“Of course.”
“What does he say?”
Madame threw up her hands. “We’re on an island,” she said. “They can’t patrol every inch of shore.”
However deep her frustration, I could not be sure she truly appreciated how dire the situation was. Under President Mailodet she had watched as things went from bad to worse, but she had seen too little to understand that those had not been isolated events. Those conditions were always with us, and unless one did something to stop them, they would forever return.
“There is one other thing we could try.”
Her head hung low as she turned it toward me.
“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s not enough to tell them how important something is. You have to show them, too.”
“And how do you do that?”
“You hand them a briefcase,” I said, regretting the words even as I knew I had no choice but to say them. “And inside the briefcase you place whatever you think the thing is worth.”
“Never,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
Without another word she got up and walked away. My breath left me as I watched her go.
For the next two mornings, Madame was absent from our bench. Whenever I saw her in the manor house, she turned the other way. I could not blame her for her reaction; mine would have been no different. But we both knew there was no other option. Nor was there any time to waste.
On the third day she called to make the appointment. I do not know what finally changed her mind. What could it have been but desperation?
M. Rossignol’s office was only a block from where Senator Marcus’s office had been, and it would have been impossible as I entered not to look at the chairs in the lobby and see myself sitting there quietly for hours, waiting for the moment the Senator would need me to take him somewhere. Given how much time had passed, the thought was more upsetting than I would have expected. But time had done nothing to lessen the pain.
There were the same young secretaries and clerks, the same shiny, opulent desks. The world should not be permitted to go on, unchanged, as if such terrible things had not happened. A man such as Senator Marcus should not disappear without his absence being everywhere preserved.
The receptionist offered me coffee, and when I declined, a seat.
My wait was brief. Scarcely had I settled in with the briefcase at my feet than she was standing before me, saying the minister was ready.
There was a time, not long ago, when I could not have walked down a corridor such as this, lined with dark paneling and gilt frames, without feeling I did not belong. But I was no longer the shopkeeper’s son, nor the boy sleeping in a stuffy attic. I was a man with an opulent office of my own. I was a man with a briefcase full of money.
When I arrived in his doorway, the minister of tourism was standing behind his desk with his hands behind his back. He looked far better than he had at the party. The paunch was still there across his middle, but in his new suit he seemed solid and substantial instead of old and worn out. The ferocity was back in his eyes as well, as if the new post had greatly improved his sleep.
With a bow, the secretary ushered me in and then stepped away.
I had assumed M. Rossignol would be expecting Mme Freeman, but he seemed not at all surprised at the sight of me. Nevertheless, I could not say he was pleased—but when had he ever been pleased?
“Monsieur,” he said, lowering his eyes and gesturing toward a chair.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I know how busy you must be.” But as I came around to take a seat, I noticed the cleanliness of his desk, the almost complete lack of files and papers. Remembering the mess I had found in the trunk of his car all those years ago, I would never have expected him to be so tidy. Then again, with tourists fleeing the country even faster than the boat people, perhaps there was not much work to be done.
There was just a phone, a silver pen in an ebony stand, and a framed photograph of his wife.
“I suppose this was inevitable,” he said.
I looked up from the case at my feet. “Pardon?”
“Your being here like this.”
I shrugged. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve known you a long time,” he said. “I know it’s no accident, your being here today.” Then he leaned forward, and I could smell the bitter coffee on his breath. “Let’s be clear. I’m not looking to judge. It’s no accident that I’m here either.”
In the days leading up to the meeting, and even during the ride into the city, I had endlessly rehearsed exactly what I would say and how I would say it. I had even practiced the handing over of the briefcase. Perhaps it was because I had worked out so careful a script that I felt so disoriented now. With his eyes boring into me, my confidence began to flag, and I turned again to the picture on his desk.
“Your wife,” I said. “I saw her at the party. She seemed very kind.”
He looked at her and then at me. “That’s another thing we have in common,” he said. “We choose our women well.”
I said, “I don’t have a wife.”
“You have something better,” he said. “Your Mrs. Freeman is here only a few months a year. You get the benefits she brings, and you also have your freedom.”
“I’m very fond of Mme Freeman,” I said, hoping to bring that line of discussion to an end. “I like her very much.”
“And I like my wife, too, although that’s not why I married her.” M. Rossignol sat back with a smirk on his face. “You don’t know why I married her, do you? You don’t know who she is.”
I shook my head.
“You might know her by her maiden name,” he said. “Duphay.”
“I see,” I said, and in fact it was the first time since I sat down that I felt I understood anything.
“Obviously the marriage has brought me certain benefits,” he said, and the sweep of his hands conducted my eyes over the amenities of the office. “But in the long run,” he added, more somberly now, “I wonder which of us is better off.”
“I’m sure Mlle Duphay—that is, Mme Rossignol—has a great deal more influence.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “But around here you never know how long anything will last.”
I could see he was enjoying the long silence that followed and the discomfort it caused me. Was he waiting for me to say I felt certain President Duphay would be around for a long time to come—that his patronage was safe? Or did he imagine I was one of the many waiting for his downfall? If I had truly felt free to share my thoughts, I would have said I did not care. Let them rise, let them fall, as long as they left me in peace.
“As for you and me,” he said, “we’ll do whatever it takes to survive.” As he got to his feet I felt a wash of relief, knowing the moment had finally come.
Without bothering to open it, he accepted the case and set it down behind his desk. However glad I was that it was over, I still shared Madame’s disgust.
“Think what you will,” he said, scrutinizing my face. “I know you better than you realize. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I know where you started out. You’re not about to give up the things you fought so hard to get. When your time comes, you’ll do exactly the same as me.”
I decided I would rather let him think what he wished than remain there a moment longer, arguing the point. All I could think was how distraught—though perhaps not surprised—Senator Marcus would be to see how low his former friend had sunk.
I knew enough not to expect Madame to be happy with the outcome of my meeting with the minister of tourism. However well we succeeded, for her the ends would always be tainted by the means. For that reason, I took the burden of it upon myself, sharing with her nothing of what had transpired. I did not enjoy her disapproval and continued absence from our bench in the preserve, but I knew it was necessary. I could only hope it would pass. In the meantime, I had to ignore the knives piercing my stomach whenever I saw her across the room, pretending not to see me.
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br /> The results came more quickly than I had imagined. Even with our contribution, M. Rossignol could not afford to patrol every meter of shore, but the boat people were immediately made to understand that the coast guard and the rough open waters were no longer the only dangers they faced. The minister of tourism finally found a way to put the security forces to good use, raiding beaches and docks where launches were known to occur and making arrests of ferry operators hiring themselves out for smuggling.
Within a month, the number of newspaper stories, both here and abroad, had dwindled to such an extent that some sources were already claiming the government crackdown complete.
But we had little time to savor our success; problems continued to pile up faster than we could solve them.
More and more I was overhearing the maids and bus boys murmuring about trouble in Cité Verd, where virtually all of their families lived. Security forces had recently begun showing up at the market there, collecting “taxes” and demanding bribes. In a place as poor as that, it was hard to imagine why they would bother. What could those few pennies buy? The tiny return would seem like disincentive enough, but I had also been hearing about a growing resistance, a gang of men and boys armed with rocks and bottles who were fighting back, building barricades to keep the security forces out.
In late June, four months after Mlle Miller’s ordeal, the problem became a crisis. One afternoon, several members of the security forces—out of drunkenness or boredom or sport—beat a pregnant woman unconscious with a brick. And then they stabbed her in the stomach and left her to die.
Minutes later, a mob gathered at the market, bearing machetes and whatever guns they could find. That night they caught a man from the security forces by surprise and strung him from a telephone pole.
This time I did not bother going to Madame or M. Gadds. There were some things, it had become clear, that I would need to take care of myself.
The next afternoon, passing by two of the gardeners resting under a tree by the stables, I heard one of them say, “If it’s war they’re after, they’re going to get it.”
“You,” I said, rushing over before they could say any more. “Both of you. I want you out of here at once.”
They looked at me as if I were crazy, but when a moment passed and they still had not moved, I kicked the one sitting closest to me in the leg. “Now!” I shouted. They stood up, and I grabbed each one by the arm and led them toward the gate.
“Our things,” one of them said. “We need our things.”
“You should have thought of that before.”
“Before what?”
By then we had reached the gate, and I ordered the guards to open it. “If you’re so interested in the revolution,” I said, “you’re free to join it. I don’t ever want to see you here again.”
The guards were mystified, standing off by their shack, not wanting to get too close. “If I ever hear that you let them back in,” I said, pointing at their chests, “I’ll throw you out just as quickly.”
The guards looked at the gardeners and then at their feet.
“Do not test me.”
That night I called a meeting of the day-shift staff. For once, they all showed up on time, squeezing into the largest of the servants’ quarters. I was aware that the silence of so many people crammed into so small a space could only mean the story of what had happened to the gardeners had spread. Who else could have spread it but the guards?
Not only did I not mind, I was glad.
“I trust,” I began, “that all of you have heard about what happened here today. Let me assure you that the same will happen to each and every one of you if I hear even a single word about gangs or guns or security forces or resistance or anything else. We are running a hotel. What do you think will happen if the guests hear you?”
Someone in the back murmured, “They wouldn’t understand what we’re saying anyway.”
“Who said that?” I shouted, and everyone fell silent again. “One more outburst, and I will fire every single one of you. I could stand outside the gate, and within five minutes I would have a replacement for every person in here.” I paused to let that sink in.
“Our guests understand more than you think,” I continued. “They may not understand the words, but they don’t have to. All they need is to see the whispering, and they will know something is wrong. That’s all it takes. As soon as they start thinking something is wrong, it’s over. Think about that,” I said. “Unless you wish to join the ranks of the starving and unemployed, keep your thoughts to yourselves. I want to see nothing but smiles.”
I dismissed them then, pleased with their quiet and orderly retreat. I did not care if they liked what they heard—I needed only for them to absorb it, and I had no doubt they had.
That night I could not sleep, and in the morning I met with the smaller night-shift staff and told them the same thing I had told the others. They made no outbursts and offered no complaints. They had already been warned.
I was aware that for the next several weeks everyone on the staff did whatever they could to avoid me, but I was everywhere, making my rounds at all hours of the day and night. My ears were attuned, and I heard nothing more about any resistance in Cité Verd.
For a time, it almost seemed as if things were finally settling down again, and I looked forward to the day when we could return our energies to running the hotel, instead of constantly managing crises. Still, I was not so foolish as to think our troubles were past. As was always the case, as soon as one thing was dealt with, something else—something even worse—came along.
It was late July when the warnings first began appearing in the newspapers and the radio. A tropical storm was moving in from the southwest. With its torrential rains and gale-force winds—phrases that quickly became as familiar to our guests as “gin and tonic” and “white wine spritzer”—it had already decimated several other islands in its path.
If nothing else, the storm gave the staff something new to worry about.
We took precautions, stocking up on supplies and testing the generators. But despite our assurances that Habitation Louvois was perfectly safe, most of our guests insisted on cutting their visits short.
For those few who stayed, it was as we had expected. The first hour or two, each drop of water felt like a bucket, and the winds bent the trees as if they were drinking straws. But the floods went right around us, leaving us unscathed. Aside from some minor damage to the roof of the guesthouse and a few of the villas, the estate survived perfectly intact.
But while we were strong enough to withstand the storm, Cité Verd was not. All those shacks built of nothing blew away even before the worst of it hit. With no vegetation to hold down the soil, the hillside streets of dirt became an ocean of mud, and who knows how many people washed away. There were estimates of anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred. No one knew. How could they? These were people who had been like ghosts even when they were alive.
It did not take long for the murmuring to return. On the streets of Cité Verd there were protests and clashes with the security forces. Not just gangs this time, but old women and children and everyone else as well. They blamed it all on President Duphay. As if there were something he could have done—some vast umbrella he could have held above them until the storm had passed.
For our part, we were able to make it clear that despite whatever problems existed elsewhere, Habitation Louvois remained open for business. With few exceptions, the guests who had been waiting for the skies to clear hurried to claim their villas. Within a week of the storm, everything at the hotel was back to normal.
Everything beyond the gate, however, continued to grow worse, especially the constant clamoring in Cité Verd. More than once, M. Gadds had to phone the office of the minister of tourism, complaining of blocked streets that threatened to keep guests from reaching us. Each time, M. Rossignol proved himself as good as his word. The security forces came through and cleared the way.
But no matt
er how hard we tried, there were some things we could not shut out. Late one night in the second week of August—six months after all the trouble started—I awoke to the pops and cracks of gunfire.
Given how routine the sound would later come to be in my life, it seems odd to remember that initially I did not know what it was. Yet even as I got out of bed and went to the shutters to listen for the laughter of late-night revelers uncorking champagne, the rigid fear in my body told me it was something far more sinister.
If the guests heard it that first night, they said nothing. In the morning, wearing sunglasses as they sipped sparkling wine and orange juice, they grumbled about their losses at blackjack and craps. Perhaps the casino had muffled the sound. Or perhaps the vast quantities of rum they had been drinking had allowed them to sleep more soundly than me.
I knew the same could not be said of M. Gadds. He had heard it all, and throughout the morning just the sound of silverware clattering in the kitchen was enough to set him on edge.
The following night, everything was back to normal, and yet the memory of what I had heard refused to leave me. It was as if some part of me already knew what was about to happen and wanted the rest of me to be prepared for when it did.
I did not have long to wait.
Two nights later, at an hour when even the most committed gamblers were asleep in their beds, I awoke to the stuttering crackle of machine guns. I could do nothing but listen as everything we had worked so hard for fell apart.
This time, Madame, down in her villa, heard it too. When I saw her at our bench in the preserve the next morning, she looked as though she had also been up all night.
“They attacked one of the newspapers,” she said. “The security forces burned it down.”
As always, she wore a yellow dress, but this one appeared unusually faded. Madame looked older, too. But then I realized it was just that she had not applied her makeup that morning. I was surprised to see what a difference it made. There was almost no color in her cheeks, and her eyes were nearly lost within the encircling creases. The fingers fretting in her lap bore chipped polish in pomegranate red.
The Boiling Season Page 21