A Rendezvous in Haiti (13 page)

The cart creaked to a halt, and she heard a whistle. She turned: the larger Haitian was grinning. The blanc's voice rapped out, nothing she could decipher. The Haitian's grin died, and he showed a sullen countenance; his companion glanced from him to the blanc, and spoke urgently. The larger Haitian patted his own private parts and offered Caroline an obvious invitation. She understood the blanc to say “That's enough” but the Haitian went on, crooning, while she gazed, fearful and fascinated; and abruptly he fell silent, and his hand went to the hilt of his machete. The other Haitian went on glancing, nervous and excited.

Caroline turned to the blanc. His expression had not altered, and he spoke again, the voice low and almost ingratiating, and she was sure she understood: “Try it. Killing is my trade.”

The Haitian turned away, and muttered to his smaller companion.

“I'll need sleep,” the blanc said. “Can you fire a revolver?”

“Yes.”

“You won't play games. I'm your bodyguard, and I'm not sure these two are even on my side.”

“No.”

“It's just to keep watch while I sleep for a few hours.”

“Yes. Why have you done this?”

But he had no more to say.

That night they built a fire, and ate hot food and drank hot coffee. “I'll sleep in the cart with you,” he said.

“No.”

“I'm too tired,” he said, “and it will keep the others away. While I sleep, you watch. Understand? I can go two nights but not three.”

“These men drink.”

“So do I, now and then,” he said. “They're men and may molest you; wake me if there's time. If not, shoot them dead. Could you do that?”

“Yes.” They were all four seated about the fire chatting, and she had just announced that she could kill two of them.

“You seem sure,” he said. “Have you killed before?”

“Rabbits and birds. With a shotgun.”

“Did you dress them?”

“Yes, and ate them.”

In the firelight he showed white teeth. “It's a start.”

“What shall I call you?”

He pondered this. “Sergeant,” he said.

“Were you a Marine? A soldier?”

But he had exhausted his small talk.

There was no moon, but starshine gleamed off broad leaves. For long minutes the silence was perfect, and then life stirred in the forest: perhaps only the breeze, a rustle, a snap. The mule drooped, and broke wind frequently. The sergeant slept on his back, now and then emitting a gentle snore; his rifle lay beside him, his right hand loose upon it.

Caroline shifted. She prayed, with no real conviction. The revolver was warm in her hand, and her palm grew moist; she set the pistol beside her. The whole Corps would be searching for her. Her father would be on his way to Port-au-Prince. Bobby would be plunging through the forest at the head of a battalion.

No. Who knew where she was? Well, the villagers, and she knew how Haitians gossiped.

Why had they done this?

Ransom. To buy arms and ammunition. Or to force a truce?

Truce. Her father in Paris. Bobby in Paris, Bobby's embrace … Bobby's wounds …

She woke at the creak of a board; she was still in Paris. She heard a man whisper, “Ssssh,” and smelled the fumes of rum. An animal blew, the breeze sighed, beside her a man snored raucously.

She poked viciously at the blanc, groped for the revolver, found it; her right hand closed on it as she saw a figure loom over the far side of the wagon—of course, they would kill the sergeant first, oh God no panic, two hands, steady—then a confusion of bulk and the wagon rocking, a mass swaying in the starlight. She fired. The roar was shattering, and then it was all too quick, a thud, a scramble, silence. She was sitting rigid, the revolver in both hands. “Speak,” she gasped. “Who is it? Qui moon?”

“It's me,” the sergeant said, climbing back aboard. “You damn near killed me.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. She gasped. “Where is he? Who was it?”

“The big Caco.” The blanc seemed to gasp also, and she heard a hoarse “Khhhaaa!”

“Are you hurt?”

He strangled, and exploded; he coughed for a full minute. He wiped his mouth with straw, pulled out a bandanna and wiped it again. He dabbed at his shirt and trousers. “Christ. He bled all over me.”

“Cold water,” she whispered. “Cold water will wash away blood. What … Who bled?”

“The Caco.”

“Where is he?”

“On the ground. Dead. Go back to sleep.”

