Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (16 page)

THIRTEEN

M
ajor awakened Nicolas with a shove a few days later. Nicolas sat up on his mat with his hands against his eyelids. He'd been dreaming again, but the images of Eve were already fading. All he had to hold on to was her voice.

He looked around the cell and felt his body stiffen with a savage ache. He couldn't have described it to anyone if he tried, but it was worse than anything he'd ever felt. It was more than soreness. It was dread. It was the agonizing routine of waking up between these four walls every day, waiting for death to lick his bones clean.

Nicolas thought, once more, of the only alternative: an escape that afforded him control. If he could kill himself, if he could get out of this place…

“Get up!” Major's voice bounced against the walls.

Nicolas opened his eyes. “What? What is it?” he muttered, half asleep.

Were the guards coming for him? Major towered over him in the dark. The whites of his eyes had turned yellow recently, and he'd complained of fevers. Now, staring at him, Nicolas saw it clearly. Everyone saw it. Major's arrogance was dwindling in the shadow of a growing illness.

“Get up!” he spat. “Empty the
kin
!”

“Again?” Nicolas retorted. “We're supposed to take turns.”

“You'll keep on doing it until I tell you! Get off your ass!”

Major expected compliance. He'd been muttering under his breath, but for everyone to hear, that he was going to have to work hard at “breaking this nigger, teaching him his place.” No one said anything. No one fought back. But Nicolas was growing weary of this game. Major hadn't been as lucky in life as Nicolas—but then Nicolas had worked hard for everything he'd achieved. This dungeon offered Major the chance to keep a chokehold on the bourgeoisie. Nicolas decided he wouldn't take it lying down.

“We take turns,” Nicolas spat. “That's the rule, and it's someone else's turn.”

Nicolas wanted to go back to sleep. He barely had the strength to stand up anymore. He was weakening, just like everyone else in here, unable to glean enough nutrition from the putrid meals they were given. His kidneys were starting to feel the effects of dehydration, and pissing in the bucket had started to burn. He wouldn't even make it to his own execution if things went on like this. But then again, neither would Major.

Major folded over, suddenly, overwhelmed with a cough. Nicolas heard mucus rattling in his lungs each time he caught his breath. Tuberculosis was rampant in Fort Dimanche, and Nicolas's fear was that soon enough, it would come knocking in cell six and reap them, one by one. It had already killed two men in nearby cells since Nicolas had arrived. He'd heard them scream in the hallway about a dead body, then another one. He'd heard the coughs, seen the blood in the corners of mouths of those who emptied the buckets outside. It was only a matter of time.

Major cleared his throat. “Maybe I'm not making myself clear. Get that thing out of here, or I'll let the guards and the warden know you're not cooperating.”

He watched Major curl up in his corner for his sleep shift and wondered how long it would take for him to expire. He remembered reading case studies of inmate suicide. It was easy to see how that option could become increasingly attractive.

He shook his head to chase those thoughts away. No. He was not committing suicide. Not that it would have been easy to find a way, packed into this cell with all these other miserable human beings. There wasn't enough space for such a personal act. No, he had to stay alive at least a few days longer now that his friend was in the same condition. Jean-Jean—he had thought of his friend since they last talked three days ago, and had tried climbing the tree to ask the prisoners across the hall if they knew anything. But he hadn't been able to make contact. Frustration swept over him.

Nicolas grabbed the bucket. He was tempted to dump the contents on Major, but decided against it. Instead, like a good little prisoner, he waited for the guards to come and let him out. When he made it to the yard, he looked around for Jean-Jean, searched the lines with his eyes. But Jean-Jean was not there. Perhaps it wasn't his turn. Likely, he had been too badly hurt by the blows in the yard. When Nicolas returned to his cell, he dropped the bucket in the far corner where Major was sleeping. Major woke up and opened his eyes, startled.

“Say what you want to the warden,” Nicolas said. “I don't give a damn. Next time, someone else does this. I'm done.”

