Paradise Interrupted

by Penny Mickelbury

  “S’il vous plait, Madame.” She looked up to see Eliane with a tray containing salad, the conch fritters that Jackie had seemed to enjoy so much earlier that day, and a basket of bread. She put the food on the table, poured the wine, and left Carole Ann to begin her meal. She recalled that not very long ago she’d have been sadly unhappy at the prospect of dining alone in a restaurant such as this, and she congratulated herself for having healed so many of the raw places. She could now think of Al and their life together without regretting his death. Of course she’d always miss him and she’d always love him. But she’d stopped insisting that she’d never marry again, and she’d even permitted intimacy to flower with Warren Forchette, a lawyer who lived in New Orleans. Warren, she thought, would love it here...

  She shook off that thought. Not the time or the place for romantic meanderings. She should be thinking of a way to ask the LeRoi sisters how they felt about the Collette government. She wanted to know if they believed that a true democracy was in the making here, or if Philippe Collette was merely a despot in a savior’s clothing. Or perhaps that wasn’t the question to ask of women whose brother had been called a dictator? Above all, she wanted help understanding the social construction of the island. Surely Odile and Viviene were wealthy given the popularity of Aux Fruits de Mer, and their family had deep roots here; yet, they were not the landed gentry, so where did they fit on the social ladder? Where did they fit in the Collette government?

  “You are thinking too much for the enjoyment of good food, Madame.”

  “Nothing interferes with my enjoyment of good food, Madame,” Carole Ann responded, looking up in surprise at the tall, almost gaunt figure standing next to her.

  “I am relieved to hear it. I am Viviene LeRoi. You are welcome here.”

  Carole Ann stood and extended her hand and marveled at the difference between the two sisters. While Eliane and Helene’ looked enough alike to be mistaken for each other, Viviene and Odile could not have been more different. Viviene’s visage was not unpleasant; indeed, upon close inspection, the lines around the eyes and mouth suggested laughter rather than sourness, and her speaking voice was low and melodious. But this definitely was a no-nonsense woman where one definitely got the impression that the shorter, rounder Odile would tolerate quite a bit of nonsense. I appreciate the warm welcome, Madame LeRoi, and I promise that my appetite will demonstrate how appreciative.”

  She was rewarded with a gentle smile and an invitation to return “whenever your appetite or your curiosity bring you to us.”

  She left Carole Ann to finish her appetizer and to realize that her appetite indeed was just getting primed. The wine was crisp and properly chilled, and she was, surprisingly, totally relaxed. “Laid back and mellow,” Jake would have described how she was feeling. But it was short-lived. She snapped to attention as Denis St. Almain made his way through the dining room to the bar. He was more tanned that before, and dressed in island chic: Silk shirt over silk slacks and French loafers. He slid on to a stool next to what C.A. would later describe to Jake as a smooth-looking character; too smooth by half. The kind of man that negative stereotyping would instantly label a drug dealer, at best— talk, dark, handsome even in profile, well-dressed in silk and linen expensive even from across the room.

  “You know him, perhaps?” Odile had returned and was settling herself in a chair, turning it to give her a full view of the room. “It is possible,” she said in answer to her own question with an off-handed shrug. “You are from Washington, D.C., and Denis lives in Washington. He has since he was a little boy. You know him,” she said again, and it was not a question this time.

  Carole Ann contemplated the possible answers and settled on a version of the truth. “No, I don’t know him, but I know his mother.”

  Odile’s eyebrows rose, as did her voice. “You know Simone? But I am surprised, Simone keeps so much to herself. How do you come to know her?” The question was asked in such a way that failure to answer, and answer fully, would, Carole Ann knew, terminate whatever relationship she was building with Odile Laurance.

  “A friend of hers hired me to prove that Denis isn’t a murderer.”

  Odile had leaned in close when Carole Ann dropped her voice, all but placing her ear to C.A.’s mouth to hear the words clearly. She sat back a bit now. “Who is this friend?”

  Rather than show her surprise at the question, Carole Ann answered it. “Her name is Hazel Copeland and she is Simone’s supervisor at the hotel where they both work. They have known each other for a long time.” She wanted to ask how Odile knew of the trouble Denis was in, for she must have known for her concern to have been the identity of Simone’s friend...unless trouble for Denis was so commonplace as not to warrant surprise or concern.

  Odile sat all the way back in her chair, her face closed and expressionless, her body still. She didn’t move when Eliane brought Carole Ann’s dinner— lobster, shrimp and crab sautéed in butter and herbs, along with asparagus and some other greens that she couldn’t identify. Odile would speak when she decided whether or not to trust her, Carole Ann reasoned; and in the meantime, she thought, she would be just as well served eating what obviously was a magnificent dinner.

  But Odile didn’t need a long time to compose her thoughts, and her words, when she spoke, were sharp and direct. “Does Philippe Collette know of this arrangement?”

  The question came as Carole Ann was chewing, and took her completely by surprise. She shook her head in the negative.

