Mile Zero (50 page)

Rain fell on Isaac’s mansion, blowing through the bedroom windows, dampness stalking wooden floor, inching toward the boy-king afloat on his brass throne, his purple eyelids fluttering, lips trembling a release of words. “Angelica … tell me … what do you see outside … its color?”

Angelica jolted, she thought Isaac had died. Her face turned to rain streaking through the windows. “Silver.”

“Silver?”

“Vivid silver, fluorescent, like the color used on cheap velvet paintings, superficial but sincere.”

“Cheap painting. Superficial … but sincere.”

Wind shifted outside, pulling the slant of rain, water no longer driving into the room, falling straight to earth.

St. Cloud felt no movement from Isaac’s hand cradled within his own. He forced himself to speak. “Want to hear again what happened when I went north to give Voltaire money to pay off those Haitian jackals?”

“Want to … hear. Can’t … believe it.”

There was a slight pulse in Isaac’s limp wrist as St. Cloud began his story.

V
OLTAIRE
lost his security. When Immigration got him away from Justo it was only a matter of time until he was shipped back to Haiti. If he survived the Tontons he still needed to come up with two thousand bucks to pay off the smugglers. Doom all the way around. Voltaire was headed to the slaughterhouse same as his Uncle Romulus, going to be chopped like a pig. My idea was to get twenty-five hundred bucks. Five hundred to bribe the Tontons, rest he owed smugglers. If he was a goose who could produce that kind of money, in a country where a
paysan
makes less than two hundred bucks a year, I reasoned the Tontons wouldn’t kill him, figuring on more gold to come their way. Problem was, I didn’t have twenty-five hundred, didn’t have anything, but Justo came up with a thousand. The rest I borrowed from Evelyn. She was happy to part with it, even quoted that old saw, ‘If there’s a man you never want to see again, lend him money.’ She said if I paid the money back it meant I’d changed my act and was working at something steady. If I didn’t, at least Voltaire got the money for another chance. Either way, Evelyn considered it a no-lose deal, even loaned me her van to make the drive. So I drove north to the detention camp in an old missile base on the edge of the Everglades, not far from the outskirts of Miami. Behind high fences hundreds of Haitians milled before concrete barracks formerly housing missiles. The guards searched me like I was point man of a breakout team; I flashed a phony letter stating I was on official business. Making it in was easy, hard part was getting to see Voltaire. No visitation rights allowed the Haitians, they have fewer rights than hard-core cons. Inside the administration building, originally the base command
bunker, my ID was checked. I was led down a corridor into an office crowded by desks, a rattling air-conditioner blew a stale breeze around a woman behind piles of papers. ‘Mrs. Mulrooney,’ she pumped my hand briskly, ‘have a seat. We don’t get many Key West visitors, you’re the first. Mostly we get reporters, especially since last week.’ I didn’t want to appear ignorant, but I didn’t know what happened the week before. ‘Yes, last week,’ I winked. ‘That’s part of why I made the drive up.’ ‘Good thing you didn’t come any earlier. We weren’t letting anybody in for a while, not even the press pool. It was that bad.’ ‘Just how bad?’ ‘Bad enough.’ Mrs. Mulrooney turned her nose up at my sweat-stained cap, as if trying to determine which had most likely been around the world more times, the crinkled canvas cap or my sun-lined face. ‘Just who is it you are here to see, Mr. Sitclod?’ ‘St. Cloud. I explained at the front desk, here to see Voltaire Tincourette.’ ‘You are aware, no visitation rights allowed detainees while in custody of Immigration and Naturalization Service?’ ‘I’m aware, but since INS is under the Justice Department, thought you might sympathize with my situation. There were charges brought against Tincourette when he entered the country illegally in Key West. His charges were dismissed.’ ‘So why are you here?’ ‘I was Tincourette’s court-appointed translator. There are still a few questions we would like clarified concerning matters pertaining to what transpired on the vessel which transported him to this country. Everyone on board the boat except Tincourette arrived dead.’ ‘What’s so unusual about that? Illegal Haitians come ashore with nearly every tide in South Florida.’ Mrs. Mulrooney lowered her arched eyebrow. ‘We had thirty thousand come ashore last year, another ten thousand intercepted at sea. Thirty percent of the refugee boats making the six-hundred-mile run sink. We’d be doing everyone a big favor by stopping those boats from ever leaving. It’s a political situation unfortunately, not a humanitarian one.’ ‘Better the shark’s bite than the dictator’s kiss.’ ‘That’s easy for you to say.’ ‘Not what I say, it’s what
they
say.’ Mrs. Mulrooney’s eyebrow arched again. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way to speak up for the poor Haitians?’ ‘I don’t speak for anyone. I speak a passable Creole, that’s all. You know the Haitian expression,
youn ti chape
?’ ‘I’m not a linguist, Mr. St. Cloud. I’m an administrator.’ ‘It means “little escapee.” Voltaire told me it’s what they call a child in Haiti, because half of them are dead of disease before age five.’ Mrs. Mulrooney picked a pencil up from her desk and pressed its rubber tip against her cheek. ‘We are overworked and understaffed here, our armed
guards aren’t soldiers, they are rent-a-cops. We are detaining people who enter this country illegally. This facility isn’t just for Haitians, it was used during the Mariel boatlift from Cuba, a hundred and forty Cuban
boteros
an hour were being brought here. The Cubans are gone now. INS does not say who is a political refugee and who is not. INS upholds the law as it is interpreted.’ ‘Even though it’s interpreted differently for different people?’ ‘We have fourteen hundred Haitians here, more in camps further north. It’s a difficult situation for all, yet they keep coming.’ Mrs. Mulrooney was plainly exhausted, overwhelmed by an inexorable tide going right over her head.
‘Très triste.’
I shook my own head. ‘What does that mean?’ She looked at me warily. ‘It means very sad. May I see Voltaire now?’ ‘Yes, it is all too sad.’ She pushed the point of her pencil harder against her cheek. ‘There was a breakout last week.’ In that moment I realized why she was being so equivocal. ‘Voltaire’s escaped, is that what you’re saying? I can’t see him because he’s gone? Gone and nobody knows where he is?’ Mrs. Mulrooney laid her pencil on the desk and quickly stood. ‘Come with me.’ I followed out into the long corridor, she walked ahead with an air of uncommunicative resolve, finally we were outside, passing rows of tents crowded with Haitians. The tents were pitched on concrete pads where missiles once poised. Behind the tents men leaned expectantly against a ten-foot steel mesh fence separating them from women’s and children’s quarters. Some touched fingers with wives on the opposite side, clinging to the steel barrier. Only disjointed whispers were audible in thick heat slowing motions, giving the men an appearance of moving and talking underwater, maneuvering through a vague dream. They were trapped in the land of the free with no specified time of imprisonment to be meted out before liberty was to be gained, detained in caged limbo while law moved invisibly toward conclusion, the expression in their faces balanced between dejection and resignation. A few huddled around portable radios, waiting word from a Miami station that came through in their own Creole, word that would offer hope of motion with purpose. Mrs. Mulrooney stopped before the open door of a cinder-block barracks, she turned, admonishing me not to linger. I followed into a sweltering room rowed with hundreds of cots. Sunlight sliced from barred windows across a large blackboard chalked with
TIME-DAY-MONTH. ARE YOU A STUDENT? WORKER? SINGLE? MARRIED? HAITIAN? SICK? HOW SICK?

