Dr. Philistin wondered how the Sénateur and his English yams would navigate their way through two rounds of fierce campaigning should the Sénateur fail to win a majority in the first round; and given Andrés Richard’s support, along with the defection of Père Samedi, it was hard to imagine the Sénateur winning outright in the first electoral turn. Even as the judge’s financial position had solidified, the Sénateur’s had weakened: with the mayor of Les Irois in prison, the river of money that flowed from Colombia to the Cold Land had shifted course to the Département de Sud, where the Sénateur and the people of the Grand’Anse were not in a position to profit. Perhaps, Dr. Philistin reckoned, the Sénateur’s energy and money would tide him over for the first round. But a second round of campaigning would double his expenses.
By long-standing convention, the men did not discuss politics until they had arrived at the digestif. They traded recollections of their youth and discussed literature. Both men felt the absence of Père Samedi keenly. The Sénateur was drinking an aged sipping rum, thick like syrup, full on the palate, a belly warmer of a rum.
“It is an insult,” he finally said.
“Have you met this judge?”
“He speaks with an accent.”
“But he’s popular.”
“If I give a child nothing but bonbons and chocolate, I will be popular. But it will not produce a healthy child. We have yet to arrive, Doctor, at the stage of social evolution where our citizens are able to discern a true friend from a friendly face. I will never cease to be amazed at how devious, how cynical our enemies are.”
The Sénateur swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
“I tell you now, Doctor, I would welcome retirement. If a suitable man were to oppose me, I would gladly step aside. I have a little piece of land near Dame Marie, and I can see in my mind’s eye a cottage with a garden. I would grow bananas and paint, and in the afternoons I would nap. Do you know, my friend, the last time that I permitted myself the luxury of an afternoon nap?”
Dr. Philistin said, “You’re not obligated to fight this election.”
Maxim’s eyes narrowed to slits. His face colored.
Dr. Philistin could read the Sénateur’s thoughts. Other men of the sénat, even men of lesser stature, hardly bothered to campaign, so assured were they of their constituents’ devotion. The Sénateur was sure that he would be in this position also, had this foreigner, this blan, this intriguer not arrived.
There was something unseemly about the endless traipsing on the hustings. He had done so much already. Hadn’t he brought in the Cuban doctors? Was he not responsible for the solar streetlights in so many villages, which allowed the village children to study at night? The fishing boats at Dame Marie were his creation, the dispensary in Beaumont, the corn mill in Carrefour Charles. To how many of his citoyens had he offered his personal assistance? The line of peasants outside his door was proof that he lived his creed: a man of the Grand’Anse had only to give his hand in friendship to the Sénateur to receive an embrace. Dr. Philistin knew that the Sénateur believed himself to be more than a mere politician: he was the creator of a social system. He had found a way to transform the isolation of the Grand’Anse to wealth: men and women merely had to ask him for assistance, and money that would have otherwise lingered in the Cold Land was theirs.
Dr. Philistin stared at Maxim’s face as it hardened into resolution. He had not understood his friend’s mood. What had seemed indecisiveness was merely a moment of reflection. What had seemed exhaustion was a husbanding of strength. What had seemed defeat was a prelude to victory.
There comes a time in a statesman’s career, the Sénateur told the doctor, after so many trials and such great successes, when it was appropriate, dignified even, that he stand before his public and, like a father to his wayward children, declare, “Take me as I am: you’ll find none better. No man will ever love you more. We are as one, my children — joined in heart and soul. I am your voice and you my lungs. I merit your fidelity and you merit my leadership. Together we shall endeavor onward!” That was all the campaign a great man required.
The Sénateur’s glass was empty. He gestured to the waiter to bring him another. The Sénateur seemed restored to vigor. He sat tall in his seat, his face flushed with color. Then he explained his plan to Dr. Philistin.
Perhaps, Dr. Philistin thought, there was something to the English yam after all.
* * *
Dr. Philistin told me that he and the Sénateur stayed up late that night planning the campaign to come: what towns and villages were vulnerable, who remained solidly in the Sénateur’s camp. Where the traitors were likely to be hiding. Who was faithful, and who was weak. How much support could they count on from the president. What would be the role of the scoundrels in the United Nations Mission? Money: Could they count on the usual arrangements? Were additional funds necessary?
At the conclusion of the evening, the Sénateur took his old friend’s hand. The Sénateur was a larger man than Dr. Philistin, and his thick, callused paw swallowed up the doctor’s wiry fingers.
“Mon vieux, I have been haunted by a dream. I am standing on a hillside watching birds fighting. What could such a dream mean?”
“I’ve never understood dreams,” murmured Dr. Philistin.
“I have understood the dream to mean that there are perils ahead. It is for this reason that I wish to ask you an immense favor. I have been to a lawyer and prepared a final testament. May I mention you as a legatee?”
Dr. Philistin was shocked. He loved the Sénateur, but he had not realized that the Sénateur loved him also.
“I would be honored,” he finally said.
I watched Dr. Philistin stand up from the couch where we had been sitting. He told me that the Sénateur had bequeathed him Michel Dumartin’s final painting, the last in the triptych Andrés Richard so fervently coveted. The first painting had depicted the realm of the underworld, the second terrestrial life. This painting portrayed Paradise.
This was a landscape of heaven. It looked a lot like Haiti, a place of color, light, and shadow. Heaven was a banquet, a table so long it curved around itself like a snake. You could have spent all day looking at that painting, picking out the faces, identifying those lucky enough to eat from the good Lord’s pigs, yams, crabs, and mangoes. A dark-skinned Jesus sat at the head of the table, laughing uproariously at the story Moses was telling. All manner of saints and prophets were eating and drinking, slapping each other on the back, flirting and kissing, dancing to the music of angels, and enjoying a nice long break from all the troubles they had endured below. Adam and Eve were fighting, and I figured out why: Adam’s hand was on Erzulie’s behind. Children played under the big table; a few of them were dancing on top of it. Toussaint L’Ouverture was in the crowd, being served his plate by Napoleon Bonaparte. The table was long enough for ordinary people too, and after staring awhile, I saw the lady who hacked up my goat meat, and the motorcycle taxi drivers who camped out on the Place Dumas, and Micheline, the woman who squeezed our juice. The only face I couldn’t find in that crowd was mine.
3
I was drinking my juice and watching a spider devour a fly when Toussaint Legrand showed up one sultry August morning. I had harbored an ambition of working that morning, a project not compatible with the presence of Toussaint on my terrace. I could smell the stench of Lightning, Toussaint’s new cologne, at once spicy and sweet and altogether nauseating. I tried to ignore him in the hope that he would grow bored and go away. I got up and fetched myself another glass of juice, not offering him one. He stared at me somberly. The spider had completed its breakfast, and now it settled into immobility. I picked up my book and began to read, but the words refused to form sentences. When I looked up, I noticed glistening teardrops rolling down Toussaint’s cheeks. Toussaint in tears made me think of ice cream on the sidewalk, the last day of summer, and the mocking laughter of pretty girls.