Dancing in the Baron's Shadow

by Fabienne Josaphat

  “Will you help us?” Raymond asked.

  Adjudant Joseph stared at the money for a moment, then glanced at the door. He reached for the bills and took them, counting the money before stuffing it in his pocket. He then opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. He flipped through papers. For a moment, all was still except for the sound his fingers made as he skimmed through files. Raymond glanced over at Eve, but she didn’t look at him. Biting her lip, she reached for the gold medallion around her neck, a heart with an embossed portrait of the Virgin Mary, and held it against her lips.

  “L’Eveillé, yes!” Adjudant Joseph ran his finger over the black lettering. Raymond could see an official stamp on the header, the familiar effigy of palm trees and bayonets, and a signature scribbled at the bottom of the page. “Ah, yes, I remember now. He was brought here on very serious charges. Treason.”

  “Treason?” Eve shook her head. Her black curls bounced with the movement. She cradled Amélie with both arms. “My husband is no traitor. He’s a good man, a citizen, a professor, and he’s well respected. He didn’t commit any crime.”

  “Adjudant, we will be forever in your debt if you help us,” Raymond said. “I can chauffeur you any time you want, any where you like. You name it. I’m your man. No one knows Port-au-Prince like I do. I’m a good cabbie.”

  Adjudant Joseph silenced Raymond with a crude gesture. Eve fell into the chair behind her.

  “Can I see him?” Eve ventured. “I just want to hear his voice.”

  Adjudant Joseph grabbed his phone again and dialed a number. Raymond’s lips moved in silent prayer, but every word was hollow in his heart. Prayer meant nothing since he’d lost his family.

  Adjudant Joseph waited on the line. His eye wandered lazily back to Eve, who was still seated, exhausted. Raymond reached for her hand. We’ve made a mistake, he thought. We’ve walked into the lion’s den, stupidly claiming attachment to a prisoner who’s been arrested for treason. And yet beyond this office there were cells and locked doors, and Nicolas might be behind one of them. Raymond hoped to at least see him, speak to him, try to come up with a plan before he was transferred to Fort Dimanche. Raymond knew he must do everything in his power to free his younger brother.

  “Yes, Nicolas L’Eveillé, case number 203786. Scheduled for Fort Dimanche. Has the truck left yet?”

  Raymond saw Eve sit up, her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. Adjudant Joseph listened, nodded, and grunted, “Oui, merci,” before hanging up. He stared at Eve and Raymond.

  “He’s already been transferred to Fort Dimanche,” he said. “Nothing I can do.”

  “No,” Eve moaned in her chair before dropping her head in despair.

  Raymond stepped closer to the desk, cautious to not touch anything. “There must be something you can do?”

  The officer was watching Eve wipe tears from her eyes. Raymond noticed a sly smile forming on his lips. Amélie, unhappy with her mother’s tears, began to wail.

  “You know? It’s such a funny coincidence!” the adjudant said, brightening suddenly. “I was once a student of your husband’s!” He nodded eagerly at Eve, whose eyes widened in fear.

  Raymond glared in disgust at how the man was playing them. His anger was nearly blinding, and he imagined smashing his fist repeatedly into his face.

  “Yes!” Adjudant Joseph went on. “And would you believe that my brother Philippe is, or I should say was, attending a lecture course by Maître L’Eveillé this very term! So you see, it turns out we have a lot in common.”

  Raymond and Eve gaped at the young man.

  “Perhaps,” he drawled, shifting in his chair, “there is another way. Perhaps, if madame would care to add something extra to the package, I might be able to do something after all. Perhaps I could arrange a private visit to Fort Dimanche.”

  Eve stared in horror. Raymond trembled in anger. He spun on his heel, grabbed the child from Eve, and gestured for her to stand up.

  “Pardon?” Eve began, her eyes widening. “Do you not understand that I’m here for my husband? I’m a married woman. How dare you!”

  Raymond took her by the wrist, pulled her up gently, and moved them both quickly toward the door.

  “My husband is not a criminal!” she shouted.

  “Merci, mon adjudant,” Raymond mumbled, nodding with false gratitude. “You’ve been most kind. Thank you.”

