Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (21 page)

TWENTY TWO

R
aymond and Nicolas got off the bus on the main road. The gravel crunched underfoot as they staggered, groggy, pebbles lodging between their toes. Half a mile later, Raymond spotted the house, as beautiful as the first time he'd seen it, there against a backdrop of turquoise ocean and green palms, its shutters wide open. The gravel changed to sand. Sauveur came out to greet them, alerted by the kids who'd come running to his window. He stopped just a few steps away from them, shaking his head in wonder.

“I'll be damned,” he whispered. “L'Eveillé. You're alive. Both of you.”

Sauveur was grinning with joy, a tear in the corner of his eye. He took Nicolas's arm with care, looking to make sure no one had followed them. Shouted to the kids to fetch the captain right away.

“Let's get you inside,” Sauveur said.

Claudette brought water and bread, bits of food saved in the
garde-manger
that she served with bitter, freshly brewed coffee.
“Drink,” she urged them. “For your nerves.”

Nicolas ate slowly, ponderously, tearing off small bits of bread and chewing carefully. His hands trembled.

Claudette smiled with pity.

“And to think I was going to warn you about eating too quickly.”

She glanced at their torn-up hands, turning them at the wrist to evaluate the damage.

“Let's get you cleaned up.”

Nicolas barely spoke, his desire to thank them stifled by the over-whelming gratitude he felt for these people he'd never met. He never dreamed he'd find himself sitting in such a small, modest house, eating from enamel plates, drinking coffee brewed in
grèp
cheesecloths his mother had used back in their village. He had thought the rural life was behind him, but now he'd come full circle. The unfamiliar faces of this woman and this man who doted on Raymond and on him, the sight of their smiles, filled him with joy.

Claudette led Nicolas to a bath while Raymond sat sipping coffee. He gazed at the ocean and listened to the furious roar of waves. The tide was high and the sea frothed like a rabid monster. It was not a good day to be on the water. He knew no fishermen would attempt it. Their canoes sat on the beach, painted hulls fading in the afternoon sun. The wind blew a fishing basket out of a canoe and a boy chased it into the forest of leaning palms.

“The captain is on his way.”

Raymond heard Sauveur behind him. His host joined him on the steps with his own cup of coffee. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Raymond, I have to tell you, I really didn't believe you would make it,” he said. “This is unprecedented.”

“You set up the ambush,” Raymond replied. “Why are you so surprised?”

His throat was raspy and he felt his body at last capitulating to exhaustion, but he continued to drink, hoping the coffee would keep him awake a few more minutes.

“Yes, but it was such a long shot,” Sauveur said. “The men in that mission all must have died, you know. None of them have contacted us since yesterday, not even Elon.”

Raymond looked at his hands.

“He didn't survive.”

He explained what had happened. Sauveur stayed silent for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“He was a good man. All of them were good men, insurgents from the southern hills. Men who'd been building their own small militia to fight this government. I'd heard of their work through
the grapevine, and when I put out the call, they volunteered to help. There are more like them out there. Duvalier knows that, and it terrifies him.

“Right now Port-au-Prince is a time bomb,” Sauveur continued. “All they're talking about is your escape. They've set up roadblocks everywhere. You and your brother should get out of Haiti as soon as possible. So should I. Once we get you out of here, Claudette and I are packing our bags.”

Sauveur reached for a box of matches in his pocket, lit his cigarette between cupped hands, and the crisp marine winds carried wafts of tobacco away from them. Raymond gazed at the ocean. It was vast, like the desert, and in the distance he saw a sailboat swaying on the waves. He squinted, but couldn't see it distinctively. He imagined the men on board struggling with the sails, fighting against the wrath of the wind. Sauveur blew more smoke.

“Don't worry,” he said with calm. “Everyone here is a child of the sea, including Manno. They know what they're doing.”

Raymond's stomach knotted at the sight of the captain. Spanish flowed between him and Sauveur far faster than the brothers could follow.

“We're ready,” Sauveur said, and grinned. “You are following your wife and child.”

The wind had dropped, and the waves were less agitated now. Sauveur spoke to the captain and folded some gourdes before shoving them into his hand. He'd pay him the rest upon return. The captain nodded toward Raymond and Nicolas.

“I know what I'm doing,” the captain said. “No need to be afraid.”

The boys who roamed the beach gathered to help, pulling the boat closer to shore. Then the captain motioned for Nicolas and Raymond to climb aboard. Nicolas tossed in his bag, an old rice sack that held a change of clothes and his ID card, which Eve had left with Sauveur. He got in and waited for his brother. Raymond motioned for the captain to get in, and along with Sauveur and the boys standing onshore, he pushed the boat onto the waves.

Nicolas stared back at Raymond, confused, then started to stand as his brother pushed. He gripped the gunwales to keep steady. Raymond let go of the boat and let the waves lick the keel. The water was up to his knees as he stood there, staring at Nicolas, who stammered, his hands now extended toward his brother.

“Raymond, get in. Now!”

Raymond stepped forward and gave another push. He didn't answer. He stepped where the boys stepped. They knew where to place their feet, to stop as soon as the water hit them at the thighs. The ocean floor was sometimes like quicksand underfoot, and the undertow could be deadly. Raymond looked up and met his brother's eyes. Something hurt in his chest. Instead of seeing Nicolas as he was now, he saw the face of a confused child terrified at the thought of being alone.

“What are you doing?” Nicolas shouted.

“Go on, Nicolas!” he shouted into the wind. “I'm not coming with you.”

Nicolas tried to reach for Raymond and tripped over the thwart. He gripped the edges of the boat again to steady himself.

“What? What do you mean? Get in, now! Don't be ridiculous.”

Raymond stopped one step ahead of the boys. The sand shifted between his toes. He looked at Nicolas and felt his ears burn with shame for not having spoken honestly about his plan. He should have told Nicolas everything. But it was better this way. Nicolas never would have understood and they would've wasted time arguing.

“We should go separately,” he shouted back. “They're looking for two fugitives. We can't be seen together from now on, in case we get caught by the Macoutes. Understand? Go! Go on your own.”

“No!” Nicolas shouted, his eyes bulging.

Raymond continued to wave as the captain revved the engine.

“What are you doing?” Nicolas yelled. His voice was already fading. “I'm not leaving without you. That wasn't the plan, goddamn you! Get in! Get in, Raymond.”

Raymond waved again, feigning a grin, but he couldn't really smile. There went his brother, floating away toward the infinite turquoise
of water. There went Nicolas, whom he felt so close to now. He knew there was another world waiting for Nicolas. A family, a book to be published, a life to be rebuilt. For him, there was nothing.

“I'll see you very soon, brother,” Raymond shouted as the boat glided toward the horizon. “Go to your family. Kiss Amélie for me, and Eve.”

“Raymond! Don't leave me.”

“You go ahead,” Raymond continued. “I have to wrap some things up here. I'll see you soon.”

Nicolas clutched the boat, watching his brother disappear. The captain tapped him on the shoulder, motioned for him to sit. The waves smacked the hull of the boat like a hungry beast, and Nicolas felt the motor kick in as the captain revved it. He fell into the stern seat and looked back toward Raymond, anger searing through him. How could Raymond desert him like this, after all they'd been through? He wanted to yell at him, but it was useless. He wanted to embrace his brother once more, but it was too late. The motorboat sliced the surface of the ocean, soaring and falling back into the blue waters violently. His stomach began to churn.

“Stay low,” the captain shouted.

Nicolas tried to catch his breath as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He watched as the bay swiftly vanished before his eyes.

He closed his eyes and held on tightly, fighting another wave of sickness. He held fast the last image of his brother waving, feet deep in the water. He was now alone with the captain. Alone with the sea. “I have to wrap some things up here,” Raymond had said. What things? Why did Raymond insist on separating? What would happen to him now? If they didn't have each other to hold on to, life would push them apart again. Nicolas had found new love for Raymond. He hadn't expected to lose him again. The weight of that loss crushed him against the floor of the boat, and he curled up in the hull, his eyes burning with tears.

