I nodded. “You’re right. I feel bad about that. We never asked.”
“But she never told.”
“I guess so.”
Then, “Where to now, Jacques?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t go back to my family. And besides, we’re in too much danger here. Both from the marines and the Gendarmerie, and those gangs that go around, searching for stray zombis. You can even add cacos into that mix. Haitians know too much about zombis, we’re too conspicuous.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Well, Le Cap is nearby. I was thinking of going there, seeing if I can get onto a boat, or a cargo ship.”
Jean-Philippe halted. I stopped and turned to my fellow savane.
“You’re not serious?” Jean-Philippe said. “You’re trying to tell me that you’re considering trekking to Le Cap, strolling onto a ship and going... where?”
“To America, where else?”
Jean-Philippe was silent. He stood there on the path, mud all around us, lost for words. Finally, he stumbled out: “Let’s just say for a minute you make it to Le Cap, that you don’t get caught by the gendarme on the way, or the marines stationed in the city, that people see your deformed neck and slow shuffle and aren’t immediately curious, just say you find your way to the port, and somehow find a boat or ship that will take you, without any money mind you, all the way to America. Just forget all that for a moment, and let me ask you this—what about your family? What about your country? You can’t just leave it all behind.”
“Why not? I told you, I can’t go back to my family. You said so yourself that if you had one to go back to, you wouldn’t be able to face them the way you are. My family think I’m dead, at rest—if they saw me like this, this abomination...” I shook my head. “I couldn’t do it to them. It’d kill Mangela. I know it would.”
“Maybe,” Jean-Philippe admitted. “But still, leaving Haiti altogether? Isn’t that a bit drastic?”
“I can’t stay,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about it for the past few hours. And I don’t just mean the danger—I know it’ll be dangerous wherever I go. But at least in America they don’t know about zombis, don’t know the tell-tale signs. You saw what happened back there with that old woman—she knew straightaway what we were.”
“She was... different. Not everyone will know.”
“Most will. But it’s not just that. Staying here would remind me too much of my family. Knowing they were so close, yet not being able to go to them. I couldn’t do that. I’d go crazy.”
“So going to another country altogether won’t make you crazy?”
“Less crazy.”
“This is ludicrous,” Jean-Philippe said. “You’ll never make it. How will you even get on a ship? You don’t have any money to bribe someone with.”
I fingered the revolver hanging heavy in my pocket. “I’ll find a way,” I said.
“Ludicrous,” Jean-Philippe repeated.
“Why don’t you come with me? It would be good to have a friend along.”
Jean-Philippe smiled, and it wasn’t a pretty sight—not because the old man was particularly ugly; no zombi looks good when he smiles.
“You know, I’m tempted. As ridiculous as the whole idea is, I’m tempted.”
“Well then come on. You heard what the old lady said. Two, three hours and we’re at Le Cap. If we can get onto a ship, in a few days we’ll be in America.”
Jean-Philippe shook his head. “No, I can’t leave Haiti.”
“But you have nothing to stay for.”
“I have cockfighting,” he said.
“Come on, come with me. If we go down, at least we go down together.”
“I like you Jacques. I like you a whole lot. You saved my life, if you can call what we are a life worth saving, but you saved me from a lot of pain. I would be hanging from that tree right this moment, slowly strangling, if it wasn’t for you. But I’m not like you. I have no desire to leave. You say I have nothing to stay for, that is true, but at the same time, I have nothing to make me leave, either. I love Haiti too much, and besides, I’m too tired and too old to be traveling to another country.”
I reached out and placed a hand on Jean-Philippe’s shoulder. It was bony and wet. “I understand. I guess if I didn’t have my girls, I would stay too. There’d be no reason to leave.”
“That’s right.”
I was disappointed, I would’ve liked to have gotten to know Jean-Philippe more. We had a connection, a kinship—though we had only known each other a short time, it felt like we had known each other our whole lives.
“So you’ve made up your mind? You’re staying?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Leaving. At least, attempting to.”
“Mind if I walk with you till we come to the end of these mountains?”
“I’d be honored.”
We continued along the path, sloshing our way through the mud, avoiding the multitude of puddles that had formed during the brief, but powerful downpour.
“Judging by the night, I’d say it’s only just past twelve, one o’clock at the latest. If I can make it to Le Cap by four, it still should be dark.”
“So you’re really going through with it,” Jean-Philippe remarked. “I wonder if any of the other escaped zombis are as crazy as you and have the same notion.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Haiti isn’t the safest place to be for an escaped zombi.”
“Neither is Le Cap. Or America for that matter.”
“True, true. Still, I have to do this.”
We continued on for a while longer, the path winding through the lush hills, until, finally, the hills grew smaller and, from the moonlight now full in the sky above, we saw the wide open plains below, and the sparkling bay over on our left.
“Must be Acul Bay,” I said.
“Beautiful,” Jean-Philippe said. “Well, this is where I get off. According to the old lady, this is the Plaine du Nord, so Le Cap should be somewhere over those hills.”
I turned to Jean-Philippe. Looked at his ashen skin and glassy eyes. “So, friend, where will you go? What will you do?”
“You know, it occurred to me as we were walking, about how I have no family and you have to leave yours behind. I know how hard this decision is for you, how much you’re going to miss your three girls, and that you’re concerned for them.”
“Don’t remind me. I feel bad enough about leaving them.”
“So how about I travel down to where you used to live and keep an eye on them, make sure they’re doing well and not in any danger?”
I blinked. Didn’t know quite what to say. “You’d do that for me?”
“I guess I owe you. And like I said, I’ve got nowhere else to go; so really, it doesn’t matter where I go to set up my farm and breed my cocks.”
I laughed. “You’re going to breed cocks?”
“Fighting cocks. I probably won’t ever fight them, but still, you never know. It’ll give me something to do. I’ve always wanted to breed cocks.”
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Absolutely. Your family doesn’t know me, has never seen me before. I’ll keep far enough away so they won’t need to have anything to do with me, but close enough so I can keep watch over them, in your absence. That way, if they do happen to see me, they won’t know what I am, or that we knew each other.”
“I... I don’t know what to say. Thank you Jean-Philippe. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve always wanted to see the central plateau region.”
I reached out and hugged him. I’ve never hugged any man before, not even my papa when he was still alive. But I felt compelled to at that moment, and doing so felt good, right. Jean-Philippe patted me on the back.
When I pulled back, I said, “You know I would take your place in a heartbeat, but it would be too risky. If they ever saw me, or came over for some
reason...”
“You don’t have to explain to me, I understand. But there is a small catch.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve never had many friends during my life. I consider you one, a good one, though we’ve only known each other a short time. It would be a shame to waste that. How about I make you a deal?”
“Always the gambler,” I said.
Jean-Philippe nodded. “When your family are gone, made that final journey to Guinée, I want to come for you and bring you back home, to Haiti.”
“What? Now you sound like the crazy one.”
“Please, let me do this. I want to look out for your family, but once that is over, I’ll have nothing in my life again. Besides, wouldn’t you like to know? Wouldn’t you like to come back and be with your girls, finally, forever?”
I looked down to the wet earth. “Yes,” I said. “There would be nothing more in this world that I would like.”
“Then it’s settled. I promise to look after your girls, and once that is done, I’ll come for you.”
I looked back up. “But how will you find me? That could very well be a long, long time from now.”
“I’ll find you. Somehow, I’ll find you. Even if it takes me fifty years searching all over America, I’ll find you.”
We clasped each other’s hand. “Thank you,” I said.
“Of course, if I never show up, you know something has happened to me. But I’ll try my hardest to get to you.”
“I know you will.”
“Well, time is clicking on. You should get going if you’re to make it to Le Cap and on a boat by dawn.”
I nodded. We unclasped our hands.
Just before we parted company, I told Jean-Philippe the route I took to get from my village to the plantation—or as best I could remember, considering the state I was in—and where my tiny habitation was in relation to Pignon. Lastly, I explained in greater detail about what my three girls looked like; but, being that they were the only three females living together in the area, they shouldn’t be too hard to find.
With that, Jean-Philippe headed south, down another mountain path, off, hopefully, to look after my dear girls and keep them safe.
I watched him vanish into the thick night, wondered when, if at all, I would see him again, and then I turned and continued east down the path.
I soon reached the plains and began the long journey across the sparsely populated rice fields and coffee plantations, staying close to the bay and as far from any huts and villages as possible.
But soon the villages grew more frequent and I had to leave the coast and venture more inland. I came upon a road, a major piece of construction that I was sure the marines used frequently. Figuring it led right to Le Cap, I stayed near the road, while still remaining as much as I could in the fields.
Finally, the frequent but still individual villages became one great sea of huts. I had never seen so vast an array before, differing in size and shape, color, and even ones with metal roofs instead of straw thatched.
I was heading into Le Cap, and I knew things were going to get rough.
I followed the road through endless tin-roofed shacks and double-storied buildings. Though it was dark, and dimly lit, I was still overwhelmed by the sheer number of buildings, all side-by side, like a crowd of thousands standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Prior to this, the biggest town I had ever been in was Pignon; but that was a leaf compared to the massive Mapou tree that was Le Cap. It wasn’t even that I could see the expanse of buildings too well—but I could feel them, could smell the stench of thousands upon thousands of people living in this cramped sea of habitation.
The more I walked, the better I felt about getting out of Haiti. The narrow road and even narrower side streets were quiet and dark. I imagined the port being this dark and quiet; I pictured lonely ships waiting in the harbor, and me just hopping on one and waiting below, until it set sail to America.
Pure fantasy, I know that now, and even as I made my way through the modern city, I think I knew, deep down, it wasn’t going to be as easy as that—but I could hope.
Smells overwhelmed me as much as the view: rotting fruit, fish, effluent. It was a thousand-fold here compared with a small town like Pignon.
