Bay of Souls

12

THAT AFTERNOON Lara and Roger drove over to the Bay of Saints to visit the lounge and try to get a measure of the situation. The only guest in the hotel was an elderly Dutchman named Van Dreele who had observed the elections for the European Union and was following through with a report on their general effects. Van Dreele always stayed at the Bay. It was far from the capital at Rodney and mainly lacked the working faxes and armies of rent-a-cops available down there. But the food was good and Van Dreele had his own reliable sources of information. Every second day he would be driven the length of the highway in one of the blue and white UN cars to have a look at the capital and the lay of the land between. It was easier to sort things out at the Bay.

When Roger and Lara arrived at the hotel patio they found Van Dreele busily lining up his apéritifs. He had been in Rodney the day before, and all morning e-mails had been arriving threatening his life.

"Threats here used to come with a headless rooster in a burlap bag," he told Lara. He was taking lunch in flip-flops and an outsized yellow bathing suit. "Now one gets an e-mail."

"Which is worse?" Lara asked him.

"Harder to delete a chicken," Van Dreele said, stroking his tragicomic mustache. "Of course things were more prosperous then. No one has roosters to spare these days."

"Is Social Justice going to take over?"

"Junot and the Americans. This time they'll make the vote stick. But the junta will do what they always do."

"And you'll stay through it all?" Lara asked. She restrained a lick of his wild white beachcomber's hair. Sunbleached locks fell over his wide forehead.

"Anyhow, I'm too old to be afraid. This is what I tell myself."

"Don't take them personally," Lara said.

"They're against my person," the Dutchman said.

The threats promised what was piously called in Haiti, whence the style had originated, "Pére Lebrun," and involved being burned alive. It was hard to be dismissive of them at any age, and Van Dreele was a brave man. Some said he had made it his business to atone for the Dutch at Srebrenica.

Madame Robert, a local woman who had progressed from assistant chambermaid to housekeeper, came over to tell them that the press would be visiting. A young American reporter named Liz McKie, a Miami feature writer and specialist on the area, had made a reservation and hoped to join them.

"McKie?" Lara asked. "Isn't she the one we don't like? Did you know she was coming?"

Roger nodded.

"Miss McKie and the Bay are not friends," he said. "However, she's the companion of Eustace Junot."

She tried without success to call Junot from memory, but he had left St. Brendan's before her time, a scholarship winner, packed off to prep school in the States.

"Eustace is the man charged with Americanizing the Defense Forces. So turning his good friend away is not the thing. Anyway," Roger said, "you may find her fun."

"I find her attractive," Van Dreele said. "I tried to hire her as an assistant, but unfortunately Eustace found her. He's going to be our local André Chénier. Toussaint. Bolívar. She will commit it all to history."

"I suppose we don't have to comp her?" Lara asked. "She's not a travel writer."

Roger shook his head. "On the contrary. We set them up for Miss McKie."

Lara thought about it. "You know," she said, "Francis has a way of undercooking goat that's really disgusting. Maybe we should gut one in her honor."

"Francis's goat is lovely," Roger declared, "and I'm going to miss it. No, Miss McKie is a fucking ascetic. She gets too hungry for dinner at eight. She stays in the lowest hippie hovel in Rodney. Freddy's Elite."

"All the hip white kids used to stay there."

Roger nodded bitterly. "I should know, sweetheart."

"No kidding, Rog. You picked up white boys at Freddy's? That's a switch. Who paid?"

"Sometimes," Roger said with a sigh, "the trade was distinctly rough."

"At least," Lara said, "she didn't invite us there."

Van Dreele stood. They could hear a car pulling up in the hotel's turnaround.

"I don't want to talk to the press," the Dutchman said. "And McKie is a minefield. By the way," he told them as he went out, "Junot's secured Rodney and the whole south part of the island. His troops will be up here in a few hours and they have some American support units. Also Special Forces with the forward elements."

"That means," Roger said, "we'll have a lot of hungry ex-soldiers up this end of the island. This is where they'll hide out." He waved cheerfully to Miss McKie, who was coming up the stairs. "We've got to get over to the lodge and get this over with. Things are coming unraveled on this island republic."

Lara gripped the table. "We have to get there by nightfall," she told Roger. "For retirer."

"I've hardly forgotten," Roger said. "We'll deal with McKie and go."

She meant the ceremony for John-Paul.

Miss McKie had worn khakis and sandals to join them, along with a navy blue T-shirt and a knit sweater against the night breeze. She was pretty; her slim neck and delicate features made her look like a dancer, but she was not tall. The candlelight at the table suited her. She appeared very much at home, which was not what Lara had expected.

"I'll never recover from the beauty of this place," McKie said. "I won't forget it."

"And now," Roger said, "you have attachments here. The Caribbean moon makes all irresistible." He was referring to Eustace Junot.

"I understand your father was Roger Hyde, the novelist," McKie said quickly. "That true?"

Roger smiled as though he were listening to something far away, hearing different words.

"All that old-time swashbuckling stuff, right?" McKie persisted. "The gallant South. But you didn't live here or in the States?"

"We lived in Cayoacán," Roger said. "Down the street from Trotsky."

McKie gave him a long-toothed smile. Then she turned to Lara, looking her over somewhat impolitely.

"I understand you teach political science at Fort Salines, Miss Purcell."

"Call me Lara."

"Do you deal with the modern history of this island? The corruption and poverty?"

"I'm afraid we can't stay long, Liz," Lara said. She brushed her shoulders and tossed her head as if she were cleansing herself of Liz McKie's effrontery. "We haven't time for the grand historical questions."

"My questions," McKie said, "are all about modern history. Independence to the present. May I ask a few?"

"We're afraid," Lara said, "your close connection in the Social Justice Party — and the Defense Forces — would shade your interpretation. And we have an engagement tonight."

"Actually," Roger interrupted, "if I were you, I would get back to my friends."

"We inherited a historical situation here," Lara said. "We all did. Everyone. We're in business here, we have been for two hundred years. We pay a decent wage for a day's work. Higher than any of the offshore American or European companies."

"Is it true that you're involved in moving drugs to the United States?" Liz McKie showed the same smile.

"There's never been a drug case connected with St. Trinity," Roger told her. "Not one. All local business people are accused of it. Whereas American-owned companies are said to be pure. Why is that?"

"Informed people say it. They say there's a political dimension."

"Do you want to stay here for the night?" Lara offered. "The roads will be troublesome if you're traveling after dark."

They got her in her car and under way. Her driver was one of Junot's American-trained soldiers, and he looked worried as he drove out of the hotel's turnaround. Miss McKie sat in front, beside him.

"A stupid waste of time," Roger said when they too were back on the road. "We've got to get the shipment out whether the Colombians have arrived or not. The pilot's been standing by."

"Waiting for darkness," Lara said. "Same fellow I came in with?"

"Truly," Roger said, "I try not to distinguish one from the other."

"I won't ask you about drugs," Lara said.

"You needn't. People don't understand how it is."

"No?"

"You know," he said when they had left the road and were struggling along rainforest track, "we also have a reputation for not moving drugs. At least we used to. We're in the arts business primarily. People ask us about emeralds."

When the quick darkness fell, the drums began.

"I'm hopeful, you know," Lara said. "I have a blessing and I'm determined that nothing go wrong."

Manhandling the wheel, Roger glanced over at her and smiled.

"What?" she asked.

The drums were louder and closer. They heard the ogan, the metal roarer, lay down a commanding beat and the other drums fell into line around its tempo.

"You're so like him."

"Ah," she said happily. "Twins in the mysteries."

"I hope nothing goes wrong," Roger said. "I hope you see him."