“Hey, 1492 was a good year for him,” I interjected. “I wonder if he played that number?”
She smiled. “There were a million Arrowak Indians in Haiti when Columbus arrived. In 300 years, the natives were wiped out by war and disease.”
“In America, we killed our Indians, too,” I reminded her.
“Yes, you did,” she said. “That seemed to be the European way in those days.”
“Not all Europeans. A Dutch guy I knew from South Africa back in the seventies told me that the only difference between America and South Africa was that his ancestors didn’t kill their Indians.”
“Interesting perspective,” she said.
“It’s a self-serving point of view,” I said.
“Well, anyway,” she continued, “Columbus claimed the island for Spain and named it Hispanola. The Indians were gradually replaced by black slaves brought to the island by Spain and France. Slave labor fueled the entire economy there for hundreds of years.”
“Still sounds like America,” I said.
“There does seem to be a pattern,” she said “But, at the end of the eighteenth century, things began to change on the island. The spirit of the 1789 French Revolution spread to Hispanola and a voodoo priest named Hougman called for a civil war to free the island’s slaves.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My white father was a diplomat and a student of history,” she explained. “My mother was educated. They wanted us to know our heritage.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Black heroes like Toussaint Louverture, Jack Desallines, and Henri Christophe led the slaves to freedom by defeating the French army. The slaves won their emancipation in 1793.”
“The French lose again,” I said.
“They weren’t done yet,” she said. “Napoleon sent his brother-in-law, Charles LeClerc, and 40,000 men to Haiti to restore order.”
“We’re talking about the Napoleon?” I asked.
“Yes, that Napoleon,” she confirmed.
“He was short like me,” I said.
“I think he was shorter than you,” she laughed. “But you both seem quite formidable.”
“It’s a short guy thing,” I told her. “So, what happened to LeClerc?”
“Louverture welcomed LeClerc to Haiti with open arms,” she said. “And LeClerc rewarded the hospitality by having his host arrested and shipped off to Fort-de-Joux in the French Alps where he froze to death.”
“What about LeClerc?”
“He remained on the island to restore order.”
“So Louverture froze in the Alps while LeClerc baked in Haiti?”
“Exactly,” she said. “A lot of French soldiers in Haiti got yellow fever and died. Most of the army was sick. By the time the second Haitian revolution took place the French were too weak to resist. It was a rout for the Haitians. France finally abandoned the island in 1803 and in 1804 Haiti became the first black republic in the western hemisphere.”
“So why didn’t everyone live happily ever after?” I asked.
“My father believed that the Haitian leaders were too corrupt and the Haitian people were too volatile,” she said.
“All the leaders couldn’t be corrupt,” I said.
“Maybe not,” she conceded. “But from 1843 to 1915 Haiti had twenty-two presidents and not one of them was impeached. They were overthrown or worse.”
“What do you mean, worse?”
“In 1915 President Guillaume Sam was dismembered.”
“You’re joking,” I said in disbelief, and for some reason I laughed.
“No, it’s the truth.” She covered her mouth with both hands to stifle a laugh.
“What are we laughing at?” I asked.
“The absurdity of it all, I guess,” she said, sighing. “But it’s true. After only five months in office Sam was implicated in the massacre of 167 political prisoners. The citizens vowed revenge and came after him the next day.”
“What do you mean they came after him?”
“A mob chased Sam from his home to the French legation where he tried to take refuge.”
“Did the French protect him?”
“Not a chance,” she said. “A group of prominent Haitian citizens, dressed in morning coats and bowler hats, dragged Sam from the house and threw him over a wrought-iron fence to a mob surrounding the embassy.”
“Was he already dismembered when they threw him over? I mean did they throw him over piece by piece?”
“No, they threw the whole man over the fence,” she told me. “The crowd on the other side dismembered him. Isn’t that bizarre?”
“That’s one word for it,” I said. “Then what happened?”
She got up from the chair and walked to a bookcase. She retrieved a scrapbook. She sat with the book on her lap and thumbed through the pages until she found what she wanted. She removed an embossed newspaper article. “Here, read this. It’s a copy from an old newspaper article written by a young American diplomat who was on the scene in 1915.”
“Why did your family save this paper for so long?”
“Read it first and then I’ll explain.”
I held the article to the light and read the words written nearly ninety years ago. “There was one terrific howl of fury. I could see that something or somebody was on the ground in the center of the crowd, just before the gates, and when a man disentangled himself from the crowd and rushed howling by me, with a severed hand from which the blood was dripping, the thumb which he had stuck in his mouth, I knew the assassination of the President was complete - ” I stopped reading. “Holy shit,” I said. “I don’t believe this.”
“Finish reading,” she insisted.
“Behind him came other men with the feet, the other hand, the head, and the other part of the body displayed on poles, each one followed by a mob of screaming men and women.” I handed the paper back to her. “Lovely,” I said. “And what’s the significance of this particular article to you?”
“The man with the president’s thumb in his mouth was my grandfather,” she said solemnly.