I caught up with Mrs. Mulrooney striding among the cots, acknowledging with an officious wave the sea of male faces turned toward
her. She stopped before a gaunt man slumped at the edge of his cot, gnarled hands supporting his head as he studied the floor. He raised his eyes, his forehead furrowed in deep lines, a stubble of mustache beneath his nose spotted gray. He looked fifty, I think he was thirty, he said nothing. ‘This is Hippolyte.’ Mrs. Mulrooney tapped the man’s shoulder as if he were a sleepwalker. ‘He speaks no English and I speak no Creole. We only have a few people on staff who even speak French. Perhaps you can persuade Hippolyte to tell you what happened to your friend.’ On the cot next to Hippolyte two men playing dominoes interrupted their game, eyes searching me, fearful another outsider had come to inflict hardship. Mrs. Mulrooney sensed my hesitation. ‘Ask Hippolyte about the breakout.’ In the most disarming manner possible I made my inquiry. Hippolyte listened solemnly, uttering only,
‘Très triste.’
He found the floor more interesting than my questions. The men on the next cot resumed their domino game. From the far end of the room sudden squeals and wild applause exploded, a television game show had been turned on. A circle of silent men were observing television people, not understanding their words, nor the significance of flashing numbers and loud buzzers, prompting the television people into uncontrollable fits of crying and kissing. Into the vast room the television master of ceremonies’ voice rose above all else:
Is the third couple going to chance the optimum card or bet the hidden agenda?
I knelt next to Hippolyte, switching my questioning from French to a conspiratorial Creole. ‘I am a friend of Voltaire Tincourette. I have journeyed here to visit with my friend, to make a gift.’ Hippolyte’s gaze came up from the floor, slowly taking me in, focusing on the white man who spoke Creole with a foreign accent, the stranger who had the tongue of his people, but not the heart, and definitely not the skin. His gaze caught on Aunt Oris’ Lucky Bone dangling from the braided string necklace around my neck, then moved from the bone to my eyes. His words came with subdued deference: ‘Ask this policewoman why it is they have captured us and try to make of us women?’ I translated to Mrs. Mulrooney. ‘Tell Hippolyte that’s nonsense.’ Mrs. Mulrooney smiled reassuringly. ‘We are not putting female sex hormones into detainees’ food to make them grow breasts. This is foolish rumor started by troublemakers in Miami’s Little Haiti. Tell him not to believe everything he hears on the radio. We are not trying to make men docile. Tell him to eat, it is safe American food. He is wasting away to nothing.’ I repeated Mrs. Mulrooney’s sentiment to Hippolyte. He confided he himself
had seen breasts sprouting on men in camp, heard their voices going higher every day, this started before the breakout, the police people were trying to make of Haitian men she-goats in a pen, what was their crime, they wanted to work honest, risked their lives for that, they were not thieves, not drug men, not assassins, back in Haiti everyone spoke of Miami as the place of honest work, where a man could earn security, now it was clear, white goats were different from black goats, he was a believer in
Bon Dieu
, Jesus Christ, but why did camp police hand out English Bibles, no Haitians he knew read English, every day he was given poisoned food, made to stand outside in the heat, given more poisoned food, came back in the barracks, slept the day away, every day a death, many people tried to commit suicide, all they wanted was
viktoua net, complete victory
, they were not trying to invade the United States, just victory to work honest, for that they were treated worse than dogs, turned into frightened she-goats. Hippolyte stopped talking, as if realizing he confided too much to the wrong person. I bent closer, searching out his downcast eyes. ‘I cannot be a friend to everyone in this camp, but I was a friend to Voltaire. I came here to help him, please help me do that.’ The furrows in Hippolyte’s forehead deepened, he bit his lower lip, holding back a slip of the tongue. I tried another tack. ‘Did you own land in Haiti?’ His head snapped up, defiant pain in his eyes. ‘Do you take me for a tramp, I am no vagabond, I had some small lands in Haiti, I had my security, I even had a garden-wife to watch over my corn and yam grow, but there came more and more no rain, I had to go to Dominican Republic and cut in cane fields, when I come back Tontons have squatted my security, they say they are the man now, they take my garden-wife and say if I don’t go away they will take my life too, I left for Port-au-Prince, where
paysans
with no security live in streets, they told me in Miami is courage, is work, so I go, I still have sugarcane monies from Dominican, I go first on night boat with many
paysans
to the Bahamas, then I bribe for trip from there on smaller boat to Miami, a fishing boat, I am forced to stay below with other
paysans
in fishing boat hold, everyone sick from fumes, smugglers won’t let us come up for air, they say American Coast Guard is all around looking for us, we have to shut up, then the engine stops, a smuggler comes below and shouts about a big Coast Guard ship steaming toward us, everybody should give him their monies, watches, any values, because we can jump overboard with life preservers, Coast Guard won’t see us on dark sea, they will chase lights of fishing boat,
but will find no illegal
paysans
, then fishing boat will come back to pick us up and we will be free, but
paysans
shouted why should they give up their values before jumping, smuggler said because seas were rough, no way to keep values dry and safe while in water waiting for fishing boat to come back, some did not believe smuggler and shouted so, he screamed there was no time, Coast Guard was steaming, if
paysans
needed proof, hurry up to deck and see for themselves, we did, across chopping waves was blinking light and blast of loud horn,
paysans
handed over their values and jumped overboard with life preservers around their necks, fishing boat swung around, churned away, sound of its engine gone before
