Haiti Noir Part 2

by Edwidge Danticat

  “The money!” Dread Lanfè bellowed, the tip of his .38 pressed against Fanfayon’s temple. “Give me the money or I’ll scatter your brain all over this room!”

  Fanfayon rolled his frightened eyes. He stammered something and let out a cry of pain when an impatient Dread Lanfè kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, gasping. Dread Lanfè quickly brought up his knee. The noise made by the impact, the blood gushing out—he enjoyed it all. Fanfayon remained slumped on the floor. He was holding his belly and moaning.

  “Give me the money!” barked Dread Lanfè again.

  Fat Alfred forced Fanfayon to stand up and dragged him violently to the safe located between a dressing table and a bulky mahogany wardrobe.

  “Open it!” screamed Dread Lanfè. “I’ve got no time to waste.”

  “There’s no money here,” Fanfayon managed to say between sobs. “I swear it on my mother’s head.”

  “Liar!” hissed Dread Lanfè, kicking him hard. “If you don’t open the safe, I’ll kill you.”

  Whimpering, Fanfayon put his hand forward to dial the combination. Dread Lanfè was following the businessman’s movements with distrust, his finger on the trigger of the .38. When Fanfayon opened the safe, Dread Lanfè went back at his victim with renewed ferocity, hitting him with a kind of blind rage. Fat Alfred, meanwhile, was frantically looking through the safe. “Dread Lanfè, there’s no money!” he yelled.

  “What do you mean there’s no money?” Dread Lanfè cried, turning away from Fanfayon, who lay unconscious on the floor.

  He shoved his accomplice back and stuck his head inside the safe. He had to face the facts and it didn’t take long. The safe held uninteresting, worthless papers, a passport with an American visa stamped in it, and small change. Eyes bloodshot, Dread Lanfè grabbed Fanfayon, who was no longer moving. Dread Lanfè didn’t know how to perform artificial resuscitation so he turned to Madame Fanfayon. But Fat Alfred had killed her on the spot with that iron bar to the head. Dread Lanfè and his accomplice combed the place desperately, one room after the other, in search of some nook where a sizeable sum of money might have been stashed. Finally, he realized that this was not going to bring in much and came back to the bedroom. Fanfayon was still breathing. Dread Lanfè finished him off with a quick bullet to the temple. He had to get out of there quickly, he thought, but then noticed the ring his victim was wearing on his left forefinger. It was a solid gold piece of jewelry that glowed in the dim light as if it were phosphorescent. Dread Lanfè examined it with interest. He was mesmerized by the two snakes elaborately carved on the precious metal. Fanfayon was certainly a servant of a lwa who favored him with wealth and protection. As he couldn’t manage to get the ring off the finger, Dread Lanfè angrily cut off the appendage with the knife that had already cut so many. He put the finger in his shirt pocket before signaling to Fat Alfred that it was time to leave the premises. The neighbors might have been alerted by the shot. They vanished into the night as furtively as they had come.

  * * *

  Depressed, Dread Lanfè didn’t go home. He had another plan in mind. He decided that this was a bad-luck night, and he shouldn’t do another job. He went to Paola’s, his Italian mistress. She worked for an NGO and was always proud to show him off—him, Dread Lanfè, like a trophy you fought hard to win. He was fond of Paola even though he knew she didn’t care too much about the dire poverty of the people in the city where she’d come to work. Her apparent commitment was hiding something else. Some deeper discontent. A loneliness her culture had planted in her. Poverty, death ever-present, black bodies gleaming with sweat. All those niggers wanted was to gobble up white women and that made her panties wet—she, who had been frigid before. When she met Dread Lanfè, it was love at first sight, an explosion. The man had the reputation of being a criminal. He was tall, ugly, wild, and most of all, blessed with a member (a publicly known fact) that made all the other niggers in town envious. When Dread Lanfè put his hand on her, she could visualize mud and blood, and that propelled her right down the track to orgasm. And Dread Lanfè told himself that Paola was his safety net in this fucked-up country. Perhaps some day she would take off with him and they’d go live under other skies. That’s why he felt he had to concentrate on her, always keep himself in condition to satisfy her well.