  “He must never, ever find out.” Odile’s face still was an impassive mask, but her voice quivered with emotion. “He must never find out, and you must tell no one else what you have told me.” She’d leaned in close, resting her plump, chocolate arms on the table. Then she smiled broadly, completely throwing Carole Ann off balance until she realized that the smile was a ruse, a tactic to convey to the diners who certainly were observing the interaction between the two women that their conversation remained light-hearted. Carole Ann raised her napkin to her lips and when she lowered it a smile was there.

  “Where can we talk, Odile, privately?”

  Odile stood and smoothed her skirt of geometric designs in brushed silk. She poured more wine into Carole Ann’s glass, then patted her gently on the shoulder. She leaned in close again. “We cannot. What you are doing is extremely dangerous and quite impossible. You cannot assist Denis while serving Philippe. It is quite impossible and places you in great danger. I am surprised that Simone would permit you to place yourself in such a position. But then, Simone has never listened to reason and has only done that which pleased her, not matter how badly others might have been affected.” Odile stepped away from the table, already in conversation with another diner. But she turned back to Carole Ann. “I will happily deliver lunch or dinner to you, Madame, at any time. You need only to call and request it.” And she was gone, blended into the room like a thread within a fabric. But she left something behind— not fear, exactly, and not anger— but it was a bitter, harsh taste on Carole Ann’s palate.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carole Ann’s meetings had gone exactly as she’d imagined they would: Paul Francois was brusque but business-like, and obviously qualified to do the job. The shack was up, the blueprints were hung, the crew was hard at work, and already there was evidence of the road that was to be. He shared her concern that, without the backhoe and the second bull- dozer, the road most likely would not be completed in time for cement trucks to get into the interior and lay the concrete foundation before the start of the rainy season. He would, he promised, work the crew as efficiently as he knew how, while reminding her that men should not be expected to do the work of machines.

  The minister of the interior was politely ineffective, as she’d known he would be, based on the background checks she had requested on all of the islands ministers and other top officials. His name was Roland Charles and he was a native of Martinique and a graduate the University of the Virgin Islands and the Georgia Institute of
Technology, where he’d studied engineering. He’d spent twenty-five years as a mid-level project manager with the Georgia transportation department, overseeing road construction in small towns throughout the state. But Roland apparently was quite thrifty, managing to save practically every dollar he’d ever earned in Georgia and retiring with a healthy six-figure bank account and a pension that was wealth by island standards. He built his dream retirement home in a mango grove on Isle de Paix southern end because it was cheaper than building in his native Martinique. And, Roland Charles told her with a tight smile and a slight bow, he was happy to help out President Collette in whatever way he could. Well, at least she knew now why the president himself met her at a construction site early in the morning in stead of the interior minister.

  He did offer one useful piece of information, however: There existed, in a warehouse in Little Haiti, an old backhoe that Roland believed to be operable. However, since he had left the warehouse key at home, she took specific directions from him and arranged to meet him there “before the cocktail hour” because, he said, his wife was expecting him home “on time.”

  She drove back out to the construction site, sorely missing cell phones and pagers, and asked Paul Francois to join her later at the warehouse, hoping, she told him, that he could tell what repairs the machine would need and, further, hoping that he could make them. She didn’t tell him that she harbored no confidence that Roland Charles could add a quart of oil to his car. He contorted his face in mock surprise and marveled at the fact that she couldn’t fix the thing herself. She replied, with equal exaggeration, that how to repair a backhoe was the one thing that she didn’t know how to do. Then she really shut him up by climbing out of the Jeep, stretching, and running four miles in little more than half an hour. He was still eyeing her in amazement when they met at the warehouse three hours later. But Carole Ann’s amazement was for Little Haiti in general, and the warehouse in particular.

  Some four hundred ex-patriot Haitians lived in the tiny community up a rutted ravine off the South Coast Road, around the bend from Aux Fruits de Mer— a vibrant, active community of thatched, tin-roofed residential and commercial structures carved out of a tangle of dense vegetation. The warehouse, constructed of concrete block with a barn-like roof, was surprisingly well-maintained and, even more surprisingly, dry—the broken-down equipment and tools within had been spared the insidious damage caused by salt air. Carole Ann wondered whether credit was owed to Henri LeRoi, but she cut short her mental congratulations as she strolled around the cavernous space. In addition to the backhoe, two dump trucks, a pick-up truck, a police cruiser, and a school bus collected dust, along with an a large assortment of farm tools and equipment.

  “Are any of these vehicles functional?” Carole Ann asked the interior minister, who looked at her in astonishment, his face asking the question that his mouth hadn’t: How should I know?

  “Well, Madame Boss,” crooned Paul Francois, “when you find out, will you kindly inform me? Those trucks—”

  “I know, I know, I know!” She raised a hand to stop whatever he was going to say about the trucks and asked Roland Charles how many big engine mechanics were employed by the government, and immediately regretted having spoken. She turned back to the rangy construction foreman who was clambering about the backhoe like a kid on a playground, and she found herself releasing breath she hadn’t known she was holding when, after his inspection, he pronounced the thing, “fixable...if there are any tools...”

