Cemetery of Swallows (4 page)

In the middle of the hall, the superintendent's eyes make a slow, discreet panoramic survey to locate a store specializing in things for the tourist who lacks foresight. There is none. He sees nothing but bodies that are moving slowly because of the heat: a two-year-old child wearing camouflage clothing, a giant bent down like a question mark, dyed animals, heavily-laden tourists, and then, here and there, men in uniform sporting revolvers and mustaches. Blue caps, riot guns, colonial kepis, Kalashnikovs . . . there are watchmen, private security men,
turistos
, municipal police, vigilantes, national police in blue shirts, forest guards assigned to protect the island's vegetation,
testas negras
, rather like the French riot police, but more tropical, and finally policemen in gray uniforms, wearing American-style caps, whose exact function is not known to anyone.

The superintendent will have time to realize that democracy always has trouble “taking” in countries that have been too long drained by colonialism, socialism, or a good old family dictatorship.

Often all three of them at once.

 

In the pink-sided glass passport-control booths, pairs of officials with dark skins were concentrating so as not to think about anything. It's a whole art. With half-closed eyelids and pouting lips, they waited to seize the official scrap of paper and, without even checking to see what was written on it, tore it in half and gave the traveler, who was in the last stage of exhaustion, a completely illegible copy. Then they opened the passport and, with a majestic gesture of authority, slammed a stamp on a blank page in a ritual tattooing that was the final act of the initiatory ceremony of welcome.

Jiménez and Cabral reappeared on the other side of the booths and signaled to Mallock that he should join them. Amédée passed in front of the passport-control men without any of them asking him anything at all, or even deigning to glance at this guy who was crossing the broad yellow stripe symbolizing their sacrosanct border.

Tómalo suave
, a translation of the American “keep cool,” was the country's official motto, and it was clear that everyone was following it to the letter.

The two policemen with their big mustaches were waiting for him with a big, empty baggage cart. Amédée had a little difficulty in making them understand that he didn't have any baggage. Most of the gringos landed with loads of luggage, not to mention those who were going to the Amber Coast with enormous silvery bags containing one or two sailboards. In the carry-on bag he was rolling behind him, Amédée had managed to stuff his aluminum cell phone, a Nikon Coolpix, an iPod, a bunch of extra underwear, and the strict minimum of lightweight shirts, his toilet and medicine kit, which even included, at Julie's insistence, sunblock, a powerful mosquito repellent, and two little plug converters for American outlets.

Then he looked at his hosts more carefully.

Jiménez was dressed in civilian clothes. Pants and shirt in unbleached linen, his white hair clashing violently with the color of his skin, which was completely black. He was as short and thin as his sidekick was tall and stocky. Cabral, whose skin was much lighter, was wearing a uniform that looked like that of the regional police: white shirt with a captain's epaulets and navy blue pants. Through the shirt Amédée could see a T-shirt bearing the word
Cabarete
inscribed in a circle on a big blue wave from which a windsurfer was taking off. On his feet, Cabral wore heavy black high-top shoes. Finally, held under his left arm, a white, colonial-style cap intended for traffic police added a pleasant exotic touch to the uniform.

Despite what morphopsychology might have suggested, it was the little skinny guy, all dried up and somber, with his snow-white hair, who proved to be the most easygoing. Mallock, in accord with his old habit, nicknamed him Cappuccino.
El capitán
Ramón seemed to either have a stick up his ass or a terrible horror of gringos who thought they could just come into his territory and tell him how to do his job. His beige skin and plumpness won him the sobriquet Double-cream.

Cappuccino and Double-cream would be the two victims of the same loss of income. Every day they spent taking care of the gringo would be so much time lost for the rackets they and their men ran on tourists alongside the island roads, systematically but genially. This pastime, curious but inoffensive, was in fact part of the policemen's compensation. The government hadn't raised their salaries in years, but had unofficially authorized them to exploit the country's new natural resource: the “gogo-bobo-gringo.”

