The Boiling Season (4 page)

At the time, the area was largely uninhabited, but for a few rustic farms. The sugar plantations that centuries ago had claimed swaths of land all across the island had not extended into these inhospitable hills. And neither had the mango groves nor the bean fields nor the coffee plantations, which survived—however meagerly—at higher altitudes. The land, however, was anything but unspoiled. The only things growing here were things for which no one had any use. Furniture makers in the capital had long ago harvested all the hardwood they could find. Desperate peasants took care of the rest. Lacking electricity, they found other sources of fuel, cutting down anything that would burn, burying it in ditches covered with peat, turning trees into charcoal. One could see sacks of it for sale at the market, stacked in sooty piles. Briquette by briquette, the island turned to ash.

Everywhere I looked, I saw hilltops resembling the backs of starving dogs, stripped utterly bare.

“What is this place?” I asked.

M. Guinee reached into his pocket and pulled out a key.

At first, the lock refused to move. Flakes of rust crumbled as I forced the key a fraction of a turn. I nearly lost the skin on my thumb and forefinger. Then all at once it gave. M. Guinee had me open the gate and then close it again once he had driven the car through.

“What is this?” I said.

“I already told you.”

Royal palms lined the driveway on both sides like sentries, rising out of the overgrown grasses. Nothing here was any different from what we had seen along the road. But then we turned a bend in the drive, following the faint impressions left long ago by other cars—or perhaps even wagons—and suddenly everything changed. A vast lawn spread out before us. Beyond it on every side rose the densest forest I had ever seen—like onrushing waves of green. All of it—every last leaf—had been hidden from the road.

It would be impossible to describe what I saw. It was as though everything formerly growing on the now barren hills had found sanctuary here.

The drive wound downward, bringing us ever closer, and all around us bougainvillea and yarrow and goldenrod and ferns and a thousand other plants I could not name burst outward against a tangle of trees—sabliers and gumbo-limbos, outstretched mapou and swollen tamarinds, all of it coiled with heavy liana vines—as if the jungle were so overstuffed it might at any moment explode. The landscape was so distracting, so overwhelming, I feared turning my head, lest the jungle instantly overtake me.

Not until we reached the end of the drive did I finally see the house. M. Guinee said it was a house, but it looked more like a fortress, two stories of stone and mortar built in the colonial fashion, wearing the jungle around its shoulders like a stole. Senator Marcus's house was dwarfed in comparison.

Suddenly I felt dizzy, and I realized I had been holding my breath.

The estate was situated in a valley nestled between the bay and the mountains, the same range that ran the length of the island, bald and gray and lifeless. Later I would learn that when viewed from the bluffs above, the grounds formed an enormous triangle, with the manor house at the base, built close to the cliffs behind it. To the west, the land sloped quickly downward, a series of stairs and stone paths connecting the manor house and the guesthouse to the undeveloped forty-five acres of the forest preserve, which formed the estate's westernmost boundary.

The house itself was as much a revelation as the grounds. The portico, three high, sweeping arches held up by columns, led directly into the foyer, no door to seal off the interior from the outdoors. Dirt and leaves and twigs coated the floors, dulling the marble's shine and texture to the point that it looked like concrete. The chandelier and the broad, winding staircase were encased in cobwebs. We had to stop every second step to swipe them away. Yet, even in this deteriorated state it was clear the house might once have pampered kings and queens.

With the shutters closed, the second floor was almost impenetrable: mahogany-paneled walls, mahogany trim, oak floorboards grown inky with age. The masonry had begun to crumble. M. Guinee explained the place had been unoccupied for nearly thirty years. I would have believed him if he had said a century. I was afraid to touch anything; I did not wish to cause even the most insignificant harm.

Back outside, M. Guinee led me to the guesthouse. It was as decadent as the manor house, only in miniature. We passed through it quickly and then followed a path into the forest. There was a fertility here that could not be stopped, trees growing out of other trees, wild orchids sprouting like weeds. We fought our way along the trail, and eventually we arrived at a small stone villa. The villa was far less formal than even the guesthouse—the ceilings lower, the rooms more modest—but the materials from which it was constructed were no less formidable; I was no less in awe.

And still there was more. How much more, I could not yet conceive. We spent hours wandering the estate, and we saw just a portion. Behind the manor house there was a compound of outbuildings, where a staff of servants had once lived and worked. M. Guinee told me of natural springs and a small waterfall buried deep among the trees, but he said even he no longer knew where to find them. They had been reclaimed by the forest. At that moment, I could imagine the same thing happening to me—the trees reaching out to abduct me with their gnarled arms—and I knew I would not fight it.

“I remember stories my mother used to tell me,” I said as we paused to rest on the manor house steps. “They were stories my grandmother had told her. About how long before even her mother was born, a man could reach up wherever he stood and pluck a piece of fruit. The whole island was a garden. My mother said it was paradise. Until now, I never really knew what she meant.”

M. Guinee nodded.

“I had no idea there was anything like this here.”

“No one does.”

Much of the rest of what I saw passed in a blur, as I reached and then surpassed my ability to take in new things. Despite the eagerness with which I listened to M. Guinee's explanations, I retained none of it. As soon as we got back in the car, I fell asleep in exhaustion. I awoke again much later, midway up the road to Lyonville, and I felt a sudden panic as it occurred to me that I had paid insufficient attention to the route we had taken to get to Habitation Louvois, and I had slept through the return, and now I would never be able to find my way back.

T
hat evening, after M. Guinee dropped me off at Senator and Mme Marcus's house, I pressed my face to the glass of my small attic window and looked to the south, retracing as best I could our course along the bay and up into the valley, and for the first time I noticed a tiny patch of intense green on the otherwise anemic hillside.

I realized how small and cloistered my life up until now had been, how meager my ambitions, and it saddened me to think how modest even the lives of the Marcuses would seem to me now. I began to regret ever having gone with M. Guinee. Now that I had discovered a whole new world, how could everything that came after not be a disappointment?

Chapter Four

O
n Wednesdays, Senator Marcus and I left the office at ten o'clock in the morning for his weekly tennis match on the courts at the Hotel Erdrich. His opponents varied from week to week, but his doubles partner was always M. Rossignol, the minister of health. The minister of health was a singularly unpleasant man, cursed with a short temper and long arms and a comical tendency to wave the latter when demonstrating the former. Of the two, M. Rossignol was the better player, a fact Senator Marcus himself was never ashamed to admit. But Senator Marcus liked to say—and he said it often—that what he lacked in skill he made up for in heart. Senator Marcus scurried after every ball, regardless of his likelihood of catching up with it. The shots he did manage to return he hit with a grunt that seemed to contain all the strength he could muster, though the results seldom bore this out. No matter how many balls he returned into the net, nor how many glanced off the outer frame of his racket in unexpected directions, he never lost his temper. Not once can I remember him swearing, the way the minister of health routinely did, particularly when an opponent hit a shot that clipped the tape and fell in for a point. At such moments the minister of health had a way of glowering at the ball as though it had reneged on some sort of gentlemen's agreement. Upon retrieving the ball he would give it a squeeze, only to declare it flat, thereby having an excuse to replace it with a ball that had not yet offended his sense of decency.

The week after my visit with M. Guinee to Habitation Louvois, Senator Marcus and the minister of health played a long-awaited rematch against their oldest rivals, Father Grommace and Ambassador Twitchell. Father Grommace was the priest at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Lyonville, and I had no doubt my father would say he was in suspiciously good shape for a man who should have held himself above vanity and matters of the flesh. Nor would my father have approved of the expensive watch and the handful of rings Father Grommace stored in a velvet pouch in the hotel safe while he played. Then again, my father would have been more furious still just to learn I knew the man.

That his fiercest competitor was also his spiritual guide seemed to pose no problem for Senator Marcus. He often joked that winning was that much sweeter when you beat a man with God on his side. And when Father Grommace won—well, that was God's will, and there was nothing Senator Marcus could do to change it.

Ambassador Twitchell, in contrast to his robust partner, had the look of a man in the late stages of terminal illness. By common parlance, his skin was white, but in truth it was nearly transparent, like certain fish one finds clinging to life in the fetid pools of dank caves. No matter the weather, Ambassador Twitchell had a cold, and there was room in his pocket for only one ball at a time, for the rest of the space was packed with lozenges. For all that, though, Ambassador Twitchell possessed a remarkable grace with a racket. Even while he clenched a handkerchief in one hand, his other could return a ball with all the ease of an afterthought. He had the ethereal presence of a ghost.

