Haiti Noir

“Only a few years, but don’t worry, I’m fluent in Creole.” Could she see right through me, or was I just being paranoid? With some people, you know exactly where you stand. A conservative political commentator once wrote an editorial in the International Herald Tribune about the “Tahitians” on their boats to Florida. I wrote a letter to the editor, pointing out that those poor “Tahitians” would have had quite a long way to row if they ever wanted to reach Florida.

But Miranda isn’t like that. Maybe the sad state of my birthplace is embarrassing me, though I will never admit that to her. It’s complicated to try and explain how I can be proud of a place most people see as a hopeless basket case. So I have to be a ruthless editor, slashing away at paradox to clear a path of understanding.

“My parents left Haiti because of Papa Doc Duvalier. They both received scholarships from the French government to study in Paris, where they met.” I try to sound nonchalant and not intent on pleasing her one way or the other. Try to make her like you without being obvious. Desperation is a turnoff. Never let them see you sweat. It makes those people anxious.

I want some positive response from Miranda, but she remains uncommitted as we climb the rickety steel steps into the plane.

“Would you prefer the window or the aisle?” She shrugs off my question and takes the window. Thank goodness, because I get vertigo. The plane rattles down the runway, bouncing us up and down like a trampoline.

Miranda pulls out a paperback from her raffia tote bag and puts it on her lap. Zora Neale Hurston’s Tell My Horse. Oh God. That would be just like Miranda to think she can learn something real about Haiti from that book. Zora actually wrote that Haitians are all liars. When I saw that, I couldn’t read anymore. On the other hand, she did say she loved her Haitian maid Lucille, which is a neat coincidence. Then again, I guess Lucille isn’t such an unusual name.

“At last,” Miranda says, peering out of the dust-caked window, “the ride of our lives.”

The plane clears its throat as it prepares to take off. There are no announcements about exit doors, oxygen masks, emergency landings, seat cushions, flotation devices, or seat belts. I fumble in the gap between our seats for a buckle. There are no seat belts.

When we finally land at the small airport in Cap Haitien, Miranda’s face is still a serene mask. If she feels any of the nausea I do, she hides it well.

We elbow our way through yet another crowd to reach our white SUV, parked in front of the airport. Alexis Auguste is standing by the front passenger door. He’s a good-looking guy, tall and slender, with small round glasses. Around fifty or so, with a dark smooth face and just a sprinkle of gray at his temples.

I know it’s him from the photo on the Planters for Peace itinerary. Alexis shakes hands with all of us. Miranda can’t stop smiling when he opens the door for her so she can sit in the back with him. Great.

Manuel is driving us to our hotel and telling us a bit about the city. On either side of us are canals filled with what looks like raw sewage.

“Cap Haitien was once known as the Venice of the Caribbean,” Manuel says with pride, as if he’s oblivious to the crumbling boulevards and fetid air.

There are people everywhere. Women in bright dresses carrying baskets and bundles on their heads, men sauntering by in crisp shirts and jackets despite the muggy hundred-degree heat. The paint peeling from the wooden shutters of our hotel makes it look shabby from the outside, even with those graceful wrought-iron balconies. This once grand establishment is now nearly empty. Manuel complains that the tourists on the cruise ships who disembark on the paradise beaches at Labadie never make it into town, and they’re never even told they are in Haiti.

Inside, the hotel has good bones, graceful archways. It’s a peaceful oasis in the middle of so much heat and noise. There’s a well-stocked bar I can’t help but notice. Good for a nightcap. On the other side of the lobby are some men in crisp shirts grouped around a whiteboard. They are all darkskinned, except for a few dressed in business suits pointing to charts on the board, who are light-skinned with wavy brown hair.

I can’t stop staring at that painting on the wall. A woman half underwater, floating on her back, with a tiger standing by the shore, watching her. Are there tigers in Haiti? I almost ask Manuel. Of course not, he would say, except in a painter’s mind. The woman isn’t afraid of drowning either. For a moment I’m floating like she is, until I hear Miranda’s voice.

“No signal,” she says, holding up her iPhone. “Can I try yours?”

I hand her my cell and watch as her face lights up. It turns out there are no more single rooms, so Miranda and I will be sharing. Just my luck.