Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (19 page)

EIGHTEEN

W
hen he saw Elon the following day, Raymond whispered to him about medicine.

“I think it's TB, and he says he might have an infection. It burns when he pisses.”

“The doctor won't come unless it's payday,” Elon said quickly. “He never sees the prisoners unless the orders come from the warden, and that's not going to happen.”

Raymond looked at him with imploring eyes.

“I'll see what I can do,” Elon said.

For three days, Elon managed to remain inconspicuous as he visited Raymond and Nicolas in their cell.

“The doctor sends you these,” Elon said, dropping tiny bags of medicine in the palms of their hands. “It's what he's got on-site.”

“But…” Nicolas looked at the pills. “I thought the doctors—”

“The warden knows you're ill,” Elon replied. “I told him. It was the only way to get you any meds.”

Nicolas and Raymond stared at the guard, dumbfounded.

“He wants you alive,” Elon said, looking down. “Anyway, this is just a stopgap. If you have tuberculosis, these pills won't help. I'm told what you really need is to be hospitalized and quarantined. That could take months.”

“It'll have to do for now,” Nicolas said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Elon would sometimes bring extra cornmeal and rolls of bread
and pass them to Nicolas when the cook came to the door. Boss would stare in dismay, and Nicolas would avoid his gaze. The old man was speaking to him less and less these days. He tried to avoid starting a quarrel. The men in here were already arguing about who would become the next “Major.” Nicolas recoiled at man's apparent need, even in the face of such horror, to create hierarchies. Some of them were already kissing up to the guards. No matter how sneakily delivered, the medicine and extra food made him unlikable, so he kept to himself.

Nicolas's coughing diminished within two weeks. He could feel a difference in his body, and he'd started exercising again, following the lead of other inmates in his cell. He found the strength for push-ups and sit-ups, and more often than was wise, Nicolas climbed the tree. But always, the old adage came back to him:
What God has in store for you, nothing can take away.

The morning of August twenty-six, Raymond's eyes scrolled through the list Elon presented him at the door of the cell. It was written in French, so it took him a few minutes to decipher.

Autorisation de liquidation des conspirateurs, 27 Aout 1965.
The letter was authorizing Jules Sylvain Oscar to “rid the Republic” of the named plotters by any means necessary. And there, in the mix of all those wretched souls the Macoutes were to slaughter, were their names:
Raymond L'Eveillé. Nicolas L'Eveillé.
The letter was concluded, in fresh blue ink, with the familiar ornate signature that read
Président Duvalier.

Raymond drew a deep breath. He and Nicolas had prepared for this. It was time.

Elon fidgeted with his keys, and he swallowed before looking into Raymond's eyes.

“It'll be at midnight. Be ready.”

Elon's voice cracked, but Raymond pretended not to notice. He tried to swallow, but his throat was parched. They heard a creak at the other end of the hall. Elon quickly shut the cell door and locked it. Once he was left in the dark, Raymond turned to his brother.

“
Lé a rive.”

But the time came sooner than expected. Long before night had even fallen, the door swung open again to reveal the chief supervisor.

“Brothers L'Eveillé, come with me.”

Nicolas shot his brother a terrified glance, but Raymond only stared at the imposing figure in the door. This was not part of the plan.

The brothers were led to Jules Oscar's office. The door was open. A man was standing there in a guard's uniform, facing the warden's empty desk. Something moved in the corner of the room and Oscar emerged from the shadows, nostrils flaring.

“Step forward,” he ordered. “I won't bite.”

They shuffled closer and Oscar told the uniformed man to face them. Raymond's jaw flexed in anguish. Elon gazed at them, his eyes vacant as he swallowed hard. Raymond felt the earth opening beneath him as Oscar stepped closer.

“Do you know this man?” Oscar growled.

Raymond flinched. “I— He's a guard.”

“
How
do you know him? You've met him before?”

“No, sir,” Raymond said.

