The Unnamed Press
P.O. Box 411272
Los Angeles, CA 90041
Published in North America by The Unnamed Press.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright 2016 © Fabienne Josaphat
ISBN: 978-1-939419-58-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015959965
This book is distributed by Publishers Group West
Designed & typeset by Jaya Nicely
Cover design by Scott Arany
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to [email protected].
My dead sleep in this earth; this soil is tainted red
with the blood of generations of men who carry my name;
I am the direct descendant, twice over, of the very man
who founded this nation.
Therefore, I have decided to stay here,
and possibly, to die here.
—Jacques Stephen Alexis (1922–1961)
author, excerpt from his letter to Haitian
president François Duvalier, June 2, 1960
Contents
PORT-AU-PRINCE 1965
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
NASSAU, BAHAMAS 1972
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PORT-AU-PRINCE 1965
ONE
Raymond counted his money quickly, licking a greasy thumb to peel apart the gourdes. The dingy bills left an invisible layer of dirt on his hands. Some of the numbers on them were indecipherable, edges and corners smudged by time and friction. The paper’s condition aside, there wasn’t enough of it.
“Nineteen…twenty”
He laughed ruefully. To be sure, twenty gourdes was not enough. But we have to make it work, he told himself, despite everything. His fingers rubbed against the portrait of François Duvalier. Even on faded paper, the president’s eyes were accusing, spying on him through thick-rimmed glasses, as unrelenting as the man’s lifetime term. Raymond shuffled the cash into a miserably thin stack, stuffed it in his back pocket, and turned up the radio. With no idea how long his passenger would be at the brothel, Raymond figured his favorite station, Radio Lakay, would have to keep him company. The cheerful DJ was just finishing the weather forecast. “Here’s to a sunny weekend ahead, and don’t forget, my good friends, curfew starts at eight p.m. sharp once again, that’s right! Staying in effect until further notice.”
Music burst from Raymond’s scratchy old speakers. Konpa. Its rhythms were intended to carry away problems. Too bad they always come back, Raymond thought. His eyes swiveled up to the coral-pink building, its yellow shutters and doors open wide to the street. A hand-painted sign in a florid cursive read: “Chez Madame Fils.” For just a moment, he let his gaze linger on the pretty women who clung to the balcony, blowing kisses and waving at the men who passed by. They were without doubt the most beautiful hookers in the country, he thought. Used to be, they’d bide their time, only coming out at night when the action picked up, catching the sex tourists’ horny eyes with bright floral dresses, but then the sex tourists stopped coming. Now the bored women hung around all day, entertaining one another by shouting insults at the scandalized mothers rushing past. Still, Chez Madame Fils Snack Bar and Disco continued to do a brisk lunch business, and at night, the music got turned up, the rum began to flow, and locals steadily trickled in. Raymond sometimes picked up a sandwich from the snack bar, but he stayed clear of the women. Come on, man, he thought, anxious to drive his passenger home and pocket a few more gourdes before curfew.
He adjusted his visor and gazed at the photo tucked into the flap: a small boy with a melon-shaped head Raymond lovingly stroked and a little girl with red ribbons in every tiny braid. Both were flashing giant smiles next to their mother, Yvonne, whose face blossomed like a black hibiscus under a scarf. Enos was the spitting image of his father, his skin always glistening in the blaze of summer. Adeline favored her mother, with bony brown cheekbones and a spear for a tongue. Raymond smiled. Just this morning, as he dropped them at school, she’d tried again to convince him he didn’t need to take the time off work to pick them up. “We can walk home,” she assured him, squeezing her little brother’s hand.
They could. He knew that. But he wanted to give this to his children: the gift of transportation, something he’d never had himself. Raymond had walked several miles to school in bad shoes, on harsh country roads of gravel and stone. Whenever he reminisced about his country days Yvonne, would smile at the children. “See how much your father does for you?” But it was true. Now that he had a life and a family in the city, he wanted to afford his offspring the luxury of a car. Even if “luxury” was this old beat-up Datsun taxi, a red ribbon tied to the rearview mirror to signal that he was still on duty.
He smoothed a dog-ear from the photograph with a blackened fingernail and sighed.
“Pitit se richès malere!”
Raymond jumped and turned to peer out the window. Faton had snuck up to the car door, a gap-toothed grin on his boyish face.
“It’s true what they say.” Faton nodded, pointing at the photograph. “Children are the wealth of the poor.”
Raymond turned the music down, surprised that he’d been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the stench of leather and dye that signaled Faton’s approach. Ever since Faton quit driving taxis—a trade he’d learned from Raymond—and started a job at the tannery, he carried the odor of decomposed cowhide wherever he went. Raymond covered his mouth and nose in exaggerated disgust.
“Quit busting my balls. You know it’s just the lime they use in the plant,” Faton said, flashing another gap-toothed smile. “No big deal.”
“That’s what you think,” Raymond complained behind his fingers.
“Hey, we all need to make a living. This”—he