An Untamed State (14 page)

As we pulled up, Michael dressed in a tan linen suit with a French blue shirt, me in a white linen dress, strapless and long, he took in the spectacle of wonder and light, said, “This is just incredible.”

As Michael and I entered our engagement party, all the banter and social calisthenics stopped for a moment as the crowd stared at us. We walked down the stairs slowly, and I gripped Michael’s hand. The crowd parted and we made our way to my parents. Everyone stared, whispering. Word spread quickly when I got engaged. It was such a coup, my mother told me, finding an American, a white man. When she said this, I told her, “You’ve been in Port-au-Prince too long.” She only laughed and said, “The world is the same everywhere, Mireille. This will be good for your children.” I hung up on her.

We spent the evening being congratulated. The whole situation infuriated me but I was a good Haitian daughter so I smiled politely. We were given lots of advice about where to have the wedding and where to live (Port-au-Prince) and what to name the children (after my mother and father) and we continued smiling politely and kissed many cheeks. By the end of the evening, we were exhausted and ready to elope. When the dancing started and people began gathering on the dance floor, Michael and I sat at our table, finally alone.

“My face hurts,” I said. “I hate these people.”

Michael nodded wearily. “I need to learn how to speak French faster. I think they’re talking about me.”

“They are,” I agreed.

One of my great-aunts started heading toward us with a look in her eye that let me know we were about to receive more advice about starting our lives in Port-au-Prince even though we had a fine, nicely settled life in the States. I had no more small talk in me. I was out of patience for the comfortable lunacy of such a beautiful party on a perfectly groomed beach in the middle of a land of starving people. The futility of my comfortable guilt was always with me. I stood and pulled Michael after me. The night had finally turned cool, some of the humidity lifting. Michael removed his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. We walked along the beach, following the endless line of burning torches. The air was thick with smoke and salt. The farther we got from the party, the more we could hear the ocean, how it quietly crept to the shore over and over. We found a small outcropping of rock.

Michael shook open his jacket and set it on the rock for me. I stepped out of my shoes and sat down. I pulled my knees to my chest and looked out onto the water.

A boat quietly floated by, filled with laughing teenagers.

“This is the Haiti I love, Michael—the water, the warm nights. I want you to know it has nothing to do with all that back there.”

He sat down next to me, kissed my bare shoulder. “I know you.”

We could still hear the music in the distance.

“You are the Haiti I love,” Michael said.

“Would you live here with me?”

He was quiet for a moment. The waves lapped the shore softly and in the distance we could hear the party still going, the rhythmic strains of
konpa
reaching us. “Yes, Miri, I would.”

I held Michael’s hand and kissed his knuckles, remembering the enthusiasm with which he kissed the ground in the Miami airport. It took weeks to forgive him even though I too was generally relieved the moment I stepped back on American soil.

“You are such a liar but I love you for saying that,” I said.

We married six months later, in Miami. As we walked out of the church, they played “This Must Be the Place” by the Talking Heads and Michael serenaded me, singing about home as the place he wants to be, always with me.

T
heir early courtship kept Michael on his toes. He liked the chase, the push and pull. He liked her eyes and her neck and her sharp tongue, how she was always ready for . . . something, he wasn’t quite sure. Mireille did her best to keep Michael away but he persisted, showing up at the law library, her office on campus, even her house one night.

It had been a long day on campus and Mireille was exhausted, lonely. She had hours more work ahead of her, no one to talk to, nothing to occupy her attention but legal briefs and precedents. Her only job, her father said when he bought her the house, was to be an excellent student, so that’s what she did. There was no time for romance even though she found herself thinking of Michael, hoping he might suddenly appear, wherever she was. Romance would come later, she hoped.

Michael was sitting on the concrete stairs leading up to her porch. She was so lost in thought she startled, jumped back as Michael cleared his throat.

Mireille held her briefcase closer to her body and bit her lower lip.

“Are you stalking me again?” she asked.

Michael grinned. “I’m stubborn. I like you.”

She stepped around him and slid her key in the lock, turning it slowly. “I thought we went over this a few times. I don’t have time for a relationship right now. I’m almost done with school and then I need a job, who knows where, and first-year associates don’t get to have lives.”

Michael stood and took Mireille’s bag from her. “You spoke, I listened, now it’s my turn.” He followed her into the house and carefully set her bag down, then rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to make you something to eat.” Before Mireille could protest he raised his hand. “I know you haven’t eaten.”

He pushed her into the kitchen and forced her into an empty chair. There were several wine bottles on the counter, resting in a stainless steel rack. He hummed as he inspected each bottle, finally deciding on a Pinot Noir. Michael held the bottle against his chest as he uncorked it, then he poured Mireille a glass. She was tired and all argued out after a long day of working on a legal brief for moot court. She sat quietly as Michael busied himself in her kitchen cooking something from the sad assemblage of available ingredients—some pasta, green onions, a few soft tomatoes, a block of Romano cheese of questionable origin.