“Get out of here!”
“It’s true,” she said.
“So, your grandfather was the president’s right-hand man,” I said.
To her credit, she smiled a little at my feeble attempt to take the edge off the story. “I prefer to think of him as a political dissident,” she said.
“Are we talking about Queen’s husband?” I asked
“Yes,” she said. “His name was Charles DeValle.”
“Do you take after him?” I asked.
“In some respects, I do.”
I sat on my hands.
“You’re quite safe in that regard,” she said, shaking her head like I was being silly.
“Good,” I said, placing my hands on my lap. “Do you remember your grandfather?”
“Not much,” she said. “Mostly I know what Queen told me. She said my grandfather was filled with hate.”
“What did he hate?”
“He hated the white men who took his ancestor, Tamu Oliwande, from her home in Nigeria and brought her to Hispanola in chains. He hated the white plantation owner, Peter Boyer, who impregnated Tamu when she was fifteen and disavowed the baby boy because the child was too black. He hated his ancestors for allowing 30,000 whites to enslave 500,000 blacks. He hated his mixed blood because he felt like he did not belong in either the white or black world.”
“That’s a lot of hate to carry around,” I said.
“Yes it is,” she agreed. “My grandfather hated President Sam, too. So, when Sam was thrown over the fence my nineteen-year-old grandfather cut off his partially dismembered right hand and stuck the hand in his mouth by the thumb. He stopped deliberately in front of European witnesses and showed them the severed hand. He wanted the world to know that the citizens of Haiti would defend their independence with the same ferocity they used dismembering President Sam.”
“America has never been afraid
of thumb suckers,” I told her proudly.
“Be serious,” she said without enthusiasm. “My grandfather was a brave man.”
“He was brave,” I agreed. “But don’t you think he was a little over the top?”
“Maybe he could have used more self-restraint,” she said.
“Maybe he could have used some heavy-duty Ritalin,” I said. “My grandfather was a very brave man too and fearless.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Another time,” I said. “It’s still your turn.”
“Okay,” she said as if she had a lot more to get off her chest. “A few days after Sam was dismembered, President Wilson sent U.S. Marines into Port-au-Prince to restore order. He said they would only be there temporarily.”
“Were they temporary?
“No,” she said. “They remained in Haiti for twenty years.
“Why am I not surprised?” I said, thinking of America’s current foreign policy.
“Haiti was under the thumb of a foreign power again and this made my grandfather very angry,” Claudette continued.
“Your grandfather had a thing with thumbs, didn’t he?” I interrupted. “And are you trying to tell me he wasn’t angry when he cut off Sam the Man’s Hand?”
“Of course, he was angry then.” She was getting impatient with my attempts at humor. “But now he was angry with the United States.”
“Can I interrupt for a second?”
“Sure.”
“What did he do with the president’s hand?”
“Eddie!” she exclaimed.
“It’s a valid question,” I defended myself.
“You’re morbid.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But what do you do with a severed hand after you’ve sucked the thumb? Do you walk up to a stranger and ask if you can give him a hand?”
“I don’t know what happened to Sam’s hand.” She reached across the short distance between us and lightly slapped my hands. “You’re impossible,” she said.
I grabbed her hands in mine and held them. When I didn’t let them go immediately she looked into my eyes uncertainly. Then she looked down and pulled her hands free. She appeared flustered.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not sure why I was sorry. “Please go on.”
She told me that her grandfather hated foreign rule and resisted U.S. policies every step of the way. “Despite his protests against the puppet governments set up by America, each president elected during the time U.S. troops were in Haiti served a full term. The first president elected after the Americans departed in 1941, however, was overthrown in 1946. Demarsais Estime succeeded the deposed Elie Lescott but he was overthrown in 1950. The next president, Petey Magliore was overthrown in 1956.”
“Not much job security,” I said. “When did Queen come into the picture?”
“Charles and Queen met at a political rally against Eugene Roy shortly after he was elected in 1930. My grandfather would have been about thirty-four at the time. My grandmother was only eighteen.”
“They didn’t like President Roy either?”
“No, they thought Roy was corrupt, too,” she said. “Queen was very political and very beautiful. My grandfather didn’t have a chance. They were married six months after they met and Queen gave birth to a baby girl within a year.”
“Your mother.”
“My mother,” she confirmed. “They named her Bridgette and in 1955 Bridgette married Allistar Clarke, a white diplomat from London.”
“Your father,” I confirmed.
“Yes,” she said. “In 1956 a physician named Francois Duvalier was elected president of Haiti.”
“Papa Doc,” I remembered. “From what I’ve heard he should have been dismembered.”
“You’re right,” Claudette said. “Papa Doc proved to be the most heartless president of all. He recruited a ferocious group of thugs to protect him and named them the Ton Ton Macoutes. To look mysterious and menacing they wore dark sunglasses even at night.”
“Maybe they just wanted to look like Ray Charles,” I tried.
