”

A week later, a rioting crowd firebombed his car, and Jules Martinique did not escape the confabulation. It was so horrible that it made the nightly news on television. Rene was just fourteen years old when he held his mother’s hand at his father’s funeral.

“I need you to go back to class.” Mr. Martinique told the boy.

“Am I in trouble?” Marcel glance at Rene from his one open eye.

“Not at this time.” Rene shook his head, but added, “You are not allowed to do this again, understand?”

Marcel nodded but did not say anything.

“Now, go to class.” He pointed to the door. With no hesitation, Marcel scurried out of the office and went back to his classroom where Miss Boudreaux was reading a story to the rest of the class.

When he got home, Marcel was surprised to see his father was at home. Usually his father would be at the office supervising his staff on The Monde.

“Papa.?” Marcel’s eyes went wide when he saw him on his cell phone.

“Listen Louis, I want to know what I can do to talk to my wife.” He was speaking in the same voice he used when Marcel was misbehaving. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Marcel froze like a statue when he saw his father walk toward him.

“Marcel, what did you do?” He stood over his son with his hands on his hips slightly bending over to look his son in the eyes.

“I drew a picture.” He avoiding his father’s glare. “Mr. Martinique like it. Really.”

“I don’t care who like your drawing.” His father’s voice was still angry. “Your mother is in jail.”

“I didn’t do it.” Marcel protested.

“Did you draw a picture in color?” His father waved a finger in his face.

“Yes papa.” He nodded.

“We told you not to do things like that.” He exhaled through his clenched teeth as he stood straight once again. “We talked to you about it.”

“I know, but when I saw the crayons, I got excited. I had never seen colored crayons before.” He explained, but he could see by the expression on his father’s face that he was not pleased with what Marcel had done. His father put his hand on his jaw as he paced in the living room, “I need to go to the jail and see what needs to be done. You have to come with me.”

“Alright papa.” He nodded.

“Come on, son, let’s go.” He walked to the door, and they went to the parking garage in the basement of their apartment complex. Marcel bot into his father’s Renault in the passenger’s seat and buckled his seatbelt.

Even in the traffic, his father was able to arrive at the police station in about twenty minutes.

“Do not say anything, Marcel.” He waved his finger in his son’s face again.

“Alright, papa.” He agreed as he followed his father into the police station.

“Can I help you?” The uniformed desk clerk asked.

“I am here for my wife Louisa Deneuve.” He said with authority.

“Name?” The clerk looked over his glasses.

“Manual Deneuve.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Alright, I will have the arresting officer come out and talk to you. In the meantime, please have a seat over there.” He pointed to some empty plastic chairs opposite the counter.

He sat down in one of the chairs and Marcel sat next to him. His father seemed angry as he picked up a magazine and opened it nearly tearing a few pages in the process.

“Mr. Deneuve?” A shapely woman wearing a uniform stepped into the waiting area.

“Yes, that’s me.” Manual stood up and dropped the magazine back on the table.

“Your wife is being detained on charges of neglecting to have her son’s procedure.” The officer read from her clipboard.

“It’s me.” Marcel raised his hand, but papa turned and glared at me. He was shamed into silence as the officer took him through the door.

“Marcel, I will be back shortly. You will stay here.” He told me through his clenched teeth. “He’ll be alright if he stays here, right?”

“He should be fine.” The officer told him as she closed the door.

The procedure is all anyone talked about these days and still Marcel did not understand the ramifications of this procedure. They had some picture books on the table where the magazines were stacked, but as Marcel reached for one with a cartoon duck on the cover, he saw one that showed a infant receiving the procedure. Marcel could not read, but the pictures were quite graphic showing how the men in white coats would work on the genetic engineering to remove the perception of color. He was not able to grasp what was taking place, but he was a bright child who had a deep sense of empathy as he saw the picture of newborns who were receiving the procedure. The men in white coats were looking into a strange looking instrument wearing gloves.

“If you wish your wife to be released from custody.” Marcel heard the voice behind the door, “You must agree to have your child receive the procedure.”

Then Marcel heard his father’s voice, “And if we don’t?”

“She will serve five years in a state penitentiary. If you aren’t careful, the charges could extend to you as well.”

“Are you kidding me?” His father’s voice raised up a bit. Marcel recognized when his father used his angry voice as he was using it now. Marcel grimaced knowing at any moment, his father might walk through that door.

“No Mr. Deneuve, we are very serious about this. Since passing the law about colors, thing have been a lot more settled.”

“You don’t know what this might do to him.” His father’s voice lowered a bit, so it was harder for Marcel to hear, but he was told by a doctor that he had excellent hearing, “My son was diagnosed with autism, and this is all he has. He loves drawing and using his colored crayons.”

“Colored crayons are not legal.”

“Just this once can’t we make an exception?” His papa asked.

“We can’t make any exception when it comes to the law.”

The next day, Marcel was delighted to see his mother in the kitchen making him breakfast like she always did. It was his second day of school, but then she smiled at him, “Marcel, today we are going to take you to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to go.” He insisted.

“We have no choice.” She wiped her hands on her apron, “They are sending you some people over to take you.”

“I don’t want to.” He shook his head, but an hour later the people showed up at the door to transport him to the hospital. One of the members of the team gave Marcel a sedative. He fell silent as they strapped him into the gurney.

When he woke up in the hospital, he heard his mama and papa talking. There were bandages covering both eyes and they felt funny.

“What do you think?” His papa asked.

“I don’t know.” She sounded like she was crying.

“Is the patient ready?” Marcel could not recognize the voice.

“Yes, doctor.” His papa answered.

“I’m not going to be here for this.” His mama’s voice.

“Suit yourself, ma’am.” The stranger’s voice said as he heard footsteps leaving the room. Someone’s hand held his head to hold it in place as he hear scissors cutting the bandages over his eyes. His eyes hurt when his eyes were exposed to the bright light in the room. Blinking against the harsh light, Marcel opened his eyes for the first time since he left his home. The stranger’s voice said, “There we go. Be careful little one. The light can be rather severe at first. How are you?”

“Okay.” Marcel blinked several times.

When he finally could make out the things in his room, he began to scream as tears flooded down his cheeks into his ears, because the sun was rising just beyond his window in all the colors gray would allow.