Major did not answer, but he watched carefully as Nicolas paced the cell and counted his steps, throwing a few punches, even attempting jumping jacks and push-ups like when he played soccer with his brother and their friends as a kid. Though he was still bruised, Nicolas knew that exercise would be vital in keeping him alive. The urine on his wounds seemed like some kind of miracle cure—they'd started to scab and close up.

He wanted to remain as sharp as he could, as alert as he could. If he was going to die, to be executed, and if he wasn't going to know the date, he wanted to know he could be strong when the moment came. He did not want to give the warden nor the government the satisfaction of killing him when he was already broken, weakened, reduced to less than a man. He wanted to be lucid, to stand tall when they pulled the trigger—he wanted to
look his killers in the eye. He was not going to die a coward, not if he could help it. Maybe one day, when Amélie asked how her father had died, her mother, or her uncle, or someone else could say he'd been a
gason vanyan,
a great man. Valorous. Brave. But of course, how could anyone outside ever know that?

“Planning to go a few rounds?” Boss asked.

Boss, like many of the prisoners, had found a hobby. He sat around molding paint chips and fibers from his mat into a paste mixed with his own urine. When it dried enough to become something close to papier-mâché, he shaped it into small playing cards or chess pieces, or squares of toilet paper to use at the
kin.
He was rolling a rook between his fingers as he watched Nicolas jog in place.

“I suppose we all need something to keep us occupied,” Nicolas said.

“I suppose we do.” Boss nodded thoughtfully. He set his final piece down next to the other pawns and chuckled.

“We should call you Muhammad. Like Muhammad Ali, the boxer.”

“If only I was that strong,” Nicolas muttered.

He was bending over to touch his toes when voices suddenly came rolling down the hallway. It started in the first cell, and soon the voices traveled past the other doors.

“
La mort!
Death! Death!”

Nicolas stood still and listened. Here it was again, that cry. Someone had passed away. What was it this time? Tuberculosis again? Or death by torture? Sometimes, the bodies lay there for hours, days even, before any of the guards cared enough to remove them. The last time they ignored the call, and the body had begun to decompose. Prisoners got sick, guards vomited on their own shoes, and for fear of retaliation from the spirit of the dead, a rule was instituted that prisoners would carry the body out, accompanied by prayer and hymns. Because that was the proper way to leave a place. Because otherwise the spirit of the dead might stay behind and torment the living. Nicolas found it odd that these monsters who killed so callously were terrified of the afterlife, of hauntings, of spirits who might seek revenge.

Nicolas heard boots stomping down the hallway. The guards were in motion.

“Who is it?”

Nicolas shivered at the presence of death so close by. It could have been any one of them.

“Cell two! Death! Death!”

“Step away from the door!”

Everyone in Nicolas's cell listened. Dread worked its way through his stomach and crawled up his spine. He heard the familiar clicking of a padlock, keys chiming, and a cell door swinging open down the hall. The inmates' voices rose instantly, loud and clear, as if they were right there.

“This one, Faustin! The old man! He's dead!”

Nicolas gasped. No. He must have misheard.

He eyed the rectangular window above the door. Could he make it? He spread his legs and hands and tried climbing. His palms pressed against the wall, and he applied weight on his legs for support, hoisting himself up toward the opening, only to slide back down. He was too weak today. Still, he tried again.

“Jean Faustin! Jean Faustin is dead!”

Once more, Nicolas's hands and feet slid down against the surface of the filthy wall. He couldn't latch on. He looked up at the small window, powerless.

“Let me out!” he cried, banging on the door. The other prisoners behind him stirred in the dark. Some of them cursed him.

“Stop it!” Boss hissed.

“That's my friend!” Nicolas shouted, oblivious to his cellmates.

A familiar murmur rose up in the hallway. The “Hymn to Death.”

“
Au revoir,”
they sang. “It's only a brief good-bye, we'll see each other again on the other side.”

Nicolas slammed his hands against the door. It was hopeless. He pictured his mentor in the prison yard, frail, struggling to keep his eyes open. This wasn't how he wanted to remember Jean Faustin. Horror shot through him. It had to be the diabetes. Jean-Jean had died for lack of insulin—a pointless death. He
could hear Jean-Jean's voice as if he were there next to him, talking about his sugar, his sugar that was never any good.

