Cemetery of Swallows

by Mallock;

  “It’s especially that he knew too well what was going to happen,” Ramón said, without wanting to say any more.

  Amédée decided to be blunt for once:

  “Did he have paid spies in the police here?”

  Silence.

  “They can’t be called spies. In any case, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I wouldn’t understand what? Corruption? Treachery? Torture?”

  The silence, this time, was shorter. Ramón broke it by turning toward Amédée.

  “You’re way off base. If I add voodoo, curses, and zombies, are you prepared to . . . envisage such things? No. You French are pragmatic, more Cartesian than Descartes. You think all that is a bunch of superstitions fit for niggers, right?”

  Mallock hesitated. The door was open, but this was the wrong time to make a mistake. First of all, he had to ignore that word “nigger” that resounded like a rather childish provocation:

  “You know, I’ve seen some pretty awful stuff in my career. More than you can imagine. Nothing surprises me and I’m entirely prepared to believe you, but don’t try to fool me. If in fact you’re scared, I would understand that very well. Don’t try to blame that on a colonial superiority complex that I don’t have.”

  El capitán Double-cream Cabral took a few minutes to think before he spoke again:

  “From 1945 to 1948, Tobias Darbier spent four years in Haiti, on the other side of the island, learning the cruel meanderings of the Left-Hand Path. But he already knew all about torture.”

  Bingo! They were off and running again. Mallock sat up on his seat.

  “What are the known facts?”

  Ramón smiled broadly:

  “Here, facts and legends are one and the same thing. Everything is transmitted orally, and words get deformed, imbued by the personality of the storyteller. Stories live their own lives, and Tobias Darbier was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. Today, nobody could claim to be able to separate truth from legend. One thing is sure: he was Trujillo’s teacher in matters of torture and black magic. For a long time, he was the unofficial emperor of this island. The rest . . . it is better not to mention.”

  Ramón might have been able to pursue his revelations a little further had Mallock forced his hand. But the superintendent knew how to conduct interviews and preferred, on the contrary, to talk about something else. For example, about the subject that had led him to haul his heavy body around a paradise far too tropical for him.

  “What does Manuel Gemoni have to do with all that? What do you think?”

  “Nothing. It was made clear to us that it wasn’t our problem. Your presence here is the confirmation of that.”

  “Touché,” Mallock smiled. “But from one cop to another, how do you analyze that?”

  “If we want to remain logical and simple, I think he killed him for revenge. Darbier had made hundreds of enemies here. He must have made others before or elsewhere. In any case, your Manuel went all the way. It’s up to you to look into your compatriot’s life, among his ancestors or those close to him. Maybe you’ll find one of Darbier’s victims or one of his henchmen, and that will provide an explanation for this murder. Your friend is a Corsican, and I believe the notion of vengeance is no joking matter on his island.”

  Mallock could find no fault with this analysis. El capitán Ramón Double-cream Cabral had just scored a point and given the complicated superintendent a simple lesson in logic.

  Whether because he was getting used to Captain Cabral’s brand of driving or because he was interested in what he said, Amédée no longer kept his eyes on the road and finally let his legs relax. Outside, the air smelled of cinnamon and the waves. They were arriving in Cabarete. Jiménez slowed down. The village ran along the beach in a continuous line of shops and restaurants. After dark, hundreds of bare light-bulbs had been turned on, tinting with yellow and orange the lower parts of the setting. If one looked up a little, one saw the effervescent green of the palm trees. Then, still higher up, a third color, the cobalt blue of the night sky studded with stars.

  The car stopped in front of a garden gate. While Ramón Double-cream Cabral went to get the key to his room, the superintendent in charge walked off toward the sea. His pace slowed when his shoes sank into the lukewarm sand. The ocean’s sounds called out to him: “Ah! There you are, Amédée, my waves and I have missed you.” The horizon was lost out there somewhere in the night. Mallock took a few steps as far as the line of palm trees to escape the lights of the hotel and the restaurants along the beach.