paysans
realized blinking light was not moving, blasts from its horn coming no closer, it was a light buoy marking a shipping channel, almost none of
paysans
could swim, they were hardscrabble farmers helpless to currents, many cried and prayed, begged great loas for mercy, but we were already drifting from light buoy, not long before sound of horn could not be heard across water, some of us tried to raft our preservers together, maybe by dawn we would see shore, know which direction to head for, since I was a canecutter I had powerful arms to pull with, I grabbed a woman by hair and pulled her with me, as water grew colder she grew limper, until I realized I was towing a dead person, I let her slip from me, then sharks came, screams of others not clinging to our raft of preservers came to me in darkness, one screamer was small girl, I remembered she had been wearing a red frock bought by her mother in Bahamas so she would look pretty when she got to Miami, I swam toward her, red frosting was on churning water in moonlight, I shouted for everyone to be calm, no splashing, no kicking, nothing to draw sharks, I was surprised when sharks did not return right away, I expected my body to be cut, slightest nudge against my legs made me shudder, I laughed at thought sharks would have better meal than I ever had, by morning I saw glitter of Miami Beach mansions, soon real Coast Guard roared toward us and here I am, where I found Voltaire, but not until the breakout, I didn’t know him before, he too had come across water, like everyone else was afraid.’ Hippolyte’s gaze slipped away, across rows of cots with men sprawled atop them like floating bodies. His gaze steadied on the back wall, its hard surface painted with colorful density of jungle, palms towering in a cool world, howler monkeys swinging through vines, red-winged parrots flying, chartreuse butterflies above a lagoon, a white panther at water’s edge, its eyes not agitated by predatory purpose, but open
and questioning, large human eyes. ‘Voltaire,’ Hippolyte intoned, ‘he was not a strong canecutter like me, did not know of him until we went over the fence, had not risen that morning with head full of escape, early afternoon was waiting my turn at outdoor privy, for days was rumored carloads of sympathizers coming from Miami to make world aware we were being given woman drugs, poisoned food was growing us thin with exhaustion, as I opened privy door I heard car horns on far side of administration building, protesters banging at gates, bottles and stones crashing, gunshots, smoke and gas burned my eyes, vomit spewed from my mouth, ran to back fence, joined a scramble of climbing men, barbed wire tore my hands, I dropped to saw grass on other side, behind me a ragged boy, blood soaked his torn clothes, we ran, that night in tall grass he told me he lost his security, Tontons had sent Zobops after his uncle in Haiti, chopped his uncle with axes like a pig, he said Zobops chased him across water, shooting flying fish at him, so he prayed Papa Agwé for redemption, and Horsemen came from beneath sea during night when stars fell around his boat sailing from Haiti, Horsemen placed a
ouanga
around his neck, anointed his forehead with holy ashes from a
richaud
, whispered in his ear freedom was close, not to be a mischiefmaker, to swim into forgetfulness, deny memory, these things Voltaire spoke as wind strummed saw-grass sea surrounding us, all night world was lit by lightning, thunder in yonder, hot rain spitting, mud steaming, fish flying in memory forgetting, security was coming, Papa Agwé would save us, I believed what he believed, there was no other belief, he was my sweet lamb, we slept, awakening to a world of dense smoke from fires started by lightning, we wept, we were lost, hard ground of high grass gave way to swamp, we were knee deep in our struggle toward freedom, overhead whine of airplanes, I did not know if they were searching us or making war on distant fires, gray day bled into gray night, black sun became black moon, Voltaire was babbling, splattered with ash and blood, he passed out, freedom was close, we could not stop, I slipped my arm around him, he weighed less than a flying fish, I carried him forward, only once did his eyes open, he mumbled to Papa Agwé, mud sucked our feet, stink of rotting plants in our noses, buzz of mosquitoes in our ears, flesh swollen from bites, we traveled the here to there, smoke turned brilliant red with dawn, a new day cleared, in distance giants marched on horizon, an army of Saints, I was no longer afraid, I was not a vagabond from the sea, but proud
paysan
, people would offer me assistance, giants grew taller,
coming closer I saw they weren’t Saints marching to a new world, but power poles charred by fires still puffing smoke beneath them, the poles lined a canal, pointing direction sun was rising, blackened earth was hot beneath our feet as we followed poles strung with humming wires, water sluiced swiftly in canal below, singing a clean sound, Voltaire awoke, water always leads to something good, what it led to was a bridge of cars passing overhead, before us water disappeared into a steel mouth of pipe, we stumbled up a rise onto hard black field of cars parked between painted white lines, ahead glittered a glass palace surrounded by flowering trees and waterfalls, this is where canal water must have disappeared to, we were thirsty and dirty, we wanted to drink and bathe, we followed crowds of people inside the palace, where heat was sucked from day and breeze blew, we saw no animals but heard sweet chorus of invisible birds, Voltaire hobbled forward on muddy feet, beneath him slippery floor reflected treasures from mountains of clothes, jewels, and television sets, I shouted for him to come back, I did not know if I was in his dream or he was in mine, maybe we had both been shot climbing the camp fence, we had gone to hell in fiery Everglades, but Voltaire’s prayers to Papa Agwé gained us escape and we were in heaven. If I was alive I did not know how long it had been since I last ate or slept, two days or two weeks, I chased Voltaire through treasures, he stopped beneath a sign: