A Clean Pair of Hands (17 page)

It was as a result of one of the pogroms launched by former President ‘Baby Doc’ Duvalier, to bring the northern region local governments into line and no doubt skim off some of their wealth, that Ayida decided to remain in France at the end of her studies, and later met and married Johnny Mendes, thus ensuring her joint Haitian/French citizenship. Her family had been largely eliminated in the violence because they were mixed race, tending towards white appearance as a result of interbreeding with white landowners before independence. They were among the first to be envied and subsequently bullied to death.

Far from any immediate threats, the four visitors installed themselves in the Mont Joli hotel, which Ayida considered to be one of the best choices for a stay in Cap Haitien. The rooms were large, clean and comfortable. The air-conditioning was old, but functional. Wi-Fi access was problematic in the rooms and only worked well in the reception and bar area. The breakfast buffet was a real treat, taken in very relaxed style by the pool while they waited for Stephane, their realtor guide, to look them up again. When he did, he announced that his boss Mr Fedji Wilsen, a name which they quickly adapted to Freddy, would see them in his office that morning.

The walk to Mr Wilsen’s office depended on some agility because it required them to climb and descend numerous steps where no taxis could go. It was only a short journey, but the heat rose in waves from the road surface and reflected from the buildings, so by the time they arrived, the four needed a drink. They were shown into semi-darkness and when their eyes adapted, they saw that they were being served still, iced, slightly clouded water in pewter mugs, by a girl who looked about twelve years old and in urgent need of corrective dentistry. They were speculating on what might be the bacterial population of the ice when Mr Wilsen entered, filling most of the available space with his huge frame. He shook hands and demonstrated that, like over ninety per cent of Haitians, he spoke reasonable French. Nevertheless, he greeted Ayida in Creole and spent some time in conversation and looking her over.

When they got down to business, it was much as the two French men had anticipated. Sale of land to foreigners by Haitians for anything other than a main residence was forbidden by law. Only the government could sell land for specific purposes and issue licences. The proposed acquisition would require research and various permissions
which must be paid for. In the case of Johnny and Ayida, it would be better if the property could be in her name as she retained joint Haitian and French nationality. For Michel and Sonia, Mr Wilsen suggested that Stephane’s name should be on the register of ownership alongside Sonia’s. When asked about his authority to conclude a legal deal, Mr Wilsen said he was close to the president and showed them minutes of a government meeting at which approvals were given for this kind of sell-off, presumably because they needed the money.

A sum of money must be lodged immediately to start the process, thus mandating Mr Wilsen to ensure that everything ran smoothly and on time for the buyers to return to their base as owners. They discussed building permission and what kind of interest the locals might show. Mr Wilsen leaned across the large dark-wood desk, tapped with his forefinger for emphasis, and in a deep, sincere, and conspiratorial voice explained that if they placed enough money with the government now, they would receive a licence to build any kind of property for residential or commercial use, provided it was completed within five years. As to the locals, he was more guarded. “You could expect some silliness, but you have to take them into your confidence. My advice would be to involve them in some way that they value as a personal benefit.” He overtly eyed the two women lasciviously and suggested that perhaps this was something they could discuss between men on the way out. It was agreed that the men would draw the necessary deposit funds in US dollars immediately, before the bank closed for lunch, and Ayida would take the payment to Mr Wilsen that afternoon and collect signed receipts. The completion of the sale and handover of the balance of cash could be anticipated by the end of the week.

When Ayida returned to the hotel later in the evening, she looked shaken and angry. She said little and remained subdued over dinner, but handed over a large brown envelope containing official-looking documents that had been drawn up in the names agreed, stamped and signed. Once in their hotel room she explained to Johnny what had happened.

When Ayida arrived at the office, Freddie explained that the documents would be prepared in the ground floor offices, but he invited her to join him in the first floor lounge for a cold drink. There was more air and it would be cooler up there. Ayida had little choice, so she followed Freddie up the narrow, creaking stairs to a dark menacing landing.

“I knew that bastard wanted me as part of the deal and I was prepared to take the hit, but when he got me cornered I found there were three more of them waiting for me.”

