Charles squirmed in his mother’s arms and whimpered.
Shut up, Claude whispered, and Vanise stroked the baby’s face and soothed him.
Claude could hear the men now, could hear their hard shoes crunch against the roadway and their low, melodious voices as they spoke to one another and now and then lightly laughed. He took hold of his aunt’s sleeve and led her as if she were a stubborn child. Don’t be scared, Vanise, he said in a low voice. Les Invisibles are with us, always, everywhere. Even here.
Up ahead, Jules suddenly stopped the others. Silence, he commanded, and they listened carefully. It’s someone walking behind us, he whispered. Come, stand off the road a ways and wait for them to pass by. Moving with care, the three felt their way to the side of the road and into the stony ditch beyond, where they crouched down to wait.
Shortly, Claude and Vanise drew abreast of them, and then, when they had passed a few steps beyond, stopped.
What is the matter? Vanise asked.
Shhh. I can’t hear them now.
They have flown away, she said.
Suddenly, the men were beside them. Boy, Jules said, you are like a dog who won’t stay home.
Claude said nothing. The baby started to cry.
We’ll go back, Vanise said.
No, Claude said.
Go back to the city, one of the other men said. Someone there will take care of you.
The police, Jules said, and laughed.
The baby was crying loudly now, squirming in his mother’s arms. Claude reached over and took the child, hitched him against his hip, and the child automatically clung to the boy and quieted down.
Go now, go on back, the man said again.
No, Claude repeated.
Yes, we’ll go, Vanise said, her voice tight and high with fear.
No, Claude said. He took a step away from the man, and Vanise followed.
What shall we do with them? one of the men asked.
Jules sighed heavily. When we come onto houses or a village, he said, or if an automobile comes, we must separate as we did back in the city, so that no more than one of us can get caught by the police.
Fine, the man said. But what about them?
Where we are going, Jules said to Claude, there is no place for you. We cannot help you. Do you understand me?
Yes, Claude said.
Then go back now. You will do better in the city, where there are many strangers. No one will know you are Haitian.
No, Claude said firmly.
I’ll make him go back, the other man said, and he stepped toward Claude and reached for the boy’s shirt.
Never mind, Jules said. He drew the other man back. I thought you liked the pretty boy, he said.
Ha. Only at sea, he said, laughing. He’s white man’s meat now. We have all those Bahamian women to choose from. We don’t need to fuck a pretty little boy or a Haitian whore.
Jules turned away and started walking. Don’t be so sure, he called back. Those Bahamian girls get one look at you and they’ll run in the opposite direction. He laughed and walked on.
The others ran to catch up, joking and teasing, talking eagerly now about women. Claude, with Charles on his hip, followed. Come along, he said to Vanise.
Slowly, in silence, she came up behind him and walked there the rest of the way.
In a few hours, they reached Elizabeth Town, a village on the south coast with one street, a half-dozen sandy lanes and a cluster of pink, cut-limestone cottages roofed with thatch. Spreading from the north side of the village, like a junk-strewn backyard, was a shantytown, corrugated tin shacks and buildings that were little more than huts made of scrap lumber and cast-off sheets of iron. The narrow lanes were deserted, and except for the dim glow of a kerosene lamp behind a window here and there, the town was dark. The sky had cleared, however, and now Claude and Vanise could let themselves hang back a ways from the other Haitians and still see to follow them as they cut through the sleeping village to the shantytown beyond.
They saw Jules walk boldly up to one of the shacks facing the lane, where he knocked against the door once, then a few seconds later, again, and a third time, until at last the door opened a crack. Jules exchanged words with the person behind the door, and then the person closed the door, while the three men waited in silence outside. A few moments passed, and the door opened again, and the men passed into the house.
Claude could smell the sea, just over the low hill south of the village. A dog barked in the distance, then went suddenly silent. The wind shifted to the west, and Claude smelled oranges.
I’ll go and speak to them, Claude said. He passed Charles across to Vanise, led her out of the street to an alleyway between a pair of closed-up shops. Sit down here, he said, and rest.
She obeyed and sat down, tenderly arranging the sleeping child on her lap, while Claude crossed the street and walked to the cabin that the Haitians had entered.
He knocked, as Jules had done, and waited. After a moment, he knocked again. He heard movement inside, a chair scraping the floor, low male voices. He knocked again, sharply.
Who dat? a man called from the other side. Claude recognized the voice, Jules’s, even though it spoke English.
C’est moi, he said.
Boy, you are a pest! Jules shouted in Creole. If you don’t go away now, I am going to come out there and beat you!
Got a machete here, boy! Claude heard the other man call. Chop you up!
A woman spoke rapidly and in a hushed voice to the men, and they answered, explaining, and then the woman groaned.
I am going to chop that little massisi to pieces, the man said, and Claude heard more chairs moving, feet clumping, men and women arguing. No, no, Raymond, he will leave soon. He will leave, or the police will catch him before morning. He is only a poor country boy, and the police will catch him and send him back, if we just ignore him.
They were silent then. Claude stood before the closed door, tried the latch and pushed, but it was bolted or barred from inside. Suddenly, he smelled oranges again, they were eating them inside the house, and the boy realized that he was very hungry.
