Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (20 page)

TWENTY

T
he brothers fell on the dusty terrain of Terminal Varreux S.A. Raymond rolled away from the wall and called to Nicolas. The drop hadn't been as steep as they'd expected. Still, the shock of landing had hurt their feet and knees. Raymond was bleeding profusely from where the bullet had grazed him. Still, he found the strength to stand.

“Nicolas! Keep moving! We must keep moving!”

Nicolas crawled toward him and struggled to his feet. They ran toward the turbines. They heard the roar of the truck die down behind the wall, but the guards' voices were still close. Behind them, more gunshots.

Terminal Varreux had been quartered off the wharf, away from the cruise port, and had been designated to hold shipments of tanker fuel. It was deserted at this time of night, but there were guards on the grounds and possibly dogs, and the Macoutes would alert one another soon enough. They would be caught if they stopped. But Raymond and Sauveur had planned for this, calculating that it was only two miles to Cité Simone.

So they kept moving alongside the enormous containers stacked under the black sky. Soon the grass turned into gravel again, and Raymond felt the pain in his leg intensify. He was leaving a trail of blood, but he could do nothing about it. He had to reach Cité Simone.

Nicolas kept quiet, staying in Raymond's shadow. They stopped behind a cluster of drum containers and crouched in the shadows.

“Easy,” Raymond whispered.

They'd come to an open driveway, and the darkness of the path was illuminated every few minutes by a beam of light spinning in the terminal's watchtower. Nicolas saw his brother's lips moving. Counting.
One. Two. Three.
Raymond was measuring the timing of the light.
Six. Seven. Eight.
The darkness was back.

Nicolas started forward, but Raymond held him again, firmly, his hand squeezing the bones in his wrist. Voices. Two guards were coming. They were dressed in olive green, their boots laced all the way up under their calves, and they each toted a shotgun. One of them stopped and lit a cigarette. Raymond stared intently at the man, the flame of the match illuminating his brown face and his broad nose as he sucked on the butt. Nicolas's eyes rested on a sign pasted against the container: “
Défense de Turner.
No Smoking.” The guard blew a plume of smoke in the air.

“Hey! Did you hear that?”

The other guard stopped and listened to the distant rumble of engines and what sounded like people shouting over the wall.

“Who knows?” the other mumbled. “Fort Dimanche is over there. Could be anything.” He too lit a cigarette and started smoking.

“An execution, you think?”

“Could be…”

The men smoked their cigarettes, their eyes glued to the wall. The tower light spun incessantly, flooding the driveway, bathing the guards in bright white light every few seconds. Raymond held his breath and felt his brother forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

“I'll go back to port, see if I can find out what's going on,” the second guard said. “I've never heard this much racket before. Doesn't seem right.”

The first guard drew on his cigarette again. “I'll take the front gate,” he said.

Once they were alone, Nicolas sighed heavily. His legs felt like lead and he was racked with exhaustion. They needed another
wave of adrenaline if they were going to make it, or else fear would destroy them both.

Raymond motioned ahead. Under the moonlight, they could see the outline of Cité Simone. Nicolas glanced at it and nodded. Yes, he could do it. He had to do it. And then there was no more time to think, because Raymond had counted to eight. A shadow flashed past him. Nicolas gasped in surprise. Raymond had already bolted forward. Nicolas ran across the driveway, following his brother. The gravel crunched under their feet as they sprinted toward the slum.

Raymond felt Nicolas's presence behind him and thought this was it: now they were safe as long as they were together. A voice rang out.

“Freeze! Trespassers on grounds! I'll shoot!”

Behind them, a guard was standing in the driveway, the bright light of the tower now steadily aimed at him. At his feet, the gravel was speckled with Raymond's blood.

“Freeze, I said!”

But they didn't freeze. They charged forward, reaching the dividing line between the terminal and the slum. Raymond knew what was there: the Canal Saint-Georges. But seeing it sprawl now before his eyes, his heart skipped a beat.

“Shit!” Nicolas clenched his fists.

The guard took aim, fired three times, and missed three times. The bullets whistled past.

“Jump!”

Canal Saint-Georges's water flow had slowed over the years as the trash had piled up. Then, as poverty and famine struck the masses, the people of Cité Simone, which was named after Papa Doc's wife, began to dump their waste into the now stagnant water. Cité Simone had attempted to have it cleaned up, but the city management never sent sanitation crews. Now, Canal Saint-Georges was the local dumpster where the children came to search through rubble, hoping to find a small puddle of water for a bath, and where stray dogs and goats and pigs and rats came to
scavenge. It was one of the ugliest secrets of Port-au-Prince, the blemish that the haute society pretended not to know about.

The brothers' heads surfaced from the cesspool of feces and soap scum. Raymond gasped for air as if to swallow the stars. He paddled across mud, cups, scraps of fabric, and decomposed foods with his brother on his tail.

