Mischa Berlinski - Peacekeeping

Nadia had just completed her set and was relaxing with the band when a shadow loomed across her table.

“Madame Johel,” the Sénateur said. “I salute you.”

The Sénateur bowed low, and his callused hand took her fingers and raised them to his lips. He spoke to her so softly that although she shared her table with a half dozen men, only she could hear him.

“Would you do an old man the honor of accompanying me on the dance floor? You must not refuse me! My heart is weak.”

She felt herself being lifted out of her chair. A hand materialized on her back. The Compas is not a complicated dance, a sinuous one-two rhythm, bounced along by limitless energy and a suggestive sashaying of the hips, but in the wrong hands (those of the judge, for example) it could be a tedious affair. The Sénateur, however, danced very well, not taking the vulgar liberties younger men took when they danced with her, but holding her close and maneuvering her with facility and grace.

He never stopped talking.

“Madame, I will not tell you — I would not wish you to report this to your husband! — the admiration — the trance that your remarkable eyes have cast over my soul. Be discreet! I have too many enemies already! Let this be our secret.”

He spun her in a half circle. She could feel the strength in his arms and hands.

“Do you know when I last saw eyes such as yours? She was the great love of my life — she was my nursemaid — I could have been no older than six — and I knew love such as I have never known before or since. And after a lifetime of wandering, hoping, and despair, those eyes have returned to me!”

Nadia said nothing as the Sénateur spoke, but it would be a lie to say that dancing with the man was unpleasant. Pressed up against his chest, she could smell the soap in which his white shirt had been laundered and his cologne, the clean, sharp, musky smell of a man who liked women. He guided her around the dance floor, the other couples clearing space for them. Sometimes — it was not the first time — when she was closest to the Fear, she felt it least intensely. She could not lie. Some part of her longed for the Fear.

They were done dancing, and the Sénateur led Nadia to a table in the back. The Sénateur had his private table in every nightclub in the Grand’Anse, all of them, like this one, out of sight and recessed from public view, where he met with important men and sat with pretty women. The Sénateur prepared drinks, pouring heavy shots of thick, molasses-like rum into two tall glasses, the ice heaving and cracking like ships pulling on ropes, then adding half a bottle of good Haitian Coca-Cola, which fizzed and crackled over the glass’s rim. He gestured to Pierre and said, “Bring me a lime and a knife.” Nadia admired the way Pierre sprang to attention. After a moment, Pierre came back with three small limes and a butcher’s knife. The Sénateur cut the lime into wedges — Nadia felt droplets of juice on her forearms — and squeezed them into the drinks. He took a tall spoon and stirred the glasses, the ice rattling the concoction. Then he handed Nadia her glass.

“Santé,” he said.

“Santé,” Nadia said.

They touched their glasses rim to rim.

After all the dancing and singing in the sultry heat, Nadia was thirsty. She drank greedily. She could remember being carried by her uncle as a child, going home from the market on long mountain paths, drifting in and out of sleep as he marched steadily upward. These were some of her earliest memories. She had no say in where she traveled: she had yet to even possess the capacity for words. She was in the grip of someone more powerful than she was. There was no question of resistance.

The drink went swiftly to her head. She looked around and saw that in this private area of the nightclub there was only the Sénateur and his strongmen. She started to stand up, and the Sénateur’s hand was on her forearm.

“Finish your drink,” he said.

His light touch coaxed her back into her chair. The feel of his hand dissipated her skittishness. The Sénateur was talking about his childhood, and then, to her surprise, she was talking also: the Sénateur had coaxed words out of her. “Child, how long were you on the other side of the water? When did you come home?” She enjoyed the feel of his strong hand on her arm, the intensity of his stare. Here was a man who understood her, who needed no complicated explanations. The Sénateur poured her another drink.

“So you’re with Juge Blan?” he said.

“He’s not blan .”

“He’s not from here,” the Sénateur said.

“His ancestors are my ancestors,” she said loyally.

The Sénateur put his hand on hers and held it tight.

“This is a Haitian hand. This hand cut cane. This hand held a machete. What kind of hand does the judge have?”

She thought of the judge’s hands, soft like butter in the sun.

The Sénateur answered his own question. “ Blan hands.”

“Gentle hands,” Nadia said.

The Sénateur put his hand on her thigh. She was wearing a dress that she wished were longer. He rubbed her thigh with his thick thumb, and she felt the Fear flicker inside her. He leaned in close, and she could smell his cologne, his hair oil, his breath, rich with rum and mint. Now she felt her heart trembling. In the market Nadia had seen the marchandes slit the breasts of the butchered animals, and she could see the young beasts’ hearts trembling. Now she felt as she did when Baron Samedi slid down the poteau-mitan and wandered the dance floor, selecting this one, selecting that one, to be his concubine for the night. The Sénateur’s rough hand moved up her thigh. She could not get away from him.

“I spent my nights at the Hotel Patience also,” the Sénateur said. “Beautiful nights I would wish to stay private.”

Her breath was nervous as the Sénateur’s thumb caressed her thigh.

“Tell your husband something for me,” he said.

Now the Sénateur’s hand was higher. She felt his hand at her center, pressing against her, inside of her.

The Sénateur said, “I am a rooster. Is Juge Blan a rooster too?”

Nadia was aware of everything and nothing. Her soul was fleeing her body. She saw a woman trembling and the Sénateur leaning over her, his hand between her legs.

The Sénateur repeated, “Is your husband a rooster too?”

She shook her head. Her hips moved back into her chair: she ground against his long fingers. He was inside her. The music in the room was louder. She felt beads of sweat on her back. She could only feel the Sénateur’s fingers and hear his voice. The Sénateur leaned back. He smiled at her — a gentle smile. She saw her dampness on his fingers. The Sénateur put his finger in his mouth and tasted her. Then he reached for his drink.

“Madame Johel, here’s a lesson in politics for your husband. Tell him losers have no friends. Tell him he wants to fight the roosters, he better win. He seems like a nice boy, your blan . But he’s no rooster. Tell him to leave rooster business to the roosters.”

* * *

Nadia went back to the judge the next day. Now the Fear was very close. The thought of the Sénateur’s hands on her thigh or probing inside her nauseated her.

It was then that she began to beg the judge to abandon his political plans. She had not thought much about them before: they had been to her like his regular proposals to lose weight. These projects had foundered on shoals of deep-fried plantains or guacamole rich with garlic and onions, strips of goat meat sautéed in oil.

But now she heard his voice and heard “road” and heard “election” and heard “democracy” and heard “the people’s will” and heard “Mandela” and heard “Martin Luther King” and heard “freedom,” and Nadia felt the Sénateur’s fingers like cold snakes sliming the inside of her thigh. She thought of what would happen if the judge learned about the Hotel Patience: he would put her out. Then she would be alone in the high mountains with the loup-garou and the hunger, rain coming, nothing to eat and no place to go. That was the place where the Baron came hunting.