Mischa Berlinski - Peacekeeping

Senator Oxblood sees Destiny’s photograph as he drinks his morning coffee with Madame Oxblood. There is a power in a perfect photograph like nothing else. The flower of anger blossoms in the senator’s soul. Manipulated elections. Corruption. Sometimes the senator wonders what the hell the point of it is if he can’t do some good now and again. The damn country can’t catch a break. Ivy League — educated reformer illegally eliminated by a drug-trafficking socialist — and guess what side of the fence the pussies at State were on. Nothing enrages Senator Oxblood quite like the pussies at State. Secretary of Pussy. Undersecretary of Pussy. Department of Pussy. Same as it ever was.

* * *

Had life meted out its rewards in proportion to talent, Etienne Brutus would not have been the directeur générale of the CEH, responsible for the integrity of Haitian democracy, a burden that would have crippled a far more competent man. Strangers would not have approached him on the street and begun to bah .

No, had life slotted Etienne Brutus into the role he was meant to play in the vast drama of Haitian life, he would have been sous-chef in a hotel kitchen: not creative enough to set the menu nor charismatic enough to lead, but competent with a knife, a man who followed orders gladly and was willing to work hard. In addition, he was passionate about sauces. His ability to produce a decent meal was one of precisely three things in which he took pride; the others were his loyalty to his patron, the president of Haiti, and the umbrella of loving protection he offered his three sons.

Etienne Brutus’s career had been facilitated by his late wife’s cousin, now the president of Haiti. On her premature deathbed, Madame Brutus had exacted a vow from her husband — that he would not touch another drop of liquor until the last of their boys had completed his education — and she exacted a reciprocal vow from her cousin, that he would facilitate the boys’ rise in society. Neither man dared violate a promise to the dead. And so it was that this mild, colorless, sober figure rose under the president’s tutelage through diverse bureaucratic ranks, displaying himself always the most loyal of servants. He had been the president’s man in the Ministry of Finance, in the Ministry of Ports, and in the Ministry of Agriculture. Now he was head of the CEH, the other members selected by him with the same attention to obedience that he offered the president. He had accepted the Sénateur’s bribe only after confirming that his action in no way displeased his patron. The president liked Sénateur Bayard and so permitted the transaction to proceed — although if the president or DG Brutus had been asked to identify the judge in a photo array or to explain in what way the judge offended electoral law, both men would have been at a loss.

The object of the DG’s labors, and the proximate cause of his corruption, was the education of his three sons. Enrico, the eldest, was now in his second year of medical school at Stanford, while Luciano, the middle boy, slender and intellectual, had been accepted at Swarthmore. The youngest boy, fourteen-year-old Placido, showed promise as an oboist and attended a Florida music academy. Etienne Brutus thought about school fees and tuition very nearly every waking moment. The DG began each day by telephoning all three boys in succession and then in the evening called them again.

All three boys were in the United States on student visas.

* * *

At 11:14 the judge receives a call from Senator Oxblood. He retires to the bedroom, closes the door behind him.

At 11:36 Johel walks back into the room.

He looks at Terry, sitting in the chair by the window; at Nadia, sitting on the couch.

“Well?” Terry says.

The judge doesn’t say anything. His face is cadaverous, sober. He walks into the bathroom. Terry can hear water running. Terry looks at Nadia: she is staring at a point on the wall. Terry doesn’t see where this is going to go now. There is no higher court of appeal than Oxblood — the ultimate arbiter. The judge is out. Terry starts to wonder what’s going to happen to him and Nadia now, him and Kay now. His Mission is over.

Nadia is thinking of a place in the mountains where she likes to go, a little spring and brook. There the ladies from the village wash clothes and tell stories about the men they’ve loved. She’s thinking of the golden watch glinting in the streambed, of bathing the baby in the cold, sparkling waters. Now there’s no place else to go.

The judge comes back into the room. His face is gleaming with water.

“You want to know the strangest thing?” he says. “It turns out that Charles Oxblood’s kid was once the Florida state spelling champion. He competed for the national title and lost. That’s what we talked about for twenty minutes — what a thrill that was.”

“That’s all?” said Terry.

“You can’t imagine what that is for a young kid, that kind of attention.”

“A lot of pressure, too,” said Terry.

“All those lights, all those people — you’d forget how to spell your own name.”

“Especially if you spell it all weird, the way you do.”

Johel puts on his tie. He’s a Windsor man. Only when the knot is centered on his shirt does he turn back to Terry and Nadia.

He says, “He’s making a statement at noon. It’s already prepared.”

“C’est vrai?” says Nadia.

“And he’s going to write a letter to State.”

“How did you do that?”

The judge smiles, all teeth.

* * *

At twelve o’clock, as promised, the office of Senator Oxblood released the text of his letter to the secretary of state:

The Honorable Secretary of State

Department of State

Washington, DC 20520

Dear Madam Secretary:

When I was in Haiti recently, I heard many people remark that the Haitian people deserve a government that cares more about the people than about itself. I could not agree more. As if Haiti did not have enough problems, now, once again, those in power there are trying to subvert the will of the people.

The Haitian Electoral Council’s unexplained exclusion of fifteen legitimate candidates from parliamentary races is alarming. Haiti’s future depends on a Parliament that is recognized as legitimate. Given the support the United States has provided to the government and people of Haiti in this election and the failure to promptly remedy this apparent fraud, I am writing to urge the department to take appropriate steps to convey our concern. By suspending direct aid to the central government and visas for top officials and their immediate family members, the United States would be sending that message. It is critical that the outcome of the electoral process is recognized as free and fair by the international community and, most important, by the Haitian people.

The United States must come down squarely in support of the Haitian people’s right to choose their leaders freely and fairly.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Charles Oxblood

Chairman

State and Foreign Operations Subcommittee

* * *

The SRSG was in his office that afternoon when the ambassador called. He was not displeased to hear from her. He enjoyed the sound of her voice; had she been a younger woman, he might have courted her.

“Anne, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

The ambassador had a womanly laugh, and she knew the effect it had on men. It was her secret weapon. It was somewhere between a giggle and a moan: it suggested a hidden reservoir of pleasure.

“Dag, you’ve seen the way things are going,” she said.

“To my surprise — and at my age, I very rarely say that.”

“Chuck Oxblood has taken an interest, it seems.”