Haiti Noir

A rather unexpected apparition in this isolated spot. No one in the street, not the least glimmer in the windows of the other houses. The policeman inside me was already asking himself questions. From the moment I’d arrived in Gokal I’d been feeling vaguely uneasy. But I wasn’t going to worry myself with suspicions when I saw the place where I was going to live. I was lucky to come upon this kind of establishment in this dismal town in the northwest, the most unprepossessing corner of the island. Plus, it was all lit up and apparently comfortable. I’d see about the rest tomorrow. My stiff muscles were begging me to find them a decent bed.

I left my things in the car, put my weapon around my waist, straightened the kepi on my head, and headed in. I would go back and get my bag after checking in.

The main entry door opened onto a big hall that served as a lobby and cafeteria. A shiver went across my scalp as soon as I stepped inside-the cool temperature contrasted so violently with the stifling heat outdoors. An oldies tune was coming from a radio that I couldn’t locate. I looked around the place. In the back, to the left, there was the reception desk, separated from the rest of the room by a curtain of multicolored glass beads swaying under the breeze from the ceiling fan. I walked over to the reception desk. Nobody was there. I could sense some movement in the room behind the desk, which was also lit up. A half dozen small square tables, each surrounded by four chairs, took up the space used for the restaurant. They were covered with red tablecloths and decorated with glass pitchers containing bouquets of plastic flowers. Some of the tables still had scraps of food, dirty dishes, and glasses on them. I thought I could make out the clicking of knives and forks, but that must have come from the kitchen. The service left something to be desired: still nobody around. At the rear of the dining room, a staircase lit by a dark red light led to the floor above.

I shook the bell on the table. A few moments later, a woman came out of the back room. She was wearing a wide white dress that went all the way down to her ankles. A multicolored madras scarf was knotted around her head, hiding the top of her forehead and her ears. Her careful makeup gave her an incongruous appearance: such stylishness within these lonely walls was certainly unexpected. A solid gold Virgin hung from a massive chain around her neck and danced as she breathed. She was beautiful despite her plumpness, which weighed down her features and figure. An artificial smile stretched her lips and I admired a perfect row of teeth. The kind of black beauty who is hardly affected by time. She must have been about fifty.

The smile suddenly vanished from my hostess’s face. “Good evening, sir?”

“Good evening, madame! Umm… I’m looking for a room for the night, perhaps for a few nights… That depends… I was…”

“Ah! You must be the new chief of police for Gokal?”

“Err… Yes, I am. But how do you know that, madame?”

She hesitated a moment, and then answered with a cold smile: “Oh, you know, Gokal is just a small town, no bigger than the palm of one’s hand, and news travels fast. There never were a lot of people here, and they leave, one after the other, every day. Everybody knows everybody else, everybody knows what’s happening or what’s going to happen. And the uniform you’re wearing confirmed what I thought. Policemen don’t wander around this place just for fun.”

She scored a point there. I didn’t press it, and asked her to register me for a week at Paradise Inn. Her only answer was to hand me a key.

“Don’t you need to know my name, my address? Don’t I need to give you a deposit? How much is the room?”

I was dumfounded by my hostess’s reply. She gave a deep sigh and looked me straight in the eye while she said this, all in one breath: “You are Commissaire Vanel, born in Jérémie on September 28, 1968. Appointed to the police as a level two officer August 15, 1990, at the Port-au-Prince Academy. Bachelor. After your first year of service, you won a scholarship to Japan, where you went through twelve months of intensive training in the investigation of drug trafficking and related money laundering. Back in Haiti, you were a detective for eight years in the anti-gang division, and you were then appointed assistant to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. In the capital, you live at 39 rue Bouvier. You know, Commissaire Vanel,” added the woman with no particular emotion, “I have the register of the Paradise Inn in my head. Don’t worry about it. As for the price of the room, you will be perfectly satisfied. Trust me.”