Mile Zero

by Sanchez, Thomas

  I caught up with Mrs. Mulrooney striding among the cots, acknowledging with an officious wave the sea of male faces turned toward her. She stopped before a gaunt man slumped at the edge of his cot, gnarled hands supporting his head as he studied the floor. He raised his eyes, his forehead furrowed in deep lines, a stubble of mustache beneath his nose spotted gray. He looked fifty, I think he was thirty, he said nothing. ‘This is Hippolyte.’ Mrs. Mulrooney tapped the man’s shoulder as if he were a sleepwalker. ‘He speaks no English and I speak no Creole. We only have a few people on staff who even speak French. Perhaps you can persuade Hippolyte to tell you what happened to your friend.’ On the cot next to Hippolyte two men playing dominoes interrupted their game, eyes searching me, fearful another outsider had come to inflict hardship. Mrs. Mulrooney sensed my hesitation. ‘Ask Hippolyte about the breakout.’ In the most disarming manner possible I made my inquiry. Hippolyte listened solemnly, uttering only, ‘Très triste.’ He found the floor more interesting than my questions. The men on the next cot resumed their domino game. From the far end of the room sudden squeals and wild applause exploded, a television game show had been turned on. A circle of silent men were observing television people, not understanding their words, nor the significance of flashing numbers and loud buzzers, prompting the television people into uncontrollable fits of crying and kissing. Into the vast room the television master of ceremonies’ voice rose above all else: Is the third couple going to chance the optimum card or bet the hidden agenda? I knelt next to Hippolyte, switching my questioning from French to a conspiratorial Creole. ‘I am a friend of Voltaire Tincourette. I have journeyed here to visit with my friend, to make a gift.’ Hippolyte’s gaze came up from the floor, slowly taking me in, focusing on the white man who spoke Creole with a foreign accent, the stranger who had the tongue of his people, but not the heart, and definitely not the skin. His gaze caught on Aunt Oris’ Lucky Bone dangling from the braided string necklace around my neck, then moved from the bone to my eyes. His words came with subdued deference: ‘Ask this policewoman why it is they have captured us and try to make of us women?’ I translated to Mrs. Mulrooney. ‘Tell Hippolyte that’s nonsense.’ Mrs. Mulrooney smiled reassuringly. ‘We are not putting female sex hormones into detainees’ food to make them grow breasts. This is foolish rumor started by troublemakers in Miami’s Little Haiti. Tell him not to believe everything he hears on the radio. We are not trying to make men docile. Tell him to eat, it is safe American food. He is wasting away to nothing.’ I repeated Mrs. Mulrooney’s sentiment to Hippolyte. He confided he himself had seen breasts sprouting on men in camp, heard their voices going higher every day, this started before the breakout, the police people were trying to make of Haitian men she-goats in a pen, what was their crime, they wanted to work honest, risked their lives for that, they were not thieves, not drug men, not assassins, back in Haiti everyone spoke of Miami as the place of honest work, where a man could earn security, now it was clear, white goats were different from black goats, he was a believer in Bon Dieu, Jesus Christ, but why did camp police hand out English Bibles, no Haitians he knew read English, every day he was given poisoned food, made to stand outside in the heat, given more poisoned food, came back in the barracks, slept the day away, every day a death, many people tried to commit suicide, all they wanted was viktoua net, complete victory, they were not trying to invade the United States, just victory to work honest, for that they were treated worse than dogs, turned into frightened she-goats. Hippolyte stopped talking, as if realizing he confided too much to the wrong person. I bent closer, searching out his downcast eyes. ‘I cannot be a friend to everyone in this camp, but I was a friend to Voltaire. I came here to help him, please help me do that.’ The furrows in Hippolyte’s forehead deepened, he bit his lower lip, holding back a slip of the tongue. I tried another tack. ‘Did you own land in Haiti?’ His head snapped up, defiant pain in his eyes. ‘Do you take me for a tramp, I am no vagabond, I had some small lands in Haiti, I had my security, I even had a garden-wife to watch over my corn and yam grow, but there came more and more no rain, I had to go to Dominican Republic and cut in cane fields, when I come back Tontons have squatted my security, they say they are the man now, they take my garden-wife and say if I don’t go away they will take my life too, I left for Port-au-Prince, where paysans with no security live in streets, they told me in Miami is courage, is work, so I go, I still have sugarcane monies from Dominican, I go first on night boat with many paysans to the Bahamas, then I bribe for trip from there on smaller boat to Miami, a fishing boat, I am forced to stay below with other paysans in fishing boat hold, everyone sick from fumes, smugglers won’t let us come up for air, they say American Coast Guard is all around looking for us, we have to shut up, then the engine stops, a smuggler comes below and shouts about a big Coast Guard ship steaming toward us, everybody should give him their monies, watches, any values, because we can jump overboard with life preservers, Coast Guard won’t see us on dark sea, they will chase lights of fishing boat, but will find no illegal paysans, then fishing boat will come back to pick us up and we will be free, but paysans shouted why should they give up their values before jumping, smuggler said because seas were rough, no way to keep values dry and safe while in water waiting for fishing boat to come back, some did not believe smuggler and shouted so, he screamed there was no time, Coast Guard was steaming, if paysans needed proof, hurry up to deck and see for themselves, we did, across chopping waves was blinking light and blast of loud horn, paysans handed over their values and jumped overboard with life preservers around their necks, fishing boat swung around, churned away, sound of its engine gone before paysans realized blinking light was not moving, blasts from its horn coming no closer, it was a light buoy marking a shipping channel, almost none of paysans could swim, they were hardscrabble farmers helpless to currents, many cried and prayed, begged great loas for mercy, but we were already drifting from light buoy, not long before sound of horn could not be heard across water, some of us tried to raft our preservers together, maybe by dawn we would see shore, know which direction to head for, since I was a canecutter I had powerful arms to pull with, I grabbed a woman by hair and pulled her with me, as water grew colder she grew limper, until I realized I was towing a dead person, I let her slip from me, then sharks came, screams of others not clinging to our raft of preservers came to me in darkness, one screamer was small girl, I remembered she had been wearing a red frock bought by her mother in Bahamas so she would look pretty when she got to Miami, I swam toward her, red frosting was on churning water in moonlight, I shouted for everyone to be calm, no splashing, no kicking, nothing to draw sharks, I was surprised when sharks did not return right away, I expected my body to be cut, slightest nudge against my legs made me shudder, I laughed at thought sharks would have better meal than I ever had, by morning I saw glitter of Miami Beach mansions, soon real Coast Guard roared toward us and here I am, where I found Voltaire, but not until the breakout, I didn’t know him before, he too had come across water, like everyone else was afraid.’ Hippolyte’s gaze slipped away, across rows of cots with men sprawled atop them like floating bodies. His gaze steadied on the back wall, its hard surface painted with colorful density of jungle, palms towering in a cool world, howler monkeys swinging through vines, red-winged parrots flying, chartreuse butterflies above a lagoon, a white panther at water’s edge, its eyes not agitated by predatory purpose, but open and questioning, large human eyes. ‘Voltaire,’ Hippolyte intoned, ‘he was not a strong canecutter like me, did not know of him until we went over the fence, had not risen that morning with head full of escape, early afternoon was waiting my turn at outdoor privy, for days was rumored carloads of sympathizers coming from Miami to make world aware we were being given woman drugs, poisoned food was growing us thin with exhaustion, as I opened privy door I heard car horns on far side of administration building, protesters banging at gates, bottles and stones crashing, gunshots, smoke and gas burned my eyes, vomit spewed from my mouth,
ran to back fence, joined a scramble of climbing men, barbed wire tore my hands, I dropped to saw grass on other side, behind me a ragged boy, blood soaked his torn clothes, we ran, that night in tall grass he told me he lost his security, Tontons had sent Zobops after his uncle in Haiti, chopped his uncle with axes like a pig, he said Zobops chased him across water, shooting flying fish at him, so he prayed Papa Agwé for redemption, and Horsemen came from beneath sea during night when stars fell around his boat sailing from Haiti, Horsemen placed a ouanga around his neck, anointed his forehead with holy ashes from a richaud, whispered in his ear freedom was close, not to be a mischiefmaker, to swim into forgetfulness, deny memory, these things Voltaire spoke as wind strummed saw-grass sea surrounding us, all night world was lit by lightning, thunder in yonder, hot rain spitting, mud steaming, fish flying in memory forgetting, security was coming, Papa Agwé would save us, I believed what he believed, there was no other belief, he was my sweet lamb, we slept, awakening to a world of dense smoke from fires started by lightning, we wept, we were lost, hard ground of high grass gave way to swamp, we were knee deep in our struggle toward freedom, overhead whine of airplanes, I did not know if they were searching us or making war on distant fires, gray day bled into gray night, black sun became black moon, Voltaire was babbling, splattered with ash and blood, he passed out, freedom was close, we could not stop, I slipped my arm around him, he weighed less than a flying fish, I carried him forward, only once did his eyes open, he mumbled to Papa Agwé, mud sucked our feet, stink of rotting plants in our noses, buzz of mosquitoes in our ears, flesh swollen from bites, we traveled the here to there, smoke turned brilliant red with dawn, a new day cleared, in distance giants marched on horizon, an army of Saints, I was no longer afraid, I was not a vagabond from the sea, but proud paysan, people would offer me assistance, giants grew taller, coming closer I saw they weren’t Saints marching to a new world, but power poles charred by fires still puffing smoke beneath them, the poles lined a canal, pointing direction sun was rising, blackened earth was hot beneath our feet as we followed poles strung with humming wires, water sluiced swiftly in canal below, singing a clean sound, Voltaire awoke, water always leads to something good, what it led to was a bridge of cars passing overhead, before us water disappeared into a steel mouth of pipe, we stumbled up a rise onto hard black field of cars parked between painted white lines, ahead glittered a glass palace surrounded by flowering trees and waterfalls, this is where canal water must have disappeared to, we were thirsty and dirty, we wanted to drink and bathe, we followed crowds of people inside the palace, where heat was sucked from day and breeze blew, we saw no animals but heard sweet chorus of invisible birds, Voltaire hobbled forward on muddy feet, beneath him slippery floor reflected treasures from mountains of clothes, jewels, and television sets, I shouted for him to come back, I did not know if I was in his dream or he was in mine, maybe we had both been shot climbing the camp fence, we had gone to hell in fiery Everglades, but Voltaire’s prayers to Papa Agwé gained us escape and we were in heaven. If I was alive I did not know how long it had been since I last ate or slept, two days or two weeks, I chased Voltaire through treasures, he stopped beneath a sign:

  BASKET-O-FRUITS-N-GIFTS

  Baskets of heaped fruit beckoned, Voltaire rocked his head to music of invisible birds, his fingers gliding over golden oranges, ruby apples, emerald pears, perfection not seen in our insect-riddled land of shriveled trees, food fit for feast of Saints, he peeled plastic skin from a ruby apple, raising fruit to lips as angry words he could not understand screamed from a woman stalking toward him, he was like a sleepwalker shaken awake, he extended the apple to the woman, she stopped, as if the apple was a bomb capable of destroying glass palaces, behind us was shouting, I turned, a uniformed black police shoved through a crowd, Voltaire smiled and stumbled toward him, offering the basket of fruit, they were going to collide, I shouted for Voltaire to stop, he did not hear me in his dream, a gun flashed from black police, terror in Voltaire’s eyes, Tontons had found him, fruit jewels scattered as he ran across slippery mirage, black police went after him, I chased on blistered feet, Voltaire was quick as rabbit, he ran out onto a busy highway, dodging speeding cars, horns honking, black police shouting, he streaked beneath an overhang of traffic lights, not seeing a truck hit him, hurling him onto hood of a car swerving in squeal of brakes, slamming him to pavement, across a yellow X large as a man, when I got to him blood rushed from his lips, I cradled him in my arms and prayed Saints wake us from good dream turned nightmare, white letters were beneath yellow X, I did not know their meaning, but memory has a picture:

  LEFT HAND TURN ONLY

  Oh my sweet lamb.’ ”

  25

  I THINK he’s gone. Do you hear me?” St. Cloud tried to sort his thoughts, to push past the vision of Voltaire lying dead in front of a shopping mall at the edge of the Everglades, a place where the march of modernization overtook the millennial crawl of sea surrendering new land. The vision refused to recede, Voltaire on a yellow X, spinning counterclockwise, suspended between two worlds. Angelica appeared before him. It had stopped raining, dawn illuminated the thin blue horizon.

  “You’ve been talking all night.” Angelica’s fingertips touched St. Cloud’s cheek. “Didn’t want to stop you, it’s what Isaac wanted.”

  St. Cloud’s thoughts were muddled. The frail hand he held within his own was lifeless.

  “Tried to call Renoir again, still no answer.”

  “Answer?” St. Cloud looked up into Angelica’s face. No tears were in her eyes, just a clear gaze of blue. Maybe this was the last thing Isaac saw, stripped of all landscape, his giant blue spot, pursued to the end. St. Cloud did not want to let Isaac’s hand go, as long as he clung to it the connection between them remained. His mind drifted back to the story he had been telling, there was more to it, a strange ending. He recalled the silence after Hippolyte finished the breakout tale. As Hippolyte stared at the floor his own eyes went to the jungle painted across the back wall, the white panther peering back at him. Thunder rumbled across surrounding Everglades, slowly Hippolyte’s words made their way from scarred lips: “I used to be a strong man with security, a man who could cut cane twelve hours a day, sometimes if a man loses the swing of his machete from tiredness as he slices cane, and the blade strikes him in the heat of the moment, his pumped-up blood will jump from the wound in minutes, he will die in the fields, I have cut myself twice, cuts deeper than a boar’s bite, then bound my cut from cloth of my torn pants, walked ten miles home over mountains and across streams, I was so strong, look at me now, wasting away because of no work in camp, without his security a man is nothing, his body quits if not used as loas deemed, I weigh no more than one of Voltaire’s flying fish.” Hippolyte’s words stopped, as if his breath was even too much of a burden to bear. St. Cloud bent before him again, reached into his pocket and withdrew the envelope containing twenty hundred-dollar bills. He pushed the envelope into Hippolyte’s gnarled hands, claiming it was a gift from Voltaire, who wrote St. Cloud he wanted his friend Hippolyte to have it. Hippolyte turned the sealed envelope in his hands, pondering its contents, he had not asked for gifts, furrows in his forehead deepened, maybe this was a trick, after all, St. Cloud only said he was Voltaire’s friend. There were many things in this new world Hippolyte did not know, mysteries beyond belief. One thing was not a mystery, he knew Voltaire was a paysan like him, unschooled. Voltaire could not write. “I did not come to Florida for sunshine,” Hippolyte whispered hoarsely. “Neither did I,” St. Cloud whispered back. Hippolyte rose from his cot, crouched before a footlocker and opened its metal door with a small key. He slid the envelope inside and gathered something swiftly from the back shelf into his fist. He sat on the cot holding his fist before St. Cloud’s face. “Voltaire died without security, not without spirit, I took this from around his neck as loas called him home, if you are his friend it should be with you.” Hippolyte’s fist opened to reveal the pigskin ball of a ouanga wound with goatha
ir, bloodstained and mud-soiled. St. Cloud did not touch it, it was the only security Voltaire had in this world. “Take it,” Hippolyte urged. “Some things are meant to be, maybe you are not so white after all.”