Dancing in the Baron's Shadow

by Fabienne Josaphat

  “He—he needs help. He’s very ill,” he stammered.

  “I don’t give a shit what he is. Back in line, right now!”

  The guard stepped closer and shoved Nicolas in the chest with the gun barrel. Nicolas felt the cold metal against his flesh. He got up and took a few steps back, but his eyes remained on Jean-Jean.

  “Back inside, now! All of you!”

  The huddled prisoners regained their composure, separated, grabbed their buckets, and once more formed a line. They walked back toward the building, mute as dead carps.

  Nicolas glanced over his shoulder. He caught a last glimpse of his friend still curled on the ground, surrounded by the other prisoners, and wondered if someone would have the courage to help him up, to help him down the hallway, help him to his mat, help him demand a doctor, medicine, mercy. There was a guard standing near Jean-Jean, cradling a rifle. He was tall, thin, his face shadowed by his hat. But inside that brown face, Nicolas thought he saw two eyes staring right at him, free of the usual hatred and rage most of the guards used to keep other, more difficult emotions in check. Nicolas shuddered. It was almost worse to see those steady eyes witnessing everything without evident judgment. And then another soldier struck Nicolas just above the kneecap, and he crumbled, the pain making everything go dark.

  TWELVE

  “Your brother is alive,” Sauveur said in a whisper. He pulled Raymond out of earshot. “But in bad, bad shape.”

  Dawn was breaking on the beach, and the motorboat was ready. Raymond took a breath to let the news settle in.

  “You talked to your contact?” he asked.

  “There’s a date set for his execution…” Sauveur’s voice wavered when Raymond lowered his head. “August twenty-seventh.”

  Raymond inhaled sea salt.

  “How do you know?”

  “We have a guy”—Sauveur grinned—“a man inside.”

  Raymond nodded. First, he had to get Eve and Amélie out of Haiti. He silently inspected the boat while the captain approached them and spoke with Sauveur. He noticed a few rust stains on the hull and the outlines of a patch-up job on the floor.

  “You sank this boat before?” he asked, pointing at the marks.

  The captain chuckled silently, shook his head. He was a quiet man with wavy gray sideburns and a mustache so thick Raymond could barely see his lips. His eyes were a rare ambergris. His name was Manolo, Manno for short. Raymond understood what Sauveur meant now about “trusting him.” This captain had an easy time getting into the Dominican Republic because of his mixed heritage: half Dominican, half Haitian. He looked like what many expected a Dominican to look like, Indio, with a bronze complexion and an unmistakable Spanish accent.

  He’d arrived at Sauveur’s before daybreak, and Raymond had gotten up at the sound of the motor. They’d gathered on the beach and made introductions, their voices caught in gentle gusts of wind. The darkness was fading, and everything came into focus. Eve wrapped Amélie in a makeshift sling and secured her on her chest. On her shoulder, she strapped a canvas bag that Claudette had prepared for her. Sauveur took her hand and Raymond took the other.

  The water was warm as it rose to their knees, and the sand shifted under their heels as they made their way to the boat where her other bag was already waiting. Eve squeezed Raymond’s hand. He was grateful for the ability to see her face in the early light.

  “I don’t know about this, Raymond.”

  She’d been quiet all morning, and by the way she looked at the boat and the ocean, he knew she was terrified. But she was too strong to admit it.

  “Don’t worry,” Raymond said. “He’s done this many times. Just do as he says and you’ll be there in no time.” His feet sank a little and his toenails gathered sand particles.

  “I’m just not good on water,” Eve muttered. “But we’ll be fine. It’s Nicolas I’m worried about…”

  They stopped at the boat where the captain was waiting. Raymond looked in her eyes this time because it was important that she knew he was not giving up. He was staying to get Nicolas back. He told her about Sauveur’s contact at Fort Dimanche. But he said nothing about the execution date.

  “I want to give you something.” Eve grabbed the bag Claudette had gifted her with.

  What now? Just this morning, she’d slipped jewelry in his pocket, insisting, despite his protests, that he pawn her gold chains and earrings.