“You're a liar! You're lying, like you lied that day when you plowed into my car. You're some sort of vermin spy sent to destroy me.”

Raymond was silent. Oscar walked around them, these three men huddled in the middle of the room in a pitiful triangle. Nicolas kept his head down. Raymond wanted to reach out for him but didn't. He didn't dare move. Oscar's rage permeated everything.

“You don't think I know what's going on here?” Oscar stopped next to Elon. “Who authorized you to put them in the same cell?”

“Sir, I got soft,” Elon said. “I wanted to help two brothers. That's all.”

“Don't speak!”

The door was still open, and Oscar glanced toward the men
standing there, rifles in hand. With a quick motion of his head, he signaled for them to come closer.

“You're up to something here. It isn't entirely clear what, but I want you to know something very, very important: it doesn't matter.”

Raymond was the only one who looked at the warden as he spoke.

“S-sir, you have to believe me,” Elon stammered. “I just thought—”

“You do not think here,” Oscar yelled. “You follow orders. Anything else is insubordination.” He glanced at the men. “Take him.”

Elon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The men grabbed him by the arms. He shot a final glance at Raymond, who wanted, more than anything, to say thank you. To say he was sorry. To say anything that might help. But nothing could. Without a struggle, Elon let the men drag him away through the open door, his face suddenly calm. Standing stock-still, Oscar watched his guards disappear. Stupefied, Raymond and Nicolas stood with him. Finally, Raymond managed to speak.

“Where are you taking him?”

Oscar's eyebrows arched in amazement at Raymond for having spoken.

“He's innocent,” Raymond pressed. “All I did was beg to be with my brother.”

“After all this, you believe you still have a voice?” Oscar spat. He was done listening. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, he inched closer to the brothers like a dog sniffing fear on a stranger's ankles.

“To be sure, you are responsible for that young man's corruption.” Oscar's eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You're going to die tomorrow with that on your conscience. Both of you. Together.”

They were ordered back to their cell. Raymond marched alongside Nicolas, pacing his steps to the beating of his own heart, the rhythm of its rage. In that moment, he realized he would never hate anyone more than he hated Jules Oscar.

In their cell, the ceiling seemed lower than usual and the walls
like they were closing in. The lump in Raymond's throat would not dissolve no matter how hard he swallowed. His hands felt cold, and he held them together to conceal his tremor. He wasn't brave enough for this. The hour of execution was fast approaching and everything in the cell spun. Sometime later, his brother's lips touched his ear in the darkness. A hot, terrified breath.

“Is it all off? Are we ruined?”

Raymond shook his head. He turned and brought his lips to Nicolas's ear. “Just remember where we are going. Cité Simone. Be prepared. Nothing has changed.”

But that wasn't true. Everything had changed. Raymond had no idea if the signal that would trigger their escape was supposed to come from Elon or someone else. If their escape was dependent on Elon, all was lost.

Huddled next to Raymond, Nicolas caught himself praying. His entire life had been spent doubting the existence of a higher being. But he was praying now, wanting to believe that God was real, that He was alive and listening, that He was a benevolent and loving God. If He was, one thing was certain: they would succeed or they would die. Either way, Nicolas resolved hazily, at least neither he nor his brother would be coming back to the hell of Fort Dimanche.

When dinner was distributed, neither of the brothers had any appetite. The fear tied knots in their stomachs. Still, they forced the horrid food into their mouths, needing all the strength they could muster. As night began to fall and the prayers wore thin, Raymond found himself vomiting in the
kin.

Nicolas didn't want to be a coward. When the boots came, Nicolas heard his name called and he stood up immediately, knees knocking under him. The heat, the pressure, and the fear were crushing. Raymond reached for Nicolas's wrist and grabbed it. Nicolas felt a warm assurance in his grasp. A few other names were called, and finally, at the end, Raymond's.

“
En avant!”
the chief shouted. “March, you dogs! Quickly. I have a football game to catch.”

