Mr. Clarinet

The business division was tile-carpeted, air-conditioned, and reeked faintly of plasticine. The corridors were lined with framed black-and-white, dated photographs of all the major constructions and projects the bank had financed, from a church to a supermarket. Codada led them past various offices, where three or four smartly dressed men and women sat behind desks furnished with computers and phones, but none of them were actually doing anything. In fact, nothing seemed to be happening on the entire floor. Many of the computer screens were blank, no phones were ringing, and some people weren't even bothering to disguise their inactivity. They were sitting on desks and gossiping, reading papers, or talking. Max looked at Chantale for an explanation but she offered none. Codada's tones cut straight through the silence. Many looked up and followed the guided tour, some laughing out loud at some of the things he said, but whatever it was was either lost in translation or left out altogether.

Max was beginning to understand Gustav's mentality, his attitude toward people. There was something to hate about it, but then again there was much more to admire.

It was slightly livelier on the next floor—mortgages and personal loans. The setup of the area was the same, but Max heard a few telephones ringing and saw that some computers were on and being worked at. Codada explained through Chantale that Haitians tended to build their homes from scratch rather than buy them from previous owners, so they often needed assistance to buy the land, hire an architect and a construction crew.

The Carvers had their offices on the upper floor. Codada used the elevator's walls to straighten himself up and pat down his hair. Chantale caught Max's eye and smiled at him with a what-a-jerk-this-guy-is look. Max patted down his bald head.

The elevator doors opened onto a reception area manned by a woman sitting behind a tall mahogany desk, and a waiting area of low black-leather couches, a coffee table, and a water cooler. Two Uzitoting security guards in bulletproof vests hovered about at opposite ends of the area. Codada led them out of the elevator to a set of heavy double doors on the left. He typed in an access code on a keypad in the frame. A camera eyed them from the right. The doors opened onto a corridor that led to another set of double doors at the end.

They walked down to Gustav Carver's office. Codada spoke their names through an intercom and they were buzzed in.

Gustav's secretary, an imposing Creole woman in her late forties, greeted Codada with next to no warmth and almost as much in the way of a greeting.

Codada introduced Max to her but not the other way around, so Max never caught her name. She didn't have it on her desk either. She shook Max's hand with a curt nod.

Codada asked her something and she said "Non." He thanked her and led Max and Chantale out of the office and back down the corridor.

"He asked if we could see Gustav Carver's offices, but Jeanne said no," Chantale whispered.

"What about Allain?"

"He's VP. His office is on the first floor. We passed it."

Codada took them back downstairs to the ground floor. Max handed him two hundred bucks to change for him into Haitian currency. Codada glided off toward the tills, glad-handing and air-kissing a few more customers on his way there.

He came back a few fast minutes later, holding a small brown brick's worth of gourdes between his thumb and index finger. The currency had been so hopelessly devalued by the invasion and Haiti's parlous economic state that a dollar was worth anything between fifty and a hundred gourdes, depending on which bank you went to. The Banque Populaire had the most generous exchange rate in Haiti.

Max took the pile of money from Codada and flicked through it. The notes were damp and greasy and—despite their blue, green, purple, and red colors—all were varying shades of gray-brown. The smaller the denomination, the smallest being five gourdes, the more obscured the value and design by dirt and grime, while the notes of the highest denomination, five hundred gourdes, were only mildly smudged, the bills' details completely discernible. The money reeked strongly of unwashed feet.

Codada walked them through the revolving doors and they said their good-byes. As they were speaking, the men with the cases—now empty—came out through the doors. Codada broke off his farewell to greet them, embracing one of the men warmly.

Max and Chantale walked back to the car.

"So what do you think?" Chantale asked.

"Gustav's a generous man," Max said.

"How so?"

"He's keeping a lot of people on the payroll with nothing to do," he said. He wanted to throw Codada into the mix too, but he didn't. It was never good to judge based on appearances and instinct alone, even if they'd yet to let him down.

"Gustav understands the Haitian mentality: do something for someone today and you've got a friend for life," Chantale said.

"I guess that cuts both ways."