TWENTY THREE

N
icolas found the house at the exact address, half an hour into his walk. He realized he'd been afraid, the whole time, that it wouldn't be. That the lot would be empty. But his chest swelled when he spotted it. It was a rental, a small house painted carnation pink with white wooden doors and shutters on the windows, protected by iron bars. Jean Faustin's sister Mariette's house.

A small forest of banyan and fig trees served as a backdrop, and a patch of burned grass sprawled out front.

Nicolas caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette out in the front yard and froze. He thought he felt his heart crack.

Eve was too far to see him. He stared right at her as she crouched in the garden below the windows. It was her. Her hips were wide, her body strong, but she looked smaller at the waist. Nicolas took a few steps forward. A few more. Was this really happening?

She did not see him, her eyes fixed on the weeds. She was stabbing at the dry earth with an old kitchen knife, uprooting a row of dandelions. Her sandals were coated in dust, and she wiped sweat from her brow with her forearm. She crouched low to the ground, skirt tucked between her legs, thighs wide apart. It was an image the old Nicolas would not have been pleased with, a scene he would have deemed undignified. But now, he simply appreciated his wife's curves, her strength as she pushed the blade into the cracked soil, the contours of her face beneath
the black locks he loved to bury his face in. She was not a dream. She was real. She was here.

Nicolas swallowed hard. He willed himself to cross the street. He took in the windows and doors of the house, the clothes dangling on the line in the sunshine, the old shutters falling off their hinges. On the patio sat a tiny white chair next to a larger one. His heart melted when he noticed the details painted on its wooden spindles: little red flowers with green leaves. It was a child's chair. Amélie's chair. He was sure of it.

Nicolas stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house. Eve was just a few steps away from him. He could call her. Better yet, he could go to her, touch her shoulder or caress her hair, let her scream with joy and hold him. But instead, he stood there, trying to catch his breath. What if they didn't want him back? What if Eve was angry with him for putting them in such danger? What if she wasn't okay with being married to a fugitive? He was uncertain how to proceed, so he waited, his eyes glued on his wife.

A dog barked down the street. Nicolas, startled, dropped his sack with a thud, prompting Eve to look over. She squinted in the sun. Nicolas held his breath. God, she was beautiful! He found himself tongue-tied. All the speeches he'd rehearsed in his prison cell had now evaporated.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

Nicolas stared back, speechless. Was he that unrecognizable? He'd shaved. He'd bathed. Sure, he'd lost a few pounds and he was sweaty and tired after his trip. But this was the woman who knew him intimately. He waited for her to speak again.

Instead, she shielded her face from the sun with her hand and took another look at him. His eyes began to well up as he began walking up the path to the house. Eve sprang to her feet and gasped, dropping the knife in the bed of weeds. From the open window, Nicolas heard a soft female voice humming a familiar Haitian lullaby.

“
Dodo titit,
go to sleep, so the big bad crab won't eat you.”

Her eyes were wet with tears. Slowly, she took a step forward, and another.

“Nicolas,” she said. She repeated his name as she stepped toward him. “Is that you…?” Her voice trailed off.

She flung herself at him, and, wrapping her arms around his neck, she buried her face against the protruding bones of his chest. He let his arms wrap around Eve's waist. Could she feel the difference in him? Could she tell he was not the same man? That it hurt? That he'd shed the excess and the ego, and that he had come to her, used and finished and reborn?

She was not entirely the same either. Her ribs felt hard against his arms as he squeezed. He felt her hot tears roll against his skin, soaking his shirt. Her body rippled in his arms like a broken instrument. Nicolas buried his face in her hair and breathed in love.

TWENTY FOUR

R
aymond had managed to do what the government could not. He'd found out where Jules Oscar was hiding, and when the warden stepped onto the sunny sidewalk outside his mistress's house at ten o'clock in the morning, Raymond was there, waiting.

“You called for a car?”

