“People here are very attuned to that. What does Harry say?”
“Are you kidding? Harry’s so impulsive, he’d probably kill the young man.”
“So why not just fire him?”
“You know, I’m really afraid of what June would do. . She’s totally capable of going with him. At least this way I have a bit of control. . I still haven’t even talked to her about it. . Sometimes I tell myself that all this fuss about social class is a load of crap. . Why would it be better if she was sleeping with some little idiot who had a name? In any case, I don’t make such distinctions. To me, everyone here is the same. They’re all Haitians. What difference does it make if it’s this one or that one?”
“You know, deep down you’re a racist.”
They both laugh. The waiter brings the bill. A little back-and-forthing over who will pay it. This time, it’s Madame Saint-Pierre who wins. Suddenly the atmosphere becomes cheerful. Which suggests it’s time to leave. There is a lag in the conversation after all the usual subjects are exhausted, all the week’s secrets gone over. When the heaviness of life has been replaced by the lightness of adolescence.
“I think I’ll take up tennis again.”
“I’d really, really like to get a new life. Don’t you ever feel as though there’s another life waiting for you somewhere out there, that you’re not quite in the right house, or the right social class. .?”
“Or the right century. . I’ve always dreamed of living in the Renaissance. . The balls, the brilliant conversation, the arts, the great patrons, Venice. .”
“You know, I used to know a girl at university. Couldn’t have been more of a wasp if she tried. Very Manhattan. She came down here before I did. We wrote to each other. When Harry was posted here I wrote to her right away, and she was the one who urged me to come. I’ve been trying to see her ever since I got here. I was told she didn’t stay in Port-au-Prince for long, she went up to Artibonite, it’s a province. . of rice paddies.”
“I know. My husband was an agronomist.”
“That’s where she met a peasant farmer, and ever since then she’s lived in this village with her husband and son. . growing rice. Can you imagine? This was a girl who spent all her time in museums, went to the theatre, to concerts, all that. I’m truly impressed by people like that, who can make such huge changes in their lives. A hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround. Can you imagine doing something like that?”
“It’s true there’s something about this country. . Maybe it’s the voodoo, I don’t know. Anything can happen. You get the feeling you’re walking among gods.”
“Don’t turn around just yet, Françoise.”
“What?”
“There’s a thin young man who’s been watching you for several minutes.”
Françoise freezes.
“Where is he?”
“Near the door.”
She looks, then turns back.
“It’s him,” she whispers.
“I thought it might be.”
Françoise squeezes her napkin in her fist to stop her hands from trembling.
“You’re shaking, Françoise! Good Lord! And with all these people here! This is not a good day for such antics. . You go to the washroom, I’ll go ask him to leave.”
A sharp cry: “No, are you crazy or what?”
Heads turn. She immediately lowers her voice.
“I’m sorry, Christina. . I’m the one who’s crazy.”
“So I see. . Let’s think about this calmly. .”
“I’m going.”
“No, wait. . I’ll come with you. . In your state I’d be surprised if you could make it across the room. .”
Traffic
THE HIBISCUS HAS been practically empty for the past two hours. There’s no one in it except Albert and two young, uniformed waitresses. The tourists have all left. Ellen is the last to leave the hotel (her face set, wearing sunglasses and a small black dress). Albert drives her to the airport. They maintain a weighty silence during the drive, which Ellen breaks only when she has passed through immigration. She is curious about a remark the inspector made to her.
“He said, ‘A tourist never dies.’”
Long silence.
“What did he mean by that, Albert?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, madame.”
“For once, will you call me Ellen? Please?”
After a pause, Albert at last looks at the tortured mouth that has been speaking to him.
“Be seeing you, Ellen.”
“Goodbye, Albert.”
He observes the stiffness in her neck. She doesn’t like where she’s going, he can see that. In a sense, it’s her past that awaits her.
SAM AND MAULéON have been in a secret meeting all morning. Sam is a vulture, only seen when something has already died. Without wanting to make too much of it, Mauléon knows that in this case, what has died is the dream that kept him from caving in when he lived in New York. Today, his dream is a putrid corpse. Which is why he’s had Sam in his hair for the past two days. And today the man’s made an unacceptable offer. Mauléon tries to stave him off, but Sam has him by the throat. There’s no way out. If he turns the offer down, he could lose everything and go to jail (the only option left to him). He feels his brain being constantly bombarded by a stabbing pain. Then, suddenly, the pain lifts. It’s as though he’s stumbled into the eye of the storm. A heavenly peace settles on him. He hears divine music. And for half a minute his strength comes back in full force; he sees that there is still a way he can hang on to the Hibiscus. Which, of course, in reality, is pure fantasy.
“You’ll see, Mauléon. It’ll take a while, but I’ll get this place up and running again. I told you the hotel business was volatile. You can’t blame yourself, you made a superhuman effort. . I’ll have to change the name of the place, as you know. I’ve been thinking of an English name, the Yellowbird. It’s the title of a great little folk song Harry Belafonte made famous a few years back. What do you think? I can’t keep your staff, either. I’ve already got too many people working at the Marabout. On the other hand, I need a reliable man around here. And the only one who fits that description is you. I’ll be spending most of my time at the Marabout’s casino for the next few months, and I’ve got this little nightclub in Delmas that’s sucking me dry right now. You’ll be my right arm here. I know you, Mauléon, and I’m convinced you’re a man of your word. What do you say?”
“Thank you, Sam,” Mauléon says, with a knot in his throat, “but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. .”
“Surely you’re not going back to New York?”
“I don’t know. . I’m not sure of anything anymore. .”
“Don’t lose faith, Mauléon. . You’re like a rock to me. . Take my offer. . We’ll come to terms and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Hearing him, Mauléon smiles to himself. He knows the old shark will never add so much as a dollar to his offer.
“Well, you know, Sam,” he says, “one owner should never work for another owner. . That’s what the judge told me. .”
“What judge?”
“Judge Mauléus. My father.”
“Ach, Mauléon, your father’s days are long gone. . It’s not like that anymore. The country’s changed. A man’s got to survive. And he can’t if he doesn’t have a job. There’s nothing wrong with working for me. You’ve worked for enough people in New York.”
“Sam, you know, this land has been in our family since Independence. General Pétion conferred the development rights to it on one of my ancestors. And here I am, selling it. But there is one thing I’ll never do, and that’s work on this land as an employee. I will not be a subordinate on Mauléus soil.”