Mr. Clarinet

"Same thing that happened to them in the midseventies, when they decided to make the country more attractive to tourists. They rounded them all up—the sick, the lame, the needy—and they shipped them off to La Gonâve. It's a small island off the coast."

"I see," Max said, patting himself down for a notebook. He couldn't find one. "What happened to them? Are they still there?"

"I don't know. Some of them I suppose stayed on. These were dirt-poor people living as close to the ground as rats. No one cared about them," Chantale replied as Max picked up the small army knapsack lying at his feet, where he'd put his camera and tape recorder. He'd packed a pen but no paper.

Chantale opened her breast pocket and handed him her small notebook.

"Never forget the fundamentals." She laughed.

Max scribbled down the details.

"Have you heard of Ton Ton Clarinet?"

"You say 'tonton,' Max, not 'tonnn-tonnn.' You sound like you're imitating an elephant walking." She laughed again. "Tonton Clarinette's an urban legend, a spook story parents tell their kids: be good or Tonton Clarinette will come for you. He's like the Pied Piper, hypnotizing children with his music and stealing them away forever."

"Do they say Tonton Clarinet took Charlie?"

"Yes, of course. When we were putting up the posters the street people would come up and say: 'You'll never find that child—Tonton Clarinette's got him—just like he's been taking our children.'"

Max nodded as he thought of Claudine Thodore.

"See that over there?" Chantale said, pointing to a shabby-looking street of stunted buildings with fading signs painted on their roofs and walls. People were jumping out of a dump truck that had just parked itself in the middle of the road. "That was once the red-light district. Lots of gay bars and brothels and clubs. Really wild carefree place. Every night was party night here. People may not have had much but they knew how to have fun. Now you can't even drive through here at night, unless you're in a military vehicle."

"What happened to the bars?"

"Jean-Claude closed them all down when AIDS hit in 1983. Most of the rich American gays who used to come here for dirty weekends stayed away because your media said Haiti was the birthplace of the disease. Jean-Claude rounded up all the gays too."

"Did he send them to La Gonâve?"

"No. No one knows what happened to them."

"In other words they were killed?"

"Probably. No one's sure. No one followed it up—not publicly anyway. Didn't want to start any whispering. Homosexuality's a big no-no here. They call gays massissi and lesbians madivine in Kreyol. There's a saying now: 'There are no gays in Haiti: they're all married with children.' It's a secret society," Chantale said. "But Jean-Claude was known to be bisexual for a time. I think it was all the coke he was doing, and the fact that he'd screwed every woman he wanted in Haiti. He was supposed to have had this high-society boyfriend, René Sylvestre. Big fat guy, drove around in a gold-plated Rolls-Royce and wore dresses."

"Sounds like Liberace."

"They called him 'Le Mighty Real'—after that gay disco singer."

"As in 'You Make Me Feel Mighty Real'?"

"You know it?"

"Sure do. I have the twelve-inch in my attic."

"You?!!?" Chantale laughed.

"Yeah."

"For real?"

"Yeah. What's the big deal? I'm the original Tony Manero. 'You Make Me Feel Mighty Real'—that's my song!"

"I can't see it." She laughed her laugh again.

"Look a little closer," Max said.

"We'll see."

Chapter 17

THEY DROVE DOWN Boulevard Harry Truman, a wide, palm tree–lined, and surprisingly smooth stretch of road that ran alongside the coast. To the left, Max could see a tanker and a warship on the horizon, while ahead of him, some distance away, he could make out the port, with its rusted and half-sunk ships clogging up the waters. A procession of blue-helmeted UN troops passed them by, heading along on the other side of the road.

The Banque Populaire d'Haďti, the Carver family's business nucleus, was an imposing, cream-colored cube that might have been better suited for a library or a courthouse. It vaguely reminded Max of pictures he'd seen of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.

The bank was set back from the road, built on top of a gentle slope, and surrounded by an expanse of lush green grass. A sandstone wall ran around the building, topped with bright pink and white flowers half-hiding stiletto spikes and razor wire. A high metal gate stood between the bank and the street. Two armed guards sat on either side of it. One of them spoke into a radio when Chantale drew up, and the gate opened back from the inside.

"This is the special entrance," Chantale said as they drove in and started up a short path that split the surrounding grass into two squares. "Only the family, certain staff, and special customers are allowed to use it."

"Which are you?" Max asked, noticing a silver Mercedes SUV with tinted windows following them in.