The next day, she rose from her sickbed. After that, there was no more talk of cancer.
This small memory stirred something deep within me as I seasoned the pork for tomorrow’s meal. I would have loved to make lambi, but there was none to be found on Guantanamo. The sea was as disturbed here as the land. Soldiers dredged up the soil to lay down their bombs, and humans buried themselves in the ocean. Was it any wonder that all was not as it should have been?
I was in a kitchen so different from the one in my mother’s house, but the rhythm of cooking was still the same. I crushed herbs in the mortar and spooned them onto the pork. Next I cut a sliver from a Scotch bonnet pepper and threw that in the mix. This griot was milder than I would make for myself—or for any self-respecting Haitian—but my coming visitor had not yet developed the cast-iron stomach that was her birthright. Better to go slow on these things.
I tested the oil by flicking a droplet of water into the pan. It hissed back at me in just the right way, so I slipped a batch of spiced pork into the bubbling oil. Normally, I would have marinated the meat overnight to allow the herbs and spices to sink deep into the marrow. But the Guantanamo heat made this difficult. It was best to cook in the coolness of the evening and not fight the day’s heat with more heat.
The pan sputtered, browning its contents to perfection. I pinched off a bite and popped it in my mouth. It was different. At home, pork was wild and untamed with complex notes of bitter and sweet. The griot here was more timid in flavor and quite fatty. It was to be expected. Haitian livestock was robust, spending its days roaming free in the mountain air. In America, even the animals were caged.
Still, it was delicious. I was a chef after all, and I could wring a sumptuous meal from a pot and two stones.
I rummaged through the cabinets and found a large bowl. With care, I spooned a mixture of goodness into the bowl and placed it in the refrigerator. All was ready for tomorrow.
The sun began its inevitable descent, bathing the kitchen in shades of orange and red. I opened the back door to listen to the ocean’s serenade. The waves cooed and gurgled like a coquettish schoolgirl.
I sang back to her.
Noye mape noye
Noye mape noye
Erzulie si’w wè mouin
Tombe nan dlo
Pranm non
Sove lavi an mouin
Noye mape noye
CHAPTER SIX
Jeopardy!
The phone rang, pulling Renée out of a nightmare. The monsters of the deep were dragging bodies into the water. She tried to stop them, but the more she fought the stronger they got, until the ocean was covered in drowned corpses that bobbed and weaved with the flow of the waves.
The phone rang again. She forced herself to sit up, groping for the phone with one eye shut against the sunlight pouring into the room. “Hello?” she said.
“Ms. François?”
“Renée,” she urged, leaning against the too-soft pillows on the sagging bed as she tried to clear the sleep from her voice.
“It’s—”
“Petty Officer Wilkes,” she finished for him.
“John,” he said.
“What can I do for you, John?”
“Got orders to take you to Ms. Fleurie after breakfast.”
“You do?” She leaped out of bed, letting the sheet fall from her sweat-soaked body. It had been a long hot night. “I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes,” he repeated, then hung up.
She showered and was standing in front of her armoire a few minutes later. What exactly did you wear to meet an accused murderer? Whatever it was, she didn’t have it. Rifling through a handful of tasteful skirts, pants, and blouses, she finally settled on a pair of beige linen slacks and a white short-sleeved blouse. This would have to do.
By the time she made her way outside, pausing only long enough to alert the front desk to her broken fan, John was already waiting for her.
“Good morning,” she said as she climbed into his jeep.
“Morning.”
She noticed that he drove out of the parking lot at a much slower clip than he had yesterday. She studied his long-sleeved button-down khaki uniform—crisp as ever—and his neatly brushed red hair. Everything was the same; yet he was different. The lines around his mouth were more relaxed, and his green eyes softer. The raw, impatient energy that dogged him last night had all but disappeared. Something had happened in the last twelve hours to make Petty Officer John Wilkes a happy man.
“Had a good night?” she teased.
He shot her a startled glance, a bright red stain inching up his neck. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, surprised at his reaction. “I was just trying to . . .” Her voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. Apparently, sailors couldn’t take a joke.
She kept her gaze trained on the ocean and her mouth shut as John navigated the coastline. The water glistened in the sunlight, with barely a ripple to mar the placid surface. But she knew how deceptive appearances could be. During hurricane season, the waves of the Caribbean Sea churned with such force, they could easily capsize a boat. October and November were the worst months, but even now, the waters posed a grave danger to the unwary.
Despite that, she couldn’t help feeling drawn to the turquoise wonderland. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked in hushed tones.
John stole a glance at her before turning his attention back to the narrow road. “All I see are hundreds of miles of waterways filled with pirates, drug dealers, and illegals,” he said. “And if the Communists get hold of these parts, we’re in big trouble. This place needs protecting.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a retort. There had never been much in the way of protection for the millions who called the region home. In the last five hundred years, the Caribbean Sea had been the entry point for many who dreamed of empire in the New World.
“Did you know Columbus landed here?” she blurted.
“Columbus?” John’s voice registered surprise at the unexpected turn in the conversation.
