Mr. Clarinet

He took a deep breath and tossed back the taffia. It hit the ends of his mouth like a firebomb and proceeded to burn its trail all the way down into his stomach.

The alcohol rush was almost instantaneous—the equivalent of five double bourbons on an empty stomach smashing into him all at once, filling his head with a dizzy euphoria. His vision blurred and swayed as his eyes tried to regain focus. Tears ran down his face and blood rushed to his head. His temples pounded. His nose dripped. The hit was like coke and amyl nitrate and smelling salts all rolled into one. Only he didn't feel remotely good. He gripped the bar but his palms were sweaty and his hands slid back. He felt a turbulence in his stomach. He breathed deep, smelling nothing but the taffia. What the fuck was he thinking drinking that shit?

"Bravo blan!" Désyr shouted and clapped his hands in front of him.

"Are you OK, Max?" Chantale said in his ear as she placed a steadying hand against his back.

"Fuck's it look like?" he heard himself think but not speak. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, and another after that. The air coming out of his mouth was hot. He repeated his breathing, keeping his eyes locked on Désyr, who was watching him with high amusement, no doubt waiting for him to keel over.

The nausea passed, as did the spinning in his head.

"I'm OK," he said to Chantale. "Thanks."

Désyr shook another cup at him. Max waved his hand no. Désyr laughed and spilled more capsized-train talk Chantale's way.

"He says you're not only the only white man who's ever drunk taffia without passing out—very few Haitians have ever managed it."

"That's great," Max said. "Tell him I'll buy him a drink."

"Thank you," Chantale said, after she'd asked Désyr. "But he doesn't touch the stuff."

Max and Désyr both laughed at once.

"Eddie Faustin drank here, didn't he?"

"Oui. Bien sűr," Désyr said, taking a bottle of Barbancourt from under the counter and pouring some out into a paper cup. "Before he died he drank more than usual."

"Did he say why?"

"He was coming to the end of his future and this made him nervous."

"He knew he was gonna die?"

"No. Not at all. He told me his houngan had predicted things for him—good things, women things," Désyr said, leering at Chantale and sipping his rum. He took a tobacco pouch out of his trouser pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. "He was in love with the blond Carver woman. I told him it was madness, impossible—him and her?" He struck a match on the countertop and lit it. "That's when he went to Leballec."

"This his hoone-gun?"

"He only deals in black magic," Chantale explained. "They say you go to him if you're ready to sell your soul. He doesn't accept cash like the other black magicians do—he takes…I don't know. Nobody knows for sure, except those who've gone to him."

"Did Faustin tell you what happened when he went to see Le—the hoone-gun?" Max asked Désyr.

"No. But he changed. Before he used to talk and laugh about old times. He used to play dominoes and cards with us, but not after he'd been to see Leballec. He'd stand where you are now and just drink. Sometimes he'd drink a whole bottle."

"Of that shit?"

"Yes. But it didn't affect him."

Max started to think that maybe the houngan had asked Faustin to kidnap Charlie.

"Did he ever talk to you about the boy? Charlie?"

"Yes." Désyr laughed. "He said the boy hated him. He said the boy could read his mind. He said he couldn't wait to get rid of him."

"He said that?"

"Yes. But he didn't steal the boy."

"Who did?"

"Nobody took him. The boy's dead."

"How do you know?"

"I've heard that he was killed by the people who attacked the car. They trampled him to death."

"No one found the body."

"Cela se mange," Désyr said and extinguished his cigarette by pinching the burning tip.

"What did he just say, Chantale?"

"He said…"

"Le peuple avait faim. Tout le monde avait faim. Quand on a faim on oublie nos obligations."

"He said…" Chantale began. "He said they ate him."

"Bull-shit!"

"That's what he said."

The taffia had filled Max's stomach and chest with a strong heat. He could hear the low murmur of digestive gases as they worked their way up his gut.

"This Le—"

"—Ballec," Chantale finished.

"This Le-Ballack? Where does he live? Where can I find him?"

"Far from here."

"Where?"

Another train accident, this one prolonged, because Chantale kept on either interrupting him or asking more questions. Max listened out for familiar words. Désyr said "oh" a few times, Chantale said something like "zur." Then he heard something he recognized.

"Clarinette."

"What did he say about clarinet?" Max interrupted them.

"He says you'll find Leballec in Saut d'Eau."

"The voodoo waterfalls?" Max asked. Where Beeson and Medd both went before they disappeared. "What about the clarinet?"

"It's a town—a small town—closest to the waterfall. It's called Clarinette. It's where Leballec lives. Faustin used to go there to see him."

"Have you heard of this place, Chantale?"

"Not of the town, but that doesn't mean anything. Someone sets up a home on a piece of land here, gives it a name, it becomes a village."

Max looked at Désyr.

"You told the others about this place, didn't you? The other blanks who came here?"

Désyr shook his head.

"Non monsieur." Then he chuckled. "I couldn't. They failed the taffia test."

"They pass out?"

"No. They refused to drink my drink. So I told them nothing."

"So, how come they went to So—to the waterfalls?"

"I don't know. I didn't tell them. Maybe somebody else did. I wasn't Eddie's only friend. Were they looking for Leballec?"

"I don't know."

"Then maybe they went there for another reason."

"Maybe," Max said.