“There was nothing funny about those men,” she said quickly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “From a distance, things don’t look as frightening as they do up close.”
“Did you see much of those guys up close?”
“Too much,” she told me. “I was born in 1960. I looked more white than black and my grandfather wasn’t sure if he liked me or not at first. I became his favorite eventually.” She smiled at the memory. “He was fifty-seven at the time and still a political activist. He voted for Duvalier in 1956 because he believed the soft-spoken doctor would improve health care and the standard of living. By the time everyone realized Papa Doc was the most dangerous man on the island it was too late to do anything but run away. Educated people deserted the island by the thousands in what we called the brain drain. In the end, there was a shortage of doctors and professional people.”
“Why didn’t your grandfather leave?”
“He loved his country and vowed to continue to fight for change,” Claudette said.
“Wasn’t he afraid of the bad men in the dark sunglasses?”
“He wasn’t afraid of anything,” she said, and I thought of Hans Perlmutter again.
“What happened to him?”
“The Ton Ton Macoutes killed him,” she said without emotion. “They shot him in the back of his head. He was set up by some friends who weren’t as brave as he was.”
“Bastards,” was all I could think of to say.
“The Ton Ton Macoutes visited our house the next day,” she went on. “I remember the skinny black man with gold teeth and black sunglasses talking into my father’s face. He told my father that only his diplomatic status was keeping his family alive. He warned my father that our family would be constantly watched by Papa Doc.”
“Why didn’t you leave the country then?”
“My father thought he could change things,” she said. “My mother wanted to stay and try to avenge her father’s murder.” Tears came to her eyes. “Papa Doc died in 1971, eight years after my grandfather was murdered. His stupid son, Jean Claude, who was called Baby Doc took over. He was not as violent as his father but he was not as smart, either. He was fat, dumb, and lazy. Our economy totally collapsed under his leadership.”
“Did more people run away?”
“Yes. Even my father gave up. He ended his diplomatic career in 1980 and made plans to take us to America.”
“Wise choice,” I said.
“Yes, but it was too late,” she told me sadly.
“What happened?”
“My father hired a private plane to take us off the island to Miami,” she said. “Informants told the Ton Ton Macoutes we were leaving the country and Baby Doc decided it was not in his best interests for a knowledgeable diplomat and his family to leave the island. His solution was to kill all of us.”
“Scary guy,” I said.
“Yes, a very scary guy,” she said. “My grandmother and I were out of the house doing last-minute errands and we left my parents and my younger sister, Danielle, at home.”
“Was that the sister who died of drugs?”
“Yes.” Tears appeared in her eyes and I was sorry I asked. “When my grandmother and I returned home that day we found my mother and father dead on the floor by the front door. They had each been shot in the head.”
“You don’t have to tell me this,” I said.
“I want you to know,” she insisted.
“All right, but stop if it’s too upsetting for you.”
She cleared her throat and continued. “We heard my sister Danielle scream from the master bedroom.” Claudette closed her eyes. “Queen picked up a large carving knife from the kitchen table and handed it to me. From a closet, she took the machete my grandfather had used to cut off the right hand of the president in 1915. We moved quietly to the partially open bedroom d
oor. We could see into the room. Two black men stood by the bed laughing while on the bed a third man was raping my sister.”
“Are you sure you want to talk about this?”
She didn’t acknowledge me at all and her eyes remained closed as if she was in a trance. “My grandmother pointed at the two men and then herself. Next, she pointed at me and to the man raping Danielle. I understood. My grandmother moved quickly toward the first man and swung the machete at his neck. His head fell to the floor.” Claudette squeezed her eyes tighter. I saw sweat on her face. She was reliving the moment.
“The second man turned in time to witness his own murder. He ducked but the machete cut off the top part of his head. The man raping my sister turned to see what was happening and I was there to stab him in the face, below his eye. I pulled out the blade and stabbed him in the top of his head.” Her voice cracked. She sobbed. “There was blood everywhere.”
“Claudette.” I leaned forward and put my hands on her shoulders. Her eyes snapped open. “That’s enough.”
“We burned down the house, Eddie, with my parents and those horrible men inside.”
I eased her from the chair and held her in my arms. She cried against my chest.
“We took the plane to America,” she whispered. “But part of each of us died in Haiti.”
“I understand.” I stroked her hair. “You don’t have to talk anymore.”
Claudette put her arms around my waist and nuzzled against my chest. I heard her sniffle a few times. We didn’t move. We just held each other.
“So, do you still think your grandfather was like mine?” she asked.
“Yes, definitely,” I said. “They were both very brave men.”
“Did your grandfather dismember a president?”
“No, but he did kill a bear with a knife when he was only fifteen years old.”
“Sounds like he was fearless,” she said.
“Like your grandfather,” I said.
“And like you.” She looked up at me.
“Why would you say that?”
“I watched you fighting those terrible young men,” she said. “You were like a wild animal.”
“I lose control sometimes,” I said.
“You’re not afraid of anything, are you, Eddie?”
Boca Knights Page 18
