Foreigners (8 page)

The men turned away before we gained the ridge. Once we reached the crest, I saw them standing a short distance away, waiting for us to follow. They led us along a path that seemed to simply open up before them: a hole in the foliage that even in the clear light of day would have been obvious only to those aware of its existence. In the grimy twilight I could see no farther than the man directly in front of me, but he did not appear at all devilish. He was slight in build, almost femininely narrow through the shoulders, and wore ragged khaki trousers, the loose-fitting cotton blouse common among the peasant class and a wide-brimmed straw hat. His bare feet made a faint slapping sound as he moved across the moist ground. In all aspects he appeared inconsequential, and I began to wonder if the frightening tales about the villagers of Ascension were not just the product of ignorance. After all, they had not harmed Marlowe on his journey here.

I caught wind of the village before I actually saw it. The familiar aroma of burning charcoal, still the chief cooking fuel used on the island. When Ascension appeared, it did so in the same manner as the four men and their hidden path: as if from the very ether. The village was quite literally cut from the jungle. Situated on a narrow plateau, it consisted of thirty-odd squalid adobe huts, each with a corrugated-iron roof, and was hemmed in on all sides by the great, dark walls of the jungle.

We stopped on the edge of the village, and what I saw before me lightened my heart. It was a picture of community I'd not yet witnessed on the island. Around the open cooking fires, which perfumed the air now with the scent of frying plantain and papaya, women in richly coloured cloth headdresses idly chatted while tending to the flames. And children, unafraid
of the coming night, ran carefree between the huts, chasing one another and laughing loudly. On the far side of the village a group of men were gathered beside the wall of a hut, playing a game whose object I could not divine. A cheer rose from their midst, after which handshakes were exchanged. Apparently, no one was bothered by our presence.

I turned to Mathieu, wanting to tell him that all his worry had been for naught, but the look on his face stopped me cold. There was a fear in his eyes so acute, so consuming and so seemingly at odds with our surroundings that I began to shiver. Mathieu offered no resistance as the slender man in the straw hat stepped forward and relieved him of his machete. Then another of the men, one I'd not taken much notice of until then, tall, with a thick neck and dead eyes, stepped toward me.

I watched, as if merely a bystander, as he raised his club high into the air and brought it down fiercely upon my head.

“He really oughtn't to have hit you so hard.”

It was Marlowe's voice that brought me round. I could see sunlight through the door of the hut. I was laid out on a straw mat, felt the cool, earthen floor beneath me. My head hurt a great deal, and I was nauseated. There was something sticky in my hair. Then a cold cloth was pressed against my forehead and I heard Marlowe's voice again.

“I've dealt with the man that struck you,” he said. “He's been properly punished, though I don't think he meant you any real harm. Still, what's done is done.”

It was dark inside the hut, and the air smelled foul. I must have made a face, because Marlowe said, “I'm afraid that's
down to you, James. You made quite a mess of yourself last night. I'll have one of the women wash out your trousers.”

After he spoke, I could feel someone tugging at my pant legs. I was having difficulty focusing. Marlowe sat on a low stool to my left, but I could make out no more of him than his shape. He was tipped slightly forward. My lips felt dry and cracked, and it took me a moment to find my voice.

“Mathieu,” I managed. “Where is Mathieu?”

“I'm afraid he's gone,” Marlowe said, leaning back.

“To Espérance?” I asked, and tried to raise myself on my elbows. But even this insignificant movement inflamed the pounding in my head and I had to lie back down. I heard Marlowe chuckle.

“No,” he said. “Unfortunately, not.”

Where, then? I wanted to ask. If not Espérance, where? But the words wouldn't come, and soon everything began to slip away again.

When I next awoke it was to an empty hut. The sun was still shining outside, and the pain in my head had subsided enough that I could raise myself from the mat. I surveyed my surroundings, which were Spartan. Except for the tacking on which I lay and the crude stool Marlowe had occupied, there was nothing, just mud walls, a dirt floor and me. It was more like a cell than a domicile.

My nausea had passed and I was wearing my trousers again. I put my hand to my head. There was an angry lump just above my right ear, and the hair around it was brittle with what I assumed to be dried blood.

A shadow fell across me then as a figure entered the doorway. It stood silhouetted by the sun's brightness, arms akimbo.

“Well, at long last,” Marlowe said, and stepped inside. “You had me worried there for a while.”

He did not sit down, but rather stood studying me from above, as one might a strange carcass found along the roadside.

“How long?” I asked, rubbing my stiff neck.

