Another moth flew into the bulb and dropped to the floor. Very soon after, Max heard another go the same way, and then, almost simultaneously, two moths smacked into the light and made it shudder and shake.
Désyr clapped a friendly paw on his shoulder.
"I like you, blanc, so I'll tell you this: if you go to Saut d'Eau, make sure you leave before midnight passes. White magicgood magichonest magic is done before midnight," he said, addressing Chantale directly. "Black magic is done after midnight. Don't forget it."
"Why are you helping me?" Max asked.
"Why not?" Désyr laughed.
Chapter 32
CHANTALE DROVE MAX to a café where she ordered a pot of strong coffee and a bottle of water. Over the next hour, he got himself sobered up and cleared the taffia from his head.
"You always so reckless? It could have been battery acid for all you knew."
"I'm the try-most-things-once kinda guy," Max said. "Anyway, why would he have wanted to poison me?"
"Bedouin Désyr? I wouldn't put anything past him. They used to call him 'Bisou-Bisou.' It literally means 'Bedouin Le Baiseur.' Bedouin The Stud. Only it wasn't meant the way you'd think. Back when he was a Macoute, Bedouin Désyr was a serial rapist. His thing was raping wives in front of their husbands, mothers in front of their children, daughters in front of their fathersthe age didn't matter."
"How come he's still alive? And out in the open like that?"
"Myths are stronger than death, Max. A lot of people are still terrified of the Macoutes," Chantale explained. "Very few of them were ever brought to trial for all the things they did. Even then they went to prison for a week and got let out. Some got killed by the mobs. But most of them just disappeared, went to another part of the country, went abroad, went to the Dominican Republic. The cleverer ones joined the army or hooked up with Aristide."
"Aristide?" Max said. "I thought he was supposed to be against all that."
It was now nighttime. They were the only ones in the café. The overhead fan was on and the radio was playing compas, loud enough to distract from the sounds spilling in from the street outside and the creaking blades beating at the dead hot air inside. Right in between the music and the sidewalk hubbub, Max heard the familiar exploratory rhythms of the drums starting up in the mountains.
"That's how he started out," Chantale said. "I believed in him. A lot of people did. Not just the poor."
"Don't tell me." Max smiled. "Us evil racist white Americans decided we didn't want another Commie on our doorstepespecially not a black oneso we had him overthrown."
"Not quite," Chantale retorted. "Aristide turned into Papa Doc quicker than it took Papa Doc to turn into Papa Doc. He started sending the mobs around to beat up or kill his opponents. When the papal nuncio criticized what was going on, he had him beaten up and stripped naked in the street. That's when people decided enough was enough, and the army took overwith the blessing of President Bush and the CIA."
"So what's Aristide doing back here?"
"Bill Clinton had a reelection this year. In 1993, barely a year into his first term, he'd messed up big time in Somalia. His approval ratings took a dive. America suddenly looked weak, vulnerable. He had to do something to get his credibility back. Restoring a president deposed by a coup seemed like a good idea. America as champions of democracyeven if it was Aristidethe third Duvalier in waiting," Chantale explained. "They've got him on a leash now, so he'll have to behave himself until Clinton's gone. Then who knows? Hopefully I'll be far away from here," she said, looking out on the street where a UN car had stopped and the driver was handing out cartons of cigarettes to someone on the street.
"Where are you planning on going?"
"Back to America, I suppose. Maybe I'll move to L.A. Nothing left for me in Florida," Chantale said. "What about you? What'll you do when you've finished here?"
"I don't have the faintest idea." Max laughed.
"Thought of moving on yourself?"
"What? Like to L.A.?" Max looked at her and met her eyes. She looked down. "L.A. ain't my scene, Chantale."
"I thought you said you were the try-most-things-once kind."
"I know L.A." He laughed again. "Did a few cases out there. Hated it every time. Too sprawled out, disconnected. Worked twice as fast so I could get out fast. Movies, résumés, head shots, tit jobs, and bullshit. Everyone tryin' to crawl through the same hole. Lots of people gettin' left out. Victims and broken dreams. I've got that kind of shit at homeonly there I actually feel sorry for some of them. Their hard-luck stories change a bit every time. In L.A. they're all reading off the same page. You're better off staying here if you're gonna move there."
"I'm not staying here a second longer than I have to." She shook her head.
"That bad?"
"No, but not much better." She sighed. "I had happy memories of growing up here, but when I came back whatever I'd known was all gone. I guess I had a happy childhood. Made coming back here as an adult that much harder, disappointing."
A couple walked in and greeted the waiter with a handshake. First-to third-episode daters, Max decided, still checking each other out, circling, everything formal and polite, timing the move. They were in their late twenties, well dressed. The guy ironed his jeans and the woman had just bought hers or only wore them on special occasions. They both sported polo shirts, hers turquoise, his bottle-green. The waiter showed them to a corner seat. Chantale watched them with a wistful smile.
"Tell me about Faustin's hoon-gan."
"Leballec?" she said, lowering her voice. "First up, he's not a houngan. Houngans are good. Leballec is a bokora black magician. He's supposed to be as powerful as Dufour, but a hundred times worse.
"You know, in life, certain things aren't meant to happen to you. Say you're in love with someone who just doesn't want to know, or you really want a job you can't havedisappointments, things that don't go your way. Most people shrug their shoulders and move on to the next thing. Here people go to their houngan or their mambo. They look into the future and see whether or not the person's desires are going to be fulfilled for them. If they're not, the houngan or mambo might try to fix itas long as it's not going to alter the direction of the person's life. But a lot of things you want but can't have are just not meant to be."
"So they go to Le Balack?"
"His kind, yes. They call them 'Les Ombres de Dieu.' God's shadows. Those who walk behind God, in the dark, where He doesn't look. They give you what you're not supposed to have," Chantale whispered, looking fearful.
"How?"
"Remember what Dufour told you about black magic? How they use children to fool your guardian angels?"