A Rendezvous in Haiti

by Stephen Becker

  A quartet of handlers were setting out another main. The murmur of Creole soothed Blanchard again, like some country melody from another century. The handlers examined spurs, their own bird’s and the other’s; they ruffled feathers, they blew a fine spray of rum. Noise mounted. These were another red and a zinga. Blanchard sized them up. “Le zinga!” he called. “Qui moon ba deux?”

  The chatter checked: who was this white fool, asking two to one?

  “Imbécile!” someone called. “These are great birds! Five gourdes! Evens!”

  “Even money,” Blanchard agreed, and the crowd pressed in, and the clairin was sweet. The handlers were ready, the cry went up, the birds circled, fluttered and attacked. They sparred, broke. The zinga was a slasher and bided his time. The red seemed a hybrid, slashing and pecking both. When the birds paused for rest, the handlers gathered them in. They were set again; Blanchard saw the handler jab, and the red lunged forward in a frantic flurry and pecked blood from the zinga’s neck, and then slashed. Blanchard shouted, “Foul! Coup-bas!” Furious, he leapt into the pit and took up the zinga. For that instant he saw and heard nothing: only knew that he had been fouled.

  A handler in a red headband came straight for him. The man was café-au-lait and mustachioed. Blanchard now saw that he was a runt, but his blade was eight inches and bright. Blanchard shielded himself with the cock and shouted “Ça va, ça va!” while he groped for his own knife. In the back of his mind he cursed himself: this was neither paid work nor a cause. The handler cursed and spat. Blanchard told himself, just two country boys arguing, but he knew how wrong that was.

  There was a ring of them suddenly and no wall behind him and no way out. Blades wrote flashing illegible messages. Blanchard forwent his knife; he crouched and raised open hands like a wrestler; the zinga flapped to earth. Blanchard talked fast. “You goosed that red. You goosed him hard.”

  Another handler dashed into the circle to reclaim the bird, and dodged away. The crowd cheered, and Blanchard heard: this was better than a cockfight. Two to one on the black. No bet on the blanc. The ring was all knives and teeth, edging closer. Blanchard could only stand still.

  Boniface came waddling, cheery and curious, a bottle dangling in one hand. “Tiens,” he said. Then he cried out, “Ohé, merde! Shut up, all of you!”

  They did shut up. “Ten times a night one protests the handling,” he went on. “What the devil is all this fuss?”

  “Not to Marius,” a voice called. “Marius is an honest man.” The crowd agreed in a peevish mutter.

  “You see, setting-on is legal,” Boniface said to Blanchard. “Perhaps it is done differently here.”

  “Setting on! He damn near disemboweled that red with a railway spike.”

  “Such talk,” Boniface said.

  “Look in his pocket,” Blanchard said.

  “We do not look in pockets here,” Boniface said. “As well, don’t you think?”

  Blanchard drew a deep breath and stood tall. He sniffed tobacco smoke. The ring of men was still waving knives at him, and their faces were not angry, but sullen and scornful. The mustachioed handler muttered to Boniface, whose brows rose.

  Boniface suppressed a cough. He choked, wheezed, swallowed and hawked vigorously. He tried to spit politely.

  “Calm yourself,” Boniface said.

  Blanchard said, “I’m calm. You calm these others.”

  “Any man has a right to debate,” Boniface told him, “but you are the only blanc in the gaguerre. It makes a difference.”

  “I have been the only blanc at more than one cockfight.”

  “But consider: you are an outsider and you lay down the law! Perhaps the goosing was to throw a match, and the throwing was to settle a family feud; perhaps lives have been saved. Or would have been, without your interruption.”

  Blanchard did not speak. The crowd too was silent now; not hostile, only curious. A cock fluttered, and screeched rudely. The mist of clairin and smoke, the flickering lamps, the silver blade: Blanchard stood alone, on this other planet. Finally he said, “Yes. I understand,” and to Marius, “Pardon, mon vieux, pardon.”

  Boniface said, “V’là, Marius. The blanc apologizes and knows better now.”

  Marius grumbled.

  “More heart, more heart,” Boniface insisted. “A handshake, now.”

  They complied: a loose West Indian handshake. The crowd murmured. A man shouted, “And the birds? And my wager?”

