In Darkness (31 page)

The kid nodded.

— Do me a favor, he said. My name is Frank. Tell my manman I love her. Tell her . . . I’m sorry for letting her down.

Biggie made this noise that could have been frustration. He hefted his gun in his hand.

— You aimed for the leg? he said.

— Yes, said the kid.

— OK, said Biggie.

He shot the kid in the thigh and the kid went down, screaming.

— Come on, said Biggie to me and Tintin. Don’t shoot him. This kid lives. He flipped open his phone. Stéphanie? We’ve got a man down. He needs to go to Canapé-Vert.

Me and Tintin, we looked at each other, like, what the fuck? The kid, Frank, was crying now, quietly, kind of whimpering. But I could tell he was crying partly cos he was happy.

Tintin shrugged.

— I guess Biggie’s in a good mood, he said.

Another time, I went to see Biggie. I could hear him on the phone as I followed the alley down to where he was sleeping at that time. I don’t know why, but I started to walk real quiet, and I was glad afterward that I did. I glanced round the corner and I saw Biggie sitting on this low brick wall that was just outside the shack. He was holding his cell phone against his ear with his shoulder, and I saw that there were tears pouring down his cheeks.

— But, Manman, he said.

I’d never heard him sound so vulnerable. I suddenly realized he was a boy, too – he was maybe five years older than me.

I heard a woman’s voice from the other end of the line, but it was too quiet; I couldn’t tell what she was saying.

— When are you coming home? Biggie continued. I miss you.

I knew Biggie’s manman worked in Miami, where everyone drives Cadillac Escalades and there are hot bitches in miniskirts. Miami always sounded like heaven to me from the way the rappers talked about it in their songs. Biggie’s manman was a cleaner, or an au pair, or something. Sometimes she sent money, and Biggie would buy more heroin with it, or give it to someone as a bribe.

— No, he said into the phone. You said it would only be for a year.

I heard her say something back, only it was too quiet to make out. I stood very, very still.

— Yes, yes, said Biggie. Of course I’m going to school. No, I don’t get into trouble. Yes, I have anpil friends. One of my friends is coming round now, actually, so I’ve gotta go. Yes, he’s nice. Young, a real shorty, but a good kid.

He’s talking about me, I realized, amazed.

— OK, Manman, he said. But call me next week, OK?

Biggie had his gun in his other hand and he was turning it over, turning it over, again and again. He wiped his eyes with the back of the hand that was holding the phone, to get rid of the tears.

— I just want you to come home, he said.

Then he looked blankly at the phone in his hand. It was obvious she had hung up. Biggie let out a lungful of his air, all anger and heartbreak, then breathed in a lungful of the Site air, which was all heat and stink of sewage, and which didn’t give a fuck about him. His face went hard, like he had taken the Site inside his ownself, made his ownself part of its indifference.

— Fuck, he said.

I stood there for another five minutes, maybe more. Then I walked into the yard and Biggie came out the house, and his face was hard.

— Biatch, he said. Step into my crib. Let’s talk business. I want more money out of those mofos with the laundromat.

Then

Toussaint tied his horse to a stake and watched his son do the same. They had come to the Georges plantation, where Brunet had made his camp. This plantation, unlike many others, had been well looked after, and fat ears of corn swayed in the breeze.

Brunet came out of the house to meet them, his wife beside him pretty under a parasol. Brunet had an honest countenance, the face lined a little by age, but otherwise handsome. Instead of a mustache he wore a close-cropped beard.

— Governor-General, he said. What a pleasure it is to meet you. I’m a long-standing admirer of what you have achieved in this country. Securing freedom for the slaves! It’s a feat that will resound through the ages.

— Freedom wasn’t my idea, said Toussaint. In fact, we have you French to thank for that. I only helped to spread the idea here.

Brunet gave a little bow.

— Well said, he pronounced. You are as humble as you are noble.

— Oh, I’m not noble, said Toussaint. The slaves are free, granted, but we’re still low-born in the eyes of the whites. Besides, I thought your revolution had done away with nobility.

Brunet smiled. Toussaint was glad to see it – it showed the man was not an idiot.

— The Revolution did, said Brunet, but Bonaparte seems determined to bring nobility back.

Toussaint laughed out loud. He liked a man who was willing to criticize his consul – that suggested he was able to think for himself. He had known Brunet for all of two minutes and already he preferred him to that pompous prig Leclerc.

— Isaac I’ve met before, of course, said Brunet. In Paris.

— Indeed, said Isaac. You are well met, sir. I trust you’re finding Haiti to your liking?

— Well, said Brunet, I found it, which is all credit to my ship’s navigator. As to whether it’s to my liking, I believe I shall take a view on that once the brigands and thieves are dealt with. I prefer a law-abiding country, I must say – that’s so much better for trade.

— On that we concur then, said Toussaint. I’m sure that with the cooperation of my armies we can render Haiti safe for everyone, and provide a fertile ground for society.

Brunet nodded.

— As am I, he said.

He introduced his wife, who smiled demurely when Toussaint kissed her on the hand and did not shrink at all from contact with his negro lips. He appreciated this gesture, as not all well-bred white ladies behaved so.

— Now, please, do enter, said Brunet. We’ll have some refreshments.

Toussaint went first, Isaac behind him. The interior was cool and dim, the light filtered by gauze curtains. A glass and brass chandelier hung above a leather-topped desk, several comfortable armchairs, a chaise longue, and a beautifully polished floor. The room was tastefully decorated in the colonial tradition, but was markedly different from many Toussaint had seen in that it hadn’t been defaced, burned, or looted. The master here must have been good to his slaves to see his property respected in this way.