“My hotel is in Puerto Plata, right?” Mallock asked, in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

“Puerto Plata is
mierda
, and Sosúa, the closest village, is
mierda de mierda
. . . ”

Seeing the dark look given him by Ramón, who didn't like his boss to talk about their country that way, Mallock decided to reply with a simple “Is that right?” whose intonation, simultaneously interrogative and doubtful, even reproachful, was there only to signify his surprise, and, consequently, to imply the high opinion he had of this superb republic.

The result went beyond his hopes. Ramón lowered his guard and went so far as to hold out his arm to offer to carry Mallock's bag. Mallock refused and dealt him the final blow by saying:

“
Muchas gracias
, Señor Ramón,” which completely won over
el capitán
. Which just goes to show that in life, sometimes it takes very little to spare yourself problems, the wise Amédée told the hotheaded Mallock.

 

Once they had left the airport and its air-conditioning, a great draft of the Caribbean filled the Parisian superintendent's lungs. It was hot and humid, almost oily, and he wondered with concern whether this atmosphere had enough oxygen in it to keep him alive. For the moment, he doubted it did.

“Don't worry, you'll quickly get used to it . . . ”

Jiménez and his perfect teeth were amused to see the French supercop breathing with the gracious ease of a fish on the deck of a boat.

“It'll be better on the
otro
side of the island. We've reserved
uno
big penthouse in Cabarete, on the Amber Coast. Very good spot for windsurfing, so much more air for you.”

Double-cream Cabral, annoyed by Jiménez's gobbledygook, finally decided to speak up himself. A marvelous surprise: he spoke perfect French, which was probably why his superiors had selected him for this assignment. However, he had a curious accent that took Mallock a while to identify. At first he thought it was American-influenced, but then realized that it was more like a Canadian accent. The higher-ups must have figured that it would be easier for the superintendent-commander from Paris, and that it would also help them keep a closer eye on him. Mallock decided to be careful when he was using the telephone.

“Your countryman murdered
el comandante
Darbier on my territory, the north coast of the island, between Sosúa and Cabarete,” Ramón explained. “More exactly, halfway between Caliche and Punta Goleta.”

He belched and went on: “We call that part of the country the Amber Coast. Over there you'll feel much better, there are winds that constantly blow in off the Atlantic. Here you're in the worst of the Caribbean mugginess, the Tropic of Cancer.”

“How far is it?”

“About four hours, at least one of which is just getting out of Santo Domingo. Then we take the Duarte
autopista
that runs along the central mountain range. Up there you'll see how beautiful our country is.”

That was a criticism of his superior. They'd reached the police car, which was painted sea-green with white, black, and white stripes.

“Did they tell you that I have to stop at the French consulate to finalize Gemoni's repatriation?”

“Yes,
edificio
Heinsen, 353 Washington Avenue.
Allez, en route
,” Cappuccino Jiménez said, proud to show that he knew French, too.

As he got into the front seat, Mallock said
Vamonos
! in the same convivial and resolutely cosmopolitan spirit.

In the Dominican Republic, traffic greatly resembles a gigantic bumper-car game, with only two rules: force your way through, whatever it takes, and full speed ahead between the enormous potholes while trying to avoid, if possible, hitting other vehicles or being hit by them. And also push your luck, there being an impressive number of accidents on the island.
Guaguas
, community taxis, small motorcycles, Japanese cars, and big Mack trucks engage in a kind of joust punctuated by the regular use of the horn. People honk to draw attention to themselves, to intimidate their adversaries, to say hello, to tell off another driver, or for no reason at all. In fact, one can drive without headlights, without brakes, and with tires that have been repeatedly patched up by one of the many
gomeros
who specialize in unauthorized recaps. The only thing that can keep a vehicle off the road is a dead motor, or worse yet, a broken horn.

The enormous fuzzy dice attached to the rearview mirror were swinging violently back and forth. Sitting in the suicide seat, Mallock spent the first half hour automatically braking with his right foot while nervously pointing out the various obstacles to a beaming Jiménez.