“It was on his second voyage in 1494. He landed on a spot now called Fisherman’s Point.”
“Why would he come to Guantanamo?”
“Gold, of course.”
“Did he find any?”
She shook her head. “He found a settlement and some Tainos. He named the place Puerto Grande, then spent a few weeks exploring the shoals around Cuba trying to find the mainland.”
“Tainos?”
“The people of this land. Columbus called them Indians because he thought he’d found India.”
“He was wrong there,” John said.
“It didn’t stop him from colonizing the place.”
John gave her a thoughtful glance. “You some kind of expert?”
“I dabble,” she said. “My thesis in college was on Columbus.”
“Find much use for that?”
“You’d be surprised. This year marks the five hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s great ‘discovery.’ My degree should be good for a few rounds of Jeopardy! with Alex Trebek.”
John smiled. “I don’t know much about Columbus.”
“He mostly spent his time in Haiti. He stumbled on the island during his first voyage in 1492. It reminded him of his ‘Little Spain,’ so he renamed it Hispaniola and ran back to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to tell them of their great good fortune.
“A few months later, he returned with seventeen ships and fifteen hundred men to establish the first permanent European colony in the so-called New World. He brought along some famous passengers in that second voyage: Diego Velázquez, the conquistador who later became governor of Cuba, and Juan Ponce de León—you might remember him as the guy who discovered Florida while searching for the Fountain of Youth.”
John let out a bark of laughter. “Wonder what he’d think of Florida now?”
She laughed too. “Land of retirees and the early bird special.�
��
They drove in companionable silence for a while before she added, “Columbus nearly drowned in these waters, you know. Christmas Eve, 1492. The Santa Maria struck a reef and ran aground off the coast of Haiti. The Caribbean Sea might have swallowed Columbus whole, but the Tainos saved his life. They helped him build a shelter for his men on Haitian soil.”
“What happened to the Santa Maria?”
Leave it to a navy man to worry about the ship. “She sank to the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen again.”
John said nothing for a long time. Finally, he asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”
She stared out at the water. “I thought you might appreciate the irony.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Camp Bulkeley
After breakfast, Renée followed John from the chow hall. Outside, the sun was already at full glare, but the crowd of sailors moving around in their crisp khakis hardly seemed to notice. She climbed into the jeep expecting her escort to follow suit, but John stood by the driver-side door.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
He held up a silencing hand. A moment later, “The Star-Spangled Banner” played on the loudspeakers around base and, as if by magic, the crowd froze. They stood hands to hearts until the last note had fallen.
Once they were on the road, she asked, “Does that happen often?”
“Every day. Oh eight hundred sharp.”
She looked out at the crowd, now hurrying off to complete the day’s tasks. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“Ms. Fleurie’s over at Camp Bulkeley,” he explained.
She turned to stare at him. “There’s a second camp? Why?”
His gaze was impenetrable. “My orders are to take you to Ms. Fleurie. She’s at Camp Bulkeley. That’s all I can tell you, ma’am.”
They were back to ma’am? She let out an exasperated huff and kept her gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
Camp Bulkeley turned out to be an old marine barracks several miles east. It had been slated for destruction in the 1970s and still carried an air of neglect. Stripped of nature, the camp was a monotonous beige the color of wet sand. Hundreds of canvas tents faded into the desert landscape. The only hint of color was the gleaming gray of the ten-foot fence topped by razor wire that enclosed the tent city.
“Where’s Ms. Fleurie?” Renée asked, as her eyes scanned the makeshift homes.
John pointed to his left. “She’s in the bungalow.”
Renée turned to find a sturdy-looking cinder block house hidden from the main camp by a towering line of Porta Potties. The bungalow stretched out about a thousand square feet. It was a squat and ugly little building, but it looked downright palatial compared to the tents.
Why was one of the refugees—an accused murderer no less—assigned to a bungalow, when everyone else had to make do with tents? Even more, there wasn’t an inch of razor wire in sight. Could Rose Fleurie come and go as she pleased?
“I’ll be back in an hour,” John said as she stepped out of the jeep.
“You’re not staying?”
“I can’t.” He paused, then added, “Be careful.”
She raised a questioning brow. “What do you mean?”
He paused again, then shook his head. “Forget I said anything.” He drove off before she could question him further.
There was now only one way to get her answers. She squared her shoulders and walked up to the bungalow.
“Mwen nan kwizin nan,” a voice called out before Renée could even knock.
Well, she had already learned one thing about Ms. Fleurie: the woman had a keen sense of hearing.
Renée stepped inside and followed the voice to a small kitchen at the back of the house. Light poured into the room through a bank of windows overlooking the Caribbean Sea. Blue waves rippled across the horizon, providing a natural backdrop for the tall woman slicing onions at a worktable in the center of the kitchen.
“Ms. Fleurie? I’m your lawyer, Renée François.”
The woman had her head down, engrossed in her task. “Ou pale Kreyòl?” she demanded.