Raymond didn't make eye contact. Before hopping out of the black Peugeot he'd borrowed, he pushed his hat low over his face and kept his eyes glued to the ground. Oscar thought nothing of it. In fact, he was too busy smoothing the wrinkles away from his gray suit. His jacket and pants had been pressed, as usual, by La Providence Dry Cleaning on Chemin des Dalles. His exorbitant tab had always been waived by the fearful owners. Raymond knew this the same way he'd learned about the warden's hiding places: cabbies.

The taxi drivers of Port-au-Prince had access everywhere and knew everything, and when Raymond had started contacting one trusted cabdriver after another, they'd kept their eyes open and driven around the neighborhoods Oscar was reputed to frequent. They made themselves available to chauffeur the help at this mistress's house, or to chitchat with the gardener at that one's.

Raymond learned what had happened: there was no absolution for Warden Jules Oscar so long as he remained in Haiti. The
government was determined to hunt him down like an animal. Duvalier had announced that Oscar was personally involved in the Fort Dimanche ambush that night, that he had helped the L'Eveillé brothers communicate with rebels on the outside and escape. The way Papa Doc saw it, this was all a plot to overthrow him. A failed plot, but one facilitated by Jules Oscar.

Since then, the warden had been on the move. After being turned down for asylum by various embassies, he'd packed his belongings and fled his three-story home. He hadn't bothered to inform his wife, who'd already left months ago, tired of his humiliating infidelities. His own cars would be too easily recognizable, so he'd been using taxis to stay out of sight.

Raymond held the Peugeot's back door open and Oscar jumped in, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Raymond shut the door. He had him.

“Where to,
patron?”
He took his place behind the wheel and avoided the warden's gaze in the rearview mirror. But Oscar was too preoccupied to bother looking. He was leafing through a passport. Raymond caught a glimpse of green American dollars in his briefcase.

“
Aéroport!
Hurry, I have a plane to catch.”

Raymond took off, swerving around other cars. His hands were sweating against the steering wheel. He'd lured the animal like he wanted, and now he was not turning back. He had a plan for this son of a bitch. Raymond watched the orange-and-red flower petals, the bright pink buildings, the banners and painted signs, and the dome of the cathedral all dissolve into a blur against his windshield.

“No luggage, sir?” Raymond asked.

“Just get me there, and mind your own business!”

Raymond caught a brief glimpse of that nasty scar. His mouth filled with spit and he swallowed back the rage. He sped down narrow streets through the town of Nazon. Oscar grabbed the empty passenger seat in front of him for support. Pedestrians and bicycles swerved out of the way of the honking taxi. They merged onto the major vein of Delmas before pulling down smaller corridors,
zooming past residential neighborhoods. Then Raymond veered right and drove toward a wide expanse of green—a sugarcane plantation. The rooftops of shacks and slums mushroomed on distant hills.

“What the hell are you doing?” Oscar asked. “This isn't the way to the airport.”

“Don't worry,” Raymond said. “I know my way.”

“Turn around right now,” Oscar shouted. Sweat pearled on his scarred cheek. He pulled out his handkerchief—white linen with his initials embroidered in the corner—and wiped his brow. His eyes were bloodshot, and Raymond knew he was angry.

Raymond accelerated, throwing Oscar forward.

“What are you doing? Stop the goddamn car!”

The Peugeot entered the fields at full speed. Raymond caught flashes of green as the sharp edges of leaves scraped against the vehicle's window. In the rearview mirror, he saw Oscar shut his eyes and hold his breath, as if afraid that the thick foliage would close in on him, swallow him up.

Finally, the car came to a stop in a clearing among the cane fields. Oscar opened his eyes, panting like a rabid dog.

He looked around nervously. “Where the hell are we?”

Out the window, Raymond caught a glimpse of black birds, crows, swirling above the field. He could hear their caws in the distance as they flew in formation.

“What are we doing here…?” Oscar's voice trailed off, and he tried to maintain his composure. Raymond smirked at his wide eyes, his lips wet with fear. He had him cornered. Oscar was realizing this was no average taxi ride.

“Who are you? Have you been sent to kill me?”