“Jean-Jean,” Nicolas cried.

“Shut the fuck up, L'Eveillé!” Major said, sitting up on his mat. Nicolas heard a commotion out in the hallway. He pressed his ear against the cold metal door, his eyes full of tears.

“What happened?” a guard asked.

Nicolas couldn't hear what the prisoners were saying, and it didn't matter anymore. Nicolas tried to climb the wall again. This time, a hand yanked at his ankle and he fell to the ground, his knees crashing into the barren concrete. The hallways resounded with voices saluting Jean Faustin's departure, and now the men in cell six, the men around Nicolas, were singing too. Boss leaned in and shoved his finger in Nicolas's face.

“Stay down and shut your mouth!” Boss said. “I've told you: if they catch you up there, all of us get beaten.” His eyes grew bigger, wider, filled with a sort of rage Nicolas hadn't seen in him before. “I'm warning you!”

Nicolas paused and tried to swallow the despair tunneling through the back of his throat. “He was a good man. He deserves better.”

Boss's lip quivered. Nicolas saw a little foam in the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up and sing then!” someone yelled at him. “Sing the hymn for your friend, if he was such a good one.”

Nicolas kept his back pressed against the door. Accept Jean-Jean's death? Impossible. He didn't have it in him.

“You think you're the only one to lose friends here? Or family? You think you're special?” Boss's hand wrapped around Nicolas's throat and squeezed firmly enough to constrict his airways.

Nicolas, panicked, coughed and tried to catch his breath.

“You're not!” Boss grumbled. “I can tell you about loss. I lost my son. I lost my flesh and blood here, in this hole, this rotten hole God has forgotten.”

Nicolas couldn't breathe. Suddenly, his vision grew blurry.
He thought he heard the other prisoners shout for Boss to stop. He saw a hand swatting at the air over his face, or maybe he imagined it.

“I didn't mean to. I didn't. All I did was answer questions, but they twist your words…” Boss's grip eased a little and Nicolas gasped. “I didn't know what I was saying. I was just trying to cooperate. I told them where he went, who he was friends with. It's all my fault.”

The old man released his grip and Nicolas fell to his knees. The old man stood there, rocking back and forth, his lips silently mouthing the words:
I didn't mean to.

Nicolas backed away, dissolving into the mix of naked bodies, disappearing among the ghosts. He felt tears burning his eyes. What was he now? Was he like Boss? Was he going to be? He was losing his mind, becoming the old man in prison plucking lice out of his beard, trying to remember whether Jean-Jean was right. Maybe he did say something during his interrogation. How could he not remember?

The self-doubt crippled him. He stayed on the ground while the men kept singing until a voice in the hallway, louder than the others, rose with a prayer. Psalm 23. Someone across the hall shouted for them to turn the body so they'd take him out the door headfirst, to keep Jean Faustin's spirit from lingering in the cell. It was useless, to ask for things from a God who was not listening, a God who let Jean Faustin die alone in a cold cell. He'd been dead since breakfast, a few doors down, and Nicolas hadn't been able to help. Who was this God, really, and why hadn't He intervened?

Nicolas stared straight ahead, listening as Jean's cellmates carried the body down the hall. Then he buried his face in his knees. It was dark there, and safe, and in that space he could grip his hair and pull it away from the scalp where madness had begun to crawl. He allowed himself to fall apart and listened for the cackle running under the prayers, the laughter of a trickster god lurking in the corners of Fort Dimanche: Death, adjusting his hat,
blowing smoke from a cigar, gyrating his hips, dancing around their cells, arms thrown wide in welcome. Death was laughing at him.

FOURTEEN

E
ight stories of imposing white concrete, Hotel Castel Haiti loomed at the top of a hill, lights blazing from every balcony and window. As Raymond's Datsun ascended the narrow road lined with banyan trees, he could hear the music from the hotel. His hands tightened around the wheel. He exhaled deeply, but he couldn't shake the fear inside him. He had to maintain his composure, even in the face of what he was about to do. He had a chance to turn around, a chance to flee back to Marigot. But he focused on the thought of seeing his brother again, no matter where that was.

