The Unnamed Press
P.O. Box 411272
Los Angeles, CA 90041
Published in North America by The Unnamed Press.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright 2016 © Fabienne Josaphat
ISBN: 978-1-939419-58-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015959965
This book is distributed by Publishers Group West
Designed & typeset by Jaya Nicely
Cover design by Scott Arany
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to [email protected].
My dead sleep in this earth; this soil is tainted red
with the blood of generations of men who carry my name;
I am the direct descendant, twice over, of the very man
who founded this nation.
Therefore, I have decided to stay here,
and possibly, to die here.
—Jacques Stephen Alexis (1922–1961)
author, excerpt from his letter to Haitian
president François Duvalier, June 2, 1960
Contents
PORT-AU-PRINCE 1965
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
NASSAU, BAHAMAS 1972
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PORT-AU-PRINCE 1965
ONE
Raymond counted his money quickly, licking a greasy thumb to peel apart the gourdes. The dingy bills left an invisible layer of dirt on his hands. Some of the numbers on them were indecipherable, edges and corners smudged by time and friction. The paper’s condition aside, there wasn’t enough of it.
“Nineteen…twenty”
He laughed ruefully. To be sure, twenty gourdes was not enough. But we have to make it work, he told himself, despite everything. His fingers rubbed against the portrait of François Duvalier. Even on faded paper, the president’s eyes were accusing, spying on him through thick-rimmed glasses, as unrelenting as the man’s lifetime term. Raymond shuffled the cash into a miserably thin stack, stuffed it in his back pocket, and turned up the radio. With no idea how long his passenger would be at the brothel, Raymond figured his favorite station, Radio Lakay, would have to keep him company. The cheerful DJ was just finishing the weather forecast. “Here’s to a sunny weekend ahead, and don’t forget, my good friends, curfew starts at eight p.m. sharp once again, that’s right! Staying in effect until further notice.”
Music burst from Raymond’s scratchy old speakers. Konpa. Its rhythms were intended to carry away problems. Too bad they always come back, Raymond thought. His eyes swiveled up to the coral-pink building, its yellow shutters and doors open wide to the street. A hand-painted sign in a florid cursive read: “Chez Madame Fils.” For just a moment, he let his gaze linger on the pretty women who clung to the balcony, blowing kisses and waving at the men who passed by. They were without doubt the most beautiful hookers in the country, he thought. Used to be, they’d bide their time, only coming out at night when the action picked up, catching the sex tourists’ horny eyes with bright floral dresses, but then the sex tourists stopped coming. Now the bored women hung around all day, entertaining one another by shouting insults at the scandalized mothers rushing past. Still, Chez Madame Fils Snack Bar and Disco continued to do a brisk lunch business, and at night, the music got turned up, the rum began to flow, and locals steadily trickled in. Raymond sometimes picked up a sandwich from the snack bar, but he stayed clear of the women. Come on, man, he thought, anxious to drive his passenger home and pocket a few more gourdes before curfew.
He adjusted his visor and gazed at the photo tucked into the flap: a small boy with a melon-shaped head Raymond lovingly stroked and a little girl with red ribbons in every tiny braid. Both were flashing giant smiles next to their mother, Yvonne, whose face blossomed like a black hibiscus under a scarf. Enos was the spitting image of his father, his skin always glistening in the blaze of summer. Adeline favored her mother, with bony brown cheekbones and a spear for a tongue. Raymond smiled. Just this morning, as he dropped them at school, she’d tried again to convince him he didn’t need to take the time off work to pick them up. “We can walk home,” she assured him, squeezing her little brother’s hand.
They could. He knew that. But he wanted to give this to his children: the gift of transportation, something he’d never had himself. Raymond had walked several miles to school in bad shoes, on harsh country roads of gravel and stone. Whenever he reminisced about his country days Yvonne, would smile at the children. “See how much your father does for you?” But it was true. Now that he had a life and a family in the city, he wanted to afford his offspring the luxury of a car. Even if “luxury” was this old beat-up Datsun taxi, a red ribbon tied to the rearview mirror to signal that he was still on duty.
He smoothed a dog-ear from the photograph with a blackened fingernail and sighed.
“Pitit se richès malere!”
Raymond jumped and turned to peer out the window. Faton had snuck up to the car door, a gap-toothed grin on his boyish face.
“It’s true what they say.” Faton nodded, pointing at the photograph. “Children are the wealth of the poor.”
Raymond turned the music down, surprised that he’d been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the stench of leather and dye that signaled Faton’s approach. Ever since Faton quit driving taxis—a trade he’d learned from Raymond—and started a job at the tannery, he carried the odor of decomposed cowhide wherever he went. Raymond covered his mouth and nose in exaggerated disgust.
“Quit busting my balls. You know it’s just the lime they use in the plant,” Faton said, flashing another gap-toothed smile. “No big deal.”
“That’s what you think,” Raymond complained behind his fingers.
“Hey, we all need to make a living. This”—he tapped the roof of Raymond’s old Datsun—“just doesn’t cut it. Leather might stink, but it’s honest work, and there are perks.” Faton lowered his voice to whisper, “Whatever keeps the Devil off my back,” before breaking into loud laughter.
