Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (15 page)

“Problem?” the guard asked, stepping closer to Nicolas.

Nicolas shook his head. He didn't want to antagonize the officer, but he refused to cower like the others. Sure, they were going to beat him senseless if they wanted to. But he could not give them the satisfaction of defeat—not in front of his mentor. The guard pointed the rifle at his face, pressing it against his jaw.

“This is no fucking recess,” the guard continued. He spat every word through clenched teeth, and Nicolas felt the rage there.

Nicolas, instead of replying, picked up his bucket and dumped its contents into the ditch.

“You're nothing but a piece of shit,” the guard said. “Shut your big mouth or I'll throw you in that ditch.”

Around them, prisoners still gagged reflexively at the foulness of emptied buckets coated in fecal matter. Their palms and nails were soiled. Nicolas wiped his own hands against the grimy fabric of his briefs. One prisoner urinated on another's hands to wash up. Nicolas swallowed both his disgust and his rage. Instead of screaming at the guard, he watched him walk away, shooting the inmates one last look, his finger on the trigger.

Nicolas looked at Jean-Jean, saw his chest rising and falling in an irregular pattern.

“Are you all right?” Nicolas whispered.

Jean-Jean looked back at him, leaning in closer.

“I told them about my diabetes,” he said, his voice sounding like the strident hiss of the wind blowing through cracked windows. “They won't give me any insulin. I'm…” He blinked. “I'm tired.”

“I'm so sorry,” he said.

Jean-Jean gave a weak smile. Nicolas wanted to kick himself for saying those words. What did “sorry” even mean now? What good could those words do? His actions had landed him and his friend in here, and there was no forgiveness for that. He swallowed his shame.

“They want to break us,” Nicolas whispered, looking around for signs of patrolling guards.

“I think,” Jean-Jean said, “that has already been accomplished.”

Something in his eyes seemed to flicker out. He blinked again.

“I told Eve I couldn't help,” he murmured. “I told her I was being followed. They parked in front of my house, my office. They got Georges too. But he's not here. They arrested him at the airport. Rumor is he went straight to the Devil at the Palais. Double trouble for a member of any ministry, you see.”

“How is my family?” Nicolas asked.

He felt ashamed for asking, but his heart leapt at the mention of his wife's name. Jean-Jean had stopped talking. His eyes seemed to roll back for a moment.

“Are you all right?” Nicolas asked.

The guard had returned. Nicolas shut his mouth, but it was too late. The guard raised his rifle above his head and brought it down violently, striking Jean-Jean across the shoulder. The old man collapsed on his knees, nearly falling into the ditch. The guard kicked him and Jean-Jean fell out of line. The other prisoners stood in the same spot, frozen. Some of them looked straight ahead; others looked away, stared at their feet. The guard kicked again, stomping the old man's face with his boot.

Nicolas reacted by instinct. He ran to Jean-Jean to help him up, but before he could reach the body, the guard aimed his rifle at him and cocked it. The prisoners gasped. A young inmate covered his ears with both hands, sobbing. The guard stared at Nicolas, eyes wide with rage. He was a scrawny man beneath his khakis, but any man wearing military fatigues and carrying a gun could incite terror. Nicolas could tell he was itching for an opportunity to blow a prisoner away.

Nicolas dropped to his knees and surrendered, his arms in the air. He didn't look up at the guard. Instead, he kept his eyes on Jean-Jean, who was writhing on the ground.

“Back in line, now, or I'll shoot you!” the guard shouted.

Nicolas stuttered as his lips formed words he hadn't intended to speak. “M-mercy, please. Mercy for this old man.”

He felt the dirt against his knees, but didn't think much about it. He was taking a risk, and he knew it. But it was the right thing to do, because everyone here was too broken, too frightened to stand up for themselves or others. It was the least he could do for his mentor.

“He—he needs help. He's very ill,” he stammered.

“I don't give a shit what he is. Back in line, right now!”

The guard stepped closer and shoved Nicolas in the chest with the gun barrel. Nicolas felt the cold metal against his flesh. He got up and took a few steps back, but his eyes remained on Jean-Jean.

“Back inside, now! All of you!”

The huddled prisoners regained their composure, separated,
grabbed their buckets, and once more formed a line. They walked back toward the building, mute as dead carps.

