The object of the DG’s labors, and the proximate cause of his corruption, was the education of his three sons. Enrico, the eldest, was now in his second year of medical school at Stanford, while Luciano, the middle boy, slender and intellectual, had been accepted at Swarthmore. The youngest boy, fourteen-year-old Placido, showed promise as an oboist and attended a Florida music academy. Etienne Brutus thought about school fees and tuition very nearly every waking moment. The DG began each day by telephoning all three boys in succession and then in the evening called them again.
All three boys were in the United States on student visas.
* * *
At 11:14 the judge receives a call from Senator Oxblood. He retires to the bedroom, closes the door behind him.
At 11:36 Johel walks back into the room.
He looks at Terry, sitting in the chair by the window; at Nadia, sitting on the couch.
“Well?” Terry says.
The judge doesn’t say anything. His face is cadaverous, sober. He walks into the bathroom. Terry can hear water running. Terry looks at Nadia: she is staring at a point on the wall. Terry doesn’t see where this is going to go now. There is no higher court of appeal than Oxblood — the ultimate arbiter. The judge is out. Terry starts to wonder what’s going to happen to him and Nadia now, him and Kay now. His Mission is over.
Nadia is thinking of a place in the mountains where she likes to go, a little spring and brook. There the ladies from the village wash clothes and tell stories about the men they’ve loved. She’s thinking of the golden watch glinting in the streambed, of bathing the baby in the cold, sparkling waters. Now there’s no place else to go.
The judge comes back into the room. His face is gleaming with water.
“You want to know the strangest thing?” he says. “It turns out that Charles Oxblood’s kid was once the Florida state spelling champion. He competed for the national title and lost. That’s what we talked about for twenty minutes — what a thrill that was.”
“That’s all?” said Terry.
“You can’t imagine what that is for a young kid, that kind of attention.”
“A lot of pressure, too,” said Terry.
“All those lights, all those people — you’d forget how to spell your own name.”
“Especially if you spell it all weird, the way you do.”
Johel puts on his tie. He’s a Windsor man. Only when the knot is centered on his shirt does he turn back to Terry and Nadia.
He says, “He’s making a statement at noon. It’s already prepared.”
“C’est vrai?” says Nadia.
“And he’s going to write a letter to State.”
“How did you do that?”
The judge smiles, all teeth.
* * *
At twelve o’clock, as promised, the office of Senator Oxblood released the text of his letter to the secretary of state:
The Honorable Secretary of State
Department of State
Washington, DC 20520
Dear Madam Secretary:
When I was in Haiti recently, I heard many people remark that the Haitian people deserve a government that cares more about the people than about itself. I could not agree more. As if Haiti did not have enough problems, now, once again, those in power there are trying to subvert the will of the people.
The Haitian Electoral Council’s unexplained exclusion of fifteen legitimate candidates from parliamentary races is alarming. Haiti’s future depends on a Parliament that is recognized as legitimate. Given the support the United States has provided to the government and people of Haiti in this election and the failure to promptly remedy this apparent fraud, I am writing to urge the department to take appropriate steps to convey our concern. By suspending direct aid to the central government and visas for top officials and their immediate family members, the United States would be sending that message. It is critical that the outcome of the electoral process is recognized as free and fair by the international community and, most important, by the Haitian people.
The United States must come down squarely in support of the Haitian people’s right to choose their leaders freely and fairly.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Charles Oxblood
Chairman
State and Foreign Operations Subcommittee
* * *
The SRSG was in his office that afternoon when the ambassador called. He was not displeased to hear from her. He enjoyed the sound of her voice; had she been a younger woman, he might have courted her.
“Anne, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.
The ambassador had a womanly laugh, and she knew the effect it had on men. It was her secret weapon. It was somewhere between a giggle and a moan: it suggested a hidden reservoir of pleasure.
“Dag, you’ve seen the way things are going,” she said.
“To my surprise — and at my age, I very rarely say that.”
“Chuck Oxblood has taken an interest, it seems.”
“I wish he hadn’t.”
“I’ll grant you that it’s unfortunate, Dag, but that’s the world we live in.”
She told the SRSG that she has had her staff prepare a list of visas for suspension. The secretary of state needed something to show Senator Oxblood as soon as possible.
“It’s budget time in Washington. We’re not going to cross the chairman on this one. If it matters to him—”
She let the sentence dangle.
“And what can I do for you, Anne?”
But he knew the answer to his own question. The embassy wanted him to talk to DG Brutus. They wanted his fingerprints on the knife protruding from DG Brutus’s back. And what choice did the SRSG have, really? You can’t cross State and aspire one day to be deputy secretary-general of the United Nations. That simply isn’t realistic.
* * *
The SRSG called around sunset with an offer: DG Brutus had agreed to “review” the exclusions if Johel would get his guys out of CEH headquarters. The embassy would hold off on suspending his sons’ student visas.
It was Nadia who insisted that they go out dancing, Johel and Terry both being steak-and-a-bottle-of-wine kind of guys. But she winked and pouted at both of them until they relented. They ended up at one of the big dance halls in Pétionville. Nadia danced first with Terry and then with Johel as the threesome drank their way steadily through a bottle of Barbancourt. Everyone in the club recognized Johel. His appearances on television had made him famous, and all night long, strangers came up to him and offered him a drink or clapped him on the shoulder or asked if he’d found his “lost goat.”
While Johel circulated through the crowd, Nadia danced with Terry. She felt as light in his arms as a sparrow, but a childhood spent hauling water had given her shoulders and back a surprising hardness. He stood half a head taller, and he could brush her hair, arranged in cornrows, with his chin. He could feel her small breasts press against him, and her dress seemed to his hands as if it were made of gossamer: he took pleasure in the warmth of her body through the fabric. He had never wanted a woman more. He said, “I love you.” He had never said this to her before, but as soon as the words escaped his lips, he knew it was the truth. He wasn’t sure if Nadia heard him over the loud music, but she seemed to press her fragile body closer to his, as if in response. He thought that after the election, anything was possible.