Tortured Spirits (12 page)

“Si,” Maria said. “Bon après-midi.”

“A lovely day, is it not?”

Jake nodded. “Very.”

“You are tourists?”

“Yes. We're staying at Mount Pleasant Resort.”

“I have a cousin who works there. I see you are admiring our national rain forest.”

“It's beautiful,” Maria said. “It reminds me of El Yunque in Puerto Rico.”

“Oh? I've never been there.”

You've never left Pavot Island,
Jake thought.

“But why do you observe our beauty from here on the roadside? We have very nice tours for our visitors.”

Maria held up the brochures in her hand. “We were just on our way to see the Church of St. Anthony, but we had to
pull over when we saw this view.”

The policeman's gaze flitted to Maria's cross. “You are Catholic?”

“Si.”

“St. Anthony's is the oldest church on Pavot Isle. The architecture is magnificent. May I?” He held out one hand, and Maria gave him the brochures, which he looked through. “I have a cousin who works at the Rabaud Rum Plantation. The tour is very nice, but I don't recommend driving there. They are too generous with their samples.” He winked at Jake, then handed the brochures back to Maria. “And you will find much fine shopping in Pavot City, mademoiselle.”

“Gracias.”

The man turned to Jake. “I would like to offer you some advice, monsieur. Enjoy the resort. Enjoy our wonderful city and our attractions. But for your own safety, avoid isolated areas like this. I like to believe we have a good police force, but we have plenty of
voleurs,
and tourists are targets.”

“Thank you. We'll be careful.”

“Also, I recommend that you do your sightseeing during the day. Stay on the resort at night. I would regret it if anything happened to you.”

“We will.”

“Bonne journée.”

“Au revoir,” Maria said.

The man offered Maria a slight bow, then returned to his car and drove off.

“He was Hispanic,” Maria said. “He understood
Spanish. But every time I spoke to him in Spanish, he answered in French.”

“Did you see the tattoo on his arm?” Jake said.

“Yes. A black snake.”

“Now we have to visit that church in case he checks up on us.”

They visited St. Anthony's, then the rum factory. On a narrow highway flanked by palm trees, en route to Pavot City, Maria sampled the radio stations while Jake drove. Salsa music. Reggae. Calypso. French news. All of it sounded generic, as if produced and programmed by the same person.

“Jacek Maban is Malvado's Minister of Cultural Affairs,” Miriam had told them. “No movie is shown, no program is broadcast, no concert is held, and no guitar is strung without his say-so. Nothing suggesting freedom of religion or democracy is ever absorbed by Pavot residents through legitimate means.”

A city skyline appeared in the distance. Jake counted a dozen buildings at least ten stories tall and twice as many half that size. “It's bigger than I expected.”

“But there's so little traffic going into the city. We've passed only three cars in the last twenty minutes, and according to the map, this is a major highway.”

As they drew nearer, Jake noticed the buildings appeared gray. “They're mostly old buildings. I see just one
that isn't made of concrete.”

A single black tower reflected sunlight off its tinted windows.

“How much do you want to bet that's the capital?” Maria said.

“Or at least police headquarters.”

Raindrops spattered the windshield, and Jake switched on the wipers. The rain came down harder, then stopped two minutes later and the sun shone again.

“Welcome to the Caribbean,” Maria said. She rolled down her window and lit a cigarette.

Nerves,
Jake thought.

“I wish I had my gun.”

So did Jake.

Jake and Maria entered the city just after 6:00 p.m. Golden sunlight gleamed on an enormous billboard that showed a muscular black man dressed like a general in a royal-blue uniform. He was saluting, and a wide smile split his face. Three officers in khaki uniforms, rendered much smaller, saluted him from the lower left-hand corner. The style of the painting reminded Jake of US propaganda art during World War II. Behind the general, palm trees waved before a blue sky and a yellow sun. Bright red letters declared,
Bienvenue! Bienvenida! Welcome! Pavot Ville, Capitold'lle de Pavot.

“Something tells me our friendly dictator doesn't smile like that in person,” Jake said.

“Something tells me he isn't built like that, either.”

Jake noted mostly small cars parked on the street and very little traffic. A police car passed them, then a jeep, then a taxi.

“There are a lot of bicyclists,” Maria said.

“And pedestrians.”

The buildings were spaced farther apart than Jake had thought at first glance, with small, single-story shops between them. He drove the length of the city in twenty minutes, then crossed over to a parallel avenue and drove back. Men of all ages drank beer outside the shops, children with serious expressions played on the sidewalks, and women in pairs pushed strollers and half-full shopping carts.

“Look at their faces,” Maria said. “It's like the hood, only worse. Utter hopelessness.” Chain-link fences topped by coils of razor wire surrounded buildings with curtained windows and balconies. “Most of these residential buildings are projects.”

Jake didn't ask why she was so certain. On every street corner they passed the Pavot flag: a vertical red stripe over a black background. “What street are we looking for?”

“Rue de Verger.”

He slowed down. “Ask for directions.”

Maria called out to two black women carrying groceries, “Excuse me?
Por favor.”