  Raymond saw her hand move to the bottom of the sack, and he heard the rustle of plastic. Claudette had stuffed the bag with saltine crackers, bread, and some fruit. Raymond also knew that Eve had taken Nicolas’s notebook with her. Finally, she pulled out a bundle wrapped in familiar-looking fabric and held it out with both hands.

  “Take it,” she whispered.

  He grabbed the corners of the cloth and pulled them apart. He couldn’t imagine what gift Eve would have for him. When he saw the contents of the package, he understood. There was a moment of silence between them. Eve pressed forward, the body of the revolver reflecting the first specks of golden light.

  “It belonged to Nicolas,” she said firmly. Her eyes were still glued on her brother-in-law. “Take it. It’s yours now.”

  Sauveur stood behind them, looking at the gun over Eve’s shoulder. His eyes shifted from the weapon to Raymond, then back to the gun. The captain said nothing, but he too was watching them, his hands clasped on the wheel. Raymond remembered where he’d seen the fabric now: in the box with the notebook.

  He took the gun from her and held it up to have a better look. It was heavy, and he kept his finger well away from the trigger. The handle was smooth and the body was cold. He had no idea how to use it. Eve stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back, carefully holding the gun away. He wished, for a brief moment, that she would stay. Eve and Amélie were his family. Once they were gone, he would be truly alone.

  Raymond kissed his niece’s forehead. Sadness tore through him like a bad wind.

  “Don’t forget me,” he whispered, running his fingers through her curls.

  But he knew better. She was too young for his face to automatically imprint in her memory, and besides, the faces of his own children were already blurring, becoming indistinct. He and Sauveur watched the motorboat turn and head out into the open water. Then, before the sun rose above the horizon, they disappeared like ants swept off the edge of the earth.

  Sauveur stood in the water just a step behind. He sighed. Raymond searched for words to cut through the awkward silence, to avoid the obvious wound this separation had inflicted on him. But there were none. There was nothing but silence between them until the sun broke into the sky. Raymond saw the horizon, the infinity of the water, and the absence of Eve and Amélie in the clarity of morning. It was as if a veil had been lifted.

  “My wife and kids left me too,” Raymond said. “On a kanntè to Miami.”

  Behind him, Sauveur shook his head.

  “Everybody’s leaving,” the journalist said gravely. After a pause, he glanced at Raymond. “Did they make it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Something else for you to find out.”

  Raymond looked down at the water. He couldn’t see his feet, but he wiggled his toes and sank deeper into the sand.

  “Will Eve be all right out there?”

  “I trust Manno,” Sauveur said. “He’s fluent in Spanish, and he’s got family over the border. They’ll get in, no problem.”

  Still facing the ocean, Raymond took a few steps backward and then turned around to walk toward shore. Sauveur followed. They sat on the beach.

  “About your brother…” Sauveur scratched his throat.

  “You said he was alive, right?”

  Sauveur nodded. “But that doesn’t necessarily help us. We can’t have our man inside simply just break him out of prison, Raymond. No one gets out of Fort Dimanche. There are guards, and they are trained to shoot anything that moves. That’s if you can make it past the barbed wire, or survive th
e torture, the starvation.”

  Raymond steeled himself. “So what good is he? Your man inside?”

  “I’m sorry, but he’d be risking too much. He has his own grudges against the warden, but there are certain things he won’t do. Let’s rule that out right now.”

  Raymond felt short of breath as he spoke. “But he’ll help us?”

  “As much as he possibly can, yes.”

  “Then I’ll have to get in somehow.”

  “Get in?” Sauveur said. “Why? Don’t be stupid.”

  “Do you have a brother?”

  Sauveur shook his head. Then he couldn’t know what it meant, Raymond thought. Raymond remembered how, when they were little, his brother would tremble in a corner in fear of their father. He was the one to wipe the blood away from their welts at night, in their room. Raymond would not give up on Nicolas, even with so much resentment between them. He was his only family in Haiti now, and he would do whatever it took.

  Sauveur shook his head again. “It’s suicide. Getting into Fort Dimanche isn’t tough, but how the hell do you expect to break out, the two of you? No man has ever escaped from there.”

  “I can’t do it alone, that’s for sure.” He gazed steadily at his friend.

  Sauveur looked into Raymond’s eyes for a long moment and sighed. “We’ll need time.”

  “That’s one thing we don’t have much of,” Raymond said. “August twenty-seventh is just over two months away.”

  Sauveur sucked his teeth and shook his head furiously. “This is madness. You realize that?”

  “We’re all mad,” Raymond said. “You ran away from the Tonton Macoutes in broad daylight and you’re still here pushing the news from underground. I’m not the only one who’s crazy here, trust me.”

  Sauveur paused and rubbed his hands together slowly, to the rhythm of the waves. When he stopped, his face brightened. Raymond saw him grin. The journalist stroked the hair on his chin. Fishermen floated by in pairs, carrying canoes on their heads. Some of them interrupted their singing to greet the two men with the common politeness of country folk. Sauveur returned their greeting with more assurance than Raymond. They waited for the men to disappear before speaking again.

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Sauveur stared at him. A dark storm was brewing in his eyes. “Absolutely certain?”

  “I have nothing to go back to,” Raymond said. “I’ve got nothing left.”

  Sauveur smiled. “I knew you were a different kind of man,” he said, “taking me into your cab like that, driving away like you did. You’re a—”

  “A lunatic, I know. You’ve said.”

  “No, I was going to say ‘a saint.’” Sauveur’s large hand squeezed Raymond’s shoulder with reassurance. “Come, let’s have coffee. And then possibly a drink! I think we’re going to need it …”

  THIRTEEN

  Major awakened Nicolas with a shove a few days later. Nicolas sat up on his mat with his hands against his eyelids. He’d been dreaming again, but the images of Eve were already fading. All he had to hold on to was her voice.

  He looked around the cell and felt his body stiffen with a savage ache. He couldn’t have described it to anyone if he tried, but it was worse than anything he’d ever felt. It was more than soreness. It was dread. It was the agonizing routine of waking up between these four walls every day, waiting for death to lick his bones clean.

  Nicolas thought, once more, of the only alternative: an escape that afforded him control. If he could kill himself, if he could get out of this place…

  “Get up!” Major’s voice bounced against the walls.

  Nicolas opened his eyes. “What? What is it?” he muttered, half asleep.

  Were the guards coming for him? Major towered over him in the dark. The whites of his eyes had turned yellow recently, and he’d complained of fevers. Now, staring at him, Nicolas saw it clearly. Everyone saw it. Major’s arrogance was dwindling in the shadow of a growing illness.

  “Get up!” he spat. “Empty the kin!”

  “Again?” Nicolas retorted. “We’re supposed to take turns.”

  “You’ll keep on doing it until I tell you! Get off your ass!”

  Major expected compliance. He’d been muttering under his breath, but for everyone to hear, that he was going to have to work hard at “breaking this nigger, teaching him his place.” No one said anything. No one fought back. But Nicolas was growing weary of this game. Major hadn’t been as lucky in life as Nicolas—but then Nicolas had worked hard for everything he’d achieved. This dungeon offered Major the chance to keep a chokehold on the bourgeoisie. Nicolas decided he wouldn’t take it lying down.

  “We take turns,” Nicolas spat. “That’s the rule, and it’s someone else’s turn.”

  Nicolas wanted to go back to sleep. He barely had the strength to stand up anymore. He was weakening, just like everyone else in here, unable to glean enough nutrition from the putrid meals they were given. His kidneys were starting to feel the effects of dehydration, and pissing in the bucket had started to burn. He wouldn’t even make it to his own execution if things went on like this. But then again, neither would Major.

  Major folded over, suddenly, overwhelmed with a cough. Nicolas heard mucus rattling in his lungs each time he caught his breath. Tuberculosis was rampant in Fort Dimanche, and Nicolas’s fear was that soon enough, it would come knocking in cell six and reap them, one by one. It had already killed two men in nearby cells since Nicolas had arrived. He’d heard them scream in the hallway about a dead body, then another one. He’d heard the coughs, seen the blood in the corners of mouths of those who emptied the buckets outside. It was only a matter of time.

  Major cleared his throat. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Get that thing out of here, or I’ll let the guards and the warden know you’re not cooperating.”

  He watched Major curl up in his corner for his sleep shift and wondered how long it would take for him to expire. He remembered reading case studies of inmate suicide. It was easy to see how that option could become increasingly attractive.

  He shook his head to chase those thoughts away. No. He was not committing suicide. Not that it would have been easy to find a way, packed into this cell with all these other miserable human beings. There wasn’t enough space for such a personal act. No, he had to stay alive at least a few days longer now that his friend was in the same condition. Jean-Jean—he had thought of his friend since they last talked three days ago, and had tried climbing the tree to ask the prisoners across the hall if they knew anything. But he hadn’t been able to make contact. Frustration swept over him.

  Nicolas grabbed the bucket. He was tempted to dump the contents on Major, but decided against it. Instead, like a good little prisoner, he waited for the guards to come and let him out. When he made it to the yard, he looked around for Jean-Jean, searched the lines with his eyes. But Jean-Jean was not there. Perhaps it wasn’t his turn. Likely, he had been too badly hurt by the blows in the yard. When Nicolas returned to his cell, he dropped the bucket in the far corner where Major was sleeping. Major woke up and opened his eyes, startled.

  “Say what you want to the warden,” Nicolas said. “I don’t give a damn. Next time, someone else does this. I’m done.”

  Major did not answer, but he watched carefully as Nicolas paced the cell and counted his steps, throwing a few punches, even attempting jumping jacks and push-ups like when he played soccer with his brother and their friends as a kid. Though he was still bruised, Nicolas knew that exercise would be vital in keeping him alive. The urine on his wounds seemed like some kind of miracle cure—they’d started to scab and close up.

  He wanted to remain as sharp as he could, as alert as he could. If he was going to die, to be executed, and if he wasn’t going to know the date, he wanted to know he could be strong when the moment came. He did not want to give the warden nor the government the satisfaction of killing him when he was already broken, weakened, reduced to less than a man. H
e wanted to be lucid, to stand tall when they pulled the trigger—he wanted to look his killers in the eye. He was not going to die a coward, not if he could help it. Maybe one day, when Amélie asked how her father had died, her mother, or her uncle, or someone else could say he’d been a gason vanyan, a great man. Valorous. Brave. But of course, how could anyone outside ever know that?

  “Planning to go a few rounds?” Boss asked.

  Boss, like many of the prisoners, had found a hobby. He sat around molding paint chips and fibers from his mat into a paste mixed with his own urine. When it dried enough to become something close to papier-mâché, he shaped it into small playing cards or chess pieces, or squares of toilet paper to use at the kin. He was rolling a rook between his fingers as he watched Nicolas jog in place.

  “I suppose we all need something to keep us occupied,” Nicolas said.

  “I suppose we do.” Boss nodded thoughtfully. He set his final piece down next to the other pawns and chuckled.

  “We should call you Muhammad. Like Muhammad Ali, the boxer.”

  “If only I was that strong,” Nicolas muttered.

  He was bending over to touch his toes when voices suddenly came rolling down the hallway. It started in the first cell, and soon the voices traveled past the other doors.

  “La mort! Death! Death!”

  Nicolas stood still and listened. Here it was again, that cry. Someone had passed away. What was it this time? Tuberculosis again? Or death by torture? Sometimes, the bodies lay there for hours, days even, before any of the guards cared enough to remove them. The last time they ignored the call, and the body had begun to decompose. Prisoners got sick, guards vomited on their own shoes, and for fear of retaliation from the spirit of the dead, a rule was instituted that prisoners would carry the body out, accompanied by prayer and hymns. Because that was the proper way to leave a place. Because otherwise the spirit of the dead might stay behind and torment the living. Nicolas found it odd that these monsters who killed so callously were terrified of the afterlife, of hauntings, of spirits who might seek revenge.