Mr. Clarinet

Max didn't know what the fuck he meant. He got up, pulled his leg out of the crater, and turned around, uphill, pissed off as hell, his chest now stinging with pain. The rum's spell was broken and all the nightmares had come rushing back. Half his trouser leg was soaked in a cocktail of piss, dead oil, and matured sewage.

"Fuck off!" he shouted.

But he couldn't see the boy. The boy was gone. In his place, in front of Max, stood about a dozen street urchins, all no taller than ten-year-olds. He picked out the edges of their heads and their teeth, those who had them or were baring them, and the whites of their eyes. He could smell them—stale woodsmoke, boiled vegetables, earth, moonshine, sweat, decay. He could feel them peering at him through the darkness.

There were no lights on this stretch of road, no inbound or outbound cars. The bar lights were now pinpoints in the distance. How far down had he come? He stared quickly to the street on his left. Two rows of boys were standing across it, blocking his way. He wasn't even sure it was the street he wanted. He had to retrace his steps, maybe go back to the bar, start again. Ask for directions this time.

He started forward but stopped. He'd lost his shoe in the crater. He looked down at the road, but he couldn't find the hole he'd gone down. He touched the ground with the ball of his foot but felt solid asphalt.

The drumming had suddenly stopped, as if the players had seen what was happening and come over to look. Max felt like he'd gone deaf.

He took off his other shoe, slipped it in his jacket pocket, and started to walk up the hill. He stopped again. There were more kids than he thought. They were stretched out all the way across the road. He was standing right in front of them, close enough to inhale nothing but their gutter-fresh stench. He was going to say something but he heard small whisperings behind him, words evaporating in the air like raindrops on a hot tin roof.

When he turned around, there was another cordon of boys, roping off the way down. He noticed shapes now moving up from Pétionville town center. More children, heading his way. They were carrying things—sticks, it seemed, big sticks, clubs.

They were coming for him. They were coming to kill him.

He heard a rock fall off a pile to his left and roll down into the street. The whispering around him increased to tones of rebuke, all coming now from the same direction. He followed the sound and traced it to the doorway of an empty building. He looked closer, pushed into the darkness for the lightest tones, and he saw that they were passing out rocks, to each other down the line. Half of them already had one in their hands, held down by their sides. When everyone was armed, he supposed, they'd rain them down on him. Then the others would beat the life out of him with their clubs.

His mouth went dry. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think. He couldn't sober up.

The rum came rushing back to him. His body suddenly felt good, his throbbing chin dulled, his head was light again. He was brave and invincible.

It didn't seem so bad. He'd been through worse than this. He could push his way through. Why not give it a try? What the hell?

He took a couple of steps back and squared his shoulders for the bulldozer run. He could hear them behind him. He didn't look. Could they see what he was doing? Probably. These kids lived in the dark. Had they second-guessed him?

When he charged, he'd knock three or four of them down. They'd pelt him with rocks, but if he kept his head covered and ran like a motherfucker, he'd escape the worst of the barrage.

Uphill, drunk, not so young anymore. Where was he going?

They'd chase him and he wouldn't know where to turn. He'd worry about that later.

And how many were there?

A hundred. Easily. He was dead.

The rum rush deserted him. Optimism split on him too.

The drum started again—just the one, the same deep slow beat he'd heard in the courtyard earlier in the evening. This time it sounded like bombs dropping on a distant town or a battering ram striking a city's gates. The beat didn't go into his heart but right behind his ears, every note a grenade exploding in his skull, sending shock waves down his spine, making him wince and shudder.

Think again, he told himself. One more try. If that fails, run.

"You want money?" he pleaded, despite himself. No response. The rocks were passed on in silence, the kill hands filling up, the circle almost closed. It seemed hopeless.

Then he remembered his gun. He was armed, full-clip.

Suddenly a motorbike roared into life at the top of the hill, the engine shocking the night like a chain saw in a chapel. It was the kid in the white suit.

He came down the hill, the bike slowing to a growl and then a purr as it came up to the circle around Max.

The kid put his bike down and came over to Max.

"Sa wap feh lŕ, blan?" he spoke in a deep, ragged voice that belonged to someone five times his age.

"I don't understand," Max slurred. "You speak English?"