Nicolas glanced over his shoulder. He caught a last glimpse of his friend still curled on the ground, surrounded by the other prisoners, and wondered if someone would have the courage to help him up, to help him down the hallway, help him to his mat, help him demand a doctor, medicine, mercy. There was a guard standing near Jean-Jean, cradling a rifle. He was tall, thin, his face shadowed by his hat. But inside that brown face, Nicolas thought he saw two eyes staring right at him, free of the usual hatred and rage most of the guards used to keep other, more difficult emotions in check. Nicolas shuddered. It was almost worse to see those steady eyes witnessing everything without evident judgment. And then another soldier struck Nicolas just above the kneecap, and he crumbled, the pain making everything go dark.

TWELVE

“Y
our brother is alive,” Sauveur said in a whisper. He pulled Raymond out of earshot. “But in bad, bad shape.”

Dawn was breaking on the beach, and the motorboat was ready. Raymond took a breath to let the news settle in.

“You talked to your contact?” he asked.

“There's a date set for his execution…” Sauveur's voice wavered when Raymond lowered his head. “August twenty-seventh.”

Raymond inhaled sea salt.

“How do you know?”

“We have a guy”—Sauveur grinned—“a man inside.”

Raymond nodded. First, he had to get Eve and Amélie out of Haiti. He silently inspected the boat while the captain approached them and spoke with Sauveur. He noticed a few rust stains on the hull and the outlines of a patch-up job on the floor.

“You sank this boat before?” he asked, pointing at the marks.

The captain chuckled silently, shook his head. He was a quiet man with wavy gray sideburns and a mustache so thick Raymond could barely see his lips. His eyes were a rare ambergris. His name was Manolo, Manno for short. Raymond understood what Sauveur meant now about “trusting him.” This captain had an easy time getting into the Dominican Republic because of his mixed heritage: half Dominican, half Haitian. He looked like what many expected a Dominican to look like, Indio, with a bronze complexion and an unmistakable Spanish accent.

He'd arrived at Sauveur's before daybreak, and Raymond had gotten up at the sound of the motor. They'd gathered on the beach and made introductions, their voices caught in gentle gusts of wind. The darkness was fading, and everything came into focus. Eve wrapped Amélie in a makeshift sling and secured her on her chest. On her shoulder, she strapped a canvas bag that Claudette had prepared for her. Sauveur took her hand and Raymond took the other.

The water was warm as it rose to their knees, and the sand shifted under their heels as they made their way to the boat where her other bag was already waiting. Eve squeezed Raymond's hand. He was grateful for the ability to see her face in the early light.

“I don't know about this, Raymond.”

She'd been quiet all morning, and by the way she looked at the boat and the ocean, he knew she was terrified. But she was too strong to admit it.

“Don't worry,” Raymond said. “He's done this many times. Just do as he says and you'll be there in no time.” His feet sank a little and his toenails gathered sand particles.

“I'm just not good on water,” Eve muttered. “But we'll be fine. It's Nicolas I'm worried about…”

They stopped at the boat where the captain was waiting. Raymond looked in her eyes this time because it was important that she knew he was not giving up. He was staying to get Nicolas back. He told her about Sauveur's contact at Fort Dimanche. But he said nothing about the execution date.

“I want to give you something.” Eve grabbed the bag Claudette had gifted her with.

What now? Just this morning, she'd slipped jewelry in his pocket, insisting, despite his protests, that he pawn her gold chains and earrings.

Raymond saw her hand move to the bottom of the sack, and he heard the rustle of plastic. Claudette had stuffed the bag with saltine crackers, bread, and some fruit. Raymond also knew that
Eve had taken Nicolas's notebook with her. Finally, she pulled out a bundle wrapped in familiar-looking fabric and held it out with both hands.

“Take it,” she whispered.

He grabbed the corners of the cloth and pulled them apart. He couldn't imagine what gift Eve would have for him. When he saw the contents of the package, he understood. There was a moment of silence between them. Eve pressed forward, the body of the revolver reflecting the first specks of golden light.

“It belonged to Nicolas,” she said firmly. Her eyes were still glued on her brother-in-law. “Take it. It's yours now.”

Sauveur stood behind them, looking at the gun over Eve's shoulder. His eyes shifted from the weapon to Raymond, then back to the gun. The captain said nothing, but he too was watching them, his hands clasped on the wheel. Raymond remembered where he'd seen the fabric now: in the box with the notebook.

