Mischa Berlinski - Peacekeeping

“And that would be on account of…”

“… Monsieur le Député taking the tires off his car and selling them,” said Johel.

“Naturally.”

“So the député has those bad boys on and off who knows how many times, when another député from up north confronts him on the floor of the Chambre des Députés. He’s waving receipts at him like they’re winning lottery tickets.”

The judge tells Terry that the député from Jérémie responded as any man whose dignity has been outraged should: he took his pistol out from under his suit coat and took a shot at his accuser, right there on the spot. He was standing, the judge indicated, about two meters away. Nevertheless, he missed, plugging a clerk of the chambre in the shoulder.

An investigation conducted by the leading members of the chambre ensued. These men were of the same political party as the député . They concluded that the shooting was accidental.

“What kind of country are you people running here, brother?” Terry asked.

The judge put on a four-hundred-dollar-per-hour face. “I’m quite sure that the député had no intention of shooting the legislative clerk in the shoulder.”

The conversation might have continued on considerably longer had Mayor Fanfan not telephoned. “Reach out to the man, you never know,” Terry had said. “Make him think you want to be his friend.” So the judge had sent Mayor Fanfan a Facebook friend request. Soon the judge and the mayor were talking most every day, trading text messages, laughing at each other’s bons mots, the judge clicking “Like” in response to Mayor Fanfan’s daily prayer.

And what you have to appreciate is that Haiti is a nation tête en bas , all upside down. What would have been strange in Haiti — not unheard-of, just a little off — would have been if a man in the judge’s position was not interested in doing a little commerce with a man like Mayor Fanfan. Terry understood that Haiti, end of the day, is all one big family: any two Haitians can talk things over, come to an arrangement. What’s that they say? All veins are made for blood. Friend and enemy were labile categories in Haiti. Friend & Enemy, Good & Evil, Alive & Dead: all like the thick, tangled vines that make up the mapou tree, can’t take one without the other. One day the judge wants to arrest you, says nasty things about you; the next day, he’s your friend. That’s no craziness. What wouldn’t have made sense is the judge just sitting there in Jérémie, brooding over that dossier like a fat hen.

So now, on the phone, the judge, suddenly inspired, was explaining to Mayor Fanfan what he had heard, that the blan were giving away motorcycles to rural elected officials, Honda 250cc off-road bikes, the kind with fat, knobby tires and a high wheelbase, just like they were giving vehicles to deputies and senators.

“That’s a beautiful machine,” the judge said, explaining that they had twenty of them just sitting on a lot behind the commissariat, waiting for the appropriate official to present himself with identification.

Mayor Fanfan makes a noise.

The judge said, “That’s what I’m saying. Maximilien Dorsainville, right there on the list, mayor of Les Irois.”

* * *

Soon there was an incident that made Terry appreciate with particular keenness the judge’s fine character. It consolidated the good impression the man had made on him. They were driving back from Dame Marie around dusk, just past Chambellan, where the mountains are high and lonely. An old man waved at them from the side of the road. Terry’s instinct was to keep going, but the judge said, “Stop a minute,” so Terry pulled over. A few minutes later Terry and the judge were in a smoky hut.

Terry could hardly see, it was so dark in there, and the occupants of the hut, perhaps a dozen men and women, were weeping and wailing so furiously that it took him a minute to realize that the little girl lying on a mattress in a dirty yellow dress was dead. She was no more than three years old. Terry looked at that girl and thought that no matter how a doctor might have diagnosed her death — malaria, typhoid, bad drinking water, or malnutrition — what she really died of was poverty, straight-out poverty. Her family didn’t have enough money to keep her alive, and she died. Terry had seen his share of death, but something in that hot little hut made him, ordinarily so cool in a crisis, want to vomit and run.

What settled him down was the sight of the judge, talking in his deep, calm voice with the family. He was respectful and grieving and solicitous. Terry couldn’t understand much of the language, but he figured out after a few minutes that the family couldn’t afford to bury their own little girl: not enough money for a coffin or a funeral or even to buy a little cement to build her a crypt in the backyard. Even her dress was old.

The judge told Terry to drive him down to Chambellan. The day was getting dark, and Terry didn’t like to be on the roads after sunset, but he didn’t say anything. In Chambellan, the judge asked a few questions, and before long he had ordered a carpenter to construct a coffin for the girl, paid for a funeral Mass, and bought three yards of good white cotton. Then he had Terry drive back to the family, and he explained what he had done.

The patriarch of the family insisted on giving the judge a basket of mangoes and limes, straight from his own trees. It was mango season, and there was more fruit than the family could eat. It was falling on the ground and rotting.

On the way back, Terry said, “You ever think that if the Sénateur wasn’t the Sénateur, someone else could get that road built?”

* * *

So the judge is telling Terry about the time last year the mayor of Jérémie shot a protester in the back, when the phone rings.

It’s Mayor Fanfan, wanting to know what he should do about his motorcycle just sitting there.

“Just one left now, Fanfan,” says the judge, winking at Terry.

He tells Mayor Fanfan that the mayor of Bonbon and the mayor of Pestel came by to pick up their bikes. Just Fanfan and Beaumont still on the outside looking in, and you know Beaumont coming in for that bike.

Mayor Fanfan tells Johel, long time he’s been riding the Camel while Député Aurélienne cruised back and forth from the capital in that sweet Pathfinder. Long time he’s been feeling that particular insult and ache. Leader of the people of Les Irois, his commune extending outward and upward into the hills, some of his own people not even knowing his face on account of a lack of appropriate transportation. What tears him up double inside, he says, like he’s been drinking Clorox and eating rocks, is the thought that all his brother mayors — the mayor of Anse-d’Hainault, the mayor of Dame Marie, the mayor of Chambellan, the mayor of Moron — they all going to get their motorcycles while he’s left riding the Camel, on account of this Macoute injustice that makes it impolitic and unwise for him to travel in his own country. Two things matter to the mayor, that’s what he always tells his constituents: dignity and justice. That’s what he fights for every day while serving the people. And where’s the dignity in riding the Camel? And where’s the justice?

Judge says he’ll make some calls.

Later that day, the judge calls back. It’s a problem, he’s not going to tell stories; it’s a big problem. They’re not going to give no motorcycle to just anyone who walks in off the street. No, sir, you can’t send your cousin. They want the mayor himself to sign for that motorcycle, watch a video on safety, fill out the forms. Uh-huh. Oui. Uh-huh. Fortunately, the judge is in the problem-solving, not the problem-making business. For a little consideration, he would be happy to assist Mayor Fanfan.