Mr. Clarinet

"Not of the town, but that doesn't mean anything. Someone sets up a home on a piece of land here, gives it a name, it becomes a village."

Max looked at Désyr.

"You told the others about this place, didn't you? The other blanks who came here?"

Désyr shook his head.

"Non monsieur." Then he chuckled. "I couldn't. They failed the taffia test."

"They pass out?"

"No. They refused to drink my drink. So I told them nothing."

"So, how come they went to So—to the waterfalls?"

"I don't know. I didn't tell them. Maybe somebody else did. I wasn't Eddie's only friend. Were they looking for Leballec?"

"I don't know."

"Then maybe they went there for another reason."

"Maybe," Max said.

Another moth flew into the bulb and dropped to the floor. Very soon after, Max heard another go the same way, and then, almost simultaneously, two moths smacked into the light and made it shudder and shake.

Désyr clapped a friendly paw on his shoulder.

"I like you, blanc, so I'll tell you this: if you go to Saut d'Eau, make sure you leave before midnight passes. White magic—good magic—honest magic is done before midnight," he said, addressing Chantale directly. "Black magic is done after midnight. Don't forget it."

"Why are you helping me?" Max asked.

"Why not?" Désyr laughed.

Chapter 32

CHANTALE DROVE MAX to a café where she ordered a pot of strong coffee and a bottle of water. Over the next hour, he got himself sobered up and cleared the taffia from his head.

"You always so reckless? It could have been battery acid for all you knew."

"I'm the try-most-things-once kinda guy," Max said. "Anyway, why would he have wanted to poison me?"

"Bedouin Désyr? I wouldn't put anything past him. They used to call him 'Bisou-Bisou.' It literally means 'Bedouin Le Baiseur.' Bedouin The Stud. Only it wasn't meant the way you'd think. Back when he was a Macoute, Bedouin Désyr was a serial rapist. His thing was raping wives in front of their husbands, mothers in front of their children, daughters in front of their fathers—the age didn't matter."

"How come he's still alive? And out in the open like that?"

"Myths are stronger than death, Max. A lot of people are still terrified of the Macoutes," Chantale explained. "Very few of them were ever brought to trial for all the things they did. Even then they went to prison for a week and got let out. Some got killed by the mobs. But most of them just disappeared, went to another part of the country, went abroad, went to the Dominican Republic. The cleverer ones joined the army or hooked up with Aristide."

"Aristide?" Max said. "I thought he was supposed to be against all that."

It was now nighttime. They were the only ones in the café. The overhead fan was on and the radio was playing compas, loud enough to distract from the sounds spilling in from the street outside and the creaking blades beating at the dead hot air inside. Right in between the music and the sidewalk hubbub, Max heard the familiar exploratory rhythms of the drums starting up in the mountains.

"That's how he started out," Chantale said. "I believed in him. A lot of people did. Not just the poor."

"Don't tell me." Max smiled. "Us evil racist white Americans decided we didn't want another Commie on our doorstep—especially not a black one—so we had him overthrown."

"Not quite," Chantale retorted. "Aristide turned into Papa Doc quicker than it took Papa Doc to turn into Papa Doc. He started sending the mobs around to beat up or kill his opponents. When the papal nuncio criticized what was going on, he had him beaten up and stripped naked in the street. That's when people decided enough was enough, and the army took over—with the blessing of President Bush and the CIA."

"So what's Aristide doing back here?"

"Bill Clinton had a reelection this year. In 1993, barely a year into his first term, he'd messed up big time in Somalia. His approval ratings took a dive. America suddenly looked weak, vulnerable. He had to do something to get his credibility back. Restoring a president deposed by a coup seemed like a good idea. America as champions of democracy—even if it was Aristide—the third Duvalier in waiting," Chantale explained. "They've got him on a leash now, so he'll have to behave himself until Clinton's gone. Then who knows? Hopefully I'll be far away from here," she said, looking out on the street where a UN car had stopped and the driver was handing out cartons of cigarettes to someone on the street.

"Where are you planning on going?"

"Back to America, I suppose. Maybe I'll move to L.A. Nothing left for me in Florida," Chantale said. "What about you? What'll you do when you've finished here?"

"I don't have the faintest idea." Max laughed.

"Thought of moving on yourself?"

"What? Like to L.A.?" Max looked at her and met her eyes. She looked down. "L.A. ain't my scene, Chantale."

"I thought you said you were the try-most-things-once kind."