into loud laughter.
Raymond managed a weak smile. He could hear his wife asking: If driving a cab doesn’t pay enough for this single guy, what hope is there for us?
“You better stop worrying about bullshit details like the smell if you’re seriously thinking about coming to work with me. Five hundred gourdes a month doesn’t stink too bad, right? No more scouring the slums for customers, no more waiting at the wharf for tourists or for these losers to get the job done.” Faton cast a disdainful eye at Chez Madame Fils.
“I’ve never said anything about coming to work for you,” Raymond said, looking again for his missing customer. But the truth was five hundred gourdes sounded like a dream when he was making twenty gourdes at the end of the day. Raymond hadn’t made that much money in a long time. Two years ago, after the Barbot affair had threatened to overthrow Duvalier, nightly curfews were imposed in Port-au-Prince, decimating the taxi business. Especially with competition from the dirt-cheap tap-taps, with all that seating—however horribly cramped—in their covered pickup truck beds.
“You have to survive, man!” Faton pressed.
Raymond nodded. This was what people talked about now. Survival.
“Just say the word when you’re ready,” Faton said, adjusting the gold chain around his neck and hovering closer. “I’ll put in a word with the boss. It’s the least I can do.”
Faton’s thick Afro didn’t fit through the Datsun’s half-open window, and for this, Raymond was eternally grateful. Still, he wondered whether he stunk too now, and how hard it would be to wash off, especially when water had become a luxury for his family. Faton stepped back, grabbed a plastic pick from his back pocket, and ran it through his hair, checking his reflection in Raymond’s back window. Then he gave Raymond an appraising look. “You know, I don’t understand you sometimes. Why are you still doing this?”
“I drive taxis. That’s what I know.” What in God’s name is taking this john so long? Raymond glared at the brothel. A Jeep caught his eye as it pulled up to the curb three blocks away. He changed the subject: “You grabbing dinner now?”
“Already did.” Faton lived a block west of Chez Madame Fils. He was in the habit of eating in the neighborhood after work. When times were better, Raymond sometimes took a break and joined him.
Five men hopped out of the Jeep. Three wore dark blue uniforms. Two, civilian clothes. Faces obscured behind dark sunglasses. Raymond squinted, trying to get a better look. His muscles tightened, and a chill wormed its way up his spine. The men began shouting, swinging their pistols and rifles around nonchalantly. One of them, in a soft hat and a red ascot, cradled something against his chest. Raymond squinted again and caught the outline of a tommy gun, its barrel glinting in the early evening light. The girls on the balcony disappeared, silently pulling the shutters closed behind them.
Faton followed his friend’s gaze. The shouting was garbled at this distance, but there was no question who the men were. And with each step they took, pedestrians fled. Raymond saw the distinct arc of a machete blade in one man’s hand. He clutched the steering wheel.
“Can’t they ever leave us alone?” Faton gasped.
Raymond shook his head, checking the ignition to make sure his keys were still in place. He might have to get out of Cité Simone. If only the damn john would finish his business…
“This is bad,” Faton mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck do they want?”
The Milice de Volontaires de la Sécurité Nationale, known as the Tonton Macoute, didn’t need a specific reason for anything they did. They were the president’s “children.” Devil children of the gray-haired man who enjoyed dressing himself up like Baron Samedi—the Vaudou guardian of cemeteries—in a black suit and matching hat. A sinister figurehead for a sinister country.
“M’ale! I’m out of here.” Faton took a quick step away from the Datsun, hissing, “I don’t like the look of this.”
Raymond watched Faton sprint to his van, the words “Tannerie Nationale S.A.” etched on both its sides. He clambered in and took off without a glance back. Raymond sank lower in his seat, praying for invisibility. The Macoutes disappeared into a convenience store, a blue building with its name painted in yellow letters: “Epicerie Saint-Georges.”
The Datsun’s vinyl seat squeaked under his weight as he rolled up his window. Faton’s sour smell still hung in the air. From the radio, a familiar jingle filled the car. Nemours Jean-Baptiste’s Super Ensemble crooned a jolly tune. Our new song spreads joy all over the streets.
The remains of sunset cast an amber glow inside the Datsun as Raymond shut his radio off. The shop owners rushed about, casting nervous glances over their shoulders before quickening their steps down the street. Small children, playing in stagnant puddles of rain and gutter water, lingered for a few minutes until their parents found them and hauled them off, one by one. The taxi and tap-tap drivers stationed down the street chugged their bottles of cola, tossed their empty paper plates, and vanished. Street vendors picked up their blankets spread with candy and snacks and knickknacks, hoisted them onto their heads, and ran. Raymond clasped his hands around his steering wheel. Damn it! He had to get out of here. Raymond glanced one last time at the brothel, but nothing stirred inside. The john wasn’t going to come out. Not now. Go home, Raymond, he thought, even as he imagined the look on Yvonne’s face when she found out how little he’d made today. Forget the fare.
A scream pierced the eerie silence. He listened. Someone was shouting for help, and a familiar dread crawled under Raymond’s skin. Then a shot rang out somewhere, probably inside the convenience store.
“Screw this,” Raymond muttered. He was reaching for the keys in the ignition when a fist pounded against his window. Once again, he jumped and peered through the glass. Outside, a man, haggard, his eyes stretched wide, beat a wet palm against the glass.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, man? Get away from my car!” Raymond shooed the man like he would a stray animal. “Go on!”
“Help me, brother! Please.”
The man’s breath fogged the window. Raymond faltered at the sight of those bulging eyes, wide with terror, staring into his. Pleading. This was the face of despair. The man looked over his shoulder, and Raymond saw a woman on the curb in a house-dress and slippers. She was rocking a child in her arms, her hair loose under a turban. Raymond shook his head and averted his eyes as he turned the ignition and the old Datsun started up. “I’m off duty, friend, and there’s a curfew.”
“They’re going to kill us.”
Raymond noticed the man’s shirt had been torn loose at the shoulder. Something wasn’t right.
“I—I don’t want any trouble,” Raymond stammered.
“My wife,” the man shouted, pointing at her. “My baby. They are innocent. Sove nou!”
Raymond’s fingers burned as he squeezed the steering wheel. The hot air was suffocating. From down the narrow street, he heard the Macoutes yelling as they spilled out of the convenience store. They were headed his way, clubbing the men and women who fled in fear, shoving them into the gutters, firing their revolvers in all directions.
The man slapped his palm against Raymond’s window once more. The woman squealed. “They’re coming. In the name of God, brother!” the man implored.
Raymond’s eyes went to the Macoutes. They’d paused to terrorize a woman on the sidewalk, but one of them was staring at his taxi. Suddenly, the man shouted, pointing directly toward Raymond, and the other thugs snapped to attention.
Raymond’s hand went to the clutch. He looked again at the window and saw large beads of sweat running down the man’s face. Saw the fear in the woman’s eyes. Saw the photograph of his own children smiling back at him on the visor.
What kind of man was he?
A