Nicolas felt his knee stiffen, so he pushed against the debris with his arms more, hoping to alleviate the pain. Both brothers tried to cover their mouths against the burning fumes.

The canal was only about fifty feet wide, but they crossed it slowly, so as not to attract attention. Raymond reached the other side first and remained on his knees for a moment, his muscles spasming. Nicolas crashed next to him, grunting with pain. His leg was oozing blood.

“Is it bad?”

Raymond inched closer. The wound was open and the flesh exposed, red and wet.

Raymond felt a jolt as if his muscles were reigniting yet again. He wanted to take a moment to revel in amazement at the divine hand that had given him the courage to run, to jump, to pull Nicolas out of hell. But the infernal staccato of gunshots had resumed. On the other side of the canal, over the wall, Terminal Varreux was buzzing. The spine-crackling howl of a siren followed and Cité Simone awoke before their eyes.

Windows blinked with flickering orange candlelight. Raymond saw flames twitching on the naked wicks of
tèt gridap
lamps set on windowsills. He imagined the rattle inside dark homes, husbands and wives bumping against corrugated metal or thatched rooftops and shutters, stubbing toes against table legs, or rolling off their beds in surprise. The entire slum, the surrounding townships of La Saline, of Croix des Bossales, and neighborhoods all the way to the Champ de Mars and the Palais National were being alerted. Prisoners had escaped, and squads of Tonton Macoutes were undoubtedly on the move.

It dawned on Raymond that they'd actually succeeded. They
were the first prisoners to escape. This was real. But the guards and their reinforcements would be in Cité Simone soon if they weren't there already.

TWENTY ONE

W
hen Raymond opened his eyes, the sky was flushed pink with dawn. Where was he? For a moment, he thought he'd died. Then he thought he'd awakened in an open field back in his home village, except the smell was different. Unpleasant. Someone was burning rubber. He sat up, wide-awake, and remembered: they were free. He was in the heart of a trash field in Cité Simone. He didn't know how long they'd slept. He was still covered in the cardboard sheets he'd piled up on his brother and himself. Nicolas was at his side, wrapped in layers of newspaper.

Raymond sat up and smelled the air again. Definitely burning tires. The guards of Fort Dimanche, the police force, and the Tonton Macoutes must have set up roadblocks while they canvassed the neighborhood. Unfortunately, that meant that innocent people might pay the price.

Aching all over, Raymond crawled to the nearest puddle. At least he could wash his face. He dipped his fingers in the water, ignoring the grime at the bottom. His hands were red and raw, the wounds on them still fresh and open. The blood on his foot had coagulated, thick and black, like the sap from a bleeding mango tree, and it still hurt when he touched it.

When Nicolas woke, he found Raymond scavenging for scraps of fabric. He seemed confused at first and stared at the sky for a long time. The streaky clouds in the blushing sky were the most
magnificent sight they'd seen in a long time. This was freedom: the sky.

Raymond made his way back to his brother, carrying torn scraps. He had wrapped his foot, and he was limping a little, but he still managed to move quickly. He wrapped Nicolas's leg and wiped his hands. Nicolas tried to speak, but his throat was parched.

“I'm not sure how much time we've lost,” Raymond whispered, tying the fabric into a square knot. “We slept a few hours. We have to move.”

The dawn streets were swarming with Tonton Macoutes. Raymond and Nicolas hid behind boxes and sheds, trying to assess the situation. Women and children screamed while men were pulled out of their homes, furniture tossed onto the sidewalk, as Macoutes searched for signs of fugitives. The busiest crossroads of Cité Simone were blocked with piles of burning tires. The Macoutes doused shanties with gasoline and set them on fire. They walked around, pistols in hand, shooting at anyone who stumbled into their path. Trucks drove past with megaphones, Macoutes shouting orders from the moving vehicles.

“Anyone aiding and abetting the fugitives will have to answer to His Excellency himself. If you have information on where these criminals could be hiding, you will be duly compensated.”

“Who would believe that?” Nicolas sputtered.

But Raymond could only shake his head. He knew how many people—regular people—would do anything for a chance at a better life, whether they trusted the president or not.

Raymond found an empty shack with clothes hung on a line out back. He made sure the coast was clear before snatching pants and shirts. Behind the small house, they found drums of water and helped themselves to a drink and a quick washing of face and hands, overlooking the mosquito larvae and dust floating on the surface. They wiggled their legs into the too-large pants and put on the shirts. Raymond sat Nicolas down on a small chair among roosting chickens and proceeded to shave his
brother's head with a large shard of glass he'd found in the dust. Nicolas winced.

“Hold still,” Raymond whispered. “I know what I'm doing. I've done it for Enos plenty of times.”