Over his shoulder, Nicolas saw Boss staring in silence at the ground. They didn't wave good-bye. In that moment, Nicolas was disgusted by his own suspicion that somehow Boss had given Elon up. The prisoners followed orders, marching out of the building and into the warm belly of night where everything was still and quiet.

NINETEEN

T
he night air was pregnant with the smell of salt and mud. The prisoners' feet sank into small puddles.

Raymond climbed into the truck first and Nicolas, standing behind him, took one more look at the fortress glowing under the jaundiced moon like a yellow-eyed beast. He didn't know whether to wave good-bye to Fort Dimanche or spit his contempt for it on the ground as he left. He followed the others into the back of the waiting vehicle.

There were two women and ten other men in the truck with them, and they were forced to squeeze in, elbow to elbow, on the small benches. Nicolas and Raymond sat side by side in the dark. There were no windows except for an opening to the front cabin. Not being able to see where they were was as terrifying as the knowledge that they were headed to their deaths. Raymond felt a thigh against his. A foot stepped on his toes as the other prisoners held on in the dark. The engine roared and he closed his eyes. Sauveur. Where was Sauveur? He'd said to expect a diversion, and Raymond was on edge.

Soon the truck turned down a bumpy road. Stones bounced off the bottom of the vehicle, startling the prisoners, who were whispering prayers with their eyes closed. Nicolas wrapped his fingers around Raymond's arm and felt how moist it was. They were both sweating.

“Thank you for being my brother,” Nicolas said. He'd never said this before, and Raymond was grateful.

They waited for that dreadful moment when the truck would finally stop. But it seemed to drive on and on, rattling its passengers' bodies and nerves.

Raymond turned to Nicolas and whispered something. Nicolas shook his head.

“What?”

They could barely hear each other over the noise of the road, the driver's garrulous chatter, and the guards' laughter. The chief made a comment about the football game that was playing on the radio. There were fewer guards than usual at the prison. They'd gone to the Stade Sylvio Cator to watch the game, leaving the chief and just a handful of shooters from the firing squad.

Raymond sat still, feeling for changes of pattern in the road. He scrunched his nose. Someone had lost control, poor soul, and soiled himself.

The vehicle continued its sinister dance, and soon a worse odor pervaded the air. Raymond knew they must be approaching the swampy execution fields, stagnant and black. As the truck slowed, the chief shouted something.

“
Sak gen la?
What the hell is going on?”

The front cabin fell suddenly quiet.

The driver stepped on the brakes and the truck came to an abrupt halt. The prisoners froze and listened.

Raymond felt for his brother's hand in the dark and squeezed it. It sounded like they'd run into an obstacle in the road. Raymond raised his eyebrows and held them in suspense, his blood rushing. This was it.

“Son of a bitch! What the hell do they think they're doing?”

Raymond recognized the chief's voice, then a guard responding.

“I don't know, Chief!”

The sound of doors opening. Raymond sat up and stretched his neck. If he tried hard enough, he was sure he could see through the little window into the cabin. He leaned forward and nearly fell onto another passenger. The prisoners pulled away as Raymond inched closer to the window.

In the front of the truck, he spied the driver clenching the wheel while the chief climbed out the passenger door. Ahead of them, in the glow of the truck's headlights, Raymond saw a vehicle broken down in the middle of the road: a white four-door sedan, its doors wide open. It looked like a Peugeot. It was parked transversally, blocking the road to the fields, and he saw a silhouette run around the car before hiding in the shadows. Someone was there. The darkness was thick, the window was small, but he knew what he saw. The driver glanced in the mirror and saw Raymond's face, his eyes wide through the opening.

“Sit your
bounda
down, prisoner!” the driver ordered. “Now!”

Raymond squatted, pretending to obey, but he remained in the same spot, observing the chief.

“Hey! You there! This is government property. What the hell are you doing? Move that
bogota
away from here before we blow you away!”

