The Woman Who Lost Her Soul Hardcover (18 page)

He downshifted to cut his speed, and peered ahead at the boundary where his lights
met the darkness but saw no one and tried to determine if he could leave the roadbed
and go around or if he would have to stop to clear the rocks when, in front of him,
the illuminated road suddenly filled with wild shapes and he kicked the brakes to
avoid slamming into their midst. Before he could roll down his window to speak with
someone, a large rock shattered the windshield, a boy ran forward with a club, and
the driver’s-side window caved in like a cup of stinging ice thrown at his face. Hands
thundered on the roof and a man tried to open the door to pull Tom out at the same
time Tom released the clutch so abruptly that the vehicle nearly stalled before squealing
forward, bodies diving away, bodies flying back, the sound of hands thumping the side
panels, a clatter of stones bouncing off the hood, the underframe grinding against
the rocks piled across the road. He could smell the tires spinning and a man rushed
forward waving a machete. The front end of the SUV reared up and seemed to jump the
obstruction and race ahead and Tom swerved just in time, he thought, to miss the man
but the left headlight went dead at the precise moment the man somersaulted into the
night and vanished, a laceless shoe sailing through the broken windshield like a wingless
bird to land in the passenger seat. He had been holding his breath without realizing
it and let out a gasp and began hyperventilating as he navigated the seamless, sinister
pulse of emptiness that was the road. The night had not produced the first flood of
terror he had experienced during his time in Haiti, but the first that seemed shockingly
personal, the first that seemed to be only about him.

The moon began to float above the eastern mountains, silvering the road, the light
in the trees ghostly. Finally his hands stopped shaking on the wheel and his breathing
returned to normal. Not far from where the route rejoined the highway, when he ran
straight over a dog rocketing into his path without slowing down or stopping, Tom
Harrington cursed Jackie Scott and Eville Burnette and then cursed himself for the
harm he had done and drove on in despair.

The lateness of the hour had softened the edges of Cap-Haïtien’s ubiquitous decay,
the city’s unfortunate residents shuttered behind a self-imposed curfew, abandoning
the filth-strewn streets to the scurry of rats and garbage-fed dogs and the otherwise
peaceful slink of the nocturnally homicidal. The Hotel Christophe had switched off
its generator for the night and he left the SUV in the car park without summoning
the courage to inspect the damage to its front end. He went through the darkened lobby
toward the bar, knowing it would be closed but hoping the bartender had forgotten,
as he sometimes did, to lock its cabinets. But his luck continued downward and when
he couldn’t locate the night watchman he went back out to the street to roam for a
drink, walking toward the smell of the sea and glancing up each decrepit avenue for
any sign of life, though even the buildings appeared dead and rotting. Finally he
saw tiny tongues of flame flickering on the pavement a few blocks up one of the side
alleys, like votive candles placed at a shrine, and as he came closer he saw the shadows
under a balcony assemble into a chiaroscuro tableau of women tending homemade oil
lamps in front of an open doorway dusted with light so weak and granular it seemed
to Tom you could wipe it away with a rag. A man’s overexcited voice argued from inside
the shop. They were vendors, these women, their hope for a sale unchecked by the dread
of midnight, and he glanced at their small piles of wares spread out on scraps of
cloth—individual cigarettes from a crumpled pack of Comme Il Fauts, Chiclets, a meager
pyramid of oranges, matchsticks, lumps of charcoal, a tiny container of Vicks VapoRub.
He saw in their saucer eyes Christ risen with money in his pocket and he bought the
cigarettes and nodded sympathetically at the pleas from the other women and stepped
into the shop and back out a minute later with a Coke bottle tapped with
clairin,
the smell of the homemade rum like fruity kerosene and the taste like molten tinfoil
in his dehydrated mouth. By the time he found himself ascending the Christophe’s stairway
to his second-floor room, he had sucked up half the bottle and his head seemed to
dance, free of weight or substance, and his feet were made of stone. He keyed open
the door and stepped in and stepped halfway back into the hallway, speechless.