  As quickly as they’d received the gourdes, they were gone. And for nothing. Raymond guided Eve through the dark hallway by the wrist, carrying Amélie in the other arm. He sped down the stairs so she wouldn’t hear the tormented moans and grunts of prisoners shackled inside the cells. Eve was mumbling something, but he dragged her toward the car. He opened the back door to let her in, but she planted her feet in the ground, stubborn, grief stricken, sobbing.

  “Eve, get in the car! We have to go.”

  She let her head drop and cried softly. Raymond tucked the child inside the car and squinted back toward the building. Someone was standing at the window in Adjudant Joseph’s office, staring right at them. Raymond felt a pang in his stomach, as he had in his taxi just days ago when he rescued that reporter in Cité Simone. There was danger all around them. Coming here had been a grave mistake. The Macoutes hadn’t found Eve that night of the arrest, and now for her and Raymond to walk right into the prison was madness. They might take them away any minute now, the baby included.

  “Eve, we can’t stay here,” Raymond repeated. “We need to go. Now.”

  “I can’t. I won’t leave him, Raymond.”

  The heat, the despair, the fear—all of it had begun to take a toll, and she was coming undone. “I can’t abandon my husband,” she said. “Everyone else has.”

  “We can’t help him like this,” Raymond said. “Get in the car, now! I don’t trust this adjudant.”

  Raymond pressed his hand against her back, but she pushed his hand away.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said. “I am not leaving him.”

  “He’s not here!” Raymond shouted, seizing her wrist.

  He squeezed harder, feeling her bones under his grip. She gasped and stared at him in pain and shock.

  “You can stand here all day and night crying if you want, and he still won’t be returned to you. He’s been transferred. You can’t help him now. Not like this.”

  “Everyone’s forsaken him.” Eve pushed at the tears on her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Everyone.”

  “I haven’t,” Raymond said. “He’s my brother. I didn’t betray him, I never will. I will find him.” He squeezed her wrist more gently this time, and her sobs subsided.

  “I will find him,” he repeated. “Trust me. But right now, I need you to get in the car, please. We have to get out of here before they come for us. For Amélie, Eve.”

  Eve fell into the Renault like a broken bamboo stalk. The baby’s babble cut through the silence of the car as her mother picked her up and sat her on her lap. Raymond shut the door, and when he got behind the wheel, he looked toward the entrance of the Casernes. Two men were standing in the doorway, staring at them. A third man stepped in between them: Adjudant Joseph. He said something to the men. Raymond scrambled for the ignition.

  He hit the gas and swerved away from the curb, missing the car parked in front of him by an inch. Raymond stuck his arm out the window, pressing for drivers to let him through.

  “We need to ditch this car,” he muttered.

  Somewhere around Chemin des Dalles, with the shadows of the afternoon encroaching, Eve accepted that Nicolas was gone. Stopped in front of a street vendor on a crowded street, Raymond got back in the Renault with two colas and a fruit juice and found Eve regarding him sharply while she nursed Amélie.

  “Nicolas won’t get out of Fort Dimanche, Raymond,” she stated flatly. “Not with the charges they have against him. Not with the book.”

  She had rolled her window down to purchase a bunch of ti malice. The fruit sellers, sensing a customer of means, were swarming aroun
d the car, but Eve didn’t seem to mind as she bought the tiny bananas. Raymond pulled away before they were completely surrounded, not knowing where exactly he was headed.

  “She’s so hungry,” Eve said, wiping the baby’s face with a handkerchief. “You must be too. Here. Eat something.” She handed Raymond a peeled banana.

  Raymond took it and thanked her. He ate two as he drove, washing them down with the soda. They tasted so good that he had to stop himself from eating more.

  “Raymond?” Eve adjusted the baby on her breast. “Yvonne is going to worry. We need to call her. I’m putting you and your family at risk now too.”

  Raymond drove, his eyes glued to the winding road up the mountain.

  “I’m not sure you understand. We need to warn her. She and the kids should go to the country for a while. You too—”

  “Yvonne left me.”

  There was a moment of silence. It pained him to say it, but he had to get it over with. There was no family left to worry about him or for him to endanger. No home to return to. He told her about the empty house, the bare hangers in the armoire, the deserted beach.

  “Oh,” Eve moaned. “Oh, Raymond. My poor Raymond.”

  When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw that she was crying quietly once more, her face buried in Amélie’s curls.

  “Please don’t cry,” he said. “It’s all right. Yvonne did what she felt was right for the children. I can’t blame her: I could not provide for my family. And now, I must admit, I’m relieved they are gone. Because you’re right, we’re all in trouble now.”

  “But it’s not fair, Raymond,” Eve said, peering at him in the mirror, her eyes like black roses against her face. “None of it is fair. I’m so sorry. I feel so selfish, asking you to help—”

  “Stop, please!” Raymond snapped.

  Eve’s voice cut off and she watched him, startled.

  “It’s done,” he said. “Let’s not talk about it. Is there any more fruit?”

  Eve blinked, her lashes still wet. She dug into an orange with her red fingernails and peeled off the stubborn skin. Raymond pulled over and ate the orange quickly, sweat pouring from his brow. All around them, vendors called to the pretty lady in the back of the fancy car, begging for business.

  Eve ignored them, looking at her baby instead. Sated and happy, Amélie grinned at her, and she grinned back.

  “Amélie and I are leaving, Raymond,” she said suddenly. “Jean-Jean was right. There is nothing I can do for Nicolas now, but there is a plan in place for our escape, a phone number I can call. It is hidden at the house. We’ll have to go back.”

  “I’ll go back on my own,” he said. “It’ll be safer. Just tell me where it is.”

  She shook her head. “I have to go myself.”

  Raymond tried to dissuade her, but she was silent. It was as if someone entirely different had taken control of Eve’s body. Even Amélie was quieter, different—following her mother’s lead in all things.

  “Take only what you need, nothing more.”

  Raymond pulled the curtains to the side just an inch. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary outside. They had placed the call to the person Eve said would help them escape. A suspicious elderly voice—sex indeterminate—had taken her number and promised to call in ten minutes. A couple of cars drove by outside the gate, but no one stopped. Raymond wasn’t sure what to look for. A vehicle stationed outside the house? A truck? A group of men in uniform or in civilian clothes? Raymond had parked three blocks away and they’d snuck in through the alley, taken all the necessary precautions, but what if somebody came? Then what would they do?

  “Hurry,” he said.

  He was in Nicolas’s office. On the other side of the hall, Eve was opening and shutting drawers, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. Their bag was already packed with diapers and a can of powdered milk. She grabbed her jewelry, gold chains and bracelets she could use as currency. She hid them in tissues and stuffed them among other things. Raymond watched her take a black and white photograph of Nicolas and himself, small boys dressed in white on First Communion day. She threw it in the bag.

  “Your passports,” he said. “Grab Nicolas’s too. Hurry.”

  They had checked the back of the house and found Freda gone along with her belongings. The mattress in her room was speckled with blood. The poor woman had probably fled in terror. Raymond would have done the same.

  Amélie was on the bed, crawling toward the bag, chewing on a piece of bread. She cooed and reached for a hairbrush. Eve trudged into Nicolas’s office. The mess hadn’t been touched, and she stepped over books thrown carelessly on the floor as though they were stones in a field. She knelt before Nicolas’s desk.

  “What are you doing?” Raymond asked.

  Eve was looking for something, her hand wandering beneath the drawer.

  “We have to get out of here, Eve!” he pleaded.

  She found what she was looking for, and when she stood up, she smiled at him with relief. He peered at the metal box she set down next to the typewriter. Eve fiddled with the clasp, and they both heard a click. She lifted the lid. Inside laid a small, worn notebook with a black leather cover. Newspaper clippings fluttered between pages.

  “No,” he said.

  She stared back at him, her chin held up in defiance. A strand of dark hair stuck to her wet forehead.

  “You can’t do this,” Raymond said, shaking his head.

  “I have to,” she said, running her finger over the notebook. “This is all that’s left of his work. If I can take it with me, then I’m not abandoning him, not totally.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Raymond said. “We can’t take the chance of being caught with this.”