  So he knocked on Paola’s door. As soon as she knew it was him, she yanked the door open. She didn’t even give him time to undress. She wanted him to take her right there and then, in the living room. Dread Lanfè lifted her up with all his strength, propped her against a shelf, crushing china, pictures, statuettes in the process, like the brute he was. The anger he felt about the botched job at Fanfayon’s increased his energy tenfold. Paola nearly fainted after her orgasm. Dread Lanfè, following the ritual they had worked out together, made her come back to reality with a pair of slaps.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she stammered.

  “Give me a little powder first,” ordered Dread Lanfè.

  She complied. After they had both snorted their dose of coke, they felt like the world was at their feet. Paola quickly fell into a deep sleep. Dread Lanfè then remembered that he had Fanfayon’s finger in his shirt pocket. He couldn’t fall asleep with a dead man’s finger on him. He got up, took the finger, tried once more to take the ring off it, but didn’t succeed. That ring could very well bring him a nice bundle of dollars. Dread Lanfè knew how to recognize gold. He put the finger on the dressing table, in a china glass. Paola would see the finger when she woke up. Lanfè didn’t care. It would only add to his charm. He tossed his shirt over on a chair and came back to lie down next to her. He tumbled into a heavy sleep, disturbed by the impression that a foreign body was crawling over his chest. He knew it was the finger when he felt the ring rubbing against his skin. He screamed and sat up on the bed, gasping, his body drenched in sweat. Thinking that maybe some horrible creature had slipped in next to him, he jumped out of bed. But he couldn’t find anything suspicious. The finger was still on the dressing table. He managed to convince himself that it was just cocaine playing tricks with his mind.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Paola somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “A bad dream.”

  “Come back to bed. Come closer to me.”

  Dread Lanfè went back to bed. He held her tight, seeking comfort and safety in the warmth of her body, safety that only his mother, a peasant woman from Artibonite, could give him when he was a child. He was unable to go back to sleep. The nightmare just caught him like that, while he was still awake. He felt the finger on his thigh, climbing up, lingering over his navel. Dread Lanfè got rid of the intruder with an abrupt swing of his hand. He heard the finger falling on the floor and immediately trying to climb back onto the bed. Terrified, he jumped up and rushed to the dressing table. The finger had disappeared. Terror took hold of him like a gust of wind carrying a dry leaf away. He grabbed the machine gun he had placed underneath the dressing table. In the semidarkness of the bedroom, Dread Lanfè heard the finger climbing on a chair. Like a madman, he opened fire, unleashing an infernal racket. Paola woke up screaming, just as the finger jumped on Dread Lanfè and clung to his chest like a devilish bloodsucker. Without meaning to, Dread Lanfè pulled the trigger of the machine gun again. A hail of bullets brought Paola down. He dropped the gun in an attempt to snatch the finger from his chest. A demonic laughter rang in his ears. The finger was growing, transforming into a hideous, slimy creature with a cold and scaly body, a body that was coiling around his. Dread Lanfè tried to shout. He died without even realizing it.

  When the police, alerted by the neighbors, burst into the bedroom, Dread Lanfè was lying on the floor, his body all dislocated. Paola was naked on the bed, her corpse riddled with bullets. The magistrate had not yet arrived for the report. The inspector who was leading the police squad gave the order to cover the foreign woman with a sheet. The officer crossed himself in front of Dread Lanfè’s body. He knew him well, for he had met him
many times at the dictator’s place. While searching the room for possible booty, he discovered the finger on the dressing table, hidden behind a bottle of perfume. The ring immediately caught his eye. Surreptitiously, he grabbed it and slipped it quietly into his uniform pocket. The inspector knew a fence who always gave him a good deal. He didn’t pay attention to the finger, which was already on the move.

  PARADISE INN

  BY KETTLY MARS

  Gokal

  Translated by David Ball

  It was pitch-black out when I reached the town of Gokal. We were in the rainy season and the humidity grabbed me by the throat through the open window of my car. All I could see were a few little houses shrouded in darkness and an occasional dog prowling around. I was looking for the Paradise Inn.

  At the very end of the main street, to my left, I could see a light. A house was floating in the surrounding darkness like an ocean liner cruising through the sea at night. A rectangular one-story concrete building in no particular style, a few yards back from the main street. No garden in front, just a few agaves growing in the midst of the gravel. A loud neon sign was blinking mauve letters inside an orange circle: Paradise Inn. What a pretentious name for such a godforsaken place.

  A rather unexpected apparition in this isolated spot. No one in the street, not the least glimmer in the windows of the other houses. The policeman inside me was already asking himself questions. From the moment I’d arrived in Gokal I’d been feeling vaguely uneasy. But I wasn’t going to worry myself with suspicions when I saw the place where I was going to live. I was lucky to come upon this kind of establishment in this dismal town in the northwest, the most unprepossessing corner of the island. Plus, it was all lit up and apparently comfortable. I’d see about the rest tomorrow. My stiff muscles were begging me to find them a decent bed.

  I left my things in the car, put my weapon around my waist, straightened the kepi on my head, and headed in. I would go back and get my bag after checking in.

  The main entry door opened onto a big hall that served as a lobby and cafeteria. A shiver went across my scalp as soon as I stepped inside—the cool temperature contrasted so violently with the stifling heat outdoors. An oldies tune was coming from a radio that I couldn’t locate. I looked around the place. In the back, to the left, there was the reception desk, separated from the rest of the room by a curtain of multicolored glass beads swaying under the breeze from the ceiling fan. I walked over to the reception desk. Nobody was there. I could sense some movement in the room behind the desk, which was also lit up. A half dozen small square tables, each surrounded by four chairs, took up the space used for the restaurant. They were covered with red tablecloths and decorated with glass pitchers containing bouquets of plastic flowers. Some of the tables still had scraps of food, dirty dishes, and glasses on them. I thought I could make out the clicking of knives and forks, but that must have come from the kitchen. The service left something to be desired: still nobody around. At the rear of the dining room, a staircase lit by a dark red light led to the floor above.

  I shook the bell on the table. A few moments later, a woman came out of the back room. She was wearing a wide white dress that went all the way down to her ankles. A multicolored madras scarf was knotted around her head, hiding the top of her forehead and her ears. Her careful makeup gave her an incongruous appearance: such stylishness within these lonely walls was certainly unexpected. A solid gold Virgin hung from a massive chain around her neck and danced as she breathed. She was beautiful despite her plumpness, which weighed down her features and figure. An artificial smile stretched her lips and I admired a perfect row of teeth. The kind of black beauty who is hardly affected by time. She must have been about fifty.

  The smile suddenly vanished from my hostess’s face. “Good evening, sir?”

  “Good evening, madame! Umm … I’m looking for a room for the night, perhaps for a few nights … That depends … I was …”

  “Ah! You must be the new chief of police for Gokal?”

  “Err … Yes, I am. But how do you know that, madame?”

  She hesitated a moment, and then answered with a cold smile: “Oh, you know, Gokal is just a small town, no bigger than the palm of one’s hand, and news travels fast. There never were a lot of people here, and they leave, one after the other, every day. Everybody knows everybody else, everybody knows what’s happening or what’s going to happen. And the uniform you’re wearing confirmed what I thought. Policemen don’t wander around this place just for fun.”

  She scored a point there. I didn’t press it, and asked her to register me for a week at Paradise Inn. Her only answer was to hand me a key.

  “Don’t you need to know my name, my address? Don’t I need to give you a deposit? How much is the room?”

  I was dumfounded by my hostess’s reply. She gave a deep sigh and looked me straight in the eye while she said this, all in one breath: “You are Commissaire Vanel, born in Jérémie on September 28, 1968. Appointed to the police as a level two officer August 15, 1990, at the Port-au-Prince Academy. Bachelor. After your first year of service, you won a scholarship to Japan, where you went through twelve months of intensive training in the investigation of drug trafficking and related money laundering. Back in Haiti, you were a detective for eight years in the anti-gang division, and you were then appointed assistant to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. In the capital, you live at 39 rue Bouvier. You know, Commissaire Vanel,” added the woman with no particular emotion, “I have the register of the Paradise Inn in my head. Don’t worry about it. As for the price of the room, you will be perfectly satisfied. Trust me.”

  Oddly enough, I didn’t feel like arguing. The place was now so cold it was freezing my very core, paralyzing my reactions. Despite how surprised I was by the declarations of the woman standing before me, I could only think of getting a bite to eat and sinking into a bed. Tomorrow I could review the situation, look around the place, find police headquarters, and begin to adjust, so to speak.

  I asked my hostess if she could have dinner brought to me in my room. She confirmed this. I took the key she gave me; it had the number 6 on it.

  She had a last recommendation for me: “In the dining room, you must always sit at table number 6. It is reserved for you. At night, try not to make too much noise, so as not to disturb people in the other rooms.”

  I was surprised at these precautions, since I hadn’t seen a soul in the place. I went out to get my bag and locked the car.

  Room 6 had minimal furniture. A double bed that seemed fairly comfortable. A table with a reading lamp on it. Opposite the bed, there were armchairs on either side of a small round table. I found a few hangers in the freestanding wooden closet decorated with a long mirror. The bathroom was just as plain. A narrow shower, a sink, and a toilet. The towel was clean and the soap had not been opened. I took a shower; hot water flowed from the faucet. This hotel was surprising me at every turn.

  I felt better after the shower. A pleasant torpor was invading my muscles and brain. I was surely going to fall asleep soon. The situation seemed less dramatic than I thought it would be. In my mind I was thanking my old friend Froset, who used to be my partner in my years as a detective. I had been stunned by the news of my imminent transfer to Gokal and called him up. Practical as ever, he’d given me the name of the Paradise Inn. It was known in high places. Froset had rapidly climbed the ladder because of his excellent service record and was now part of the high command. I wasn’t too worried, because Froset would surely not let me rot for a long time in this hole. Of course, when the top brass appoints you to a new place, they don’t care how you get there nor even where you’ll live.

  I put on a loose undershirt and clean underpants. Then I took my cell phone to call my brother in Port-au-Prince and tell him I’d arrived safely. The screen of the phone showed the signal wasn’t getting through; there was no way to communicate. Not too surprising—that often happens in out-of-the-way parts of the country. I’d try lat
er.

  Someone knocked at the door. I took my weapon out of its holster and, holding it at arm’s length, opened the door halfway. A young woman stood there with a dinner tray. The mauve light from the corridor darkened her very black skin still more. All I could see of her was her white smock, her eyes, and her teeth. I waved her in and she set the tray down on the round table. In the light of the room, I could see she was a very young girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. An oval face and big eyes that looked right through me. Her lips were thick and well defined: a mouth that ate up her face. Her kinky hair showed from underneath her scarf. Her breasts, firm as unripe fruit, pushed out at a little blouse cut off at the navel. A long filmy skirt covered her ankles. No jewel decorated her wild beauty. Once the tray was set down, I expected her to leave. But she didn’t. I looked at her more closely. She reminded me of someone—but who? Oh, yes! The woman at the reception desk. My landlady must have looked like this girl forty years ago. The presence of this adolescent disconcerted me. The aroma of the consommé stirred my hunger and reminded me that I’d had my last meal more than twelve hours ago. I swallowed with difficulty and finally sat down at the table to eat. She retreated and stood in a corner of the room, watching me stealthily. The soup was thick and tasty.

  “The lady downstairs is your mother?” I asked the girl.