One of the men from the sedan shouted something back, but Raymond couldn't tell what. They were too far away. The driver was nervous. He gripped the wheel like he was going to tear it out of the dashboard. Raymond felt his chest swell with adrenaline. He glanced back in the direction of his brother.

“Are you ready?”

Nicolas was trembling. The moment had arrived. His tongue felt like a stone inside his mouth. Outside, the chief stood his ground, but did not venture closer to the car, his hand readied around the revolver in his holster. Raymond saw him cock the hammer back before yelling toward the Peugeot.

“This is a private road! I repeat: you're on government property. This is your last warning.”

Raymond saw everything happen quickly. A door swung forward and a man jumped out of the Peugeot. Gunshots erupted in quick flashes of fire. Raymond dropped to the ground and the other prisoners followed suit. Outside, shots and screams sliced through the night. The chief yelled orders. His voice grew closer as he retreated back into the truck.

“Get down! Ambush! Ambush!”

Raymond felt the bodies of the other prisoners all around him. He crawled across the floor on his hands and knees. Nicolas stayed close behind him, breathing on his ankles. Raymond stopped at the metal doors. He turned around and pressed his back against them, the cold metal digging into his bare flesh. The doors were bolted shut from the outside.

“Nicolas! Help me break the door down!” Raymond called.

He knew it was a long shot, but what other choice did they have? He started to slam his shoulder against one of the doors, and soon someone else started to kick. All the men joined in. One prisoner flung his entire body against the doors. Nicolas punched against the metal with all his might, until the bones in his arm felt like they'd snap. Outside, bullets whistled past the truck, and the women screamed, ducking for cover.

“
A l'aide!”
they cried. “Help us!”

“We have to get out of here!” someone shouted.

Just as Raymond started to think the metal would never give way, he heard a shot fired on the other side of the doors and felt them vacillate under his weight. His heart skipped a beat. Someone out there had fired a bullet into the bolt. Raymond shoved one more time, a roar rumbling out of his chest.

The doors flew open.

Prisoners who'd been pushing against the doors spilled out of the truck, landing in mud and gravel that cut their skin. Air! They were out in the world, the rocks shining milky white, the black desert bushes around them, and the marshes reflecting the glow of the moon.

On the horizon, there were lights. Raymond recognized them as Terminal Varreux, the gas storage facility between Fort Di-manche and Cité Simone.

“Quick! Nicolas!”

The last inmates jumped out of the truck under the gleam of the stars. They ran in all different directions. They seemed to be surrounded by nothingness, but in the distance, Raymond
saw the swamps and the wall beyond them. That was where they would have lined up the prisoners to shoot them. It was the first obstacle between them and freedom. It was the dividing line between Fort Dimanche's land and Terminal Varreux.

“Come on!” he shouted to Nicolas.

They ran together toward the swamps, Raymond holding his brother by the wrist. Gunshots peppered the night and sent chills down Raymond's spine. He'd never been so close to gunfire before. It sounded as if a whip was lashing through the air, as if the Devil himself was breathing down his back. Nicolas ran beside him, trying to keep up. The gravel felt like needles under their bare feet, but soon they reached damp earth, and their feet sank into the thick muck of brackish water. Nicolas slowed and held his breath as he caught a whiff of putrefaction. Raymond had to pull his brother forward.

“Move, Nicolas! Move!”

The muddy water rose higher, but they couldn't stop now. Behind them, they heard the guards screaming in the night.

“Shoot them! They're escaping.”

Raymond did not look back. The plan was now over. Raymond knew to expect a diversion, but he wasn't expecting a group of armed rebels to survive this ambush and whisk them away. Once they'd broken free, they were to run for their lives toward the slums. The rebels had risked their lives for a cause, no matter the consequences.

Raymond pushed Nicolas to keep moving. The water was now waist high. They would swim through it if they had to, no matter how much detritus floated in the darkness, no matter what critter or foreign body came their way. At least there probably wouldn't be bullets. The guards were too busy defending themselves for now.