He turned and crossed the lane and walked past the shacks and huts to where he’d left Vanise. When he came around the corner of the building next to the alley, one of the few two-story structures in the village, he saw that Vanise, sitting cross-legged on the sandy ground with the child sprawled in her lap, had fallen fast asleep. Her head lay back against the side of the cinder-block building, and she looked beautiful and familiar to the boy, and for the first time in many days, he thought of his mother in Allanche and his sisters and their cabin on the ridge above the sea. Even when he and Vanise and Charles had been suffering on the boat, with the men coming down into the hold to rape them, with the rats and filth and terrible stench and heat, he had not thought of his mother and sisters and the place where he had lived his whole life, for he had been ashamed and afraid and did not want to think of his mother’s face when he felt that way. Now, however, he had gone beyond shame and fear, which he did not understand, but he knew that he would never be ashamed again, nor would he ever be afraid again. And so he thought freely about his mother, imagined her dark brown face, her large, wet eyes, her smell, the smooth skin of her hands. He heard her voice, heard her sing his sisters to sleep, Bon jour, mes infants, bon jour … and he thought he heard her say to him, Oh, my poor son, how you have suffered, and how hungry you must be. Here, let me feed you, let me prepare a meal for you, my poor son. Let me comfort you.
3
In the villages of the English-speaking Caribbean, the businesses called shops are often owned and operated by middle-aged men who are entrepreneurial dreamers, men who, with a great deal of energy, diligence, gregariousness, and with a little financial acumen, combine under the roof of one small house several different business ventures—a neighborhood grocery store, pub, dry goods establishment, hardware store, taxi service, tourist guide service, restaurant, juke joint, and so on. They also someti
mes venture into backroom gambling and upstairs prostitution and have been known to invest, in a small, safe way, in locally controlled real estate development, smuggling and drugs.
It was such a man as this, Jimmy Grabow, and not the local constabulary, who caught Claude and Vanise and her baby Charles asleep in the alley next to his shop, and when he discovered they were Haitians, which he did when, by poking them with his foot, he woke them and heard them speak, he did not turn them over to the town’s one police officer, who had nothing to do that day anyhow and would have welcomed the opportunity to drive to Nassau to turn the illegal aliens over the immigration office. Instead, Grabow smiled broadly, warmly, even, and took the Haitians into his shop and out back to the tiny kitchen, where he fed them leftover jerked pork and rice and beans, gave them Coca-Colas from the cooler, imported biscuits and jam, and even offered them a fresh pack of Craven A cigarettes from the rack behind the bar, which Vanise declined and Claude accepted.
Grabow was a short, compact man with light brown skin. He had excellent teeth, large as a horse’s and white, of which he was justifiably proud, and when he smiled, he pulled his lips back and showed his teeth off. He smiled often, talked rapidly and volubly and enjoyed touching people while he rattled away at them, enjoyed putting his hands on whomever he talked to, his arms around shoulders, his hands on cheeks, arms, chests, so that most people, when they left the shop, reached for their wallet, and finding it, wondered what Grabow had taken from them, for always, after talking with Grabow, one felt that somehow he’d managed to take away something that wasn’t rightfully his.
When Grabow had led Claude and Vanise and the baby to a small room upstairs and had left them there, Claude felt this way too, felt it more strongly, perhaps, then others might, because he did not understand more than a few words of what Grabow had said to him and his aunt and therefore had paid particularly close attention to the man’s inflection and his facial gestures and physical mannerisms. And when the boy asked himself what the Bahamian had taken away from them, he concluded that he had taken what little freedom remained in their possession, that scrap of freedom they’d obtained when they stepped off the Kattina in Nassau. In exchange, they had been given a meal and a pack of cigarettes, Claude knew that much, and now, apparently, they had been given shelter also.
We should leave here now, Claude said. He stood by the curtainless window and looked down on the backyard of the place, where he saw a battered old white Toyota van, odd piles of sand and cinder blocks, an outhouse, several chickens scratching in the packed dirt, and a large sleeping pig like a long gray boulder in the shade of a scrawny breadfruit tree. Beyond the yard was the ramshackle backside of the shantytown, where Jules and his friends were now, and beyond that a field of rough, dry, slowly rising ground, pocked and rocky, with small patches here and there of withered corn stalks and pole beans.
Vanise sat on the narrow bed in the corner of the room and placed the baby on the floor, where he crawled eagerly around the foot of the bed and stood, one hand clinging to the rail at the end, the other reaching for the dresser just beyond. He seemed happy for the first time since they had left North Caicos, free, finally, of his mother’s and his cousin’s arms, to move about a room, to touch and measure things with his fat hands, to test his recently discovered ability to stand.
They argued, Claude and Vanise. She would not leave. You go if you want to, she said, but Charles and I will not.
No. We should be together, but we must leave now. This man is bad, a gros neg.
Claude walked to the door, turned the knob and pulled. It wouldn’t open. The bastard locked the door, he whispered. You see?
No, she said. Now you see.
He returned to the window and looked down again. I can jump to the ground, it’s not far. Then you can drop Charles to me, and I’ll catch him, and then you can jump down too.