Madame Brunet excused herself, saying she felt that politics were best left to men. Toussaint didn’t necessarily agree, but he nodded politely and bowed as she left the room.

They chatted idly for some minutes, sizing one another up, then Brunet made a slight noise of irritation.

— The servants are taking their time with the wine I ordered, he said. I’ll just check on it.

He stepped from the room.

A moment later the door opened and a dozen men entered, armed with pistols and swords. They trained the guns on Toussaint. For a moment – just a moment – he didn’t understand, then a heaviness settled on his heart.

I wonder if they think me some kind of black magician
, he thought,
that I should require so many men to restrain me.

Isaac turned to him in bewilderment.

— Father . . . he stammered. What are they doing?

— What do you think they’re doing? said Toussaint.

Paris had provided his son with an excellent academic education, but in many ways it had taught him nothing.Toussaint looked into his son’s eyes, where he saw something of himself and was glad. He pushed Isaac behind him and drew his saber to face the twelve men.

Yes, perhaps
this
was his destiny.

The door opened again and Brunet stood there, a sad look on his face.

— Put away the sword, Governor, he said. We’re not here to kill you, but to arrest you for treason. You won’t be harmed. I promise you that, nor your son.

Toussaint laughed.

— You promise?

Brunet had just enough grace to look ashamed.

— I apologize for the ruse, he said. It was the only way to resolve the situation without bloodshed.

— The situation being the inconvenience of my wishing Haiti to be free?

Brunet ignored that, instead gesturing to the sword in Toussaint’s hand.

— Lower that, he ordered.

Sighing, Toussaint complied.

— Just one thing, said Toussaint, please, before you restrain me.

— Yes? said Brunet.

Toussaint moved his hand toward his trousers and the soldiers aimed their guns at him, eyes narrow, fingers white on triggers.

— Don’t shoot, he said. Don’t shoot.

Toussaint held one hand up in front of him as if it could stop a bullet if one came, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He drew out the pwen and handed it to Isaac, his movements as exaggerated as mime so that the soldiers would see he wasn’t producing some hidden weapon.

— What’s that? said Isaac, who had been educated in Paris, and who had never fought anyone in his life, nor been whipped, nor stood in a swamp as a houngan danced and beat his drum.

— A pwen. It contains the spirit of a lwa – a lwa of war, I believe. It belonged to Boukman and now it belongs to you. It . . . It’s Haiti.

Toussaint found that there were tears in his eyes. Isaac looked at him like he was mad, but he took the stone.

Toussaint nodded to Brunet to indicate that he was ready.

The men rushed forward and tied his arms behind his back. They marched him from the house and into a carriage.

They’re taking me to Cape Town
, he thought.

But they didn’t take him there. They proceeded straight to the coast and, separating him from Isaac, pushed him into a boat, then rowed him out to a frigate anchored offshore. A gentle breeze carried to him the scent of the land – spice and earth and sugar – but the scent grew fainter and fainter as it was drowned in salt. Then he could smell only the sea, which was the smell of death to him because the sea was everything that lay beyond Haiti, and Haiti was life.

It would have been kinder to shoot me
, he thought.

Night had fallen and, as he listened to the clapotis of the sea against the wood of the rowing boat, Toussaint was reminded of that night when he and Jean-Christophe had swum out to the French ships.
We should have burned them
.

As soon as he was hauled on board he heard the heavy metallic rattle of the anchor being pulled up, and he knew he had lost. Haiti was lost, and he would never see her again. He felt the motion of the ship and realized that he was leaving the island the same way his father had come to it – over the ocean. For the first time he understood why vodou believed the dead to rest under the sea, for the narrative of the world was one of exodus – from the womb, from Eden – and return. The slaves had come to Haiti by the sea, and it seemed that it was to the sea that they were destined to return.

He had been denied even a porthole, as he was locked in a cargo hold, and he wept to know that they had taken his country from him. Still, he refused to give up hope. He dried his tears and straightened his back to show that he had not been broken. In the darkness, he thought about death because he knew that was what awaited him. He knew that they could never truly take Haiti from him, because in death he would know those he had lost once again, would speak with them and hold them again. In killing him, the French would be returning him to his ancestors, to his wife, would in some sense be giving him what he wanted.

He thought about the Rapture, the moment when all the dead would rise up to heaven together. His father had taught him that this event would occur when Jesus returned to the earth, perhaps in ten years, perhaps in ten thousand. Then all death would be undone and all calamities reversed in a single stroke. It had always seemed a remarkable idea to Toussaint. He pictured the drowned walking up from the bottom of the sea, pirates and the navy alike, their skeletons barnacled and clothed in seaweed, to join the general drift up to heaven, as the gravity of the dead reversed itself. He saw graves open and spill their contents upward; he saw battlefields scatter into the air in a clatter of bones and armor.

But this version was wrong, he understood now. The dead did not have to wait for some unknown day for their reunions. Bois Caiman and the stone had taught Toussaint that the version presented in vodou was closer to the truth, that people were always traveling to death, always accompanying Baron Samedi and la Sirene to the land under the sea to meet their missed ones there. Death was a constant welcoming, with those already dead always waiting, and a perpetual reunion. Because what, otherwise, could come after? Once the Rapture is done, what then? Then there would be nothing but stillness, and the world abhors stillness.

No
, he thought.
There is no stillness, not now, not ever. There is another version. A true version.

Death will continue. There will be no triumphant ending with souls ascending through the sky, no waiting for a reunion that might only happen after ten thousand years. There will be a steady and endless stream of the dead, filling the land under the sea that can never be filled.