Freddie opened a door into a crudely curtained room where the eyes of three more men scanned the delights they were about to receive. They forced her to strip and took their pleasure variously and repeatedly in what proved to be a dirty bedroom above the offices, while the documents were being prepared downstairs, and where the sounds from above penetrated the rough wooden floorboards, leaving no doubt as to what was happening. The necessary administration took most of the afternoon before Ayida could be released. Then the men cheerfully offered her a drink and a cigarette before sending her on her way.

Johnny and Ayida knew that Haiti has one of the highest HIV/AIDS rates in the entire Caribbean. Neither of them slept well that night.

News Item from Haiti:

‘On 12 January 2010 there was an earthquake measuring 7.0 in magnitude, which killed 220,000 people and destroyed millions of homes and public buildings.’

With the passage of time, the Milton family attitudes had settled into a form of resignation about the Bodins, and it was now possible, when there was an anniversary, for the Miltons to invite Michel and Sonia to Branne at the same time as Charlotte and a new partner, Tomasso. During one such visit, Michel found it necessary to have a private meeting with Charlotte in her bedroom.

“What the hell is going on? What impression does she think she is making?” George fumed to Thérèse. Their sympathy with Charlotte as a victim was giving way to impatience at her behaviour. Was she trying to irritate Sonia, or was her undying love for Michel making her soft in the head? What impression did it make on Tomasso?

When George and Thérèse opened the presents that guests had brought, they were surprised to find in an envelope from Michel and Sonia, a brochure from a Paris hotel with a card saying that it was a voucher for a one-night stay, with a free glass of champagne in the Dark
Star Hotel just off the Champs Elysées. It was signed by Michel, Sonia, Johnny, and Ayida. The photos of the hotel showed that it was modern, brash, and brilliant. The walls and furniture were in large slabs of primary colours that assaulted the eyes. It was ostentatious, exorbitantly excessive, and although at first they concluded that it looked just like a high class brothel, on reflection, realising that they had no experience of such establishments, they laughingly concluded that maybe even a high class brothel would be decorated in more subdued tones so as not to over-excite the customers.

Thérèse asked Michel cautiously about the source of the design and colour choices, testing to establish whether it was an example of his creativity before causing any offence by faint praise. Michel explained that the concept and colour scheme represented a ‘commitment to pleasure, enhanced by inspired design’. As Thérèse was slow to react enthusiastically to this, he took her hesitation to be disapproval. Thérèse thanked Michel warmly for the present but added that as they didn’t go near Paris very often nowadays, it was unlikely that they would be able to use the voucher in the near future. This response had the effect of another pin prick in Michel’s sensitivities and in their relationship.

Another low spot was reached when George asked Michel how the earthquake in Haiti was affecting his investment there. George told Michel he had read a US Embassy warning to the effect that travel within Haiti was hazardous; even US Embassy personnel were under an Embassy-imposed curfew and must remain home or in US government facilities during curfew hours.

Michel shook his head in irritation. “I guess we won’t be going there for a while. You know I built a house there?”

George nodded.

“Well, it’s abandoned for the time being and by the time we get back the locals will probably have occupied it.”

George got the impression that what piqued Michel most was not just the potential loss of his investment, but knowing that the family felt they had been right about it all along. He could see that Michel was reluctant to go into more detail so he asked no further questions on the subject. Facts that later emerged confirmed that Michel was highly irritated by the delay to his plans and did not welcome enquiries on the subject.

During the several days of this same family celebration, George had thought to prompt a neighbour, who was joining them for dinner one evening, to brief his wife on the domestic background of the split couple and new partners to avoid embarrassing questions. After dinner, outside on the terrace, in the warm summer evening air, cheerful conversation continued late into the night. A large parasol slowed the escape of the warmth from the ground and although it felt as if one of the severe summer thunderstorms, frequently experienced in southern France, was approaching, no rain had yet fallen. Michel and Sonia said relatively little and remained at one end of the table, smoking. Most of the conversation was at Charlotte’s end where her friend Tomasso Nencini with one of his friends and two neighbours surrounded George and Thérèse. At one point of calm in the discussions, the neighbour’s English wife Claire looked around the table and asked Charlotte, in halting French, which of these men was her husband. There was a silence.

Seeing Charlotte’s hesitation, Thérèse stepped in. “That is Charlotte’s husband over there, with his partner Sonia. This gentleman here is Charlotte’s partner,” indicating Tomasso.

Sensing some tension in the air, Claire quickly apologised.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I trod on any toes.”

Michel tried to put everyone at ease with a broad smile. “Not at all, no embarrassment whatsoever, that’s the way it is and we are all happy.” He put his cigarette back in his mouth and sat back, relaxed.

George could not restrain himself. Turning to Michel he let out, “Michel, if you believe that you’ll believe anything.”

There was no response from Michel other than turning down the corners of his mouth and rocking his head from side to side in one of his characteristic expressions, and it was some minutes before the discussion resumed.

Afterwards, as the party broke up and they were alone, George walked towards his neighbour, pretending to strangle him.

“I am so sorry George. I forgot to tell Claire what you told me.”

There were no recriminations between them. George was not someone to bear a grudge, but he had underestimated how badly Michel had taken the exchange and couldn’t know that he now blamed Thérèse and George for being undiplomatic about him in public. Their relationship suffered permanent damage from that moment.

For the next year, Thérèse and George Milton had no communication from Michel Bodin, though they talked regularly with Charlotte. When asked why Michel was brooding, Charlotte said she could only guess that it might be because Michel’s mother Huguette had not been invited to the last family gathering. In fact she had been invited, but had declined because François was not well enough to travel, but just to check on this theory, Thérèse phoned Huguette Bodin. The atmosphere was absolutely cordial and there was no question of any umbrage there, so the mystery remained.

Another lesson that Michel had learned from Johnny was that a few instructive hours with an attractive and willing prostitute were nowhere near as exciting to him as gaining control of an unwilling participant and bending her to his will. Michel had found he was leaning towards periods of madness, destroying reason and requiring a supply of enslaved victims to achieve satisfaction. He had developed a taste for exploring this perversion with increasingly younger girls. It started at the Alive club, where one evening Michel was visiting with a client. As they moved along the corridor, viewing action in the rooms through the windows, Michel came across a room with a double bed occupied only by a girl who looked no more than fifteen (at that time, the age of his youngest daughter). The girl was sitting in the bed with her knees pulled up to her chin and the sheet tightly covering her up to the neck. She had a look of sheer terror on her face as she gazed at the locked door. Michel went to a steward and asked about
the girl. She was new and available to the highest bidder. She was indeed around fifteen and had been brought in from one of the Balkan countries by an older sister. The steward asked if Michel would like to make an offer. He did, and returned later that evening after parting from his client to claim his prize.

He first sat on the bed and attempted to stroke the girl’s arm. She flinched. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her nose. Her teeth were chattering with fear. This rendered her a rather pathetic and unattractive prospect, but Michel decided to persist.

“Don’t be frightened of me. Do you speak French?” The girl shook her head.

“You must have understood something.” The girl had closed her eyes.

Michel looked up at the ceiling and around the room, assuming there was sound and visual surveillance. He slid off his shoes and rolled under the sheet, still fully clothed.

The Miltons concluded that, as Michel had found in Sonia a submissive partner to do his every bidding, while she was happy to fit into that mould all would be well between them. The set up resembled the Roger Timmonier model that Michel so much admired. Was Michel planning to maintain a ‘
ménage a trois
’, or more, of compliant women? Charlotte had declined to submit to that set up, though they still felt that in some important respects Charlotte’s behaviour was ambivalent.

“How can you walk around nearly naked and overtly titillate men and tolerate other women doing the same to your husband without expecting a reaction?” Thérèse asked George one day. “Are those men all eunuchs?” She went on, “Although the women maintain that they are
free and happy to behave like that, it all goes wrong when someone gets hurt as badly as Charlotte.”

Their discussion returned to the display of outstanding femininity at the Bodins’ garden party on the Cote D’Azur. They came to the conclusion that it was part of a feminine power game to say to men, ‘If it provokes you – tough – that’s your business. I am free to dress or undress how I like. It’s an expression of my sexuality.’

“I am not opposed to nudity or shocked by it,” admitted George. “It’s one of life’s luxuries to swim naked in the sea or a pool and of course I like to see attractive women without their clothes, but as far as I am concerned it’s a personal matter. I just find it embarrassing when family or friends thrust their nudity upon me. Depending on who it happens to be, it can change the relationship from appreciation of an erotic but safely platonic art form to potentially sexual, or at another extreme, just plain nauseating. The rules of engagement might all be tacitly agreed, like ‘look but don’t touch’, but what happens when they experience mission creep and someone decides to push the boundaries?” George went on, “There are plenty of men about who believe that what’s on show is available, and what about lesbian women, aren’t they getting a privileged front-row seat or do they have the same constraints as men?”

George’s mind went back to an incident involving an English friend Alf, a self-made man who enjoyed a jet-set lifestyle with a large sailing yacht and house on Menorca. Alf was happy to share his wealth with friends and the Miltons were happy to be among those who sailed with him. They once spent a pleasant week at his house overlooking the harbour at Mahon, looking down from the sunny terrace onto the moored yacht in the glittering estuary below and spending several days sailing it around the island.

Later, when a different party of visitors were there, Alf’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Amanda, joined the party. She was an experienced yachtswoman and could skipper Alf’s boat from the Solent in England to Menorca with a crew of three, but her appearance was not the least macho. She was tall, fair haired and her tee shirt displayed a chest like a full spinnaker.

When the Miltons were staying in Menorca, they had noticed some of the female guests stripping off to sunbathe on the terrace and on this later occasion Amanda had joined them, revealing golden orbs and a flat belly to tempt male hands. One night, a married guest found his way to Amanda’s bedroom and slid an exploratory hand under the sheet, feeling his way towards a plump breast. The tension must have been palpable. Just then, Amanda partially awoke and rolled slowly towards the man, giving him an exquisite handful of smooth, firm roundness. He must have thought he was about to win the prize, but Amanda opened her eyes, focused them in the semi-darkness and suddenly began screaming. Amanda screamed, and continued screaming until the whole household came running. After what must have been huge embarrassment, the poor man and his wife left early in the morning.

When George first heard the story, one evening as he and Thérèse were preparing for bed, his only question was, “Why did she scream?”

“You are missing the point, darling,” warned Thérèse, as she removed her jewellery, placing it carefully in a decorated wooden box in the bedside cabinet.

“I reckon she was expecting someone else,” suggested George, then after a pause, laughing, “I wasn’t there though.” He went on, “I know it’s about feminine power and men are not supposed to act naturally, but I can’t understand why her father allows it.”

“You know why,” teased Thérèse, sliding into bed.

“No. I am really missing the point here.”

“Because he likes to see them. It’s his titillation.”

“It may be just titillation for an old man like him, but you can see what happens when you do that to a red blooded male. You get a predictable result. What do the women expect? Why don’t they go to some of those hedonistic resorts that specialise in ‘anything goes’ holidays? That’s where they can show what they have, and get what they want with anyone they fancy and there are no hard feelings.”

“Not sure what you mean by that, George. Who is supposed to feel what?”

“Shh!” George moved close to Thérèse and squeezed her.

Once in bed, George thought about it some more then added, “I can’t believe some of those women in France would scream. They may be misandrists, but I bet they would be more receptive if the same thing happened to them.”

“We don’t know that though, do we? I think you are indulging in wishful thinking, and anyway where did that word come from?” Thérèse enquired.

“I found it in the Scrabble dictionary recently, though I adapted it with artistic license. It is the female equivalent of a misogynist, a person who hates women, so a misandrist is a woman who hates men, and there seem to be quite a few of those about.”

“Yes, sometimes with good reason,” sighed Thérèse, “now come closer to me.”