  “Well done, Marius,” Boniface said, and Marius nodded, neutral, no harm done and the quarrel ended. He turned back to the business of the evening.

  Boniface spoke quietly. “Now, mon cher. Shall we go to my loge? It seems to me we might profit by a conversation.” He raised his voice: “On with the main! Drink up!”

  These welcome instructions were acknowledged by happy shouts, while Blanchard and Boniface strolled back to the loge.

  They sat on the floor of the small wooden shack, backs to the walls, and sipped at clairin. “We heard about Deux Rochers,” Boniface said. “It must have been a glorious moment.”

  “It was,” Blanchard said. For some moments they listened to the boisterous crowd, the shrieks of encouragement and groans of dismay. It was not the walls that vexed Blanchard, but the ceiling: he missed the cold remote stars, the endless free fetches of nothing. “It was. There are not many of them.” He had no friends; Boniface and Martel were as close to him as any men—not close at all; Boniface enjoyed the ruses and schemes, while Martel … He tried to recall the friends of his youth, and all he could evoke was the bare house, woodsmoke, desolation, the river and ponds iced solid and the sides of pork like marble in the shed.

  “We know the Marines,” Boniface said. “We can deal with the enemy.”

  “We!” This fat civilian. “We could drive them into the sea,” Blanchard said, “with better organization and real discipline. If I could shoot a few cowards. Good God, what has he got for an army? Bandits! Superstitious idiots! Women! Greedy Domingans! He calls himself a general—do you know that he has a soft heart? Fleury can be a lot crueler. That’s another thing—Fleury hates me. Or so I hear. You know about that?”

  “I do know. He hates most blancs. But faction is a worse problem. Batraville in the south, Savoie in the north—too many generals, too many kings. So you took leave without permission?”

  Blanchard scoffed. “And I won a victory without help. And I haven’t been paid for some time. I want some action,” he said, and now there was passion in his low voice. “I want money, I want an army, I’m tired of leading a mob and I’m tired of taking orders.”

  Boniface dipped into a shirt pocket and came up with a packet of cigarettes. He offered them. The cigarette papers were a golden-tan in lamplight. Blanchard raised the cigarette in salute and thanks.

  Blanchard knew he would cough. He did cough, and when they saw the blood on the back of his hand Boniface said, “Eh, eh. It will pass. The hills of Haiti are like heaven.”

  “It will pass,” Blanchard lied, and waved smoke. He tugged at his kerchief and wiped his hand. “I came on business. Why can’t we just parley outside?”

  Boniface said, “It would hardly do to talk business in the gaguerre. Tonight, for example, we have two corporals of the Gendarmerie, betting their month’s pay. Not to mention a few of Batraville’s people. A country of miracles. One never knows who is who. If God himself came to walk among us he would look like a beggar or a docker. You fell into good luck, picking that quarrel. Marius is a known Caco; therefore you are not, but just another blanc. What’s this business you came on?”

  “I’m going to take a white hostage. I need help.”

  “A white hostage!” Boniface was a man who liked to smile; he took his time, and relished the moment.

  Blanchard nodded.

  “And you need help.”

  “Only to take her. I’m too conspicuous.”

  “That will be easy,” Boniface said. “When you make servants of a whole race, they have free r
un of you—my men will go where they want and as long as they seem to be sweeping or scrubbing no one will see them. And afterward?”

  “A mule cart, three or four good men.”

  “To?”

  “To Martel. I don’t like the man but he’s the only boss I have.”

  “A hostage will keep the Marines in camp, is that it?”

  “Or bring an interesting ransom. I like money. So does Martel. It buys arms.”

  “Where is he?”

  Blanchard shook his head.

  “This was his idea?”

  “Haw!” Blanchard spewed contempt. “Never! He won’t even talk to me. I’m a real soldier and a blanc and he owes me money.”

  Boniface said, “You underestimate him. Be careful.”

  Blanchard shrugged. “Listen, I need good men. To take her is nothing, but once we have her, every bandit in Haiti will say, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ and come after her. I can’t fight my way through fifty outlaws.”

  “I can find you talented thugs,” Boniface said, “but not to trust.”

  “Then I won’t trust them,” Blanchard said.