Raymond managed a weak smile. He could hear his wife asking: If driving a cab doesn’t pay enough for this single guy, what hope is there for us?
“You better stop worrying about bullshit details like the smell if you’re seriously thinking about coming to work with me. Five hundred gourdes a month doesn’t stink too bad, right? No more scouring the slums for customers, no more waiting at the wharf for tourists or for these losers to get the job done.” Faton cast a disdainful eye at Chez Madame Fils.
“I’ve never said anything about coming to work for you,” Raymond said, looking again for his missing customer. But the truth was five hundred gourdes sounded like a dream when he was making twenty gourdes at the e
nd of the day. Raymond hadn’t made that much money in a long time. Two years ago, after the Barbot affair had threatened to overthrow Duvalier, nightly curfews were imposed in Port-au-Prince, decimating the taxi business. Especially with competition from the dirt-cheap tap-taps, with all that seating—however horribly cramped—in their covered pickup truck beds.
“You have to survive, man!” Faton pressed.
Raymond nodded. This was what people talked about now. Survival.
“Just say the word when you’re ready,” Faton said, adjusting the gold chain around his neck and hovering closer. “I’ll put in a word with the boss. It’s the least I can do.”
Faton’s thick Afro didn’t fit through the Datsun’s half-open window, and for this, Raymond was eternally grateful. Still, he wondered whether he stunk too now, and how hard it would be to wash off, especially when water had become a luxury for his family. Faton stepped back, grabbed a plastic pick from his back pocket, and ran it through his hair, checking his reflection in Raymond’s back window. Then he gave Raymond an appraising look. “You know, I don’t understand you sometimes. Why are you still doing this?”
“I drive taxis. That’s what I know.” What in God’s name is taking this john so long? Raymond glared at the brothel. A Jeep caught his eye as it pulled up to the curb three blocks away. He changed the subject: “You grabbing dinner now?”
“Already did.” Faton lived a block west of Chez Madame Fils. He was in the habit of eating in the neighborhood after work. When times were better, Raymond sometimes took a break and joined him.
Five men hopped out of the Jeep. Three wore dark blue uniforms. Two, civilian clothes. Faces obscured behind dark sunglasses. Raymond squinted, trying to get a better look. His muscles tightened, and a chill wormed its way up his spine. The men began shouting, swinging their pistols and rifles around nonchalantly. One of them, in a soft hat and a red ascot, cradled something against his chest. Raymond squinted again and caught the outline of a tommy gun, its barrel glinting in the early evening light. The girls on the balcony disappeared, silently pulling the shutters closed behind them.
Faton followed his friend’s gaze. The shouting was garbled at this distance, but there was no question who the men were. And with each step they took, pedestrians fled. Raymond saw the distinct arc of a machete blade in one man’s hand. He clutched the steering wheel.
“Can’t they ever leave us alone?” Faton gasped.
Raymond shook his head, checking the ignition to make sure his keys were still in place. He might have to get out of Cité Simone. If only the damn john would finish his business…
“This is bad,” Faton mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck do they want?”
The Milice de Volontaires de la Sécurité Nationale, known as the Tonton Macoute, didn’t need a specific reason for anything they did. They were the president’s “children.” Devil children of the gray-haired man who enjoyed dressing himself up like Baron Samedi—the Vaudou guardian of cemeteries—in a black suit and matching hat. A sinister figurehead for a sinister country.
“M’ale! I’m out of here.” Faton took a quick step away from the Datsun, hissing, “I don’t like the look of this.”
Raymond watched Faton sprint to his van, the words “Tannerie Nationale S.A.” etched on both its sides. He clambered in and took off without a glance back. Raymond sank lower in his seat, praying for invisibility. The Macoutes disappeared into a convenience store, a blue building with its name painted in yellow letters: “Epicerie Saint-Georges.”
The Datsun’s vinyl seat squeaked under his weight as he rolled up his window. Faton’s sour smell still hung in the air. From the radio, a familiar jingle filled the car. Nemours Jean-Baptiste’s Super Ensemble crooned a jolly tune. Our new song spreads joy all over the streets.
The remains of sunset cast an amber glow inside the Datsun as Raymond shut his radio off. The shop owners rushed about, casting nervous glances over their shoulders before quickening their steps down the street. Small children, playing in stagnant puddles of rain and gutter water, lingered for a few minutes until their parents found them and hauled them off, one by one. The taxi and tap-tap drivers stationed down the street chugged their bottles of cola, tossed their empty paper plates, and vanished. Street vendors picked up their blankets spread with candy and snacks and knickknacks, hoisted them onto their heads, and ran. Raymond clasped his hands around his steering wheel. Damn it! He had to get out of here. Raymond glanced one last time at the brothel, but nothing stirred inside. The john wasn’t going to come out. Not now. Go home, Raymond, he thought, even as he imagined the look on Yvonne’s face when she found out how little he’d made today. Forget the fare.
A scream pierced the eerie silence. He listened. Someone was shouting for help, and a familiar dread crawled under Raymond’s skin. Then a shot rang out somewhere, probably inside the convenience store.
