Cemetery of Swallows (6 page)

“Villa Altagracia,” Jiménez announced, like a good tourist guide. “
¡Admira!
”

In fact, there was much to admire. The natural scenery was splendid. A sort of paradise. Mallock thought about Darbier again. He couldn't believe that a criminal, brutal foreigner hated by a whole people had been able to walk the streets that way for so long. In the video that Julie had played, he didn't look furtive. At this point it seemed clear to Mallock that Darbier and the old man crossing the square in that documentary were in fact one and the same person.

“Have you really told me everything about this Darbier? I don't understand how he was able to live to over eighty without someone taking care of him, settling his account once and for all.”

A ponderous silence was the only reply. The air-conditioning had transformed the car into a refrigerator. Mallock realized that his feet and hands were freezing. He opened the window to let a little warm air in from outside.

“Wait a minute, please,” Cappuccino said. “I'll adjust the air-conditioning.”

Amédée reluctantly closed his window.

 

At high speed, they crossed Piedra Blanca and then Bonao. The ugliness of the houses contrasted with the beauty of the vegetation. Two building materials prevailed: corrugated metal and cement blocks. For the poorest people, simple wooden planks, poorly fitted, served as a wall. Steel reinforcing rods projected from the tops of the larger houses.

“They all look like they're under construction,” Amédée remarked.

“Once the house is finished, you have to pay the government a tax on it. And then people are often waiting to have the money to build a second or third story. It's easier to leave the reinforcing rods sticking up. Here, time doesn't have the same value it has in Europe.”

It was silent in the car again. Mallock, who didn't want to doze off, struggled against invisible weights that were trying to close his eyelids. He thought he had succeeded, but he was wrong. When he woke up, he saw a broken sign indicating that they were entering La Vega, the regional capital.

“How much farther is it?”

He'd almost asked, like an impatient child, “Are we there yet?” He'd caught himself just in time.

“We'll be there in a little less than two hours, Superintendent.”

Here people didn't talk in terms of miles, but of time. It was another philosophy of life.

“Could we get something to eat and drink?”

“
No problemo
. Everything has been arranged. In twenty minutes there is an excellent
comedor
. Otherwise, there's a
parada
, not nearly as good but only three minutes away.”

“The
comedor
will be fine,” Amédée replied. He was starving, but never enough not to care about cuisine.

His patience was rewarded: the grilled chicken with garlic sauce was delicious. The rice with red beans in a béchamel sauce was not. The local beer, Presidente, served ice-cold, proved to be a blessing.

When they got back on the road, night had fallen, spreading its dark, flattering cloak over the world's imperfections. With the help of the beers and the coolness, they were now driving more calmly, with all the windows open, a concession Jiménez made at Mallock's and Ramón's joint request.

It was during the last part of the trip that they began to speak more freely. As they entered Moca, the regional capital of the Espaillat and the sacred historical site of the dictator's assassination, Mallock, who had patiently bided his time, struck up the conversation again:

“Tobias Darbier was lucky he wasn't here on that day,” he said.

“
Mucho, mucho, mucho
intelligence,” Jiménez mumbled into his mustache. “And he got . . . power,
puissance.
”

Wasn't there a touch of admiration in Cappuccino's remark?

“It's especially that he knew too well what was going to happen,” Ramón said, without wanting to say any more.

Amédée decided to be blunt for once:

“Did he have paid spies in the police here?”

Silence.

“They can't be called spies. In any case, you wouldn't understand.”

“I wouldn't understand what? Corruption? Treachery? Torture?”

The silence, this time, was shorter. Ramón broke it by turning toward Amédée.

“You're way off base. If I add voodoo, curses, and zombies, are you prepared to . . . envisage such things? No. You French are pragmatic, more Cartesian than Descartes. You think all that is a bunch of superstitions fit for niggers, right?”