There you are, said Jackie, her face brightening in a way that struck him as shameless
and bizarre, considering the tenor of the day and the unexpected shock and seizure
of her nakedness, a spasm of unwanted lust suffocating Tom like a knot binding his
diaphragm, her body and its litheness a searing memory of something powerful he had
once owned but had misplaced or forfeited or left behind. She was lying atop the bedsheet,
reading what he could see was a Kreyol language primer by candlelight, and she calmly
placed the book in the cradle between the scoop of her pelvic bones and folded her
arms over her breasts and looked at him now with an uncertain smile.

That very morning he had woken up in a dreamy state of arousal, fantasizing about
their night together but, quarreling with Eville Burnette at breakfast, he had forgotten
to mention the arrangement, the shortage of rooms and beds, and the whole idea of
being with her had been spoiled by the turmoil of events.

You’re bleeding, she said, her absence of great concern equal to the numb indifference
he felt at this hour for his own well-being.

He could not find words in his mouth for anything but the obvious. Where are your
clothes? he said stupidly.

It’s hot, she said, unapologetic. Her hair, stringy and unbrushed, made her appear
less guarded. Perspiration trickled down her face as it did his. Why are you bleeding?
I was getting worried about you. How did it go?

Where am I bleeding? His hand rose instinctively to his face and he tried to focus
on her eyes and not the untimely puerile thrill of her body, the moist flush of her
skin.

Your cheek, she said, studying him, directing. The left side. Higher.

His fingertips found the dried edge of the cut and the almost imperceptible ooze and
he looked at the blood on his fingertips and looked at her and asked in a daze of
puzzlement, Why are you here?

On the nightstand next to the candle was a glass of water and as she reached for it
and sipped he stared blindly at her breasts, seeing but not seeing, and then averted
his eyes when she turned back to lean toward him on an elbow with a look of guileless
concentration. I actually don’t understand your question, she said, her appraisal
of him matter-of-fact. Where else would I be?

Why aren’t you with Eville?

Why would I be with Eville? she said, making a sound of exasperation. Tom, close the
door. Or just stand out there all night, but either way you’re stuck with me, she
said, the press of her lips making a coquette’s quick pout and he noticed the caterpillar
of discoloration above her jaw where she had been tattooed by Eville Burnette’s knuckles.
You could have told me there was only one bed.

Okay, okay, he said, shutting the door behind him, conceding his day pack to the floor
yet still unable to step forward into the room. Look, this isn’t going to work, is
it? Not after today. Not like this.

Not like what? she said.

You know what I’m talking about, you lying there. This is how women change the subject,
isn’t it? He rediscovered the bottle of rum in his hand and took a nasty swallow.
It’s too much.

Is that what I’m doing, changing the subject?

This isn’t our goddamn honeymoon, is it? You need to put something on and we need
to talk.

But it’s so fucking hot. Honestly, aren’t you hot?

Unchastened, she had made him think about it and he felt the swampy airlessness of
the room and suddenly he was sweating through his shirt and he could feel the rivulets
dripping down his forehead and his feet were stewing mercilessly in their boots. Yeah,
he admitted, it’s hot.

The room came equipped with a ceiling fan, and a leaky air conditioning unit in the
window but the electricity had been off since nine o’clock. The water too, she said.
I can’t even shower.

She wanted to negotiate and he grudgingly allowed it, letting her convince him that
in another minute he would be as miserable in the heat as she was if he didn’t come
into the room and relax and at least get into a pair of shorts if he had them, and
while she talked she put her book on the nightstand to get up from the bed and with
her back turned toward him she squatted by her pack and he found himself electrified
by this perspective of her nakedness, the angularity of her ass and the swell of her
vulva from behind and its pale haze of pubic hair, thinking he needed to get out of
there. She stepped into navy blue panties and went back to the bed and he said thanks,
what about a T-shirt too, and she said with an edge to her voice,
Oh, just get used to it
. Upright against the headboard and cross-legged, she watched Tom as he undressed
down to his boxers, which he exchanged for a pair of gym shorts in the privacy of
the bathroom and then dipped water from the bucket on the floor and washed his face
at the sink and felt not refreshed but refocused and went back into the room, determined
to have it out with Jackie.

I’m sorry to be so immodest, she said. Like, I’m not trying to offend you or anything,
right? But it’s too fucking hot in here for me to pretend I’m in high school and the
world will end if a guy sees my tits. Feel better?