It took a moment for Renée to absorb the words. Did she speak Haitian Creole? “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
The woman finally looked up, and Renée saw her client for the first time. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. The Polaroid in Adam Hartmann’s file captured Rose Fleurie minutes after she was fished out of the water, a half-drowned woman with ink-black hair plastered to her head and eyes dull with shock. But this woman could have been an Alvin Ailey dancer—grace and beauty wrapped around a steel core. She moved with a fluidity that belied her nearly six-foot frame, and her slender but toned arms radiated strength. Her once dull eyes were as piercing as an X-ray, boring into Renée with a slow, steady regard.
“You are Haitian,” Rose said in her softly accented albeit hesitant English. “We must teach you to speak your own language.”
Renée bristled at the gentle rebuke. “I’m an American, actually. I was born in Brooklyn.”
“Ah. I see.”
The words were heavy with a meaning Renée chose to ignore. “I’m here to help with your asylum petition.”
Rose scraped a sharp-looking knife across her workspace, scooping up a pile of onions and emptying them into a frying pan. She headed for the stove. A moment later, the kitchen came alive with the hiss and sputter of frying onions.
“Tanpri chita,” she said over her shoulder.
Renée obligingly took a seat at the kitchen table and pulled out a file from her briefcase, while her hostess busied herself at the stove. Rose Fleurie was something of an enigma. According to her file, she was born in 1937, which would make her fifty-four years old, but she looked . . . ageless. She grew up in a poor family on the outskirts of Saint-Marc, a city in the fertile Artibonite region of western Haiti, but she studied at the famed Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. How did a poor young woman from a provincial Haitian town end up a French-trained chef?
“You have been to Haiti, yes?” Rose called out as the smell of onions and garlic drifted through the kitchen.
“No, I haven’t,” Renée admitted, jotting down a few notes.
“Your people are waiting. You must go to Saint-Marc soon.”
Renée’s hand stilled. “How did you know my family is also from Saint-Marc?”
Rose turned to look at her. “We may forget our roots, but the Good Lord Papa Bondye never forgets.”
Her skin prickled with unease. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time, Ms. Fleurie, and I have—”
“My name is Rose.”
“—lots of questions.”
With a flourish, Rose set a heaping plate on the table. “There are always questions,” she said, “but good food should not be made to wait. Eat.”
Mounds of crispy green plantains lay on a bed of griot—big chunks of pork shoulder marinated in lemon juice and Scotch bonnet peppers, then simmered until very tender and fried to a beautiful golden brown. A spicy pikliz sauce of pickled cabbage and carrots topped the offering.
The aroma nearly overwhelmed Renée’s senses. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten,” she politely declined. It was a lie. She hadn’t actually touched the flavorless eggs and burned toast she’d gotten from the chow hall. But she couldn’t accept her client’s generosity. The refugees received only limited food rations.
“You are too skinny,” Rose said. “If we were in Haiti, I would make you many plates of griot to fatten those bones.”
Renée looked down, as if seeing herself for the first time. At five feet six and 130 pounds, she wasn’t fat. But no one had ever called her skinny either. Her husband had often tried to persuade her to lose “those extra fifteen pounds.” He preferred his women one dress size short of anorexic.
“Where did you get all this?” Renée asked, eyeing the plate with unrestrained longing.
Rose pulled out a chair and sat across from Renée, a smile playing at her lips. “They bring me foo
d, and I cook it. When it is finished, they bring more,” she said. “Now eat. It is your favorite.”
Renée needed no further urging. She dove enthusiastically into the meal, nearly grunting in pleasure. A rush of heat from the pikliz sauce filled her tongue, only to be soothed by the bland starchiness of the plantains and the hint of lemon and vinegar from the spicy pork. She ate until her stomach purred in satisfaction. Only then did Rose’s last comment strike an uncomfortable chord.
“How did you know this is my favorite dish?” Renée asked.
Rose’s eyes twinkled. “I was correct, oui?” she teased, gesturing to the empty plate.
Renée’s cheeks heated at the evidence of her own greed. “Yes, but how did you know?”
“Was this the question you came to ask me, choupite?”
Renée stared into those all-seeing eyes and felt ridiculous. She had less than an hour to conduct an asylum interview, and she was wasting time quizzing Rose on culinary matters. Fried pork and green plantains were a staple of Haitian cooking. Rose had probably made an educated guess.
Renée cleared her throat and tried to adopt some semblance of professionalism—as much as she could with the taste of pikliz on her lips. “Actually, I wanted to talk about your political activities in Haiti,” she said, reaching for her legal pad.
Rose gave her a questioning look. “Political activities?”
“Any rallies you might have attended or protests you organized,” Renée clarified. “If you belonged to any groups critical of the Haitian military, that would also help your case.”
“I did not organize any protests.”
“How about your work with President Aristide?” Renée asked.
Rose’s face visibly softened. “Titide loved my griot,” she offered. “Always, he wanted it very spicy. He appreciated good Haitian food.” Her lips curled in sudden disgust. “He is not like those dogs that took our country. They would settle for a bowl of unseasoned cornmeal and a bottle of rum.”
Renée blinked. “No, I meant your political work with President Aristide.”
When Death Comes for You Page 3