“Shoot them!” Raymond heard the chief shriek, but his voice was growing faint. Raymond knew he needed to put some more distance between them and the commotion. Nicolas was out of breath next to him.

“Don't stop!” Raymond hissed. “We have to reach the wall.”

Raymond faltered in the water. Something brushed against his arm, and he jerked away violently. He thought he recognized, in the moonlight, the shape of a human head, the flesh rotting around the empty eye sockets. There was no time to be sure. They had to half swim, the water now shoulder high. His chest burned with fear. He turned when he realized his brother was stopping. What happened? He reached to grab his brother's arm. If Nicolas got shot, he wouldn't forgive himself.

“Come on, Nicolas! Come on!”

Nicolas had come face-to-face with a dead body, probably another inmate. The man's eyes were still wide open. His skin was milky and glossy, his body swollen, and the flesh had started to disintegrate. Nicolas was paralyzed, his mouth open, nearly filling with brown water.

Raymond yanked harder. “Don't get us caught, damn it! Come on!”

Each bullet sounded as if it were coming straight at them. Raymond swam, frantic, stroking the water away from him, his brother at his side. Soon they felt firmer land beneath their feet, the wall finally within reach. Raymond spotted a tree growing against its cement bricks.

“There!” he shouted.

He crawled out of the swamp, his underwear soaked and falling off his emaciated waist. He held it up with his left hand, and with his right, he reached for his brother, pulling him out of the mud. A bullet whirred past, grazing the ground next to Nicolas.

“Alert! Alert! Prisoners escaping!”

On the other side of the swamp, the guards were still shouting and scrambling, cursing as their heavy boots sank in the mud. Nature was on their side. Others were crouching behind the doors of their truck, shooting at the escapees who'd scattered everywhere in the night, shooting at the rebels' sedan.

They heard screaming, shouting as prisoners fumbled about in the dark. Some of them fell on the ground as bullets hit them. Then they heard the rumble of an engine. Raymond squinted,
but he couldn't catch much more than the outline of the white sedan, sitting low on the ground, its tires deflated. Then, suddenly, there were headlights aiming straight at them. The truck had now regained control, and it was backing up. Were the guards giving up? Leaving? The truck's engine roared again, hiccupped in the dark, and suddenly charged forward. It was coming right at them.

The truck veered left, looking for a solid path around the swamp. Raymond felt a cold rush under his skin. They were being chased. The ambush had failed—the guards had survived. They had to get out of there.

“Run, Nicolas! Run!”

Raymond reached the tree first. Bending at the knees, he offered his hands to Nicolas as a ladder, interlacing his fingers together.

“Go on!” he said.

Nicolas set his right foot into his brother's cupped hands and used the boost to hoist himself up onto a branch. Raymond followed. The truck was catching up, its tires crushing the tall grass, churning up mud. Raymond and Nicolas scaled the tree as if they'd been doing it their whole lives. Nicolas's lungs ached when he tried to breathe, but he had to try his best. He was not going back to prison.

After what felt like an eternity, they were finally level with the top of the wall. Raymond's heart was pounding, and he felt sweat beading on his forehead. When he looked down, he saw that the truck had stopped. One of the guards popped out of the passenger window, gun in hand, aiming at the tree branches.

The first shot missed them and grazed a branch Raymond had just released. He moved faster, helping Nicolas when he could. Beyond the wall, they saw the massive shape of containers and turbines rumbling in the dark, smelled diesel in the night. Raymond's feet rested on a branch as he inched toward the wall, his brother on his tail. Another shot came toward them. Raymond groaned, but managed to keep his balance as he clasped his foot. He felt the blood ooze, warm and thick.

“Raymond, are you hit?”

Nicolas reached for his brother and touched his back, but Raymond shouted back at him.

“Jump, Nicolas! Now!”

Before Nicolas could argue, Raymond extended his arms like a bird, leapt forward, and fell into the abyss behind the wall. Nicolas followed right as the guard fired a third time into the foliage.