Mallock hesitated. The door was open, but this was the wrong time to make a mistake. First of all, he had to ignore that word “nigger” that resounded like a rather childish provocation:

“You know, I've seen some pretty awful stuff in my career. More than you can imagine. Nothing surprises me and I'm entirely prepared to believe you, but don't try to fool me. If in fact you're scared, I would understand that very well. Don't try to blame that on a colonial superiority complex that I don't have.”

El capitán
Double-cream Cabral took a few minutes to think before he spoke again:

“From 1945 to 1948, Tobias Darbier spent four years in Haiti, on the other side of the island, learning the cruel meanderings of the Left-Hand Path. But he already knew all about torture.”

Bingo! They were off and running again. Mallock sat up on his seat.

“What are the known facts?”

Ramón smiled broadly:

“Here, facts and legends are one and the same thing. Everything is transmitted orally, and words get deformed, imbued by the personality of the storyteller. Stories live their own lives, and Tobias Darbier was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. Today, nobody could claim to be able to separate truth from legend. One thing is sure: he was Trujillo's teacher in matters of torture and black magic. For a long time, he was the unofficial emperor of this island. The rest . . . it is better not to mention.”

Ramón might have been able to pursue his revelations a little further had Mallock forced his hand. But the superintendent knew how to conduct interviews and preferred, on the contrary, to talk about something else. For example, about the subject that had led him to haul his heavy body around a paradise far too tropical for him.

“What does Manuel Gemoni have to do with all that? What do you think?”

“Nothing. It was made clear to us that it wasn't our problem. Your presence here is the confirmation of that.”

“Touché,” Mallock smiled. “But from one cop to another, how do you analyze that?”

“If we want to remain logical and simple, I think he killed him for revenge. Darbier had made hundreds of enemies here. He must have made others before or elsewhere. In any case, your Manuel went all the way. It's up to you to look into your compatriot's life, among his ancestors or those close to him. Maybe you'll find one of Darbier's victims or one of his henchmen, and that will provide an explanation for this murder. Your friend is a Corsican, and I believe the notion of vengeance is no joking matter on his island.”

Mallock could find no fault with this analysis.
El capitán
Ramón Double-cream Cabral had just scored a point and given the complicated superintendent a simple lesson in logic.

 

Whether because he was getting used to Captain Cabral's brand of driving or because he was interested in what he said, Amédée no longer kept his eyes on the road and finally let his legs relax. Outside, the air smelled of cinnamon and the waves. They were arriving in Cabarete. Jiménez slowed down. The village ran along the beach in a continuous line of shops and restaurants
.
After dark, hundreds of bare light-bulbs had been turned on, tinting with yellow and orange the lower parts of the setting. If one looked up a little, one saw the effervescent green of the palm trees. Then, still higher up, a third color, the cobalt blue of the night sky studded with stars.

The car stopped in front of a garden gate. While Ramón Double-cream Cabral went to get the key to his room, the superintendent in charge walked off toward the sea. His pace slowed when his shoes sank into the lukewarm sand. The ocean's sounds called out to him: “Ah! There you are, Amédée, my waves and I have missed you.” The horizon was lost out there somewhere in the night. Mallock took a few steps as far as the line of palm trees to escape the lights of the hotel and the restaurants along the beach.

Closer to the water, the wind was waiting to free him from the Caribbean humidity. He raised his head to loosen up his neck after all the tensions of the day. The sky was spangled with stars, but the Great Bear had disappeared. Their constellation, his and his Thomas's, the one that connected all nights with his little angel.

Suddenly he felt lost.

His first awakening in the tropics, on the third and last floor of a five-star hotel, gave him a more positive impression of the Dominican Republic. The sun was beginning to light up the cobalt of the night, and the air, which was already lukewarm, was being stirred by the immense fans attached to the ceilings.