  Closer to the water, the wind was waiting to free him from the Caribbean humidity. He raised his head to loosen up his neck after all the tensions of the day. The sky was spangled with stars, but the Great Bear had disappeared. Their constellation, his and his Thomas’s, the one that connected all nights with his little angel.

  Suddenly he felt lost.

  5.

  Second Day, Cabarete, Amber Coast

  Six P.M. Local Time

  His first awakening in the tropics, on the third and last floor of a five-star hotel, gave him a more positive impression of the Dominican Republic. The sun was beginning to light up the cobalt of the night, and the air, which was already lukewarm, was being stirred by the immense fans attached to the ceilings.

  The preceding evening, Ramón had been so kind as to make the rounds of the rooms to turn on the ventilators. He’d also opened the windows, which were fitted with Venetian blinds and screens in order to produce one of the secrets of survival in these latitudes: a draft. Then he had informed Mallock of three other constraints. First of all, wash your hands only with the distilled water from a little spigot to the right of the faucets. Secondly, drink only agua minerale in bottles, served sealed. And thirdly, don’t throw your used toilet paper in the bowl; instead, put it in the wastebin next to it. Mallock, although he didn’t like such an unhygienic practice, pretended it was normal, in order to avoid offending Ramón’s nacional sensitivities.

  That morning, as he went out onto one of the three balconies at his disposal, he had the impression that he’d dived into a postcard or been forced to go on a tourist excursion:

  “You will note the incredible luxuriance of the vegetation: creeping vines, bougainvillea, conifers, coconut trees and palms, mango trees, tree ferns, banana trees. Look up at the sky, the fauna is just as rich. Our republic is an amazing aviary of exotic birds, among which can be seen the dazzling nightingale or the Dominican parrot, Amazona ventralis, with plumage of verde cotorra, which has become the island’s emblem. You will also note, behind this splash of colors, the white of the beach and the fluorescent jade of the sea. See how generous Nature has been. So, enjoy it . . . and don’t forget to tip the guide.”

  But Mallock silenced that little internal voice, which was often too caustic. There was nothing to object to. Even an old spoilsport like him couldn’t help being amazed. The sun’s heat was beginning to bring out the scents: pepper, mango, damp earth. To complete the picture, a flock of tiny hummingbirds, the great masters of stationary flying, were cleaning the parasites off the leaves. Mallock’s eyes were dazzled, but his heart ached. He couldn’t help thinking that he would never be able to show this spectacle to his Thomas. So many things he could no longer share with him.

  He looked up at the sky and asked his son:

  “Tom, my dear, is this what your paradise is like?”

  He put on a white short-sleeved shirt and unbleached linen slacks, his bare feet in leather sandals, and went down a circular staircase to the garden. A dark-skinned man was watering the plants. His right hand had been cut off and his eyes were bloodshot. Mallock said, “Good morning,” and the Haitian replied with a nod and a broad smile.

  His teeth were in lamentable condition.

  From the other side of the garden, along the coast road, the Blue Paradise was giving off scents of fresh-squeezed orange juice, bacon an
d eggs, and coffee. An irresistible combination. That was where Mallock was supposed to meet André Barride, the physician who was going to examine Manuel.

  The French superintendent was not the first one up. Coming out from behind his bar, the owner of this strange cantina approached him, holding out his hand:

  “So you’re the famous Mallock, France’s savior? I’d been told you were here. I’m Jean-Daniel, and I’ve never saved anything but my own skin.”

  “That’s already something,” Mallock retorted, smiling in spite of the “famous” which was no longer in any way flattering since that word was now applied to any boob who’d been on television.

  The owner of the cantina had blue eyes washed out by the sea, the sand, and different suns. A hooked nose and blond, almost white hair. A slight accent colored by travels, a muscular body, a skin that told stories, and the rich smile of people who have already lived several lives, full of the bitterness and repentance that go along with them, and the humanity as well. Mallock decided to call him Mister Blue. That name fit him perfectly, with his look, his rough elegance, and the all-blue place he’d set up for himself.

