Mr. Clarinet

There was a freshness to the air, healthy nuances of oranges and wild herbs undercutting the smells of woodfires and cooking. In the background, over the hubbub of people going about their business, was the constant sound of the waterfall a few miles below, its great roar rendered as a persistent gurgle, water running down a drain.

They walked through the village, talking to people along the way. No one knew anything about Charlie, Beeson, Medd, Faustin, or Leballec. They weren't lying, as far as Max could see. Questions about Tonton Clarinette produced only laughter. Max wondered if Beeson and Medd had really come here, if Désyr hadn't deliberately misled them.

As they got closer to the church, they heard drumbeats coming from inside. Max sensed the rhythms going straight into his wrists, midtempo bass notes catching in his bones and creeping into his veins, getting in sync with his pulse beats before they eked down into his hands and fingers and moved up and down them, making him clench and unfurl his fists as though he had pins and needles.

The door to the church was padlocked. There was a notice board fixed to the wall, with a prominent picture of the Virgin Mary on it. Chantale read it and smiled.

"This place isn't what you think it is. It isn't a church, Max," she said. "It's a hounfor—a voodoo temple. And that isn't the Virgin Mary, it's Erzilie Freda, our goddess of love—our Aphrodite, one of the most exalted goddesses."

"Looks like the Virgin Mary to me," Max said.

"It's camouflage. Back when Haiti was a French slave colony, the masters tried to control the slaves by eradicating the voodoo religion they'd brought over from Africa and converting them to Catholicism. The slaves knew there was no point in resisting the masters, who were heavily armed, so they apparently went along with the conversions—only they were very cunning. They adopted the Catholic saints as their own gods. They went to church just as they were supposed to, but instead of worshipping the icons of Rome, they worshipped them as their own loas. St. Peter became Papa Legba,

loa of the lost, St. Patrick was prayed to as Damballah, the snake loa, St. James became Ogu Ferraille, the loa of war."

"Smart people," Max said.

"That's how we got free." Chantale smiled. She looked back at the notice board for a moment and then returned to Max. "There's a ceremony today at six. Can we stay for it? I want to make an offering for my mother."

"Sure," Max nodded. He didn't mind, even if it meant making the trip back to Pétionville in pitch darkness. He wanted to see the ceremony, just to satisfy his curiosity. At least he'd come away with something from this place.

They left the main village and walked east where two mapou trees grew, Max marveling at how tranquil and quiet the countryside was after the capital.

They came to a low, long, sandstone wall that had been abandoned before completion. The structure's south-facing end, had it been finished, would have given people on its upper floors a clear and spectacular view of the waterfalls a mile down.

"Who'd want to build here? It's out in the middle of nowhere," said Chantale.

"Maybe that was the whole point."

"It's too big for a house," Chantale said, following the wall with her eyes all the way back toward the mountains behind the village.

Both mapou trees were adorned with burned-out candle stubs, ribbons, locks of hair, pictures, and small scraps of paper with handwriting on them. A little farther on, a shallow stream trickled quietly down to the chasm of Saut d'Eau. It would have been an idyllic scene were it not for the two rottweilers playing right in the middle of the water.

Their owner, a short, thickset man in jeans and a crisp white shirt, was standing on the other side of the stream, watching both his dogs and Max and Chantale, seemingly at the same time. He was holding a Mossberg pump shotgun in his left hand.

"Bonjour," he called out. "American?"

"That's right," Max said.

"You with the military?" the man asked, a hint of New Jersey in his accent.

"No," Max replied.

"You visit the falls?" the man asked, walking along his side of the bank so he could face them. The dogs followed him up.

"Yeah we did."

"You like 'em?"

"Sure," Max said.

"Got nuttin' on Niagara?"

"I don't know," Max said. "Never been."

"There's some flat stones up ahead'll get you over this side without you needing to step in the water." The man pointed to some vague spot in the water. "That is, if you're meaning to come this way?"

"What's over there?" Max asked, not moving from under the shade of the trees.

"Just the French cemetery."

"Why 'French'?"

"Where the bodies of French soldiers are buried. Napoleon's men. See all this land? Used to be a tobacco plantation. There was a small garrison stationed back where the town is. One night the slaves rose up and took control of the garrison. They brought the soldiers here, right where you stand, between those two mapoux.