Carefully Caroline set down the pistol and knelt, her back to him; carefully she vomited over the side of the wagon. She too wiped her mouth with a handful of straw, and then on the hem of her shirt. “How could he bleed so much?”

“I had my knife in him when you fired. This is real trouble, lady.”

“Imagine.”

“I don't mind killing,” he said. “Most men don't. Ask your daddy some time.”

“But you don't like this.”

“No, I sure do not. In this country, you never know who you're killing. Ten years later some cousin poisons your coffee. I don't know who he was but he mattered.”

“How do you know that?”

“By the way he answered me back. And I believe this is a real diamond in his ring; we'll see in daylight. He acted like an only child that they spoiled rotten.”

“I'm an only child.”

“That's what I mean,” he said. “Spoiled. All you had to do was stay awake.”

“Where's the little one?”

“Ran like a rabbit. You fell asleep.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. God help me.”

“God help us both now. If the little fellow comes back with ten or twenty more we're in trouble. Listen to me. I'm taking you to a man called Martel, and once we reach him we're safe—”

“Safe!”

“—but there's about five thousand other fellows out there would like to deliver the merchandise and bank the profits. I'm your best bet and don't you fool with me.”

She died again.

He glanced at the stars: “You gave me about two hours' sleep. Maybe in the morning I sleep some more. First one?” In the faint glow he was grinning like a jackal.

“First what?”

“You killed him.”

It was at last too much: it was happening to someone else: no, it was not: it had not happened at all: yes, it had. “Leave me alone,” she moaned, and shuddered, with a long racking sob. She saw his dim hand take up the pistol, heard him vault from the wagon; she lay prone and despaired. Would it be better to die now?

No. Not ever.

“For Christ's sake,” he said. “Now
I'm
bleeding.”

She sat up, steadied herself with a deep breath. “Where? How badly?”

“My left arm. Bastard sliced me with his machete.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes, it hurts. I don't care about that. But I need the blood. Help me—no, forget it.”

“Keep quiet,” she said. “Sit still. Take off your shirt. Give me your bandanna and canteen.”

“Canteen's on my saddle,” he said.

She clambered off the wagon. One foot came down on a warm body and she flinched, but she had crossed a frontier and there was no recrossing, no return ever. Perhaps blood now stained her foot: no matter. The horse, hitched to the tailgate, whuffled low and shied. She spoke to him, stroked his muzzle, blew warm breath into his nostrils. He stood gentle. She found the canteen and unhooked it, and returned to the wagon, padding carefully.

The sergeant's shirt was off. She saw the cut, the blood oozing and not running. Hanging about his neck was a small bag on a rawhide thong. “You'll be fine,” she said. “That's a ouanga bag, isn't it?”

“Shut up,” he said.

She washed the wound. “Needs stitches.”

“Tie it up.”

“You'll have a scar.”

At that he convulsed again, and she paused, awaiting the cough. But he was laughing, a startling joyless sound.

She proceeded with her work. “If it soaks through too fast we'll need a tourniquet. Have you another bandanna?”

“Belt,” he said. “Your cuff. Braided grass. Lariat. Where'd you learn this?”

“Paris.”

He was silent again; she saw his face close. Then he asked, “Hospital? The war? Colonel's daughter does her bit?”

“Yes,” she said. “You'll do. Sleep a while. Or will he come back?”

“Not tonight. Will you stay awake anyway?”

“I will.”

He replaced the spent cartridge, his left arm moving stiffly, and he handed her the pistol. “You're crying.”

“Of course I'm crying. This is a nightmare.”

An insomniac dove cooed insistently, and an errant breeze soothed them. She looked desperately for the man within, as if his soul might shine out. In the obscurity his gaze was steady and without passion. After two or three minutes he raised his sound arm and stroked her hair. Slowly he brought her face to his; he kissed her roughly. He drew away, eased the pistol from her hand, set it between them, and kissed her again.

He tasted of blood.

She was still quite shaky, but took up the pistol, and with the muzzle jabbed him in the ribs.

“You need a man,” he said.

“I just killed a man,” she said. “Besides, we haven't been introduced.”

7

Saint Rita's: built of stone and wood, 1809; razed and raised a dozen times; built of stone and wood, 1909, and stained glass, mahogany pews, marble font, a spacious vestibule, in the transept four confessional boxes. Nothing of the cathedral: it was too squat, too sunny: only the gold of stained glass and a touch of West Indian baroque on the porch, black archangels, “my piccaninny putti”. Within, a high altar, from which Father Scarron gazed out, at Christmas and Easter, over three hundred worshippers, some of them known atheists who venerated Voltaire, others rumored participants in vodun who venerated Damballa and Papa Legba; a few were both, or all three—and why not? The three in one; or the ancient pantheons; or sermons in stones and good in every thing. Their ancestors had worshipped fire and thunder, rain and tree, lions and leopards; had coupled in the fields to make the land fertile; and had been captured, exiled, auctioned by Christians.

He knelt, alone in his own church; it was cool and dark like a grotto. He rummaged his soul for a supreme emotion, and found the void. “Oh Christ,” he said in English.

“There were four of us,” the man had confessed: a soft troubled tenor.

“Go on, my son.”

“We took the blanche for Martel. I knew it was wrong and I tried not to help. And now I am sick.”

Father Scarron too was sick: “And the other three?”

“I must not. Only …”

“Only?”

“Only one was a son of Fleury. On the left hand but a son.”

Fleury: therefore Martel. Patron and protector, as who should say, godfather. “And where is the blanche now?”

“On her way. I only helped carry her to a cart. They spoke of a blanc.”

“A blanc. A Marine?”

“The white Caco, they said.” He knew nothing more about this soldier. He was a fearful sinner and ignorant. He did not know who had ordered the abduction. Perhaps Fleury. Fleury ruled the north. One did not say no to Fleury.

When the man fell quiet Father Scarron said, “This is a terrible thing you have done.” Then he could not speak at all for some moments. For her, Hell is Haiti now. And a terrible thing you have done to me too; could you not have found another confessor? Scarron asked for details like an official and not a priest; and in the end he gave the man penance and absolution like a priest and not an official.

Alone, struggling to pray, he leaned forward, pressed his forehead hard against the pew, sought pain. “Help me, Christ,” he managed. “Help me, my friend Jesus. No bishop and no pope can help me, only you.”

Father Scarron trudged through the Haitian night. Life surged calmly along the streets and roads; deeper in the alleyways angry cries and short laughter told him of lives less calm. What could a priest know of wife-beating or empty bellies? Father, I have fornicated—scarcely worth reporting. I doubt. I harbor impure thoughts. I covet, steal, blaspheme. Never did they say, Father, I am hungry. Hunger is a sin. Father, my child is going blind. Blindness is a sin. Father, I can neither read nor write; I am an ignorant animal, and that is a sin.

And if they did come to him with those woes, what would he tell them?

He entered the gaguerre unremarked, proceeded to the bar, and fortified himself with one clairin, immediately ordering a second. The night was ordinary—full of sound and color, handlers debating and bettors shouting; rather more whores than usual. He was wearing workmen's clothes and a battered broad-brimmed straw hat, and cowhide sandals. He contemplated the cocks with no real interest, and from time to time glanced down at his sandals, or adjusted his hat. A priest out of uniform. Behind the enemy lines in disguise. These? His enemy?

He made his way slowly to Boniface's loge. Outside the door he sat upon the ground, leaned back against the palisade, tipped his hat forward and sipped in privacy.

Boniface was not long. Scarron heard him ask, “And who is this?”, and the priest removed the straw hat and offered a reluctant smile.

Boniface said, “Good God, Father.”

Boniface was nonplussed: a rare moment. Another night this might have amused Scarron, but now, and perhaps forevermore, the priest was heavy laden. “Hey, Bobo,” he said. “How goes it?”

“Fine and dandy—but what are you doing in that costume?” He sighed, ah, ah: “So you know. You know … something.”

“Yes.”

In the flickering torchlight Boniface was solid, a monument, enviable and certain: whatever befell Haiti, Boniface would endure. “On your feet,” he said. “Nothing is that bad. Into the loge. Dump that horse-piss; I have some Jamaican.”