At their last match, several months before, Father Grommace and Ambassador Twitchell had come out the victors. For the minister of health, the loss had been particularly painful. Having twisted his ankle in the last game of the third set, M. Rossignol had to hobble through the final points as best he could, but his range was drastically reduced. The match had ended with a backhand from Father Grommace that—adding insult to injury—nicked the tape and fell in just a few centimeters from the minister's outstretched racket. Off balance and infuriated, he crumpled to the ground, howling in pain and rage.

Today's rematch turned out to be no less dramatic. In the last game of the final set, Senator Marcus and the minister of health were leading, having mounted an impressive comeback. It had begun to look as though they might actually win.

But then the minister of health, who had served flawlessly all day, double-faulted, driving both attempts straight into the net.

“Shit!” he yelled, swinging his racket as though it were a scythe. “
God
damn it,” he declared, drawing out the first syllable for special emphasis.

Father Grommace frowned.

“Never mind about that.” Senator Marcus squeezed his partner's shoulder. “We've got them right where we want them.”

The minister of health's feet remained planted in protest.

“The net's not going to change its mind,” the Senator said, gesturing for him to resume his service.

The minister of health glared back in silence as he stomped to his left, reluctantly getting into position.

As he bounced a new ball at his feet, M. Rossignol's eyes followed each movement with furious attention, as if he were performing some elaborate form of exorcism with his mind.

At the other end of the court, his opponents were growing impatient. Ambassador Twitchell coughed. Father Grommace twirled the racket around his finger.

The ball finally stopped bouncing.

The ambassador and the priest curled into their crouches.

I believe even his opponents let out a sigh of relief when the serve the minister of health produced was good.

But then came Ambassador Twitchell's return. His swing was effortless, and yet the ball shot from his racket like a bullet. As if its velocity were not enough, the ball arched through the air with a tremendous slice, gliding like a butterfly from one side of the court to the other.

Lunging to his right, the minister of health made a desperate swat. The ball leaped feebly from his racket into the net.

“Fuck!” With all his strength, M. Rossignol drove his racket into the clay. There was a chilling crack as the neck snapped in two.

“It's okay,” the Senator cooed. “It's okay.”

When the minister's back was turned, Senator Marcus waved me over. “He keeps a spare in his trunk,” he said softly, and he gave me a pat on the back.

It took me several minutes to find the minister of health's car. In describing it, the Senator had left out the most important detail: his was the only one in the entire lot of virtually identical sedans that was not black. Perhaps I should have realized sooner that the minister of health would opt for fiery red—a color to match his temper.

Opening the trunk, I discovered not one spare but at least half a dozen, some wood, some metal, all of them brand-new. Mixed among them were several other odds and ends: a small collapsible shovel, a bar of soap, a pale plastic doll with corn-silk hair and a pink party dress. The doll looked miserable, smeared with dirt and grease. Casting it aside, I glanced again at the rackets. I had no idea which one I should take, but I knew the rage that would greet me if I chose incorrectly.

As I was moving things around, I uncovered a brown canvas bag partially buried behind the wheel well. Its zipper was undone, and inside I could see the dark handle of another racket. Unlike the others, this one was somewhat smudged, showing clear signs of use. I took that as a sign that it was the one M. Rossignol preferred.

I reached out to grasp the handle, but the moment my fingers touched its surface, I realized something was wrong. It was not the thin aluminum of a racket I felt, but something made of dense, heavy steel. I recoiled as if it were a snake, pulling my hand back from its bite.

Several drops of sweat coursed down my back. I was alone in the parking lot, shielded from the hotel by the raised trunk. The air was so hot it seemed to buzz along with the cicadas.

Once my hand had stopped shaking, I reached out again toward the bag. The metal of the shotgun barrel was warm and faintly clammy, like everything else in the trunk. As I ran my finger along the inside of the rim, I found myself wondering if the minister of health had ever fired it. Or was it, like so much else about him, just another prop to make the people around him ill at ease? Senator Marcus had no need for such crude measures. That was why, of the two, he was the one President Mailodet trusted.

I chose another racket at random. Jostled in the process, the doll bobbed her eyelids, signaling her approval.

Back at the court, I handed the new racket to the Senator. I wanted nothing more to do with it.

The minister of health frowned when he saw what I had selected, but I no longer cared. For several minutes, while the other players watched in weakly concealed amusement, M. Rossignol paced back and forth, angrily clubbing the air, grumbling under his breath.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he spat.

All at once the other men tucked away their mirth, moving back into position.