The women turned and Jake stopped the car.

“Do you speak English?”

The women shook their heads.

“How about Spanish?”

They shook their heads again.

“Nous cherchons le restaurant Coucher du Soleil dans la Rue de Verger.”

Jake sighed. “What is that,
Frenglish?”

“Let's see you do better. It's no stranger than what people around here speak. The Hispanics speak French, and the blacks speak Spanish.”

The women conferred with each other, then one pointed ahead, held up two fingers, waved her hand like a swimming fish, then held up three fingers.

“Merci.”

The women bowed their heads and resumed walking.

“What did they say?” Jake said.

“We're close. Two blocks up and three over on the left.”

Jake followed the directions. Palm trees obscured many of the shops, and a police car passed a trio of emaciated men who looked like dead men walking.

“Scarecrows,” Maria said.

Jake nodded. “They've almost turned. Where there's Magic, there's zonbies.”

She looked at him. “How does it happen?”

“They OD on the shit. Literally, they die. When they revive, they're walking dead, with no minds of their own, completely controlled by their vodou master, like puppets.”

“And the sawdust inside them?”

“Filler, like packing material. Each zonbie is essentially embalmed to preserve it as a working stiff for as long as possible and to cut down on the stench. Katrina had their toes, fingertips, and teeth removed to slow the identification
process if any of her slaves were captured. I don't think that will be the case here, which means the Pavot Island zonbies will move faster. If we encounter any, run for your life. Just remember, they won't get tired.”

Maria shook her head. “I can't believe we're having this conversation.”

“Considering our location, it's a good thing we are.”

“There it is.” Maria pointed at a restaurant with a dozen tables and chairs set up on the patio, with a low black metal railing around them. On the overhead sign, Coucher du Soleil was written in red letters over a simple yellow background.

Jake parked behind a red taxi, and they got out.

They hadn't even closed the doors when a scrawny little boy appeared from out of nowhere and ran over to Maria with his hands cupped together. “Money, please, missus?”

Maria regarded the boy with suspicion, then reached inside her purse.

Jake surveyed the street. Kids peered around trees, corners, and parked cars. “You do that and we'll be swarmed.”

Maria looked around as well. The boy lunged for her purse, which she snapped out of his reach. “Hey!”

The boy ran away, laughing.

“This is almost a third world country.” Jake opened the metal gate.

When they reached the restaurant's front door, a black woman wearing a red smock stepped outside. “Can I help you?”

“Dinner for two,” Jake said.

“Si, senor. Would you like to eat inside or outside?”

Jake glanced at the patio. Several potted trees separated the tables, and a young couple sat nursing beers. “Is there air-conditioning inside?”

“We have fans.”

“Inside then but right next to the patio.”

“Very good. Please follow me.”

Inside the dark restaurant, middle-aged men with mustaches sat at a long wooden bar, and Latin music played from a boom box.

A black man with graying hair and a red smock stood behind the bar and watched the woman seat Jake and Maria at a table with a view of the patio. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water's fine,” Maria said.

“This is a lovely city,” Jake said.

The woman smiled and left.

No dice,
he thought. “No margarita today?”

“Like you said, we need to stay clearheaded.”

“I guess I'm not getting any tonight.”

“We'll see what happens when we get home.”

Jake studied the menu on the place mat.
Home.
It felt strange to hear a woman use that term with him in a collective sense. “You order for me.”

The server returned with two mugs and a pitcher of ice water. “Two orders of
riz, haricots, et poulet.”

“Très bien.

When the woman left, Maria said, “Rice, beans, and chicken.”

A chunky man with a bulky camera approached the table. “May I take your photograph?”

Jake looked at the man. “How much?”

“Five dollars, US.”

“We've been taking photos all day.”

“Together?”

“Yeah,” Maria said. “Let's take one together.”

Chuckling, Jake scooted closer to Maria and put his arm around her. They smiled for the camera.

The man lined up the shot. “Uno … dos … tres.”

The flash caused Jake to blink. A moment later, the camera whirred, and a Polaroid photo slid out of a slot. The man set the photo on the table.

Jake took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “This is a lovely city.”

The man pocketed the money. “It stinks like sewage.”

Maria giggled as the man walked away. “Maybe you're saying it wrong.”

“I'm ready for a beer.”

The photo developed, and Maria picked it up and showed it to him. “We make a nice couple.”

Jake thought so, too. “Si. Tu eres una mujer bella.”
You are beautiful.

“Since when do you speak Spanish?”

“I get around.”

“Y tu eres muy machote.”

“If you just said I'm beautiful with this face, you've lost all credibility with me.”

She smiled. “I said you're very macho.” She put the
photo in her leather bag. “Me salvaste de la gran serpiente blanca. You saved me from the great white snake.”

Before Jake could respond, a skinny Hispanic man wearing jeans and a button-down plaid shirt stopped at their table. He had short, wavy black hair and a mustache and a beard, and he held up a large sketching pad. “Excuse me. May I draw the beautiful lady's portrait?”

“How much?” Jake said.