  His Blue Paradise was an empty space between two houses whose walls he had appropriated by painting them in cyan blue. On the right was a smooth façade decorated with naive images; in the center, a palm tree grew through the corrugated metal roof; high up, three rows of ventilators; and on the left, a window looking out on the store next door.

  Mister Blue was one of those barnacle-like men who sometimes rest, between two battles, by attaching themselves to a rock, a ship’s hull, the walls of houses, or to a tree trunk, like an epiphyte.

  “Your neighbor didn’t object?” Mallock asked, intrigued.

  “About what?”

  “About your appropriating the walls.”

  “No, he’s very nice, an exceptional guy.” Then he broke into laughter. “I’m the neighbor. That’s my amber shop. If you have time, I’ll show you my treasures.”

  He pointed to a table: “Sit down there, it’s the coolest place and there’s no fan right above it. What will you have?”

  Mallock ordered a big glass of orange juice, tea with milk, and three fried eggs.

  Later, when Mallock’s plate was empty, Dr. André Barride arrived. He went directly up to Mister Blue to shake his hand and exchange friendly smiles. Then they both came over to Mallock.

  Jean-Daniel introduced them. “Dr. Barride, this is the famous Superintendent Mallock.”

  Like Mister Blue, André Barride was square-jawed and had a fighter’s body. But his skin was much less tanned, uniformly orange, in fact, salmon-colored, and he weighed sixty or seventy pounds more. If age had caused his skin to sag a little, the muscles were still there, well hidden and ready for use at the first occasion. The doctor had an imposing build and even a bit of a potbelly, a big, flattened nose, and dark hair. As for his eyes, they were not South Seas blue but black, like two pools.

  “There’s no time to lose. We have to go first to Puerto Plata to negotiate a bed in the clinic and reserve a surgeon to assist me. Then we’ll head for Santiago to get your friend out of the hospital.”

  At a discreet sign from her boss, one of the waitresses brought them a drink. Without thinking much about it, Mallock downed it all at once. A wave of heat. It was rum, but fortunately, it had been made on the island, so that it was sweeter and not as strong as the industrial alcohol from Martinique. Although they had been able to produce cigars that could sometimes almost compete with the Cuban ones, their rum still had a long way to go.

  “I’m also going to Santiago to purchase a few fossils. I’ll be leaving around 3 or 4 P.M., so if you need me, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Jean-Daniel scribbled a number on the paper tablecloth, cut it off, and gave it to André.

  “If you need help, you can reach me at this number starting at noon. Get going, boys, and good luck.”

  The somewhat mocking tone in his voice, and Barride’s grimace and worried look, attracted Mallock’s attention. This wasn’t going to be a pleasure trip or a cruise, it was going to be a hassle. He was right, but he was still far off the mark. Light-years off.

  The flame trees in bloom were sprinkling with crimson drops the monochrome green of the island’s vegetation. Taking his time, the doctor stopped here and there to drop off medicines, improvise free consultations, do his errands, or buy a little hashish.

  “It relaxes me and keeps me from drinking too much,” he said as he lit a joint before getting back on the road. “Alcoholism is the main problem for Westerners who live in Africa or South America,” he went on. “A way of holding on, I suppose, of enduring the cultural gap, or maybe simply the temptation of a way of letting oneself go that will never be criticized or punished. So I prefer a little joint; does that shock you?”

  Mallock reflected on his own weaknesses. He hesitated as to how to reply: “not at all,” which is what he thought, or “not really,” which was more in tune with his status as police superintendent.

  “We all need crutches to put up with life,” he finally said, philosophically. “Having difficulty handling things in such a crazy world is actually a sign of good mental health, isn’t it?”

  André smiled as he cast a furtive glance at Mallock. He’d feared being stuck with a stuffy, pretentious bureaucrat. He felt relieved. Pothole: his pickup swerved. He swore and decided to slow down. These potholes were gigantic by European standards and axle-deep.