  Eve held the notebook against her chest. She clenched her jaw. “I won’t leave it behind,” she said. “I won’t. You can do what you want.”

  Who was this woman? For a brief moment, he felt duped, as if he’d never really known her. In the background, Amélie was still cooing in the bedroom.

  “I can’t take this risk,” he said.

  “I’m taking it, Raymond! I just need to know that all this wasn’t for nothing. I’ll do whatever I can for Nicolas, to make the world see what’s happening to our country. That’s what he would have wanted. I need you to understand that.”

  Raymond rubbed his forehead to ease the pain.

  “I have to,” she insisted.

  Right now, nothing was more important than them leaving, going into hiding somewhere. He’d heard the rumors about families that the Macoutes came back for, taking them away to their deaths. Raymond threw his arms up in resignation. There was no time to argue. Eve placed the notebook back in the box. At the bottom, Raymond noticed something wrapped in blue fabric. He was going to ask her what it was, but she cut him off.

  “Damn it, when are they going to call?”

  As if in answer, the phone jangled and Eve’s hand leapt toward the receiver.

  “Hello?” she said, and listened attentively for a few seconds. “I understand.”

  “Our arrangement is no longer valid,” she said to Raymond, her eyes wide. “We are too hot to handle right now. We have to sit tight and call back in two weeks. They’ll see what they can do then.”

  Raymond met her eyes, his face ashen. “We have to get out of here, now!”

  TEN

  Nicolas only came to when the truck drew to a complete stop and the engine turned off. It was too dark for him to see the other prisoners. He tried to move and get his blood circulating. His urine-soaked pants stuck to his skin and the smell filled the air. He wanted to apologize, but he was too embarrassed to speak. And then it occurred to him that the others also stank of piss, and worse.

  The truck doors opened, the light blinding. An order came to stand and he saw the bodies of other men struggling to get up. He saw the fear on their helpless faces. One man was still in his underwear and slippers.

  The guards kept their gun barrels pointed at them, and Nic
olas had one shoved in his face as he exited the truck. He felt his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Water. He needed to drink something. He tried licking his lips, but everything, even his tongue, was dry. He needed to change his clothes, to clean himself up. When he stepped out, he knew exactly where he was: Fort Dimanche.

  The pestilence surrounding the fortress was unmistakable. Fort Dimanche was built on swampland, just off the bay of Portau-Prince, near Chancerelle. A smell of sea salt and decay pervaded the air, rumored to stem from the marshes that had become the prison’s execution fields. The Haitian American Sugar Company plant was nearby, and it was said that the roar of processing turbines concealed the screams of tortured prisoners. The bordering slums of La Saline and Cité Simone, as well as the outdoor market of Croix des Bossales, added to the stench.

  Nicolas thought it uncanny that men and women were brutalized and silenced here under the orders of a man who called himself a noiriste, a believer in Black Consciousness, right across from the very place where people were once sold into slavery. How much had actually changed when Duvalier was now the disease eating away at Haiti from the inside?

  Armed guards surrounded the prisoners, toting their rifles with nonchalance. Many of them were young, barely twenty-five, dressed in the standard Macoute uniform, their eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Nicolas didn’t recognize any of them. Some others wore civilian clothes and paced back and forth, hands glued to their pistols. The prisoners didn’t speak, but Nicolas heard someone whisper a prayer. They all kept their eyes glued on the massive, mustard-colored edifice rising before them.

  Nicolas had never seen Fort Dimanche up close. He took in every dark angle of the prison, every crack in its aging walls. A ray of sunlight blinded him as it reflected off the grimy windows behind steel bars. Maybe some of the cells have windows, he thought. What terrified him was the possibility of perpetual darkness, not seeing the sun or the sky for the rest of his short life.

  Under the midday sun, Fort Dimanche glowed yellow like a pus-filled wound in the vastness of the land. The walls surrounding the property were flanked with barbed wire, left over from the American occupation in the 1930s. Fort Dimanche had been many things in the past, having served as barracks, a military base for the American marines, a training camp, a shooting range, and even an armory. It took Duvalier’s sadistic rule to convert it into a prison death camp.