The preceding evening, Ramón had been so kind as to make the rounds of the rooms to turn on the ventilators. He'd also opened the windows, which were fitted with Venetian blinds and screens in order to produce one of the secrets of survival in these latitudes: a draft. Then he had informed Mallock of three other constraints. First of all, wash your hands only with the distilled water from a little spigot to the right of the faucets. Secondly, drink only
agua minerale
in bottles, served sealed. And thirdly, don't throw your used toilet paper in the bowl; instead, put it in the wastebin next to it. Mallock, although he didn't like such an unhygienic practice, pretended it was normal, in order to avoid offending Ramón's
nacional
sensitivities.

That morning, as he went out onto one of the three balconies at his disposal, he had the impression that he'd dived into a postcard or been forced to go on a tourist excursion:

“You will note the incredible luxuriance of the vegetation: creeping vines, bougainvillea, conifers, coconut trees and palms, mango trees, tree ferns, banana trees. Look up at the sky, the fauna is just as rich. Our republic is an amazing aviary of exotic birds, among which can be seen the dazzling nightingale or the Dominican parrot,
Amazona ventralis
, with plumage of
verde cotorra
, which has become the island's emblem. You will also note, behind this splash of colors, the white of the beach and the fluorescent jade of the sea. See how generous Nature has been. So, enjoy it . . . and don't forget to tip the guide.”

But Mallock silenced that little internal voice, which was often too caustic. There was nothing to object to. Even an old spoilsport like him couldn't help being amazed. The sun's heat was beginning to bring out the scents: pepper, mango, damp earth. To complete the picture, a flock of tiny hummingbirds, the great masters of stationary flying, were cleaning the parasites off the leaves. Mallock's eyes were dazzled, but his heart ached. He couldn't help thinking that he would never be able to show this spectacle to his Thomas. So many things he could no longer share with him.

He looked up at the sky and asked his son:

“Tom, my dear, is this what your paradise is like?”

He put on a white short-sleeved shirt and unbleached linen slacks, his bare feet in leather sandals, and went down a circular staircase to the garden. A dark-skinned man was watering the plants. His right hand had been cut off and his eyes were bloodshot. Mallock said, “Good morning,” and the Haitian replied with a nod and a broad smile.

His teeth were in lamentable condition.

From the other side of the garden, along the coast road, the Blue Paradise was giving off scents of fresh-squeezed orange juice, bacon and eggs, and coffee. An irresistible combination. That was where Mallock was supposed to meet André Barride, the physician who was going to examine Manuel.

The French superintendent was not the first one up. Coming out from behind his bar, the owner of this strange
cantina
approached him, holding out his hand:

“So you're the famous Mallock, France's savior? I'd been told you were here. I'm Jean-Daniel, and I've never saved anything but my own skin.”

“That's already something,” Mallock retorted, smiling in spite of the “famous” which was no longer in any way flattering since that word was now applied to any boob who'd been on television.

The owner of the
cantina
had blue eyes washed out by the sea, the sand, and different suns. A hooked nose and blond, almost white hair. A slight accent colored by travels, a muscular body, a skin that told stories, and the rich smile of people who have already lived several lives, full of the bitterness and repentance that go along with them, and the humanity as well. Mallock decided to call him Mister Blue. That name fit him perfectly, with his look, his rough elegance, and the all-blue place he'd set up for himself.

His Blue Paradise was an empty space between two houses whose walls he had appropriated by painting them in cyan blue. On the right was a smooth façade decorated with naive images; in the center, a palm tree grew through the corrugated metal roof; high up, three rows of ventilators; and on the left, a window looking out on the store next door.

Mister Blue was one of those barnacle-like men who sometimes rest, between two battles, by attaching themselves to a rock, a ship's hull, the walls of houses, or to a tree trunk, like an epiphyte.

“Your neighbor didn't object?” Mallock asked, intrigued.

“About what?”

“About your appropriating the walls.”

“No, he's very nice, an exceptional guy.” Then he broke into laughter. “I'm the neighbor. That's my amber shop. If you have time, I'll show you my treasures.”