As he cooked, Michael talked. “The way I see it, I need to prove my case that we should date, get married, have babies, and live happily ever after.”

Mireille raised her glass in Michael’s direction and nodded, leaned back and crossed her legs. “This should be good.”

He argued a very good case for himself and cooked a very good meal. They drank two bottles of wine. Mireille had never been much of a talker before she met Michael, never trusted anyone would be interested in what she had to say, but something about his manner made her open up the lonelier parts of herself. Her face grew numb. Michael’s face flushed from the warmth in the kitchen. Finally when their words grew slower, eyes heavy, Michael stood, said, “I better get out of your hair. I’ve imposed long enough. I rest my case, as you might say.”

She stood too but stumbled. Michael caught Mireille in his arms. She wanted to hold his hand. “I am not the lush I appear to be,” she mumbled. “You keep catching me on days when I haven’t eaten much.”

They walked to the front door and stood facing each other. Mireille held on to the belt loops of his slacks, her forehead against his chest. “You made a very strong case but I can’t do this.” She sighed, and looked up and pretended not to notice how he wore his disappointment, nakedly. There was a quiet pause.

“Well,” Michael said, his voice cracking, “I guess you really mean it.” Mireille bit her tongue and nodded. Michael kissed the top of her head, tracing the edges of her face with his thumbs. “I really like you.”

“Don’t make this hard. You’re a nice guy and you deserve a nice girl. I am not a nice girl.”

Michael nodded. “I see.” He leaned in, pressing his lips against Mireille’s. She couldn’t help but open her mouth to him, clasping the back of his neck.

Suddenly she pulled away and opened the door. “I really cannot do this.” Michael stepped outside. Mireille grabbed his shirt just before he stepped off the porch. “I am lying.”

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, and stepped back inside, his breath wrapping around them. Mireille reached past him and locked the front door. She turned off the foyer light. She started for the staircase and reached back. His fingers found hers. Upstairs, they undressed without talking and crawled beneath the sheets. She lay with her head on Michael’s chest, her legs twisted through his.

“You have no idea how good this feels,” Mireille whispered.

He kissed her forehead and held her tighter. “Look how we fit,” he said, before they fell asleep.

That was the thing about them, Michael thought, whiling away the hours until Miri was freed from her captors. He and his wife fit even though there were any number of reasons they should not. Michael stood in his father-in-law’s office, holding the phone, the dial tone echoing into his sweaty palm. He heard something in Mireille’s voice, something he had never heard before. She was afraid and her fear chilled him. She was normally so fearless. Something terrible was happening. Michael thought again about how well he and his wife fit, about how she overcame herself to be with him, how this couldn’t possibly be how their story ended.

He set the receiver down, grabbed Sebastien by the shoulders, and shoved him against a wall, causing a brightly colored abstract painting to fall to the floor. “She is your child!” Michael shouted. “She is my wife, the mother of your grandchild. Did you hear her? Pay them what they want. I am begging you.” Michael shoved Sebastien again.

Sebastien could not look his son-in-law in the eyes. He could not explain to the American that he was doing what he believed to be right. He could not explain to the American that he was not dealing with men of honor, men who would respect an agreement. Sebastien allowed himself to be shoved. When Michael brought his fist back and tried to punch his father-in-law, Sebastien grabbed the younger man’s wrist. Michael was surprised by his father-in-law’s strength. Sebastien held fast and looked Michael in the eye. His voice was cold, steel, resolute. “I am doing what is best. There is more at stake here than just Mireille. If you would allow yourself to think clearly, you might see that.”

“I don’t know how you live with yourself,” Michael said, shaking himself free from Sebastien’s grip. “I’ll find a way to pay the ransom myself.”

Michael stepped away and as his breathing slowed, he picked up the phone again, quickly dialing their financial planner, Steve, in Miami—a midwestern transplant like himself. “I need to liquidate everything we have,” Michael stuttered into the phone. He gripped the desk and ignored the people around him. He could do this one thing. He could get the money together and find a way to make contact with the kidnappers. He would work around Sebastien. Enough was enough.

Sebastien sat behind his desk, his hands trembling. He tried to forget the sound of his daughter’s scream and what might have brought about that scream. He watched quietly as Michael made phone call after phone call. “You are wasting your time,” he said at last, with a finality that made Michael shiver.

A
fter allowing me to bathe and wash my clothes in the bathroom sink, TiPierre brought me water, a bowl of rice. I was so hungry I grabbed sticky clumps of rice with my fingers, shoving them into my mouth. I didn’t care if the food was drugged or poisoned. I needed something to fill the gnawing hollow inside me. He watched as I ate, smiled kindly. It was repulsive. When I finished, I felt sick, my stomach bloated. I wanted more.

He looked at me shyly, said, “I gave part of my share of the ransom to the others so they would leave you alone.”

I tried to understand, tried not to hope but I was desperate. I allowed myself to believe he had rescued me. “Why would you do that?” I asked.