Raymond killed the engine. Oscar leapt toward the door and grabbed the handle, pulled it toward him in a rage. Nothing. He slammed his fist against the door, but it wouldn't budge. He pushed against the handle for the window, then pulled up, but the glass did not move.
Now he's looking for a way out, like a real animal would,
Raymond thought. Like a rat cornered in a drain, and he was about to pour the hot water to scald the
life out of him. It was only right, after all Oscar had done. He didn't deserve to live.

Oscar sat up and tried to adjust his suit. Raymond felt his blood boil as he watched in the mirror, eager for the moment of recognition.

“I don't know who you are or what they're paying you, but—” Oscar stopped and licked his lips. “Listen, I have money. I can double it. Tell me your price.”

Raymond spun around and removed his hat. The warden froze in his seat.

“You?”

Oscar's eyes grew wider, and his lip curled to reveal the gold rim on his tooth. Raymond stared back, his eyes glued on the disfiguring scar. Warden and prisoner, torturer and victim, sitting in a car together face-to-face. Raymond could smell the terror seeping through Oscar's pores.

“You remember me, don't you?” Raymond said.

Oscar tried to grin, but his face distorted into a grimace. Raymond's upper lip curled in contempt. Oscar tried to open the door again to flee, but the handle came off in his hand. Raymond leaned over to the glove compartment. He turned and revealed Nicolas's revolver, the barrel aimed right between Oscar's eyes.

“Say you recognize me. Raymond L'Eveillé. Say it.”

Raymond's arm trembled as he aimed at the warden's face. He'd practiced holding the Colt before. Sauveur had shown him how to use it. Yet it still felt like the first time he was touching it.

“You have some fucking nerve, you know that?” Oscar's lip quivered before speaking.

Raymond noticed. He recognized the stench of cologne coming from the backseat, the way the white shirt Jules Oscar wore now stuck to his skin. He knew fear because he'd seen it in the prisoners, in the way Nicolas's face changed every time someone was pulled out of their cell for interrogation. He knew fear because Oscar had taught him all about it. Now it was Oscar's turn.

Raymond felt his jaw twitch and his finger wrapped around the trigger.

“Who do you think you are,
hein
?” Oscar hissed, still pressing
against the back door. “How dare you? You think you can just shoot me and get away with it?
Hein?
You fool! The entire country is hunting you down. They will find you, and they will kill you. You and your brother are dead men!”

“I don't care,” Raymond snapped back. “You said it: We're dead men. We're already dead. So why would I let you live after what you did to my brother? To all of those people!”

Raymond adjusted himself behind the wheel, turning his body entirely to face the warden. He steadied his shaking hand with the other, gripping the revolver the way Sauveur had shown him. Men like Oscar or like the Tonton Macoutes made holding a gun look so easy, like it was a toy. A revolver meant something, weighed something, felt cold to the touch.

“I'm not afraid to die,” Raymond said. “Are you?”

His voice did not waver. But his heart, pulsing in his chest, felt like a balloon ready to pop. There was a rushing in his ears that deafened him, the sound of his own blood coursing in his veins. The sun beat down on the vehicle, cooking the men inside.

Crows cawed again overhead.

“Are you?” Raymond repeated.

He knew the answer by the way the warden's eyes searched the car for a way out. There were no openings. The back doors would not give. Raymond had chosen this old Peugeot because an accident had left the doors permanently locked from the inside. The driver at the car service center, an old friend of Faton's, had guaranteed it.

“Let me out!” Oscar roared. “You can't shoot me in here like a fucking coward. You can't shoot an unarmed man.”

Raymond stared at him and cocked the weapon slowly. Oscar jolted at the sound of the click. His good eye filled with tears, and Raymond hoped he would cry. He wanted to see him squirm and beg. He wanted this man reduced to his basest form, to crawl like a worm. But tears did not fall.

“That's just it. You're not a man,” Raymond said. “Don't you see? You are a monster, and I will make you pay for your sins!”

He wanted to pull the trigger and see Oscar's face blasted apart, see the blood splatter. He wanted Oscar to scream, to beg for his life like his victims did in that interrogation room where he tortured Nicolas and every other man who spent the night screaming and crying, keeping others awake in their cells. He wanted Jules Oscar dead. It was his right.

