Mr. Clarinet

"What did you do next?"

"I went back to the car. It was overturned. The street was empty. There was blood everywhere."

"How badly were you hurt?"

"Just concussed. A few bruises, a couple of cuts. Rose was dead. Faustin was gone. And so was my little boy," she said, lowering her head.

She started crying. Silent, rolling tears first, then sniffles, and finally the deluge.

Max paused the tape and went to the bathroom and fetched some toilet tissue. He gave it to her and sat and watched as she cried herself dry. He held her and it helped her get through the worst. He didn't mind her so much now, and he was sure she wouldn't mind him much now either. She had no choice.

"Let me fix us some coffee," Francesca offered, standing up.

He sat back and watched as she took a steel percolator and a round metal tin from one of the row of glass-fronted cupboards running along the wall over the sink. The kitchen was painted a glossy cream-yellow, easy to wipe clean.

Francesca added bottled water and coffee to the pot and put it on the stove. She went to another cupboard and pulled down two cups and saucers. She wiped the insides of the cups with a dishcloth she found on top of the fridge. She seemed to be enjoying herself, as a tiny smile made its way to her lips and lit up parts of her eyes while she busied herself. Max supposed she missed a life without servants.

He looked at his watch. It was now four-fifteen. It was still dark outside but he could hear the first birds of morning chirruping in the garden, competing with the insects. Chantale was due at the house at eight. Too late to go bed. He'd have to skip sleep.

The coffee brewed with a low whistle. Francesca decanted it into a thermos pot and brought it over to the table with the cups, saucers, spoons, a jug of cream, and a bowl of sugar all on a tray. Max tasted the coffee. It was the same stuff he'd had at Carver's club. Probably the family's homegrown brand.

They sat in near silence. Max complimented her on the coffee. She smoked first one then another cigarette.

"Mrs. Carver—?"

"Why don't you call me Francesca?"

"Francesca—what were you and your son doing going to Port-au-Prince that day?"

Max lifted the pause button on his tape recorder.

"We had an appointment."

"Who with?"

"A man called Filius Dufour. Well, no ordinary man, a houngan—a voodoo priest."

"You were taking Charlie to see a voodoo priest on his birthday?" Max said, sounding more surprised than he actually was. The local religion was well entrenched in the Carver household. He remembered how defensive of it Allain had been.

"I'd been taking him to see Filius once a week every week for six months."

"Why?"

"Filius was helping us—Charlie and me."

"How?"

"How long have you got?"

"As long as you need," Max said.

Francesca checked Max's watch. Max inspected the amount of tape in his machine. It was a two-hour cassette, almost through on the first side. He fast-forwarded it and turned it over. He hit RECORD as soon as she started speaking.

"Charlie was born in Miami on September 4, 1991. One of the nurses screamed when she saw his face. It looked like he'd been born with a pitch-black caul, but it was only his hair. He was born with it all, you see. It sometimes happens.

"We came back to Haiti three weeks later. The country was then run by Aristide—a kind of mob rule masquerading as a government. A lot of people were leaving. Not just the boat people, but the rich, all the business brains. Gustav insisted on staying put, even though Aristide had twice singled us out in public speeches as white people who'd 'stolen' everything from the poor black Haitians. Gustav knew Aristide was going to get overthrown. He was friendly with some of the military and he was just as friendly with some of Aristide's key people."

"He gets around," Max said.

"Gustav subscribes to the 'Keep your friends close, your enemies closer' maxim," Francesca said and then met his eyes and held them for a moment. Max sensed her probing him.

"Aristide was overthrown on September 30," she continued. "Gustav threw a party that night. Aristide was meant to have been assassinated, but there was a change of plan. It was a happy party, nonetheless.

"Charlie was christened a month later. I knew something wasn't right with him from the very beginning. When I was a teenager I babysat my nephews and niece when they were babies and they were very different from Charlie. They were responsive. They recognized me. Charlie wasn't like that. He never looked at me directly. He never seemed particularly interested. He never reached out to me; he never smiled. Nothing. And—here's the odd thing—he didn't cry."

"Not at all?"

"Not ever. He made sounds—baby sounds—but I never heard him cry. Babies cry all the time. They cry if they wet themselves or poo themselves. They cry when they're hungry. They cry when they want your attention. Not Charlie. He was very very quiet. Sometimes it was like he wasn't there.

"We had a doctor checking up on him every week or so. I mentioned it to him, the boy's silence. He joked and told me to make the most of it, that it wouldn't last.

"But, of course, it did. Allain told me not to worry, that Gustav himself didn't start talking before he was almost four."

Francesca stopped and lit another cigarette. Max was getting used to the smell.

"Actually, I say Charlie wasn't responsive, but he always smiled at Gustav. And I heard him laugh too whenever the old man pulled faces at him or tickled him. They had a real bond. Gustav was really really proud of Charlie. He always made time for him. Took him with him to the bank a few times. Sat with him at night, fed him, changed him. It was very touching, seeing them together. I'd never seen Gustav happier. He isn't too good with his other grandchildren. Not as attentive. Charlie's his only grandson. I think he wants to die safe in the knowledge that the family name will be preserved, live on. He's old-fashioned, but this whole country isn't much more advanced than him."

Max poured himself another cup of coffee. The first had chased the tiredness out of his bones and out from behind his eyes.

"So, this—Charlie's condition—was playing on your mind when you went to see the voodoo priest? It wasn't about you at all, was it? It was about your son. You thought something was wrong with him, so you took him to the priest for an opinion?"

"Yes and no. It's not quite like that. Charlie had a thing about his hair…"

"I saw the picture," Max said shortly. "Him in that dress."

"He wouldn't let anybody cut it…"

"So your husband explained," Max said disgustedly.

"We really had no choice. People were making Charlie's life a misery."