Free Dancing in the Baron's Shadow by Fabienne Josaphat

Haiti, he would have to be smarter than that.

SIX
    T he couple that hailed him on the Bicentennaire wharf was laden with souvenir bags brimming with wooden sculptures and hats.
    â€œHoliday Inn, please!” the man declared, squeezing his frame into the small backseat.
    In the rearview mirror, Raymond caught a glimpse of their milky arms and necks, now red from sunburn.
    â€œHoliday Inn, Champ de Mars!” Raymond confirmed as he stepped on the gas.
    â€œYes, and doucement,” the man pronounced with awkward inflection. “Take your time, we like to look out the window. Understand? Drive slow? Please?”
    â€œThe scenic route then,” Raymond said.
    They were American, a rare breed these days, and a blessing. Americans weren’t visiting as much, and the hotels were barely scraping by. Raymond recognized the language, of course, and he understood it some, but he didn’t speak much. His favorite tourists were the Scots, though he had no idea where Scotland was located. He liked the lilting brand of English they spoke. It was endearing and friendly, what little he understood. The French were easier for Raymond to understand, and he could answer in short, broken French phrases. With Americans, Raymond felt at ease. They appreciated a good time, at the disco orthe brothels, and most days he was happy to drive slowly for them. But today, driving extra slow probably wasn’t wise. Nor was speeding. He’d gone out this morning with his heart in his throat, checking his mirrors for incoming Macoutes, his head scrunched down between his shoulders. The facts were simple and conflicted: in order to avoid the possibility of being recognized and arrested, he needed to not drive the cab until he could change the plates and possibility repaint it. But unless he drove the cab, he’d never be able to afford to do those things. As usual, Raymond didn’t really have much of a choice.
    At least the Americans were a welcome surprise. The only time Raymond felt like he had any inkling of power was when he had foreigners in his car. Foreigners found Haiti special and intriguing. They peppered him with questions about poverty and politics, thrilled by their own boldness. Raymond knew corners of the city the tour guides didn’t dare visit, and he made sure his passengers got an eyeful of the real Haiti. So what if it was just an exotic diversion, a spectacle of wealth, poverty, beauty, decay, and chaos that they put into their scrapbook of world travel? So what if he let their imaginations run wild as he drove them through slums and alleyways? Why not razzle-dazzle them if it was a way to share forbidden knowledge with the outside world?
    The tourists he drove now wanted to see the sapphire sea unfurl as they left the cruise port behind. But he wanted them to see Haiti as a living entity, not a tropical getaway. When he’d arrived in the city twelve years ago, Raymond sensed that his talent for navigation would save his life and quickly turned from fixing cars to driving them. He’d watched from behind his windshield as Port-au-Prince morphed from a quiet, peaceful, prosperous city into a buzzing beehive, and now he knew the city as well as a professional guide. In better days, when Magloire was still president and the tourists still came, he would marshal his limited English to teach them all about this small, complicated world. And earn extra tips for his family, he thought,Yvonne’s thin face in his mind’s eye. But today, with these Americans, Raymond didn’t have it in him. He still trembled when he thought of the Macoutes, how he’d almost left his children fatherless, his wife destitute.
    Raymond picked up a little speed. He needed to make as much money as he could before curfew. Plus, driving too slowly might call the attention he so feared. Still, he didn’t drive as fast as he wanted to, knowing that his passengers needed time to ogle exotic paintings and leather