Yes. Thanks, he said and looked at her warily but he still did not know what to do
with his eyes and he could feel the restlessness forming beneath his skin and a current
of tension seeping into his groin. He took another swig from the Coke bottle and put
it back on the floor but then picked it up for another swallow. Look, he said, I’m
enormously stressed, and told her he was craving a cigarette. Do you mind?

Oh, perfect, she said. I have ganj.

He lit a Comme Il Faut
and inhaled deeply and began to cough with such violence that for a second he thought
he might throw up but he waved away her sudden mask of concern and composed himself
and she lit the joint she took from her makeup bag and lay back down and exhaled a
lavish cone of blue smoke into the heavy air.

I’m pretty mad at you, Jackie, he said evenly, shifting in his chair. I’m very upset.

I know, she said, subdued at last, with the regret he hoped to hear in her voice.
She got up from the bed and crossed the room and bent over him, her breasts ballooning
again into his vision. Want some? she asked, holding out the joint, and he saw the
greasy sheen where she had salved the bite marks on her right hand but his eyes were
drawn back to her breasts and he struggled with the possibility that leaning forward
a few inches would allow him to circle the lovely pink aureoles of her nipples with
the tip of his tongue, knowing that to do so would make him nothing more at this point
than a bigger fool than she had already proven him to be.

Maybe a taste, he said without thinking about why, because the cannabis on the island
had an insane potency and he did not enjoy it. As soon as he inhaled he felt a dissolving
swirl pass through his shoulders and lift his head from his body, and he anchored
his eyes to the set of gashes on her fingers. How’s your hand? he asked.

It’s nothing, she said, retreating to the bed and positioning herself with a stubborn
look that let him know she was ready for his questions.

How’s Lecoeur’s man?

Tom, okay, listen. I’m sorry. I freak out when somebody grabs me. It’s bad, I know.

Bad. Stupid.

I know.

You could have killed him.

I suppose. The Pakis seemed to know what to do with him. It’s pretty simple, really,
and he could hear the dope loop its strange energy into her speech as she explained
in detail the antihistaminic recession of the inflamed tissue and the suturing of
the tracheotomy.

I want you to tell me why you were taking pictures? I never see you shoot a frame
and then all of a sudden,
wham
. Tons of pictures.

That’s my thing. Why else even invite me along? she said coolly and met his eyes with
a hardening defiance and propped herself with pillows against the headboard of the
bed.

He stared at her without kindness and a craven thought ranged into his head that he
could not accept, that what was most troubling about this situation, this moment,
was her beauty. If it were not for her beauty, he never would have had anything to
do with her. He would have known better, given her a wide berth, after the game she
played in Saint-Marc.

I told you to stop, he reminded her. You have to talk with these guys. You have to
ask permission. Some will say yes, some no. It’s delicate. You don’t just walk up
and fire away.

But come on. Don’t you think their faces were so amazing, said Jackie, her desultory
words coming at a rate he found increasingly hard to follow. So fierce, and the lines
of their expressions making this web of pathos and hope and belligerence and I just
went with the moment, you know. Like you’re not even conscious of anything but getting
the shot, which is not a cliché, man, it’s a crazy state of grace. You’ve got to get
it no matter what and I know you probably think I’m not much of a photographer but,
you know, photojournalism is like, Oh, look, get out of my way, there’s somebody killing
somebody else, snap snap, or the herd heads off into the slums but where is the substance
to poverty, poverty has no substance, that’s the definition of poverty, the context
is inert, nothing’s happening to raise it beyond what it is, it’s like a form of paralysis.
Do you see what I’m saying?

No.

What I’m into is making portraits, vernacular photography, visual anthropology, right,
I want to paint figures, I want someone looking at the picture to say, who is this
person? I don’t want to document, I want to interpret, and it’s important for me to
find a subject, guerilla fighters is a classic, it’s modern, it’s timeless, it’s us,
it’s not us. Think of Mao and his fighters in 1946, think of the French Resistance
or Fidel and Che in the Sierra Maestra. Incredible, right? And to find a core theme,
something transformative and magical in the spirit—like, where the fuck did this come
from? You know? Don’t you think so? Then more harshly, Look, I said I was sorry, okay.