So now, on the phone, the judge, suddenly inspired, was explaining to Mayor Fanfan what he had heard, that the blan were giving away motorcycles to rural elected officials, Honda 250cc off-road bikes, the kind with fat, knobby tires and a high wheelbase, just like they were giving vehicles to deputies and senators.
“That’s a beautiful machine,” the judge said, explaining that they had twenty of them just sitting on a lot behind the commissariat, waiting for the appropriate official to present himself with identification.
Mayor Fanfan makes a noise.
The judge said, “That’s what I’m saying. Maximilien Dorsainville, right there on the list, mayor of Les Irois.”
* * *
Soon there was an incident that made Terry appreciate with particular keenness the judge’s fine character. It consolidated the good impression the man had made on him. They were driving back from Dame Marie around dusk, just past Chambellan, where the mountains are high and lonely. An old man waved at them from the side of the road. Terry’s instinct was to keep going, but the judge said, “Stop a minute,” so Terry pulled over. A few minutes later Terry and the judge were in a smoky hut.
Terry could hardly see, it was so dark in there, and the occupants of the hut, perhaps a dozen men and women, were weeping and wailing so furiously that it took him a minute to realize that the little girl lying on a mattress in a dirty yellow dress was dead. She was no more than three years old. Terry looked at that girl and thought that no matter how a doctor might have diagnosed her death — malaria, typhoid, bad drinking water, or malnutrition — what she really died of was poverty, straight-out poverty. Her family didn’t have enough money to keep her alive, and she died. Terry had seen his share of death, but something in that hot little hut made him, ordinarily so cool in a crisis, want to vomit and run.
What settled him down was the sight of the judge, talking in his deep, calm voice with the family. He was respectful and grieving and solicitous. Terry couldn’t understand much of the language, but he figured out after a few minutes that the family couldn’t afford to bury their own little girclass="underline" not enough money for a coffin or a funeral or even to buy a little cement to build her a crypt in the backyard. Even her dress was old.
The judge told Terry to drive him down to Chambellan. The day was getting dark, and Terry didn’t like to be on the roads after sunset, but he didn’t say anything. In Chambellan, the judge asked a few questions, and before long he had ordered a carpenter to construct a coffin for the girl, paid for a funeral Mass, and bought three yards of good white cotton. Then he had Terry drive back to the family, and he explained what he had done.
The patriarch of the family insisted on giving the judge a basket of mangoes and limes, straight from his own trees. It was mango season, and there was more fruit than the family could eat. It was falling on the ground and rotting.
On the way back, Terry said, “You ever think that if the Sénateur wasn’t the Sénateur, someone else could get that road built?”
* * *
So the judge is telling Terry about the time last year the mayor of Jérémie shot a protester in the back, when the phone rings.
It’s Mayor Fanfan, wanting to know what he should do about his motorcycle just sitting there.
“Just one left now, Fanfan,” says the judge, winking at Terry.
He tells Mayor Fanfan that the mayor of Bonbon and the mayor of Pestel came by to pick up their bikes. Just Fanfan and Beaumont still on the outside looking in, and you know Beaumont coming in for that bike.
Mayor Fanfan tells Johel, long time he’s been riding the Camel while Député Aurélienne cruised back and forth from the capital in that sweet Pathfinder. Long time he’s been feeling that particular insult and ache. Leader of the people of Les Irois, his commune extending outward and upward into the hills, some of his own people not even knowing his face on account of a lack of appropriate transportation. What tears him up double inside, he says, like he’s been drinking Clorox and eating rocks, is the thought that all his brother mayors — the mayor of Anse-d’Hainault, the mayor of Dame Marie, the mayor of Chambellan, the mayor of Moron — they all going to get their motorcycles while he’s left riding the Camel, on account of this Macoute injustice that makes it impolitic and unwise for him to travel in his own country. Two things matter to the mayor, that’s what he always tells his constituents: dignity and justice. That’s what he fights for every day while serving the people. And where’s the dignity in riding the Camel? And where’s the justice?
Judge says he’ll make some calls.
Later that day, the judge calls back. It’s a problem, he’s not going to tell stories; it’s a big problem. They’re not going to give no motorcycle to just anyone who walks in off the street. No, sir, you can’t send your cousin. They want the mayor himself to sign for that motorcycle, watch a video on safety, fill out the forms. Uh-huh. Oui. Uh-huh. Fortunately, the judge is in the problem-solving, not the problem-making business. For a little consideration, he would be happy to assist Mayor Fanfan.
The mayor sends his cousin to Jérémie straightaway with the money, grateful that he has a friend, and Johel tells the mayor that he’s arranged everything. He’s going to send his mechanic out with the motorcycle the next day. Only the next day, the mechanic never shows. Not the day after that either.
The way the judge tells it later, Fanfan gets to calling multiple times every day. Fanfan’s got to thinking about that motorcycle so much he’s not thinking no more. Fanfan so mad, he could eat a chili pepper and shit flames.
Fanfan’s thinking that with a motorcycle like that, no more walking in the mountains, embarrassing himself like that. Now he can head up into the hills, visit his ladies, visit his kids in dignity. Fanfan is thinking that the development of his commune just starts with a motorcycle. You can’t be donating a motorcycle if you’re not donating money for petrol, maintenance.
He calls the judge up, says, “Where’s my motorcycle?”
Judge says, “That motorcycle, it’s got a problem with the tires.”
Only way a beautiful bike like that got a problem with the tires, somebody been riding it. Mayor Fanfan’s not dumb. Fanfan figures only person riding that motorcycle is the judge.
The judge is making excuses.
The judge is telling the mayor that the tires are okay now, but his mechanic has a fever, motorcycle just sitting in the judge’s house, waiting for the fever to break.
The next day the judge is telling the mayor that the bike has no gas, and there’s a gas shortage in Jérémie, no way to fill it up.
How much more I got to suffer, thinks Fanfan.
Mayor Fanfan looks on his Facebook and sees a photograph of Johel Célestin riding high and proud on a motorbike. Johel Célestin don’t even look like he know how to ride that bike, how you got to sit low and nice.
* * *
The story germinates, an idea blossoms. The idea gets tossed back and forth, those two guys on those long, bad roads, bouncing and jostling — they’ve already talked pussy and the four-seam fastball and love powder and pussy again, considered the effects of love powder on pussy — and the one guy says to the other, “You know, brother, I was serious what I was saying the other day. We could do this thing, we could get it done. Get that road built.”