He said his son's name, but fought off the wave of sadness it brought. In the distance, they heard shots. Screams. Nicolas's heart started to pound in his chest.

“They're coming this way,” he whispered.

Raymond didn't stop. When he was done, Nicolas's bald head was ashy and dry. Raymond took a closer look at his brother and nodded.

“You look like a new man,” he said.

Nicolas's heart swelled with gratitude, but Raymond was already on the move. Cité Simone was radiant in the morning light. The metal roofs mirrored the sun, and a thin stream of soapy water rushed down the
rigòl.
They were still barefoot, but moving around was easier now that they weren't naked. Raymond stopped once to unwrap his foot. It hurt, but it was no longer bleeding, and the rag he'd used as a bandage had become a nuisance.

A girl turned the corner ahead and came running toward them, haggard and out of breath. Her hands balanced a basket of bread on her head. Raymond stopped her.

“
Sak gen nan zònn nan la a?
What's all the ruckus about?”

“Prisoners from Fort Dimanche escaped last night,” the girl replied in a rapid, breathless Creole. “Tonton Macoutes have blocked all entrances to Cité Simone. They're searching everywhere.”

She quickened her steps and walked away. Raymond glanced at his brother but showed no sign of alarm. He had to be hopeful and optimistic to keep Nicolas going. Through open windows and doors of shacks, Raymond smelled coffee and the pungent aroma of smoked fish. They were hungry. Starving. They hadn't eaten in a day and a half, and their stomachs growled as they walked among the locals who now flooded the streets. They couldn't stop for food, however. It was too risky.

Once they'd reached the busiest artery of Cité Simone, they stopped at the intersection and Raymond took a deep breath. His heart raced so fast, he rested a hand on his chest to keep it quiet. He knew this place well. It was where the taxi drivers stationed their vehicles along the sidewalk, where Raymond always came, at the end of his day, to count his money, drink a cola with his friends, and dream. There they were, his fellow taxi men, sharing bread and cups of coffee, eating spaghetti sandwiches in the early morning, leaning on their cars. This used to be his life, here on Rue Carton. Chez Madame Fils was still there on the same block, the snack bar open for breakfast.

Raymond searched the crowd for a familiar face. He saw men he recognized, but not the one he was looking for.

“Stay behind me,” Raymond said.

Nicolas felt his muscles stiffen with panic. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of men in blue, recognized their red bandannas, their soft hats. The sight paralyzed him all over again. Macoutes…

“Psst!” Raymond was calling him, and Nicolas realized he was supposed to follow his brother into the street.

“Come on!” Raymond gestured impatiently.

He looked at his brother and his lip quivered, but he moved forward anyway. There was no point in letting fear win. He joined Raymond and they melted into the crowd. The masses seemed to swallow Nicolas whole, and he took deep breaths to stay alert when all he wanted to do was collapse. Somehow, the world felt different now, like a giant, humming, monstrous vacuum sucking the breath out of his lungs. He didn't know it anymore. Granted, he'd never set foot in this slum before. He'd driven past but never through it. And yet to his brother, this was familiar territory. Raymond glided through the crowd easily, twisting his body to avoid bumping into the
machann
and peddlers carrying loads of merchandise.

Around the corner, a white van was being loaded up, the engine running. Raymond recognized the lettering on the doors.
Tannerie Nationale S.A. Raymond spotted Faton instantly: his bell-bottom pants, his striped shirt, his thick Afro, the comb sticking out of his back pocket, always at the ready.

“Faton!”

For the first time, Raymond found comfort in the strong, familiar smell of cowhide. Faton stepped away from his van, and his eyebrows arched in surprise. His jaw dropped, and the color drained from his brown face.

“Raymond?”

“It's me.”

“Raymond! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

Faton glanced at haggard, shorn Nicolas, then threw nervous glances over his shoulder. He wiped his hands on his pants. His gold chain sparkled.

“Raymond, I didn't think it was true. I heard your name on the radio, but I thought—”

“No time,” Raymond said, cutting him off. “Please, we need you.”

Faton nodded toward his truck.

“I was just leaving for work.
La ri a cho!
The streets are burning with chaos.”

Raymond looked at him. “What can we do?”

“Let's get you out of here,” Faton said. “They've barricaded all the entrances and exits. It's not safe.”

Faton opened the doors to the back of his truck. The foul odor of hide nearly knocked them over. The truck bed was piled high with a mountain of unprocessed cow skin, an amalgam of black, brown, and white-spotted fur. Some skins were folded in two and some hung from the ceiling, dangling like grotesque curtains. Raymond covered his mouth as Faton helped them inside.

“Hurry,” he told them.

They had no other choice. Nicolas curled up in a corner, and Faton started to pile cowhides over his legs and arms.