No.
He won’t catch us. He’s busy in the bar now. I can hear him. Come, he said.
No.
Come!
No, she repeated, crossing her arms over her breasts.
Tempérament d’esclave, he cursed, and he swung himself over the windowsill and turned his long, skinny body against the side of the building, where he let himself hang by his hands, then let go. In seconds, he was gone.
Grabow was not angry or even disappointed that the boy had fled; he was relieved and only wished he’d taken the baby with him. But the baby kept the girl happy and busy, when she wasn’t fucking the men he sent upstairs to her room. The men, a few from the town but most of them from the fishing boats and yachts that tied up at the marina in Coral Harbour, just beyond the hook, paid Grabow for the girl’s services, and Grabow in return housed and fed and clothed the girl and her baby from his own stock and did not turn her over to the police, for which she seemed grateful. At least she did not resist or try to leave, which she easily could have done, just as the boy had. In fact, she could have left even more easily than Claude, for after a few weeks Grabow found it inconvenient to keep the door locked and have to let her out himself whenever she needed to go to the privy or had to wash herself or clean the baby. He soon allowed her to come down to the kitchen and feed herself and the child, allowed her to cook chickens and jerked pork and fish, Haitian style, with hot peppers and onions, for him and the bar customers, though he would not let her come out front or leave the building, except to go to the privy or to wash at the standpipe by the back door.
The room she lived in was bare and small, but not unpleasant, especially in the mornings, when sunlight streamed through the window and splashed across the painted gray floor and over the bed. She made up a bed for the baby in one of the dresser drawers and placed it in the corner of the room farthest from the window. Generally, when the men who visited her saw the baby asleep in the corner of the room, they lowered their voices and tried not to wake him, but sometimes they were drunk and noisy and even angry at the sight of the child in the room and complained of it afterwards downstairs to Grabow, so he took the dresser drawer out of the room and put it in a windowless storage room next door and made it clear to Vanise that she would have to keep the child there at night from now on.
The men who came to her, rarely more than one or two a night, were mostly seamen. They were fishermen and turtlers from the small open boats in Coral Harbour and sometimes Bahamian crewmen from the big charter boats, sometimes a Cuban or a Jamaican, and sometimes even a white man, an American, who came up the narrow stairs from the bar and spent an hour with her, fucking her and then trying to talk with her, which of course always failed, so they would often simply ramble on as if she understood.
A few of the men she liked, a short, round, chocolate-brown man who affected huge, winglike sideburns and operated the only taxi in town other than Grabow’s, and a Cuban, tall, skinny and black, who always brought Vanise a cold Heineken and seemed disappointed when the baby Charles got moved out to the storage room, and she liked a young Jamaican man who wore a carefully trimmed, very thick beard and finger-length dreadlocks, a man named Tyrone, who spoke some Creole and always rolled and smoked a cigarlike spliff of ganja before making love to her. She liked the smell of the ganja, perfumy and dry, and when he offered it to her, she accepted. It seemed to make the time with Tyrone a respite from the painful silence of her mind. For her mind, an utterly silent, burned-out charnel house by now, was filled with images of les Morts from the dark side, Ghede and Baron Cimitière, whose evil presence no longer frightened her, whose presence, in fact, she had begun to encourage and make welcome. She lay back in the dimly lit room over the shop and opened herself to these dark, malevolent spirits the same way she opened herself to the men she did not like, men who were dirty and quick and stunk of fish and rum and sweat, men who were drunk and half impotent, which made them irritable, men who fucked her in unusual ways, and now and then the man who slapped her until she wept and only then would he fuck her.
This last was Jimmy Grabow himself. It would be three or four in the
morning, and the domino game downstairs would have broken up, the metal screen pulled down on the front of the shop, the lights turned off, and he would come trudging upstairs half-drunk and bumping against the sides of the walls in a way she recognized immediately. Then he’d come into her room and light the kerosene lantern on the small table next to the bed and stand over her, while she pretended to sleep.
Wake up, gal. It was always the same on nights like this. He reached down and yanked the sheet off her and examined her as if angry at what he saw, a young woman in bra and panties, sitting up and drawing herself away from him, covering her breasts and crotch with her hands, her eyes watching his so that the first time he swung his heavy hand at her face she’d know before he swung it that it was coming and could move her head slightly so as to catch the blow at an angle instead of directly.
That oughta wake you up. He unbuckled his pants and stripped them off, took off his shoes and shirt, and stood there a second, again as if angry with her. His penis hung limply between his legs. Then he hit her a second time, and her eyes filled with water from the force of the blow. A third time he hit her, and a fourth and fifth, back and forth, until at last she began to weep, and suddenly his penis was erect and Grabow was panting with excitement and from the effort of slapping the girl, and then he would come forward onto her and force his way into her.
Afterwards, in silence, he left the room, and she heard him lunging back down the stairs to the room next to the kitchen, where he slept. The next morning, he whistled cheerfully downstairs and throughout the day was kindly toward her, smiling that horse-toothed smile, chucking the baby under the chin with approval as she passed through the kitchen to the privy in the backyard.
Continental Drift Page 24
