Mr. Clarinet

"All our cars are meant to have loaded guns under the seats. I checked under mine. Nothing. Faustin saw me looking and when I caught his eye again he smiled as if to say 'They're not there, are they?' He'd locked the doors. I tried not to show how scared I was getting.

"The gunfire died down. Rose asked Faustin why we weren't moving. Faustin told her to mind her own business—really rudely. I shouted at him to watch his mouth. He told me to shut up. That's when I knew something was really really wrong. I got hysterical. I screamed at him to let us out of the car. He didn't reply. Then some kids turned up outside. Just street kids. They saw our car and came over. They looked inside. One of them said Faustin's name and started shouting and pointing at us.

"More people started coming over—adults now, with machetes and clubs and tires and cans of gasoline. They were chanting 'Faustin-assassin, Faustin-assassin' over and over. Faustin used to be a feared Tonton Macoute. He'd made a lot of enemies, a lot of people wanted him dead.

"The crowd massed up around the car. Someone threw a rock at the back window. It bounced off without damaging the car, but it was some kind of signal because they stormed us. Faustin drove out of there, but he didn't get far because people had put up a barricade at the end of the road. He started reversing but the mob had caught up with us. We were trapped."

Francesca stopped there and took a deep breath. She'd turned pale, her stare cowering.

"Take your time," Max said.

"People came out from behind the barricades and rushed the car," she continued. "Pretty soon it was surrounded. People were chanting 'Faustin-assassin' and then they were hitting the car with clubs and rocks, kicking it and rocking it. They smashed the windows. And then they started stabbing at the corners of the roof with something. Faustin got a machine gun out from under his seat. Rose was screaming. So was I, I suppose. Charlie was calm through it all, just looking out at everything like it was so much scenery. The last thing I remember is running my hand through his hair, hugging him, telling him everything would be OK. After that…The next thing I remember was coming to in the road.

"I was lying in the same street, but hundreds of yards away from the car. I don't know how I got that far. There was this old woman in a pink dress, sitting on the other side of the road, in front of a shoemaker's, looking straight at me."

"What did you do next?"

"I went back to the car. It was overturned. The street was empty. There was blood everywhere."

"How badly were you hurt?"

"Just concussed. A few bruises, a couple of cuts. Rose was dead. Faustin was gone. And so was my little boy," she said, lowering her head.

She started crying. Silent, rolling tears first, then sniffles, and finally the deluge.

Max paused the tape and went to the bathroom and fetched some toilet tissue. He gave it to her and sat and watched as she cried herself dry. He held her and it helped her get through the worst. He didn't mind her so much now, and he was sure she wouldn't mind him much now either. She had no choice.

"Let me fix us some coffee," Francesca offered, standing up.

He sat back and watched as she took a steel percolator and a round metal tin from one of the row of glass-fronted cupboards running along the wall over the sink. The kitchen was painted a glossy cream-yellow, easy to wipe clean.

Francesca added bottled water and coffee to the pot and put it on the stove. She went to another cupboard and pulled down two cups and saucers. She wiped the insides of the cups with a dishcloth she found on top of the fridge. She seemed to be enjoying herself, as a tiny smile made its way to her lips and lit up parts of her eyes while she busied herself. Max supposed she missed a life without servants.

He looked at his watch. It was now four-fifteen. It was still dark outside but he could hear the first birds of morning chirruping in the garden, competing with the insects. Chantale was due at the house at eight. Too late to go bed. He'd have to skip sleep.

The coffee brewed with a low whistle. Francesca decanted it into a thermos pot and brought it over to the table with the cups, saucers, spoons, a jug of cream, and a bowl of sugar all on a tray. Max tasted the coffee. It was the same stuff he'd had at Carver's club. Probably the family's homegrown brand.

They sat in near silence. Max complimented her on the coffee. She smoked first one then another cigarette.

"Mrs. Carver—?"

"Why don't you call me Francesca?"

"Francesca—what were you and your son doing going to Port-au-Prince that day?"

Max lifted the pause button on his tape recorder.

"We had an appointment."

"Who with?"

"A man called Filius Dufour. Well, no ordinary man, a houngan—a voodoo priest."