Mr. Clarinet

They landed at two-forty-five in the afternoon. Airport staff in navy-blue overalls wheeled a white ladder up to the plane doors. They'd have to walk across the tarmac to the airport building, an unimposing and untidy rectangular structure with cracked and flaking whitewashed walls, a flight tower sticking out of it to the right, three empty flagpoles in the middle, and WELCOME TO PORT-AU-PRINCE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT painted across the bottom front, above the entrances, in crude, black block capitals.

The pilot asked the passengers to wait for the prisoner to leave the plane first.

The door opened. The guards, both now wearing sunglasses, stood up with the con and led him out of the aircraft.

* * *

When Max stepped off the plane, he was surprised by the heat that smothered him in a dense, airless blanket. Not even the slight breeze that was blowing could dislodge or loosen it. The hottest days in Florida seemed cool in comparison.

He followed Wendy down the steps, heavy carryall in hand, breathing in air that seemed like steam, popping sweat through every pore.

Walking side by side, they followed the passengers as they made their way to the terminal. Wendy noticed the red flush in Max's face and the damp film across his brow.

"You're lucky you didn't come in the summer," she said. "That's like going to hell in a fur coat."

There were dozens of troops around the runway area—U.S. Marines in short-sleeves, loading up trucks with crates and boxes, relaxed and unhurried, taking their time. The island was theirs for as long as they wanted it.

Ahead of them, Max could see the marshals handing the con over to three shotgun-toting Haitians in civilian clothes. One of the marshals was crouched down, unlocking the shackles around the prisoner's ankles. From where he was standing, it could have passed for something quite considerate, perhaps the marshal tying his charge's shoelaces before handing him over.

Once the chains and cuffs were off, the marshals boarded a waiting U.S. military jeep and were driven off toward the plane. The three Haitians, meanwhile, talked to the con, who was massaging his wrists and then his ankles. When he was finished, they walked him off to a side door at the farthest end of the terminal.

Music came from the terminal. A five-piece band was performing near the entrance, playing a midtempo Kreyol song. Max didn't understand any of the words but he picked up on a sadness at the heart of what might otherwise have passed him by as a sweet, inconsequential tune.

They were old musicians, thin and stooped men in identical Miami dime-store beach shirts with palm-trees-in-the-sunset motifs; a bongo player, a bass guitarist, a keyboard player, a lead guitarist, and a singer, all plugged into a stack of amps set against the terminal wall. Max saw how some people were swaying in time as they walked, and he heard others in front of him and behind him, singing along.

"It's called 'Haďti, Ma Chérie.' It's an exile's lament," Wendy explained, as they passed by the band and were at the entrance, which was split into two doorways—Haitian citizens and non-Haitians.

"This is where we part, Max," Wendy said. "I've got dual nationality. Saves on long lines and paperwork."

They shook hands.

"Oh—watch out for the luggage carousel," she said, as she got into line at passport control. "It's the same one they've had ever since 1965."

* * *

Max got his passport stamped red and moved into the arrivals section, which he found was in the same cavernous room as departures, customs, ticket collection and purchasing, car rentals, tourist information, the entrance, and the exit. The place was heaving with people—old and young, male and female—toing and froing, pushing and shoving, all shouting at the tops of their voices. He saw a chicken darting through the crowd, slaloming past legs, clucking maniacally, flapping its wings, and shitting on the floor. A man chased after it, bent over, arms outstretched, knocking down anyone who didn't move out of his way.

Max had called Carver before he'd boarded. He'd told him the flight number and its time of arrival. Carver said someone would be waiting for him at the airport. Max looked around in vain for a stranger holding up a sign with his name.

Then he heard a commotion coming from his left. A large crowd, four or five bodies deep, was gathered at the end of the arrivals area, everyone jostling and pushing their way forward, everyone shouting, everyone volatile. Max spotted their focus of attention—the luggage carousel.

He had to pick up his suitcase.

He made his way over to the rabble, trying to gingerly sidestep people at first but, when he found he wasn't getting any closer to the carousel, he did as the Haitians did and prodded, pushed, elbowed, and shoulder-bashed his way through the crowd, stopping only once so as not to step on the chicken and its owner.