“Screw this,” Raymond muttered. He was reaching for the keys in the ignition when a fist pounded against his window. Once again, he jumped and peered through the glass. Outside, a man, haggard, his eyes stretched wide, beat a wet palm against the glass.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, man? Get away from my car!” Raymond shooed the man like he would a stray animal. “Go on!”
“Help me, brother! Please.”
The man’s breath fogged the window. Raymond faltered at the sight of those bulging eyes, wide with terror, staring into his. Pleading. This was the face of despair. The man looked over his shoulder, and Raymond saw a woman on the curb in a house-dress and slippers. She was rocking a child in her arms, her hair loose under a turban. Raymond shook his head and averted his eyes as he turned the ignition and the old Datsun started up. “I’m off duty, friend, and there’s a curfew.”
“They’re going to kill us.”
Raymond noticed the man’s shirt had been torn loose at the shoulder. Something wasn’t right.
“I—I don’t want any trouble,” Raymond stammered.
“My wife,” the man shouted, pointing at her. “My baby. They are innocent. Sove nou!”
Raymond’s fingers burned as he squeezed the steering wheel. The hot air was suffocating. From down the narrow street, he heard the Macoutes yelling as they spilled out of the convenience store. They were headed his way, clubbing the men and women who fled in fear, shoving them into the gutters, firing their revolvers in all directions.
The man slapped his palm against Raymond’s window once more. The woman squealed. “They’re coming. In the name of God, brother!” the man implored.
Raymond’s eyes went to the Macoutes. They’d paused to terrorize a woman on the sidewalk, but one of them was staring at his taxi. Suddenly, the man shouted, pointing directly toward Raymond, and the other thugs snapped to attention.
Raymond’s hand went to the clutch. He looked again at the window and saw large beads of sweat running down the man’s face. Saw the fear in the woman’s eyes. Saw the photograph of his own children smiling back at him on the visor.
What kind of man was he?
A cold calm settled inside him, and without another thought, he swung his arm around and unlocked the back door.
“Get in!”
Raymond aimed the car straight for the Macoutes. The men stopped short, uncertain whether to dodge the oncoming vehicle or stand their ground. At the last second, Raymond yanked the wheel right, hurtling the Datsun onto a narrow side street. He floored the gas pedal and the engine roared. He veered left to avoid hitting a woman carrying a large basket of bread on her head. Pedestrians yelped as they leapt out of the way, cursing angrily.
Raymond’s forehead burned with a sudden fever as he squinted into the rearview mirror. Among a melee of men and women darting for the sidewalk, he caught sight of the Macoutes’ Jeep, its silhouette gaining on him in the mirror. The barrel of a rifle glimmered in the dying light. Raymond stomped harder on the gas. In the backseat, the infant burst into tears as Raymond swung the Datsun to the right, tires
screeching in protest. Raymond’s heart was pounding a tam-tam in his chest. His mouth and throat were parched. We’re all dead.
Behind him, the Jeep kept pace. A Tonton Macoute’s head popped out of a window, and Raymond saw his arms flailing in the wind like skeletal tree branches. The Macoute was resting a rifle against his shoulder, adjusting it, aiming. Boom!
Raymond hung a left, hurtling the wrong way down a narrow one-way street. A stray dog jumped onto the sidewalk just in time. Raymond swung down another narrow street. Behind them came a screeching of brakes and rending of metal against stone, followed by a howl. The dog’s fate was clear. He took another right, then two quick lefts down the tightest streets in Cité Simone, and then, finally, the little taxi burst out onto Boulevard La Saline. Raymond squinted at his mirror. No Jeep.
The speedometer’s needle quivered at sixty, then seventy. The shadows of mango trees and palms traveled over his windshield. He hurtled past coral, salmon, and indigo stucco walls, plantation doors and shutters, swerving in front of a blue Ford, ignoring drivers’ furious honks. The Datsun hopscotched from lane to lane, avoiding Vespas and tap-taps, and following the flow of Cadillacs, Nissans, and Oldsmobiles like a fish in water. Finally, the taxi lost itself in Port-au-Prince’s dense traffic and crowds, the streets clogged with merchants, business owners, and motorists. Everyone rushing to get home. The smell of diesel and muffler fumes hung thick in the air over Boulevard Harry Truman.
Raymond drove reflexively, brilliantly. In fact, all his adult life, Raymond had seen cars before seeing people. In his mind, life itself was like a fast car. He’d spent most of his waking time inside vehicles, bent over engines, fixing and oiling auto parts.
He shifted gears at the Bicentennaire road, leaving behind the wharf, the cruise ships, the monuments, art galleries, and empty tourist shops.
It was just after seven now, and the peddlers and street vendors had already packed up for the night. The Rue du Magasin de l’Etat was still and silent, save for a few stragglers flirting with the danger of breaking the fast-approaching curfew. Raymond picked up speed again. He wouldn’t make it home in time if he didn’t get these people out of his car. This was madness. Pure insanity. He had his own family to think of, and if he got caught in the streets past eight o’clock, he might never see his children again.
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