  “They’ll want cash.”

  “They’ll have it.”

  “You did say ‘her’.”

  “A colonel’s daughter.”

  “Oh my God,” Boniface bubbled. “Oh holy blue. Colonel Barbour’s daughter.”

  “You know about her.”

  “All of Port-au-Prince knows about her. Some lieutenant’s sweetheart.”

  “Young love,” said Blanchard. “I knew her father, in Europe. He saluted me once.”

  “You go too far,” Boniface said. “Never lie to me, not even in jest.” He filled his lungs with the rich sweet smoke and said, “Tiens,” and sat pensive.

  Blanchard was uneasy in the pause: this fat bastard was conniving, already two jumps ahead of him. He held forth his cup, and Boniface ceased scheming, and poured him another tot. They chatted calmly then, about times and places, potions and poisons. Then his host showed him out, a hand on his shoulder to steer him through the larking crowd, and as he left the gaguerre he heard Boniface announce, “So much for that one. No more blancs in this gaguerre, is what I say.”

  Blanchard finally smiled. The son of a bitch had no morals at all.

  5

  At Hinche they greeted McAllister with the ritual raillery. Evans was still alive, conscious, on a warship with doctors, could move his legs: Captain Healy was exuberant. Lieutenant Dillingham was back from a long patrol; he was McAllister’s friend, a rugged, voluble roughneck much liked for his fund of blue stories and his affection for alcohol. He was also fearless and deplored notions of permanent peace. “I am happy to see you here,” he told McAllister. “You may now lead patrols while I visit Port-au-Prince and see this colonel’s daughter for myself. I plan to take her to dinner and tell her the story about the orange horse.”

  “The ones on the left,” McAllister said, “are forks. The knives and spoons will be on the other side.”

  Dillingham cursed him joyfully. The three officers were lounging on the veranda, dimly aware of the drums, and Lafayette the yard boy was bustling, bottles of beer and rounds of coconut meat. He had taught them to wrap a bottle in a wet bandanna; the least breeze cooled it right down.

  Healy said, “Lafayette: you want to make some more money?”

  With a tight sly grin Lafayette said, “Capitaine v’lay femme.”

  “No, no femme. Moi v’lay see a zombie.”

  Lafayette’s grin vanished. He stood silent, small, black, empty.

  “Come back from the dead,” Dillingham said. “Do you believe that?”

  “No, I don’t,” Healy said. “I don’t believe in zombies and I’ll tell you why. Christ brought Lazarus back from the dead, correct? And Christ was the son of God himself, correct? And Christ only did it that one time, correct? Well, if you think some country nigger’s better’n Christ, you’re no Catholic, is all I can say.”

  “I’m not,” McAllister and Dillingham said in chorus.

  “You Catholic, Lafayette?”

  “Oui, Capitaine. Moins Catholique.” Lafayette crossed himself.

  “Okay, no zombies. You can go now.” Lafayette glided away immediately and Healy went on, “You know what that sumbitch does?”

  “What now?”

  “Why, he’s practically American. I inspected his quarters. He has a shelter-half and a gardener’s shed. And they are both full of full bottles.”

  “Full bottles?”

  “Right. Full of local white rum, beside which the lightning of Jehovah is as balm and the kick of a mule like the caress of a virgin. Old beer bottles and wine bottles, and fat green bottles you can’t see through, and old hair-tonic bottles and square bottles like the apothecary. And you know how he filled those bottles?”

  “You’re going to tell us,” McAllister said. This was the best time of day—still light, but the air freshening and the sun settling comfortably into the green hills.

  “Well, he took an old story, a local legend, and he decided to do it. I tell you, gentlemen, for every swindle there is a new audience—a new clientele, you might say—in each generation. That is a scientifically verified principle which accounts for the survival of the British Crown and the Republican Party. What our boy Lafayette does is this. He takes a bottle and half fills it with water. He then hies himself to a grog shop. You know them?”

  “Seen one or two,” Dillingham said. “A wooden booth with three sides, and in the middle a barrel of rum.”

  “The more tony establishments,” said Healy, “are roofed over. Anyway this clairin has to be sold fast or it dissolves the barrel. So Lafayette asks the man to top off his bottle of rum. And the barkeep pops a funnel into Lafayette’s beer bottle or whatever, and sluices a half-bottle of his private stock into it.