I hardly saw anyone as I made my way towards the city proper—just a few shady figures lingering in doorways, probably just as wary of me as I was of them, or perhaps warier, considering my hideous appearance. Twice, a group of Gendarmerie rode past—one on horseback, the other in a jeep—but I heard them coming, so I was able to duck down a side-street, or into one of the darkened doorways before they reached me.
I was beginning to think this forest of modern living was never going to end, that I was destined to wander through this dark wasteland forever. I started to worry that I was lost, that by following this main road, rather than leading me to the port, it was leading me round and round in circles.
But then the smell of fish started to grow stronger, as did the aroma of coffee roasting, and the lamp-light grew more frequent and suddenly I was at the center of chaos, and I knew I had made it to the city of Le Cap.
The noise and lights and smells assaulted my senses. Even though it must’ve been the early hours of the morning, there were people everywhere—mostly Americans—but also Mulattos and blacks wearing uniform. I immediately felt too conspicuous. I was sure the moment these people set their sights on me, they would know I was a zombi, one of the walking dead, an unholy abomination.
So I kept my eyes down and as I continued walking, past brightly lit hotels, dark churches, and noisy cafés, hoping they would see my ratty clothes and mistake me for just another peasant.
But I began hearing shouting, directed at me, and though I didn’t know what the words meant at the time, I still knew that “Gook” and “Nigger” weren’t cheers of greeting.
I passed groups of drunken marines with girls on both arms, sullen looking gendarme soldiers, and even sadder local peasants.
Finally, with the noise and the lights all around me, disorientating me even further, I had to admit to myself I was lost. I could smell the ocean, was sure that if all the noise was suddenly shut off, that I would be able to hear it, but there were too many side-streets, and I feared one wrong turn and I’d never make it out of this metropolis.
So when I spotted a lone gendarme soldier, idly watching the goings on, I decided to ask him for directions. I only prayed he wouldn’t notice my glassy eyes and unmoving chest. I shuffled up to him and asked in Creole, “Excuse me sir, which way to the port?”
The Haitian gendarme barely looked at me when he pointed and said, “Straight down this street. You can take any street in this area running in that direction, and you’ll end up at the water.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Just keep going straight. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said and turned and started down the street.
“Hey, wait.”
I stopped, and turning around, I feared the worst—like his rifle pointed at my head. “Yes?”
“How did you get like that, old man?”
I gave the first answer that came to mind. “Got into a fight with a stubborn donkey—the donkey won.”
The gendarme man frowned. “Ouch,” he said, then turned away.
Relieved, I started up the narrow street.
As I walked, the double-story terraced buildings towering over me on all sides, I thought about how I was going to get onto a cargo ship bound for America.
Again I thought of the gun in my pocket. It had no bullets, but no one else knew that. I wasn’t a violent person by nature, not even very confrontational, but the more I thought about the situation, the more it seemed the only way.
Until I came across a drunken marine lying by the side of the street.
The thing about Americans, is that they drink a little and almost always get drunk; whereas Haitians are always drinking but rarely get drunk. It was at that moment I was glad for that fac
t.
The marine was alone, and looked to be passed out. The building he had collapsed in front of was gently lit, but it wasn’t a hotel, nor a café.
The idea came to me as I neared him and I saw a broken bottle of Rhum Barbancourt nearby. I thought what a waste of rum—it was the good stuff, not raw peasant clairin. Then it occurred to me; the sure way of getting aboard a ship was to pay. No Haitian could turn down an offer of money.
I looked around the darkened street.
I saw people going by on the main road above, but I couldn’t see anyone walking down this street. So I ambled up to the sleeping marine, crouched and ransacked his pockets. I found a wallet, and inside fifty American dollars. I took the money, put back his wallet and straightened.
I felt bad for taking his money. I was no thief; prided myself on being a hard, honest worker, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I justified the stealing by telling myself that I needed the money more than he did. He would likely spend the money on more liquor and women; this cash was my ticket out of Haiti, and hopefully a ticket to a safer place.
I had just pocketed the money and was about to continue down the street, when a voice, American, yelled out. Being it was in English, I didn’t understand what he had said; whatever it was, it didn’t sound nice.
I knew I couldn’t outrun anyone, so I turned around. I saw two marines coming out of the building the marine I had stolen from was lying in front of.
One pointed to me and said something, by his tone it was accusatory, and the other suddenly turned sour and yelled something short and sharp at me—again, there was that word, “Nigger.”
They came charging towards me.
I pulled the revolver from my pocket and aimed it at them.
They halted, put up their arms. I didn’t know if they had forgotten to bring their guns, or had purposely left them when they went out for recreational fun. All I know is they were unarmed when I pointed my empty revolver at them. I spoke to them in my native language, and though I was sure neither could understand me, I still told them to stay where they were, don’t move or else I’d shoot. I’m sure it was just a lot of rapid-fire mumbo-jumbo to them. But there was no mistaking my purpose. They nodded, said something to me, this time less angry and more reassuring. I started to back away.
The Awakening Page 40