Mr. Clarinet

Max introduced himself and shook her hand. She had a firm grip that went with her direct, almost challenging stare. Had she smiled more, she might have been an attractive, even beautiful woman, but her face was hard and unyielding, the sort of mien you develop after seeing too much of the downside of life.

They were in a small courtyard, standing a few feet away from a modest, orange-and-white bungalow with a sloping tin roof, half hidden by untended bushes. A thick palm tree grew tall behind it, draping the structure in a blanket of yellow-dappled shade, while off to the right stood a swing, its chains rusted solid. Max guessed Claudette had been an only child.

Then his eyes fell on two bright green dog bowls set out near the swing, one holding food, the other water. He looked back, toward the wall, and found a big, house-shaped kennel.

"Don't worry about him. He won't bite," Mathilde said, noticing Max staring at the kennel.

"That's what they all say."

"He's dead," Mathilde answered quickly.

"I'm sorry," Max offered, but he wasn't.

"The food and water's for his spirit. You know how this country runs on superstition? We feed the dead better than we feed ourselves here. The dead rule this land."

* * *

Inside, the house was small and cluttered, the furniture too big for the available space.

The walls were covered in photographs. Claudette was in every one—bright-eyed, open-mouthed baby pictures framed and hung on walls, pictures of her in her school uniform, snaps of her with her parents, grandparents, and relatives, all of their faces orbiting hers like planets in a solar system. She was a happy child, smiling or mugging in every picture, the center of attention in group shots—physically and photogenically, the eye of the camera drawn to her. There was a photo of her standing outside the Miami church with her uncle Alexandre, which looked like it might have been taken after a service, because he was in his robes and there were smartly dressed people in the background. There was another of her standing next to a black Doberman. At least a dozen showed the girl with her father, whom she seemed to favor in both looks and with the lion's share of her affections, because she didn't smile so broadly or laugh at all in the few snaps of her and her mother.

The couples sat on opposite sides of a dining table. Caspar had given his guests a nod and a quick grip of the hand when they'd walked in, but he hadn't so much as said a welcoming word.

He didn't take after his brother. He was short and stocky, thick arms, bulky shoulders, neckbreaker hands lashed with veins, flat, wide fingers. His manner was gruffness skirting rudeness. His hair, thinning on top and cut low, was more salt than pepper. His face—far more forbidding than his wife's, starting to droop at the jowls and pool under the eyes—coupled with the way he was grinding his teeth, gave him a passing resemblance to a pissed-off mastiff. Max placed him in his midforties. He wore the same clothes as his wife, who sat next to him, drinking a glass of juice.

"You Bulls fans?" Max asked them both but looked at Caspar, hoping to break the ice.

Silence. Mathilde prodded her husband with her elbow.

"Lived in Chicago sometime," he answered, not making eye contact.

"How long ago?"

No answer.

"Seven years. We came back when Baby Doc was overthrown," Mathilde said.

"Should've stayed put," her husband added. "Come back here, want to do some good, bad's all that happens to us."

He said a little more but Max didn't catch it. He had a gravelly voice that buried more than it carried.

Mathilde looked at Max and rolled her eyes, as if to say he was always like that. Max guessed then that Claudette's disappearance had hit him the hardest.

He found a picture of father and daughter, both laughing. Caspar looked younger there, his hair darker and fuller. The picture wasn't that old, because Claudette looked as she did in the shot her uncle had given him.

"What else happened to you?"

"Apart from our daughter?" Caspar asked bitterly, finally looking Max straight in the face, his eyes small and bloodshot, silver points mired in sad, angry crimson. "What hasn't? This place is cursed. Simple as that. Ever notice how nothin' grows here? No plants, no trees?"

"It hasn't been good for us here," Mathilde quickly picked up. "Caspar used to be a fireman in Chicago, then he had an accident and got an insurance payout. We'd been talking about giving it up in the States and coming back here, so when we got a chance we thought let's go for it."

"Why did you leave Haiti?"