A guard in a gray uniform conducted inspections at the hotel gates, and Raymond's car idled as he waited to be let through. The guard carried a pistol in an oversized holster. He leaned forward to look through the window of the cab. A cool breeze filtered into the car, carrying the scent of pine trees and jasmine from the hotel grounds. The guard eyed Raymond without much interest and glanced at the red ribbon dangling from the rear-view mirror.

“Taxi?”

Raymond nodded and the guard shrugged.

“Good luck with business tonight,” he said. “Everyone's busy dancing at the Awards Ball. I can't imagine why they'd need you. Not with all the chauffeurs here.”

Raymond thanked God for his taxi ribbon. Cabbies didn't make much these days, but they still had access. It had been Milot Sauveur's very first question: What access do you have as a taxi driver? After that, Sauveur did the research, made phone calls, and worked out a plan.

“This is your chance. On June twenty-second, at the Awards Ball.”

It was a special night for army and government officials. The president, accompanied by the First Lady, passed out honorary medals to top men in the regime. Raymond's lips turned up a little at the thought of the corruption concentrated inside. But the word was Jules Sylvain Oscar, warden of Fort Dimanche, liked to sip on rum punches at the hotel's game tables and on the pool deck with his mistresses, and tonight, he would most certainly be in attendance.

“He wouldn't miss it,” Sauveur had said. “It's one of his opportunities to be chummy with the Baron.”

And Oscar was Raymond's link to Nicolas. There was no turning back.

Raymond guided the Datsun down the arced driveway. It was possible, highly probable, that he was driving to his death. Vines of banyan trees brushed against the hood of the car as if clinging to him, whispering prayers to usher him into the underworld.

Hang on, Nicolas,
he thought.
I'm coming for you.

Raymond and Sauveur had gone over the plan many times at the journalist's kitchen table, reviewing the diagrams of Fort Dimanche, poking holes in their timelines, and brainstorming contingencies, and each time, they concluded this was the best chance. Raymond noted everything, nodding, even as the plan grew riskier and Sauveur lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of his last, twitching in his chair before throwing his pencil down.

“I'm sending you to your death,” he murmured. “If you survive, it is no thanks to me.”

Raymond shook his head. “I asked you for help, didn't I? I trust your plan: I sacrifice myself to the lion, and then I climb back out of his mouth.”

Shiny black vehicles were parked along the curb by the dozens.
Men in crisp khaki uniforms strutted around, their shoulders decorated with gold boards and tassels. Men and women glided out of foreign town cars with spit-shined shoes gleaming like mirrors. Raymond had never seen this many members of high society together in one place before. The local officials wore black tuxedos and held their female companions by the waist, or offered them an arm to lead them up the stone steps. Foreign dignitaries slid out of chauffeured cars in fine suits, se-quined gowns, and silk turbans—their finery undercut by the bewildered looks on their faces. They were the reason Raymond was here, the only reason he and Sauveur had designed this plan as such. Rumors abounded that Duvalier, desperate for international investments in Haiti, was on a mission to reform his image. They would not shoot Raymond in front of foreign delegates and tourists. Raymond spotted armed guards posted every few feet, holding shotguns up in the air, their eyes blank and cold.

There are too many cars,
he thought.

Music from a brass ensemble and maracas tumbled out through the windows while valets huddled around, holding doors open and bowing. He sat in his car, overwhelmed. He could still leave. The whole idea was madness, certainly, and panic was setting in. Yet if he left, where would he go? He couldn't leave Nicolas behind and simply move on. His heart thudded in his chest.

There it was. He'd been looking for the car since he drove in: a navy-blue Cadillac with the license plate number Sauveur had given him. Oscar's car.