  “Naturally before paying out good money Lafayette allows himself a small sip, just to verify, you might say; and then he sputters and curses and throws a fit and shouts ‘Rotgut!’

  “And he pours back the half-bottle. If he has to, he snatches up the funnel himself and does it. And if the barkeep starts to hoot and holler, Lafayette even gives him back an ounce or so extra. I imagine there follow a few imaginative and injurious remarks on both sides, but Lafayette is already on his way off the premises, headed for the next distillery.”

  Dillingham said, “By God. After three times he’d have seven-eighths rum.”

  “And after four, fifteen-sixteenths, which is a proportion legally sufficient to warrant cattle pure-bred. And this stuff is clear as a mountain spring and young as the dawn. Three tots of it will flush the liver and lights for a week.”

  “It is a corrosive broth,” Dillingham confirmed. “I’m not even sure red blood cells can survive in it.”

  “The men don’t seem to pay much attention to the rules,” McAllister said. “Rum and whores. Talk about tradition.”

  “Boys will be boys,” Healy said, “and the Corps is famous for improvising in unforeseen circumstances, where theory proves inadequate. Lafayette sells this poison by the bottle or the half-bottle or the pony and he is making big money, and if I tried to stop him I would have a mutiny on my hands.”

  “Or if you tried to clean out the women in Hinche,” McAllister said.

  “You are not to be thinking about sluts,” Healy said.

  “That poor colonel’s daughter,” Dillingham said. “In the clutch of a rapist. You been to those cribs, Mac?”

  “I only know what Gunny Evans told me.”

  “God bless the man,” Healy said. “Here’s to him,” and they hoisted three beer bottles, and Healy added viciously, “and a fatal clap to that son-of-a-bitching rebel Martel.”

  Gunny Evans had deplored those shacks outside Hinche, the poor goddam Marines out of bounds but irrepressible. A couple of dollars here and a couple more there, and along came a rickety Ford truck, about half a mile from camp. Always half a dozen Marines hopped aboard: out of bounds wa
s out of bounds but lust conquered all. They would chat intermittently in the last light, releasing their impatience in brief bursts of small talk. One would polish his boots nervously, boots that he would shortly drag through the dust and rubbish of Hinche’s main street, or the rotting garbage that paved Hinche’s alleys. “I used to think the daylight lasted forever in the tropics,” one of them would say, “but it shuts down about six o’clock like some small town in Georgia.”

  “It’s a damn funny place and a damn funny war,” another would say. “Every time we kill one, three or four more jump up.”

  “Got to protect the Panama Canal,” one would intone, and the others would cackle; that solemn absurdity issued from Washington.

  “Jeez, against who?” was the liturgical response, and the answer to that was always a racial slur, varying only in style and venom: “Irish. Gone fill it in and plant spuds.” “Jews. Gone double the tolls.” “Niggers. Gone sit on the bank and fish.” “Chinese. Gone line it with washtubs.”

  “Gone take a while.”

  “Gone take forever. Marine Corp’s forever anyway.”

  Upon some such gloomy note they would subside for a time. The truck would rattle on, and eventually check with squeals and rattles. “Tree heure,” the driver would announce. “Tree heure go beck.”

  They hopped from the truck and sought their bearings. The truck clattered away and was replaced by shadowy platoons of children clucking “fack-fack” like a flock of black chicks. Some cosmopolitan Marine would say, “Allez, ça va.” An urchin would plead, “Ba iune gourde, ba iune gourde,” give me one gourde, and what was that now, an American nickel? The children were barefoot, woolly headed, mostly naked, all but featureless in the bleary light of an open-air grog shop, the straining glow of a single oil lamp; their faces were blank and black, their soft voices more music than speech. The Marines strode through them as through stands of black hibiscus. The children trailed, slowed, pleaded.

  The men had at first believed that the country women here were worthy but the town women vicious. They also believed that true in their home states. There was agreement among the Marines that hard-working Haitian family women would not be molested. Such women, Gunny Evans pointed out, were rare. McAllister disagreed but held his peace. How could Gunny know the first damn thing about the life of a Haitian woman?