“Here,
ça passe ou ça casse
, as you French say,” the
comandante
said jovially.

There was no doubt that this little bumper-car game and the effect it produced on the big superintendent from Paris greatly amused Jiménez. Then Mallock resigned himself to his fate, wondering only if he'd thought to update his last will and testament, and if he had, where he'd stashed it.

George Washington Avenue ran quite close to
el mar de las Antillas
, as the Caribbean is called there. When they arrived in front of the imposing Heinsen building, with its tall columns of pink marble, Mallock, his legs shaking, left the two policemen in the cool of their air-conditioned car and plunged again into the tropical steam bath. Once he'd crossed the sidewalk, he was delighted to find that the building's lobby was also air-conditioned. The concierge told him where to go, pointing with a dirty finger to the elevator door. The French embassy occupied the third floor, and the ambassador, Jean-Pierre Delmont, had a huge air-conditioned office that looked out on the sea.

He was a tall, gaunt man with silvery hair. He wore an expensive suit with custom-made Italian shoes, a tasteful silk tie, and a crocodile-leather belt. He came up to Mallock to shake his hand. His smile smelled of shaving soap, tobacco, and cologne. At the end of his arm, like a bouquet, his hand with slender, frequently manicured fingers. Mallock shook it with his big paw.
Another pampered desk jockey
, he thought.

But he was wrong.

Watch out, Commander Mallock
, Amédée whispered,
it's not a crime to have an ugly or a handsome face, the great river of acrimony flows over the shallows of “bitterness.”

In fact, Ambassador Delmont knew his trade well and practiced it perfectly. After the usual courtesies—polite inquiries as to how his trip had been, “You must be tired after such a voyage, Superintendent,” initial commentaries and advice concerning the climate, flattering remarks on Mallock's fame, etc.—Delmont had the excellent idea of suggesting that they have some Lagavulin: two inches of it in a glass filled with ice cubes. The diplomat hardly had his whiskey in his hand before he got to down to business:

“I think you've understood the situation as well as I have. The immediate repatriation to France is explained and justified chiefly by the state of Manuel's health. He is not in danger of dying, but here, on this marvelous island, the longer your ‘stay' in a hospital, the greater the chance that you'll stay there permanently. Sepsis is as common here as flu is at home. That said, the carelessness of their medical system and the obvious incompetence of their doctors are the last arguments to give if you want to get somewhere with the Dominican authorities. They get angry at the smallest perceived slight. Let's just say that their insular sensitivity is as stupid as our European arrogance.”

Mallock smiled with approval.

“Here, like everywhere, whites and natives are not prepared to speak openly to each other, Superintendent. And fortunately, because otherwise, what would I be doing here? So you'll have to indulge in a little flattery and smile more than you initially planned, if you don't find that too unbearable?”

Even though he was a professional diplomat, the man went to the heart of the matter with great clarity and without the slightest dissimulation. Fine, Mallock would do the same.

“I get the message regarding repatriation, but I'd also like to be able to gather the maximum amount of information in preparation for the trial.”

Delmont set his empty glass down on the table. “It seems there's no doubt about Manu's guilt, and I'm sorry about that. He himself admitted the facts in my presence, and there are seven witnesses, three of which are credible.”

The affectionate use of the diminutive “Manu” made Mallock think that the diplomat had taken his job seriously. He must have met with Manuel Gemoni several times. Delmont continued:

“So, for your investigation I hope you will verify the most important points, interrogate the witnesses, but proceed no further once you've covered the essence of the case. The local authorities could dig in their heels and Manuel would be lost. I've seen that happen almost every day, and with two bullets in his body, I can tell you that he won't long survive the not-very-hospitable hospitality of their hospital.”

Delmont had his own peculiar sense of humor. Semantic.

“Darbier's bodyguard was restrained by the villagers, otherwise he would certainly have finished him off. I'm sure that in Paris they'll know how to treat him and save his life. Whereas here, with those wounds, he's as good as dead.''