“What are you doing?” Nicolas asked.

“Quiet! Stay still.”

Raymond squatted low next to Nicolas, signaling to be quiet, to do what Faton said. Raymond trusted his friend to save them.

Faton covered Raymond next, hiding him under mounds and mounds of skin. Then he backed away to assess his handiwork and shut the doors before bolting them. The engine started and Raymond felt the van driving through the slums. He knew they'd turn left, knew what street they were on when Faton veered right two blocks later. He followed every step, Cité Simone etched in his cabdriver mind.

He knew Faton was doing his best to avoid barricaded streets. From where they hid, under the cowhide, Raymond smelled another tire fire. He imagined the scene like the other ones he'd witnessed before when the Macoutes set up roadblocks: chairs and baskets overturned, charred by red flames, along with smoking truck tires. Both brothers hid their mouths and noses inside the opening of their shirts to keep the stench from overpowering them.

“We'll suffocate in here,” Nicolas grunted.

“It won't be long,” Raymond replied. “Stay quiet.”

Without warning, the van came to a full stop, the engine still running. Had they made it to Boulevard La Saline already? Maybe they were stuck in traffic. Raymond heard the rumble of vehicles behind them, waiting.

“Driver's license? Registration?”

A checkpoint. Nicolas curled tighter under the hides and squeezed his eyes shut. The heat in the back of the van was stifling. Raymond felt as if he were being cooked alive. He listened, and between the words exchanged outside of the vehicle, he heard a click. What was that sound? He glanced over to where his brother was, but couldn't see anything under the skins. He imagined Nicolas coiled like a discarded fetus, clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering the way he did when they were young and their father searched for him in a fit of anger.

“Shh,” Raymond whispered.

It sounded like Faton was still seated at the wheel.

“Do you know why I stopped you?”

It was a Macoute. Raymond was certain of it. The voice was stern, authoritative.

“You're looking for those two fugitives, right?” Faton asked. He sounded impressively calm.

“Seen anything?” the Macoute asked.

“Nothing but rats and rodents in this piece-of-shit town, Chief!” Faton retorted. “Haven't seen anything.”

Silence. Then a tap on the door. Raymond gave a little start.

“Open the back!” the Macoute ordered. “Hurry up! If you do anything stupid, I'll shoot!”

Raymond wondered if Nicolas was shaking like he was. They heard a door slam and Raymond heard Faton's keys jingling as his hands trembled. Raymond's heart broke for his friend.

“Is this really necessary?” he heard Faton ask.

“Hurry up!” the Macoute shouted.

Faton's keys rattled as he inserted one into the lock. As the back doors swung open, he heard the Macoute begin to cough uncontrollably.

“What the—”

Light flooded the back of the van. The vapors were suffocating. The brothers needed to come up for air, and soon. But they had to wait just a little while longer.

“What the hell is that smell? Jesus!”

Faton apologized profusely, explaining to the gasping Macoute that this was his job. He was a tanner and those hides were being delivered. The Macoute was welcome to search the truck, but Faton was afraid of what it would do to the man's uniform.

“I can't seem to wash the smell off my clothes,” Faton said. “So sorry. I must warn you, the smell will follow you everywhere…”

The brothers heard what sounded like a smack. Something landed in the trunk and the van bounced on its wheels. The brothers felt the sway and held on.

“Get out of here! Get away from me with that shit!”

“Yes, sir! Yes.”

The van swayed again. Something shifted. Faton shut the doors, encasing them once more in darkness.

“Yes, Chief!”

They heard him running.

The engine started again and they pulled away. Soon they'd left Cité Simone. Raymond knew it. The smells were changing; the sound and the flow of traffic were different. They'd made it out. But Raymond stayed still and urged his brother to do the same.

Faton dropped them off steps away from Portail Léogâne. Nicolas could barely move his legs when they got out of the vehicle. He stepped away and vomited in a jasmine bush. Raymond clenched his teeth to repress his own nausea. How Faton did this for a living, he didn't know. But he was thankful.

Faton pulled some money out of his pocket.

“That's all I have,” he said, counting two hundred gourdes. “I wish I had more.”

Raymond shook Faton's hand and held it. His friend smelled less like hide than he did now.

“I won't forget this,” he said. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Get out of here,” Faton said, grinning as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hurry. If you get caught, all of my hard work will have been in vain.”

The pavement was searing hot under their bare feet. They tried to stay in the shade as they entered the bus station. Raymond shouted at Nicolas to stay close. It would be all too easy to lose each other in the crowd of travelers, bags, boxes, and clusters of chickens hung upside down, their feet bound with tight rope. Raymond caught sight of a school bus converted into public transportation, its hood and body painted blue and red. The stenciled letters on the back read “La Belle Cayenne.” It was headed southbound and so were they.