Mr. Clarinet

"So, let me get this right—Charlie told you—or his 'spirit' told you—what was wrong with him? Why he wasn't talking?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

"And what?"

"What was wrong with him?"

"I told his mother. As she hasn't told you, neither will I."

"It could help my investigation," Max said.

"It won't."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"It won't," Dufour repeated firmly.

"And his mother took your word for it? Whatever it was you claim Charlie told you?"

"No, like you she was skeptical. Actually she didn't believe me," Chantale said hesitantly now, her tone questioning and confused. What she was hearing made no sense to her.

"What changed her mind?"

"If she wants to tell you, she will. I'm saying nothing."

And Max knew he'd get nothing out of him, not this way. Whatever it was, Francesca or Allain Carver would have to tell him. He moved on.

"You said your 'spirits talked'? Yours and Charlie's? Do you still talk? Are you in touch with Charlie now?"

Chantale translated. Dufour didn't answer.

Max realized that he hadn't seen the maid leave the room. Was she in there with them? He searched the area in the direction of the door, but the surrounding darkness was too finite, too determined to yield no more than it had to.

"Oui," Dufour said finally, shifting in his seat.

"Yes? Have you talked recently?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"This morning."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes."

Max's mouth went dry. His excitement briefly dispelled all his doubts and disbelief.

"Where is he?"

"He doesn't know."

"Can he describe anything to you?"

"No—only that a man and a woman are caring for him. They're like his parents."

Max scribbled this down, even though he was recording their exchange.

"Does he say anything about where he's at?"

"No."

"Is he hurt?"

"He says he is being well looked after."

"Has he told you who took him?"

"You have to find out yourself. That's why you're here. That is your purpose," Dufour said, raising his voice, a hint of anger there.

"My purpose?" Max put down his notebook. He didn't like what he'd just heard, the arrogance of it, the presumption.

"Everyone is put on earth for a purpose, Max. Every life has a reason," Dufour continued calmly.

"And…so?"

"This—here and now—is your purpose. How things take their course is up to you, not me."

"Are you saying I was born to find Charlie?"

"I never said you were going to find him. That hasn't been decided yet."

"Oh? And who decides that?"

"We don't yet know why you're here."

"Who's 'we'?"

"We don't know what's keeping you here. With the others it was easy to see. They were here for the money. Mercenaries. Not right. But that's not what brought you here."

"Well, I ain't here for the climate," Max quipped, and then almost immediately remembered the dream he'd had in his hotel room in New York, where Sandra had told him to take the case because he had "no choice." He remembered how he'd weighed up what remained of his options, how he'd glimpsed his future, how bleak it had all seemed. The old man was right—he was here to rescue his life as well as Charlie's.

How much had Dufour already known about him? Before he could ask him, the old man started talking.

"God gives us free will and insight. To a few He gives a lot of both, to many He gives more of one than the other, and to most He limits what He gives. Those with both are aware of where their futures lie. Politicians see themselves as presidents, employees as managers, soldiers as generals, actors as superstars, and so forth. You can usually tell these people at the starting gate. They know what they want to do with their lives before they turn twenty. Now, how and when we fulfill our purpose—our 'destiny'—is a lot up to us and also a little out of our hands. If God has a higher purpose in mind for us and sees us wasting time with a lowly one, He will intervene and set us back on the right path. Sometimes it's a painful intervention, sometimes a seemingly 'accidental' or 'coincidental' one. The more insightful recognize His hand shaping their lives and follow the path they were meant to. Max, you were meant to come here."

Max breathed in deeply. The stench had gone and the sweet tang of lime was back. He didn't know what to think.

Stick to what you know, not what you'd like to know. You're investigating a missing person, a young boy. That's all that matters—what you're going after. As Eldon Burns used to say: Do what you do and fuck the rest.

Max took Charlie's poster out of his pocket and unfolded it on the table. He pointed out the cross scored in the poster's margins.

"Can you see this?" he asked Dufour, pointing to the marks.

"Yes. Tonton Clarinette. That's his mark," Dufour replied.

"I thought Ton Ton Clarinet was a myth."

"In Haiti all facts are based on myths."

"So you're saying that he's for real?"

"It is all for you to discover." Dufour smiled. "Go to the source of the myth. Find out how it started and why, and who started it."

Max thought of Beeson and Medd and where Huxley had told him they'd gone: the waterfalls. He made a note to talk to Huxley again.