He clenched the wheel until the web of skin between his fingers ached. There was time to pray or to think, but Raymond wasted none. The more he debated, the more he felt fear's screws bite into his bones. Raymond checked his rearview mirror, carefully put the car in reverse, and backed up, getting a bit more distance between himself and the Cadillac. He could see it clearly as he fastened his seat belt. It was one of the most beautiful vehicles he'd seen in Port-au-Prince. A shame, really. Raymond stomped the gas pedal and the Datsun gave a little jolt before lunging forward. He clenched his teeth and plowed directly into the side of
the Cadillac. The beautiful blue door buckled instantly and Raymond's ears began to ring. The crash was so loud that, for a brief moment, Raymond thought he'd gone deaf. When the startled valets realized what had happened, they all ran to assess the damage, gasping, “
Kolangèt!
What the hell! Is he drunk?”

Raymond unfastened his seat belt and took a deep breath. Reaching up, he pulled the picture of Yvonne, Enos, and Adeline—smiling brilliantly, as always—out of the visor and stuffed it into his breast pocket. Then, with trembling knees and sweaty hands, he staggered out of his Datsun. His head was spinning, ears still ringing, but he could see clearly as he stepped gingerly over the shattered glass of taillights. The Cadillac was totaled. The Datsun's front bumper was still lodged into its door, its hood folded like an accordion, its fuming engine exposed.

“Are you all right, brother?” asked a valet, touching his shoulder.

Raymond heard himself saying what he and Sauveur had rehearsed: “I don't know what happened. The gas pedal jammed somehow. There was nothing I could do.”

As the hotel guests stared in awe at the wreckage, two armed guards approached quickly. Another valet walked around the two cars, whistling in dismay.

“Do you know what you've done? That car belongs to the warden of Fort Dimanche, Jules Sylvain Oscar. It was brand new. You are truly fucked, my friend.”

“Sit on the curb over there,” one of the soldiers said, taking Raymond by the arm. It wasn't an aggressive gesture, though. Everyone, even the soldiers, seemed so shocked that the only emotion they could muster was pity.

But Raymond did not budge. His body felt heavy, and his heart was pounding. He tried to take a step back, to go to his car, to sit there and wait, but the soldier held on. The Cadillac's bumper croaked, slowly detached, and fell off in the driveway. An audible gasp rose over the hotel steps.

“Did your brakes fail?” one of the valets asked.

Raymond just shook his head. “Something jammed.”

The other valet muttered under his breath, “Dead man walking.”

Raymond heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned to discover five guns pointed at him. The men were not in Macoute uniform, but it was clear what they were.

“
Men li,”
someone said. “There he is.”

A shiver ran up Raymond's spine as he recognized Jules Oscar. He looked just like his photos in the newspaper: repulsive, with a long scar slicing down his face and bloodshot eyes.

“What happened here?” the warden said.

Next to Oscar stood a man with thin black hair and pink ears. He wore a beige suit and pink tie, with a little gold pin in his lapel that caught the light. The man's blue eyes shifted curiously from Oscar to Raymond and back to Oscar again. He shook his head, dismayed.

“Oh dear! How unfortunate!” Raymond's ear picked up the accent. He was a Frenchman, a dignitary. “
C'est votre voiture?
Is this your car, Oscar?”

Oscar did not respond to the question, his mouth hanging open at the sight of the damage. After a long, silent pause, he looked around at the crowd, scanning their faces, until his eyes found Raymond.

“You did this? You did this to
my
car?”

Jules Oscar was dressed in white from head to toe, an unlit cigarette waiting to be sparked. His shirt was buttoned to the neck, where he'd wrapped a red silk ascot in lieu of a tie. The smell of luxury—of rum, tobacco, and strong cologne—wafted toward Raymond. Raymond didn't speak. His throat was clogged, his ears still ringing. He kept his eyes on the warden, who stared at the Cadillac in dismay. A woman in a blue dress came running up behind him, holding up the train of her gown. She stopped where the other armed men stood.

“My car!
C'est pas possible, chéri!”
Her scarlet lips scowled at the damage, and she gathered her gown to avoid shards of glass. “I can't believe it. Look what he did to my new car!”

“
Quelle veine!
” muttered the Frenchman, a stern man whose
sleek black hair reminded Raymond of carrion, of a vulture hovering over a bloodbath, surveying possibilities.

The warden walked over to Raymond and immediately everything else seemed to fade away.

“Do you have any idea how much this car costs?” he asked calmly. “I bought this car brand new just two months ago. I hope you're prepared to pay for what you've done.”

Raymond swallowed and found his voice. “I'm just a taxi driver, sir. How could I possibly afford to repay you?”

“That's not my problem!” The warden raised his voice, his eyes wide. “You'll fix this mess if you know what's good for you.”

“How?” Raymond replied. His tongue felt heavy. “I don't have the money—I can barely eat these days. What are you going to do? Arrest me and throw me in jail like you do all the other poor
malheureux
in this country?”

Oscar stared at Raymond as if he were a bizarre specimen in a science experiment. A hushed murmur rose from the small crowd. Raymond heard someone joke that he sure had balls. The Frenchman was asking someone to translate the remark. “
Qu'est ce qui se passe?”
Someone leaned in to explain.

Oscar cocked his head.

“There's plenty of room in prison for you: in Penitencier National, Casernes Dessalines,” he said. “Somehow, you'll have to pay for this.”

That didn't fit Raymond's plans. He had to get to Fort Dimanche somehow. He remembered what Sauveur had said, that making any political statement could cost him his life on the spot. But here, in front of all these dignitaries? In front of this Frenchman? Raymond couldn't see it. Still, he felt as though the sweat pouring off his forehead would blind him entirely.

“Well, go on then,” Raymond uttered. “Finish us off. First you send my family to Fort Dimanche, and now you want my bones for dinner?”

It was like pushing a button: Oscar's whole body twitched at the mention of Fort Dimanche. He rested his hand on the hood of the Cadillac and his spine straightened.

The Frenchman asked for another translation: “
Il dit quoi, lâ?
What is he saying about Fort Dimanche?”

Oscar glanced at the Frenchman, then at Raymond. This time, they locked eyes and Raymond wanted to jump out of his own skin. This time, no one translated.

“Are you sending him to Fort Dimanche?” the Frenchman asked Oscar. “Come now. It's not that serious. It's only a car. The poor man didn't mean to—”

“Only a car?” The woman in the blue dress glared at the man. “It was my car, my gift. He totaled it.”

“He's just a cabbie,” the Frenchman said. “Look, let's get back to business before I give up and go home. We have much to discuss. Are we going to do this or not?”

Raymond stared hatefully at the visitor. He was not supposed to be part of this. He was going to ruin everything with good intentions. Only a car? This man had no idea what cars meant to people in this country, did he?

“You have a relative in Fort Dimanche?”

Oscar had heard Raymond's words.

“What is your name?” he asked.

Raymond held his breath. “Raymond L'Eveillé,” he croaked.

“How interesting,” Oscar said.

Raymond's throat ached. He was thirsty, he was hot, and yet he planted his feet firmly on the ground and waited without moving. A Tonton Macoute, dressed in an oversized tuxedo, pulled out a pistol from the folds of his ill-fitted vest and aimed it at Raymond's face. Raymond's heart fell, and he resisted the urge to shut his eyes.

“Sir, he came here on a mission to kill you,” the gunman spat. “Look at what he did to your car! He's an assassin. A hired assassin!”

“I'm a simple cabbie, trying to get by. I'm no assassin. I'm unarmed. I don't even have a penny to my name to fix up your car. Something jammed.”

He tried to calm the tremor in his knees. The Frenchman, meanwhile, was wiping the sweat off his brow furiously with
a silk handkerchief as pink as his necktie. The warden stared back, said nothing. Then, just as Raymond felt like his eardrums would burst under the pressure of his own heartbeat, Oscar smiled.

“You could have killed me, and you would have, if I were in this car. But thankfully, no one is hurt.”

Oscar scanned the crowd behind him, offering a repulsive, toothy grin that seemed to chill only Raymond. The Frenchman grinned right back, chuckling nervously.

“Things could be much worse,” Oscar said. “We can settle this matter tomorrow. Report to my office at eight thirty—”