Mr. Clarinet

"So what's the catch?" Max asked as they headed to the next floor.

"Catch?"

"The Carvers are businessmen. You don't give money away. What do you get out of it? It can't be publicity because you're too rich to care what people think about you."

"Simple," Carver said with a smile. "They finish their studies, they come and work for us."

"All of them?"

"Yes, we have many businesses—worldwide, not just here. They can work in the U.S., the U.K., France, Japan, Germany."

"What if they get a better offer elsewhere?"

"Ah—there's what you'd call a 'catch.'" Carver laughed. "From the age of sixteen all pupils at Noah's Ark sign a contract, stating that upon completion of their studies, they will either work for us until they have repaid our investment in them—"

"Investment?" Max said. "Since when's charity been about investing?"

"Did I ever say this was a charity?" Carver said.

Max heard English being spoken in a mixture of American and Franco-Haitian accents as they toured the next floor, looking into the classrooms, seeing the same model pupils.

"It usually takes a period of six to seven years to repay our investment—more for girls, eight or nine years," Carver said. "Of course they can simply repay us the full amount in one go and they're free."

"But that doesn't ever happen because where are they gonna get that kind of cash from?" Max said, anger in his tone and eyes. "I mean, it's not like they're like you, Mr. Carver? Born breathing in silver and gold."

"I can't help being born rich any more than they can help being born into poverty, Max," Carver replied, his thin lips smiling uneasily. "I understand your misgivings, but they're perfectly happy with the arrangement. We have a ninety-five percent retention rate. Take—for example—the person teaching here." He pointed to a petite, light-skinned woman in a roomy olive-green dress that seemed to have been designed with a monk in mind, so close was it to a habit. "Eloise Krolak. One of ours. She's the headmistress here."

"Krolak? Is that Polish?" Max asked, studying the headmistress a little closer. Her hair, pulled back in a severe bun, was black save a halo of gray at the roots. She had a small, protruding mouth and a slight overbite. When she spoke, she resembled a rodent gnawing at a piece of soft food.

"We originally found Eloise outside the town of Jérémie. A lot of the people are very light-skinned. Many have blue eyes like Eloise. They descend directly from a garrison of Polish soldiers who deserted Napoleon's army to fight for Toussaint L'Ouverture. Once they'd helped overthrow the French, Toussaint gave the soldiers Jérémie as a reward. They intermarried and produced some quite beautiful people."

With exceptions, Max thought, looking at the headmistress.

They moved on to the next floor. Carver showed them the mess hall and the staff areas—a common room and a variety of offices.

"Where do the kids sleep?" Max asked.

"In Pétionville. They're driven in every morning and taken home at the end of the day," Carver said. "This is the junior house. Up until twelve. There's another Noah's Ark on the next road."

"You only told me about the successful ones, right? The smart ones?" Max said.

"I don't follow."

"Your servants came from here too, right?"

"We can't all be high flyers, Max. Airspace is limited. Some of us have to walk."

"So, how do you separate them? High and low? Do the low walkers show an aptitude for shining shoes?" Max said, trying and failing to keep the indignation out of his voice. Here was a people whose ancestors had gone to war to free themselves from slavery, and here were the Carvers as good as putting them right back where they'd started.

"You're not from here so you don't understand, Max," Allain replied, an impatient edge to his voice. "We make a commitment to each and every one of these kids here for life. We look after them. We find something for them to do—something that suits them, something that earns them money, something that gives them dignity. The jobs we provide allow them to build or buy a house and some clothes, allows them to eat and have a better standard of living than ninety percent of the poor bastards you see in the streets. And if we could help all of them, believe me we would. But we're not that rich.

"You're judging us—this place—what we're doing—by your American standards—this empty rhetoric of yours—liberty, human rights, democracy. They're just empty words to you people. You talk of these things, yet blacks in your country only got the same rights as you less than forty years ago," Carver said, lowering his voice but driving his point home with well-aimed fury. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the sweat that had accumulated on his upper lip.