  There were clumps of greenery on both sides of the road, and the low, mossy hills along the coast were studded with palm trees. The sky was a sumptuous blue. The sun bronzed the brown of the tree trunks and brought out the multitude of greens. Around every curve, Nature revealed all its generosity. Water and earth were copulating in the sun, and their children were dazzling. Time passed, punctuated by the peaceful appearance of donkeys alongside the road. They were tied up there to graze and clean up the shoulders. Twenty miles farther on, they entered a series of endless curves.

  “We have to watch out,” Barride remarked, taking up a subject that miles and silence had put to rest. “The authorities here are serious about drugs.”

  Taking advantage of this opening, Mallock brought up his favorite topic: “What do you think about this Darbier fellow?”

  André smiled. “Finally! I would have worried about a cop who didn’t ask me questions when I was at his mercy.”

  “Don’t feel you have to answer.”

  “I’m joking. But you have to recognize that here history is not written day by day, respecting the facts. Tobias Darbier became a legend on the island, and it’s very difficult, today, to separate the true from the fantastic. Personally, I pay attention only to eyewitness testimony.”

  “Have you heard any about Darbier?”

  The doctor’s eyes grew harder. He reflected for a few seconds. Mallock knew how to wait.

  “There’s one thing I’ve kept to myself for a long time. And now there you are with your question.”

  Was he hesitating, or was he collecting his memories? No matter, it was for him to decide. And that is what he did, two miles farther on.

  “Darbier is dead, and so is my patient, so I suppose I can talk now.”

  A grimace of disgust.

  “One day, I had X-rays made of an old man whom I’d been treating several months, in particular for kidney stones and arthritis. It wasn’t easy to do; he could hardly move anymore. With the help of two members of his family, the radiologist and I spent four hours taking as many pictures as possible. It was trying; the poor man had had almost all his limbs fractured and his joints dislocated, it was terrible. When I asked him the cause of his injuries, he simply waved the question away. But to me it looked very much like the effects of strappado, a form of torture, favored by Torquemada and his death squad. The victim is hoisted to the ceiling using pulleys and with his wrists tied b
ehind his back. Because of the weight, the joints all end up breaking. Then the torturers let him fall toward the ground, and by suddenly stopping his fall, break his bones, one after the other.”

  André Barride frowned, as if blown away by the violence of what he was describing.

  “Later, when the old man began to trust me, he told me that it was the infamous Darbier who had tortured him. Three days in a row. And he broke his joints, ankles, elbows, shoulders, wrists, and even fingers, not with ropes and pulleys, but with his bare hands. Then he worked him over with a hammer to break his bones. Thinking he was dead, he had his henchmen throw the poor man in a ditch alongside the road. When I asked him what Darbier wanted to know, he laughed in my face: Nada. ¡Esta por la felicitad, señor! The bastard practiced torture the way other people pay tennis or bridge, just for the pleasure of it. That gives you a good idea of what the man was like, doesn’t it?”

  Homo homini lupus, Mallock murmured.

  Although they were painful, all the horrors he learned about Darbier would be grist for his mill. He had set himself three tasks. The official one was to bring Julie’s brother home in good condition. The two others were unofficial: to take advantage of the opportunity to discern whether there might be the slightest doubt about his guilt; and if not, to find as many extenuating circumstances as possible. On this last point, it seemed that there might be material that would strengthen the defense’s case. But he still had to find people to testify, and then prove that Manuel knew about these practices, and that his act was connected with Tobias’s barbarism, indeed could even be seen as a duty to take revenge if there was a victim who was associated with him. It wasn’t clear that he could do that.

  “Could you make a statement for me?”

  “Testifying to all this?”

  “Yes, with a copy of the old man’s X-rays?”

  Barride frowned doubtfully.

  “I could, but that wouldn’t prove that it was Darbier’s work. As for the X-rays, they disappeared from my office a few days later, as if by magic. You’ll have to get used to that; everything concerning that individual is highly volatile, especially human testimony. Anyway, be careful, his brutos didn’t die with him, and they probably won’t like this kind of investigation.”