Standing stiffly with one foot on the baseline, the minister of health bounced the ball before him on the clay. He seemed to scowl with every rebound.

When at last he felt both ball and racket had proven their readiness, M. Rossignol tossed the one into the air and reared back with the other. The minister of health hit the ball with more force than I had ever seen before, roaring with the effort.

But the priest was waiting, and his return was ferocious, a wicked, sinking backhand. Father Grommace's shot would undoubtedly have fallen in for a point, tying the score, had Senator Marcus not been standing so far out of position. Seeing the ball coming straight toward his head, the Senator ducked, raising his racket only to protect himself. Miraculously, the ball caromed off and crossed back over the net, landing squarely on the line two meters from a dumbfounded Father Grommace. Senator Marcus was the last to realize what he had done. His celebration, though belated, was nonetheless joyous.

But not even victory brought any comfort to the minister of health. He had already stomped off the court, mumbling invective at the net.

W
hile M. Rossignol and Senator Marcus showered and changed back into their clothes, I went to the front desk to ask after M. Guinee. The morning after we returned from our trip into the country, M. Guinee had come down with a fever, and that afternoon when I brought Senator Marcus to the Erdrich for lunch, M. Guinee was in bed, not to be disturbed. He was no better on Tuesday. Today his condition remained unchanged, but to my relief the clerk reported that M. Guinee had asked to see me.

M. Guinee's room was tucked away in the same outbuilding behind the Erdrich that housed the laundry. Aside from the manager—who lived in the hotel itself—M. Guinee was the only staff member with a room of his own. But the room was cramped and airless and oddly shaped, giving the impression of having been created out of space left over from more important things. The room was far beneath what a man of his dignity deserved, and I disliked seeing him there as much as I sensed he disliked having me there. But if we wanted to talk in relative peace, it was our only option.

I had just started along the path when I saw up ahead a man coming out of M. Guinee's room, shutting the door softly behind him. The man stood for a moment on the paving stone, turning around and around, as though uncertain where he was and how he might have gotten there. A dark-skinned man in dirty khakis and a white shirt with a tear at the elbow, he looked like a gardener. As I drew closer, I noticed the bag he carried was made of leather, though it was dark and misshapen, as if it had spent the night in a puddle. One of the handles appeared to have recently fallen off and been stitched back on, the thread much brighter there than on the other.

As I arrived at M. Guinee's door, the man looked at me suspiciously.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To see M. Guinee.”

“Oh, no you're not.” The dirty little man reached out and grabbed my arm. He began leading me back the way I had come. “I'm afraid he's not well enough to see anyone.”

“M. Guinee asked to see me,” I said. “I'm a friend.”

“And I'm his doctor,” the man said.

“
You
are a doctor?” I said, making no secret of my disbelief. I knew the doctor the hotel called on to treat its guests, a mulatto with whom the Senator sometimes lunched.

He regarded me severely.

“I would like to look in on him,” I said. “I want to make sure he's all right.”

The doctor took my arm again, a bit more gently this time. “He's as good as can be expected. Let him sleep. And let's hope it passes.”

It had never occurred to me that it was anything other than a simple cold. “Is it something serious?”

“That depends on how strong he is.”

For a moment I could only shake my head in puzzlement. “How strong does he seem?”

The doctor stopped, pausing to look me in the eye. “Only time will tell.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “How much time?”

But the doctor was already walking away, and I was too distraught to chase after him.

Back at the hotel lobby, the doctor screwed on his soiled hat and left, and I found myself even more worried than before. Did he not realize that waiting was the hardest thing of all?

A table of white men, alone in the Erdrich's otherwise empty club room, looked up from their glasses when I came in. Though I paid them no attention, their eyes continued to follow me as I made my way to the bar, their conversation gradually sputtering into silence. There were several cameras lying among their drinks, and the men appeared bored, the tennis court the only scenery outside the adjacent window.

By now I had worked for Senator Marcus long enough to understand the basic algebra of white men: in groups of two or three, they were either diplomats or businessmen, and one knew the latter by the cheapness of their suits. Any more than three, and they were journalists, whose suits were cheaper still. The journalists were the most rare, but also, Senator Marcus said, the most distressing, for their presence meant one of only two possible things: that some sort of political crisis had occurred, or that it was about to. They had use for us only when we offered them coups and bloodshed.

Under President Mailodet, neither of those any longer applied.