Dancing in the Baron's Shadow

by Fabienne Josaphat

“I warned him about making waves,” Jean-Jean said. “I told him.”

  He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. He still wouldn’t look Raymond in the eyes, and Raymond swallowed his budding disgust.

  “I’m sorry,” he continued. “I wish I could help.”

  “But you’re a judge,” Eve said, moving in closer. “You can do something. They’ll listen to you if you intervene on his behalf. Nicolas always said you were the first person I should contact if something ever happened to him.”

  “I can’t take that risk.” Jean-Jean glanced over his shoulder.

  Raymond recognized fear when he saw it. The man was afraid.

  Trucks and cars zoomed down the street, honking incessantly for slower drivers and pedestrians to move out of their way. Uniformed schoolchildren had flooded the streets, buying porridge and bread on their way to class. A man with wavy gray hair and fair skin came out of the fabric store and stood at the threshold, sipping a demitasse of coffee. He glanced at Jean-Jean and nodded politely. The top two buttons on his shirt were open, revealing a Star of David caught in the wiry black hair of his chest.

  “So you’re going to let him die?” Raymond spat.

  His head was stuffy. He hadn’t eaten. Eve had dressed in a hurry, throwing on a blouse and skirt; they hadn’t thought about food. He needed water or coffee—something in his stomach. He couldn’t manage to hide his anger and disgust with Jean-Jean’s cowardice.

  The man at the fabric store cleared his throat.

  “Ça va, Maître Faustin?” he asked. “Everything all right?”

  Jean-Jean turned around and nodded politely.

  “Good morning, Mr. Levy. Yes, everything is fine! Don’t worry. These are friends of mine.”

  Mr. Levy caressed his bushy mustache with his small, stubby hand. A gold ring glittered as he raised his cup to his lips. He looked dubious. Raymond could smell brilliantine.

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Levy insisted.

  “We’re discussing private business,” Raymond said.

  He didn’t like the way Mr. Levy looked at him. Raymond could see the contempt in the storeowner’s eyes as he assessed Raymond’s dirty pants and scuffed shoes. Raymond turned back to Jean-Jean and shook his head.

  “You’re supposed to be Nicolas’s friend,” he said.

  “And I am, but that doesn’t mean I can compromise my own safety just because you show up here like this, at my place of business, unannounced!”

  The judge was now waving his arms as he spoke. He was agitated. Nervous.

  “Jean, it’s us you’re talking to,” Eve said. “Please. Can’t you do anything for us? For Nicolas?”

  He looked over his shoulder again, scanning the crowd, and lowered his voice as he turned back, choking on his words. “I’m being followed. Most likely they will arrest me too. I will lose my job. I will lose everything.”

  Raymond stared at him. “My brother will lose his life,” he said. “I guess he was wrong about you.”

  Jean-Jean thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “I’m very sorry. I can’t help. I can’t do anything.”

  Eve cocked her head to the side. “And what about Amélie?” she asked. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  Jean-Jean’s eyes flared with anger. “I asked Nicolas the same thing, Eve. What about his family? Your life? He said he had a plan for you if things went bad. Well, I’ll tell you now, things are bad. If you have a plan, then I recommend you take immediate steps to follow it, and hope it’s not too late to save yourself and your daughter.”

  Raymond studied Jean-Jean one more time and concluded by the way his shoulders drooped that it was no use. He was too afraid. The judge still couldn’t look them in the eyes, just stared down at his shoes.

  “I’m going to work now,” he muttered, turning the key in the lock.

  Jean-Jean slammed the metal door behind him. He climbed the steps up to his office and left Eve and Raymond standing on the sidewalk. Eve shook her head in dismay. Mr. Levy was still staring at them. The air between Raymond and Eve grew cold.

  Raymond parked in Georges Phenicié’s driveway and took a deep, appreciative breath, inhaling the smell of the leather seats in Eve’s navy-blue Renault. Raymond had never been in a new car before, not one like this. And he’d certainly never ridden in Eve’s. His children had once, and they made it sound like their aunt had taken them for a ride in a plane. He pulled the key out of the ignition and glanced over at Eve. She hadn’t said a word during the drive from Jean’s office.

  “It’s a nice car,” he said. “But I don’t think we should drive it again.”

  She nodded. “And I don’t think Georges will help us.”

  Raymond’s hands clutched the soft wheel of the Renault.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Have you been drinking?” she asked.

  Raymond sighed, realizing that he still reeked of alcohol. He hadn’t had time to wash up before leaving the house. He longed for a decent pillow and a strong cup of coffee, but so far the adrenaline had kept him on his feet.

  “I didn’t know you drank,” she said.

  Amélie had fallen asleep in Eve’s arms, her head rolling from one side to the other.

  “I’m fine,” Raymond repeated, pushing himself out of the car. “Let’s go.”

  He’d never been to Georges’s house or any home this grandiose. It was a newer two-story gingerbread in the hills of Bel Air, one of the few parts of the city he barely knew. It was the sort of neighborhood designed for old money, and everyone owned their own vehicles. He’d been there only a couple of times to drop off the help outside the gates. Georges’s house was stark white with balconies and parapets hidden behind vines and stems of wild orchid blooms cascading over walls. Around them, hidden in the branches of breadfruit trees, doves broke into high-pitched symphonies. The house was minutes away from downtown, but it stood in sharp contrast to the city’s chaos. Raymond watched Eve stroll up the walk like it was no big deal.

  “This way,” she said.

  She’d here before. She said she’d sat at the dinner table with Georges and his wife before she’d died of a heart attack. Raymond was seeing another side of his wealthy brother’s life: friends who were even wealthier. This was no time to think about material things, but still, Raymond fought a gnawing discomfort as he followed Eve. He felt impossibly out of place. His pants, his shoes, his callused hands—they belonged in the slums of Cité Simone, not here in Bel Air.

  Eve knocked three times at the front door, her knuckles banging the carvings of flowers in the oak grain. Amélie woke up, fussing a bit before burying her face in her mother’s shoulder again. Raymond wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The midday heat had begun to eat away at the city, to eat away at him. They waited, but no one came to the door. This time, Raymond pounded on the door.

  “Honneur?”

  He called out the common, rural salutation, “honor,” and soon they heard footsteps approaching. The door swung open, and a young woman’s round face appeared. She had a red scarf wrapped around her head. Her skin was of smooth, lustrous ebony, and her small nose twitched when she saw Raymond standing there.

  “We’re here to see Monsieur Georges,” Eve said, leaning closer to Raymond. “It’s urgent. Tell him it’s Madame Nicolas L’Eveillé.”

  The servant hesitated as she eyed them both. She recognized Eve and greeted her politely, nodding her head.

  “Monsieur Georges is not here,” she said, almost singing her answer in Creole.

  Raymond recognized a northern accent.

  “He left early this morning.”

  “Left?” Eve echoed, her eyes wild with panic. “I don’t understand. To go where? For work?”

  The servant shrugged. “I don’t know, madame. He didn’t say.” She dipped her head to express humility just as Raymond’s eyes found the black Citroën parked in the driveway. He’d seen it before at Ni
colas’s. Georges’s car. Raymond knew a man like him wouldn’t walk and he wouldn’t take a taxi.

  Something snapped inside him, and Raymond pushed against the door and forced the woman back. “Pardon,” he said over her protests. He stormed into the house, and Eve followed him into the foyer, stunned.

  “Georges Phenicié? It’s Raymond L’Eveillé, Nicolas’s brother!”

  His voice reverberated against the high ceilings of the house. Eve followed him down a narrow hallway. Raymond walked into a large kitchen, but no one was there. The table was set, the place setting nicely arranged on a hand-embroidered tablecloth, and a fruit holder at the center of the table held scarlet pomegranates and bright, round oranges. On the kitchen counter, Raymond noticed a glass pitcher, the ice still melting in its belly.

  “Sir, please,” the maid begged, following them both. “You can’t just barge in. Monsieur Georges is not here.”

  She tried to position herself between Raymond and the kitchen, but he walked around her. When she extended her arms and insisted they leave a message, he pushed her aside.

  “Ti chérie, please, stay out of this!” he said.

  Raymond went into the dining room, the living room, and saw nothing but empty couches and chairs, embroidered pillows and chandeliers. Exotic bouquets of eucalyptus and peacock feathers fanned out from ornate crystal vases. No one.

  “I don’t believe this,” Eve muttered.

  “Georges Phenicié!” Raymond screamed once more. He glanced at Eve and lowered his voice. “He’s got to be here somewhere.”

  The maid gasped and covered her mouth to stifle her indignation when Raymond ran up the stairs toward the bedrooms, holding on to the railing. Raymond heard her mumble something about calling the police. Eve followed him, out of breath and slowed down by the child in her arms. Amélie had started to cry again, disturbed by Raymond’s shouting.

  Upstairs, the hallways led to an empty balcony overlooking the city and several bedrooms, all of them empty. Then they arrived at the master suite. The bed could fit four people, Raymond thought. The sheets were bright white, bleached and starched, and the curtains had been pulled open to let light shine into the vast space. Raymond was disoriented until he heard a rattling sound.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  Eve froze. They listened, their eyes glued on the armoire that the noise had come from. There it was again. The mirrored door moved.

  Raymond walked toward the armoire and pulled the doors open. A shadow shifted between the suits and soon resolved into the silhouette of a man hiding behind ties and double-breasted jackets. Raymond recognized his two-piece linen ensemble. He called his name and noticed the whites of Georges Phenicié’s eyes as he looked up, sheepish, like a child caught stealing wedding cake.

  “You’re hiding from us,” Raymond said bitterly. It was pathetic—this big, imposing, important man cowering in a closet. “Is that really necessary?”

  Georges climbed out of the armoire and ran his fleshy hands down his pants to smooth the wrinkles. He saw Eve struggling to soothe the child in her arms and his eyes darted away.

  “I’m on my way to the airport,” Georges mumbled. “I’m just packing clothes. I hope you are too, Eve, though I imagine you have a more stealthy plan for escape than the airport.”

  Eve shook her head. “I can’t abandon him, Georges.”

  Georges stared at her in disbelief.

  “Earlier,” she pressed him, “you wouldn’t even listen to me on the phone.”

  A vein bulged on his forehead.

  “The telephone is not a good idea,” Georges spat, slamming a drawer shut. “By now, given your husband’s work, I presume you know about phone tapping—”

  “We need your help,” Raymond snapped. “Can you do something? They found some of his writing and—”

  “I have nothing to do with this,” Georges said. “We were clear with Nicolas that this project was unwise, that he was risking his life. And now look at us.”

  Georges walked around the bed. He dragged a suitcase from the corner and stuffed a few gourdes in his pocket.

  “Georges,” Eve cried out, “you must know someone at the Ministry of—”

  “What do you think is happening here? Do you think that your husband can write this book and not face the consequences?”

  “You can help us, I know you can. Please, appeal on his behalf?”

  “I am only the secretary,” Georges said, pulling out a passport. He leafed through it before tucking it back in his pocket. “And if I am lucky, I will be a refugee by this evening.”

  Raymond noticed his hands shaking.

  “What you need is a judge. Talk to Jean-Jean,” Georges added, a little desperately.

  “He won’t help us,” Raymond said. “Both of you are turning your backs on Nicolas, on his family. But when he was passing out cigars and sweet cakes, you were first in line, weren’t you?”

  Georges turned to look at Eve and then Raymond. His breathing had grown shallow. He stepped closer to Raymond, just a few inches away from his face.

  “How dare you insinuate such things?” Georges growled. “Nicolas was my friend.”

  “Is he still?” Eve asked, a dangerous fire in her eyes.

  Georges sighed, looked down at his gray shoes.

  “No, Eve.” He shook his head. “How can he be? He may be your husband, but he is as good as dead. And look at us. He has forced us to run.”

  “After all Nicolas has done for you? My God, Georges, he got you out of trouble when that girl’s family accused you. Have you already forgotten? It was Nicolas who defended you, who consoled your wife—”

  “That never happened!” Georges’s eyes widened. “I never touched that girl.”

  “He fought for you in court,” Eve said, brandishing Amélie. “When your wife died and people said horrible things about you, Nicolas stood up for you—”

  “Damn it, Eve, this isn’t personal,” Georges shouted. “I need to leave now and hope like hell that they don’t stop me at the airport. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “Can you bribe someone?” Raymond asked.

  “All my money’s tied up abroad right now,” he said, shaking his head in protest. “I have kids in college overseas. Once I am free, I will advocate for Nicolas’s freedom every day. I will fight for him.”

  Georges lowered his eyes and squeezed them shut. When he opened them, he produced his wallet and pulled out some bills. He counted them, one by one, and handed them to Raymond instead of Eve. Raymond took the money without a word.

  “That’s all I can do, one hundred,” Georges said.

  Raymond’s eyes widened. One hundred gourdes was more than he’d ever had in his wallet at once. The amount could pay his children’s tuition for four months.

  “Take that money to Casernes Dessalines, ask to see Adjudant Joseph. He never says no to money.”

  Without another word, Georges grabbed his suitcase and walked out. He didn’t look back. Raymond stared at the crisp bills in his hands, nothing like the used, crumpled ones he tried to smooth out in his taxi at the end of each day.

  Through an open window, the birds sounded loud, almost angry, as the engine of Georges Phenicié’s Citroën roared to life. Raymond suddenly felt all the anger and indignation toward Nicolas’s friends leave his body. In its place was pity. His brother had caused all of this, and there was nothing these sad, old men could do.

  Raymond couldn’t figure out what it was about Adjudant Joseph that made him uneasy. Although he looked young and strong, he nonetheless struck Raymond as a man who did very little real work in his life.

  When they walked in, Adjudant Joseph was sitting back in his chair, laughing on the telephone with his feet up on his desk. He and Eve stood together before him awkwardly, wondering whether to sit or stand. The officer made no sign of acknowledgment, just continued his conversation as if he were alone.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,”
Adjudant Joseph said, his eyes wandering over the view out his window. “I’ve got you covered. Bill me by head count, I’m good for it.”

  Raymond considered his perfectly manicured nails, his starched collar, and his freshly shined boots.

  “You know me, I like things quiet. No one needs to worry about it.”

  Finally, Adjudant Joseph caught a glimpse of Eve. He undressed her with his eyes, tracking the contours of her figure, lingering on her chest and her hips. Eve switched her daughter to her other hip as if to remind him of the other realities attached to her body. After ten more minutes of cryptic conversation, he hung up and rested his hands on the desk, fingers interlaced.

  “How can I help you?”

  Raymond swallowed with difficulty. Before he could open his mouth, Eve spoke up.

  “Adjudant, please, I’m here to beg for any information you may have on my husband. He was taken in the middle of the night from his home in Turgeau. They said they were bringing him here. We deserve to know on what grounds he is being held.”

  “Grounds?”

  “Yes,” Eve said. “Please, he’s innocent. What has he done? He hasn’t harmed anyone.”

  “Madame, if he was arrested, surely there must have been a reason,” the officer said, his eyes flirtatious, his tone coy, as if this were a pickup line in a nightclub.

  “His name is Nicolas L’Eveillé,” Raymond cut in. “He’s my brother. A good man, a father.”

  Adjudant Joseph looked over in irritation and noticed Raymond, it seemed, for the first time. He shook his head in contempt. “I don’t recall…”

  “If you look at your files, you’ll see,” Raymond said, digging through his pockets. “He was probably brought here this morning, early, at dawn. Adjudant, please, we were told you are powerful, that you can help us. You’re a good man, that’s what Georges Phenicié said. He said you call the shots around here.”

  Raymond pulled out the roll of gourdes that Georges had given him. He’d added his own cash to the pile on the drive over. His dirty bills stuck together, and he hid them under Georges’s crisp new ones. He knew the officer was watching him. His hands trembled slightly as he folded up the money into a wad and held it out.