He took the gun from her and held it up to have a better look. It was heavy, and he kept his finger well away from the trigger. The handle was smooth and the body was cold. He had no idea how to use it. Eve stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back, carefully holding the gun away. He wished, for a brief moment, that she would stay. Eve and Amélie were his family. Once they were gone, he would be truly alone.

Raymond kissed his niece's forehead. Sadness tore through him like a bad wind.

“Don't forget me,” he whispered, running his fingers through her curls.

But he knew better. She was too young for his face to automatically imprint in her memory, and besides, the faces of his own children were already blurring, becoming indistinct. He and Sauveur watched the motorboat turn and head out into the open water. Then, before the sun rose above the horizon, they disappeared like ants swept off the edge of the earth.

Sauveur stood in the water just a step behind. He sighed. Raymond searched for words to cut through the awkward silence, to
avoid the obvious wound this separation had inflicted on him. But there were none. There was nothing but silence between them until the sun broke into the sky. Raymond saw the horizon, the infinity of the water, and the absence of Eve and Amélie in the clarity of morning. It was as if a veil had been lifted.

“My wife and kids left me too,” Raymond said. “On a
kanntè
to Miami.”

Behind him, Sauveur shook his head.

“Everybody's leaving,” the journalist said gravely. After a pause, he glanced at Raymond. “Did they make it?”

“I don't know.”

“Something else for you to find out.”

Raymond looked down at the water. He couldn't see his feet, but he wiggled his toes and sank deeper into the sand.

“Will Eve be all right out there?”

“I trust Manno,” Sauveur said. “He's fluent in Spanish, and he's got family over the border. They'll get in, no problem.”

Still facing the ocean, Raymond took a few steps backward and then turned around to walk toward shore. Sauveur followed. They sat on the beach.

“About your brother…” Sauveur scratched his throat.

“You said he was alive, right?”

Sauveur nodded. “But that doesn't necessarily help us. We can't have our man inside simply just break him out of prison, Raymond. No one gets out of Fort Dimanche. There are guards, and they are trained to shoot anything that moves. That's
if
you can make it past the barbed wire, or survive the torture, the starvation.”

Raymond steeled himself. “So what good is he? Your man inside?”

“I'm sorry, but he'd be risking too much. He has his own grudges against the warden, but there are certain things he won't do. Let's rule that out right now.”

Raymond felt short of breath as he spoke. “But he'll help us?”

“As much as he possibly can, yes.”

“Then I'll have to get in somehow.”

“Get in?” Sauveur said. “Why? Don't be stupid.”

“Do you have a brother?”

Sauveur shook his head. Then he couldn't know what it meant, Raymond thought. Raymond remembered how, when they were little, his brother would tremble in a corner in fear of their father. He was the one to wipe the blood away from their welts at night, in their room. Raymond would not give up on Nicolas, even with so much resentment between them. He was his only family in Haiti now, and he would do whatever it took.

Sauveur shook his head again. “It's suicide. Getting into Fort Dimanche isn't tough, but how the hell do you expect to break out, the two of you? No man has ever escaped from there.”

“I can't do it alone, that's for sure.” He gazed steadily at his friend.

Sauveur looked into Raymond's eyes for a long moment and sighed. “We'll need time.”

“That's one thing we don't have much of,” Raymond said. “August twenty-seventh is just over two months away.”

Sauveur sucked his teeth and shook his head furiously. “This is madness. You realize that?”

“We're all mad,” Raymond said. “You ran away from the Tonton Macoutes in broad daylight and you're still here pushing the news from underground. I'm not the only one who's crazy here, trust me.”

Sauveur paused and rubbed his hands together slowly, to the rhythm of the waves. When he stopped, his face brightened. Raymond saw him grin. The journalist stroked the hair on his chin. Fishermen floated by in pairs, carrying canoes on their heads. Some of them interrupted their singing to greet the two men with the common politeness of country folk. Sauveur returned their greeting with more assurance than Raymond. They waited for the men to disappear before speaking again.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Sauveur stared at him. A dark storm was brewing in his eyes. “Absolutely certain?”

“I have nothing to go back to,” Raymond said. “I've got nothing left.”

Sauveur smiled. “I knew you were a different kind of man,” he
said, “taking me into your cab like that, driving away like you did. You're a—”

“A lunatic, I know. You've said.”

“No, I was going to say ‘a saint.'” Sauveur's large hand squeezed Raymond's shoulder with reassurance. “Come, let's have coffee. And then possibly a drink! I think we're going to need it …”