“My brother is a man,” Raymond said. “Nicolas L'Eveillé is a man, and you tried to break him. I am a man. And you tried to break me.”

“I was doing my job,” Oscar said. “Understand—I was acting under orders. I was correcting you. It was my duty.”

“Shut up!” Rage spewed out of Raymond's throat like a gurgling volcano. He tightened his grip on the weapon even more, biting his lower lip. “You're a murderer!” he shouted. “You tortured all these people. You killed them.”

Oscar took a breath. “My brother, I have no idea what you mean. I only do what I'm—”

“Brother?” Raymond scowled, cocked his head to the side. “I'm not your brother,” he said. “You and I are nothing alike.”

“You won't shoot me,” Oscar said. “You don't have it in you.”

Raymond saw the warden's face morph, his lips stretch into a grimace, and then he understood that the warden was smiling, a wicked, ghastly smile.

“You're a good man,” Oscar continued. “A cabbie, right? A poor taxi driver. You're not a killer.”

For a moment, the car was silent as they tried to inhale what was left of the air. Raymond's brain seethed. Now what? Shoot him? That was the plan, and now the plan seemed sordid. He couldn't go through with it. As much as he hated this man and wanted him to pay, Oscar was right. Raymond was not a killer. He could not pull the trigger.

He didn't react quickly enough when the warden lunged forward to grab his arm. Jules Oscar was notoriously strong, and he flung Raymond's arm to the side. He held on to him and started to smash his wrist against the dashboard. The horn blared, Raymond's
back pressing against it as he fought off his opponent. The crows darted upward into the indigo sky.

Raymond pushed back and shoved his elbow into Oscar's stomach. Pain surged through his arm, but he would not let go of the revolver, and he turned it, angled his wrist to aim the barrel at Oscar. The warden's face was close to his, and Raymond suddenly found it impossible to breathe in this simmering cauldron in which he'd imprisoned himself and his worst enemy. Raymond thrust his leg forward and kicked deep with his knee, pushing Oscar into the backseat. The car rocked furiously as the men struggled, and Raymond's skin crawled with panic. He sat back up and aimed again. Oscar seized his arm once more, but let go when the gunshot tore the air.

The blood splattered like wet confetti on Raymond's face. He recoiled as he saw the warden's body fall onto the backseat, mouth ajar in surprise, eyes wide and staring at him. Under his good eye, a fleshy red hole let loose a torrent of crimson blood that ran down his face and onto his suit. Blood was everywhere, on the windows, the seats, and Raymond froze in awe. He'd shot the warden. Jules Sylvain Oscar was dead.

Raymond dropped the revolver and looked down at his hands, but he didn't recognize the sweaty yellow palms, the shaking fingers. He saw the blood on his skin. Oscar's body was bent, his neck twisted at a strange angle, like a stuffed effigy tossed in a corner after the last day of Carnaval.

Raymond dry heaved and pushed his door open, a gust of hot air assaulting him. He stumbled out and fell onto his stomach in a dry patch of grass that smelled of manure. Raymond sat up and held his head in his hands. He'd killed the warden, and yet the anger was still there, eating at his entrails.

When the sun prickled his skin like angry fire ants, he stood up with care. He looked back into the car, at the monster's body, and felt nothing but emptiness. Raymond heard the crows cawing furiously, as if talking to one another. His eyes swept the fields around him and caught a glimpse of their purplish-green
feathers glistening in the sun, their beady eyes peering curiously from behind the sugarcane stalks. He looked up into the endless blue sky, marveling how undisturbed the world was when he'd just taken a life. He hadn't meant to shoot, really. Or had he? He couldn't remember anymore.

Raymond climbed back into the car. The warden's briefcase was still there. As he grabbed it by the handle, he noticed something poking out of Oscar's pocket. Raymond pulled it out, as if afraid to awaken the body. It was Oscar's passport, with those crisp American bills stacked inside the pages. Money. American money. So much of it. He blinked. He could use it to pay his rent, buy food, pay his children's tuition.