  Both she and Francois were half-way through their second beers before Carole Ann trusted herself to speak, and then she had to be very careful in her choice of words. “I will do whatever I need to do, and do it as quickly as possible, to see to it that those vehicles are made operable.” He had determined that all three trucks and the police car had engines, though no keys were found for any of them, and the school bus belly was empty. Roland Charles had backed away from them as if he’d never in his life touched a dirty truck. Maybe, she thought, being charitable, twenty-five years of climbing in an out of dirty trucks was enough for one man in one life time. Maybe, she thought, turning vindictive, she’d make his life a living hell if he didn’t get that equipment up and running.

  Paul Francois had introduced her to a cafe-cum-bar that most charitably, since she was in that frame of mind, could be described as rustic. It was a mile or so down the coast road from Aux Fruits de Mer, going toward Little Haiti, and far enough inland that the sea was not visible. It was called Armand’s and its patrons clearly were predominately working class— everybody from construction workers like Francois himself to hotel maids and waiters still in the uniforms of their establishments. The music was loud and heavily reggae-influenced, the crowd was lively, the beer was cold, and the appetizers, to Carole Ann’s delight, were dried plantain strips.

  “Do you really think you can find the keys to those trucks?”

  “Somebody knows where the keys are, Paul. You saw how well-maintained that place was— no moisture, no rust. Somebody has been taking care of it, and that somebody knows where the keys are. That somebody may even be a mechanic.” She realized that she was sounding slightly plaintive, and took another swallow of beer to cover.

  “And you think your president knows this mechanic and where to find him?” he asked with cutting disdain, “because the interior minister wouldn’t know the mechanic if he tripped over him. Which would never happen because it might get his shoes dirty.”

  She would not publically share her own disdain for her employers. “If the keys can be found, I’ll find them. In the meantime,” and she tossed him a duplicate key to the warehouse, “as soon as you tell me what you need to get that backhoe cranked up and running, I’ll get it to you. Do you have somebody you can leave in charge at the site while you’re at the warehouse?”

  He nodded and cast his glance across the crowded room. A tall, loose-limbed man with dreadlocks tucked beneath a knit cap was standing before the jukebox, swaying to the music. “Name’s Joseph and he’s good. I’ve worked with him before. But I’m going to need to pull one of the men to help me work on that thing,” he said, referring to the backhoe.

  “Do what you need to do,” she said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing several bills. “Buy the crew a drink,” she said, and stood up. As she made her way through the maze of tables to the front door, she noticed—felt—the combination of inquisitiveness and borderline hostility of the bar patrons. She was an outsider, which could, alone, be sufficient cause for hostility in some places. But she knew these people knew that she worked for the new president, the man who had replaced the man they presumably had put into power. What did they think of Philippe Collette? And if they disliked him or mistrusted him, was their enmity great enough to result in an attack on his life? She stopped in the doorway, turned, surveyed the room and the crowd, and was unnerved to find many staring back at her, no doubt as wondering of her motives as she of their.

  The sun was setting when she walked outside and the promise of velvet darkness hovered at the edge of the sky. She bumped too rapidly down the rutted road, anxious to reach the coast road before full darkness settled, aware of the tingle of panic she felt at the thought of being up a ragged, rutted road in the dark, submerging the memory of the last time she found herself in such a predicament. She slowed as she rounded the bend toward Aux Fruits de Mer, debating whether to stop, deciding instead to eat at home for a change. And as she drove, relishing the beauty of the sunset, she made mental to-do notes: Find out who had been in charge of the island’s maintenance shed and whether he had the key; find out whether the island government employed any mechanics; arrange a meeting with Marie-Ange Collette...no, not a meeting...lunch or drinks or dinner. And ask Jake why they didn’t give more thought and consideration to the social service issues of Isle de Paix.

  “Because we weren’t asked to do that initially and we still haven’t been asked to do that! Goddammit, C.A.! Would you just get the damn road built and get the damn
police department up and running so we can get paid and get the hell outta there?! And for the record, I personally think every able-bodied man and woman resident of Isle de Paix ought to have a job and be paying taxes to the government before any hospital or clinic gets built down there. I think the same thing about up here, for that matter: No free rides, except maybe for old people and children and those who can’t help themselves.”

  She knew better than to rise to that bait, and wished she hadn’t even posed the question; wished she’d just come home and eaten dinner and gotten to work. So, after a lengthy silence during which they listened to each other breathe, she said, “Something’s wrong here, Jake, and before you ask, no, I’ve got nothing to back up the feeling or the hunch or whatever it is.”

  “Wrong with what part?”

  “That hurry-up-let’s-build-a school and clinic business. Nobody with good sense would start to build something nobody wanted, not even an eccentric, old rich man. And no politician with good sense would allow it.”

  “Could you be getting the wrong vibe, C.A.?”

  “Of course I could. But I don’t think I am.”

  “Is Collette double-dealing us somehow, telling us one thing, doing another?” He asked the question quietly and she could imagine that his eyes were closed to ward off the answer he didn’t want to hear.

  “I don’t think so...”

  “Then his wife is.”

  Carole Ann didn’t respond and Jake, surprisingly, didn’t press her, changing the subject instead. He didn’t want to think that any more than she did.

  “Have you seen any more sleaze balls like the one St. Almain was talking to at that bar, or found out who that one is?”