“Almost twenty-four hours,” he smiled. “You know, it was quite rude to nod off in the middle of a conversation like you did.”

“I think I have a concussion.”

“Oh, I should think so,” Marlowe said, and turned back to the door.

Only then did his presence strike me as odd.

“But you're ill,” I said. “The doctor.”

He looked back at me, grinning still. “Yes, indeed, James. Quite ill. In fact, I'm under round-the-clock medical supervision. Or so the staff at the Excelsior believes. The virus has progressed to the point where my very life is in danger. On no account am I to be disturbed. All necessary fallacy, I'm afraid.”

“Necessary?” I said, not following him. “Necessary why? What are you talking about?”

“You'll see,” he said, holding his hand out toward me and crooking his finger. “Let's go. On your feet, James. I think you've lollygagged long enough.”

I had to shield my eyes against the sun when I stepped out of the hut. It took a few moments before they adjusted to the glare. When they did, I noticed that a change had come over
the village. Gone was the carefree tenor that I'd witnessed on my arrival; in its place, a discernible tension. As I walked along behind Marlowe, I was aware of eyes upon us. The women, so insouciant and oblivious to my presence before, now regarded me with apprehension. Their children they kept close by their sides. The men, too, looked on; their hooded eyes, though, were fixed not upon me, but Marlowe.

As we neared the centre of the village, which was marked by an open space with an awkward rock cairn in its middle, I grabbed hold of Marlowe's elbow. When I did this, I sensed movement off to my left. Marlowe held up his hand, as if in signal.

“Mathieu,” I said to him. “Before you told me something about Mathieu. Has he left?”

He looked at me as if I was becoming something of a nuisance.

“In a manner of speaking, James,” he said, “yes, he has left.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded. “A manner of speaking?”

To see him, one could imagine Marlowe a stern schoolmaster in the process of explaining simple arithmetic to a dim-witted pupil. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his chin dipped toward his collar.

“It is one of the peculiarities of this country,” he said, “that people often go missing and yet are rarely missed. As will be the case with our poor Mathieu. His family, what family he has, will no doubt assume the worst. And they will, of course, be correct in their assumption. But they won't bother to look for him, which is a good thing. Seeing as there's not much left to be found.”

It was the way in which these words were spoken as much as the words themselves that shocked me: the utter completeness of Marlowe's indifference.

“My God, Marlowe,” I said. “What have you done?”

He offered no answer, simply shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

I could not move. The nausea returned. And for a moment, it felt as if the palsy in my hand was about to envelop my entire body. I caught up to Marlowe on the opposite side of the cairn, but my mind was awhirl. I knew I had to say something, but my brain, whether still addled by the blow or simply numb from the revelation, was unable to form the words.

Marlowe, however, suffered no such loss.

“These people,” he said laconically, gesturing to the villagers, who watched us from a safe distance. “These people really are quite uncivilized. Oh, I know that's not the
correct
thing to say nowadays, but it's true. Of course, they are by no means the barbarians that the people below think them. Actually, they are a rather peaceful lot. True, they were in the past rather brutal, but it was purely a matter of necessity. They've no
real
taste for violence.”

He stopped then, and a broad smile creased his face.

“Not like these fellows,” he said, and nodded toward two men leaning against the shaded wall of one of the adobe huts. I immediately recognized their tight-fitting navy jumpsuits and gold epaulettes. They were agents of the
Force Sûreté
.

“What's going on, Marlowe?” I said, understanding now the veil of fear that had descended upon the village. “Why have you brought me here?”

The laugh that issued from his lips was hideous; it sounded as if it were born in the very depths of darkness.

“My dear James,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “Have you not figured it out yet? Who better than you, my very own little lab rat.”

I did not fight them. I could see no reason to. They were younger; they were stronger. They were the sort of men who feasted on violence. Struggle would have only whetted their appetite. Still, the smaller of the two, a compact, wiry man with the slender fingers of a pianist, could not resist the craving and slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand. But Marlowe put a stop to any further beating with a few soft words, spoken in Creole.

As they tied me to a straight-backed wooden chair retrieved from one of the huts, I studied their faces. Both were scarred. The man who slapped me had a long angry welt that ran from his hairline down across his cheek. It was raised up and pink. It must have been a very deep cut, and recent. Both men wore mirrored sunglasses, and I wondered why it was that such thugs always thought it necessary to shield their eyes.

When I was tightly bound to the chair, Marlowe had them carry me back to the centre of the village and set me down in front of the cairn. I was put on display for all to see, but the villagers had retreated into their huts, leaving the four of us alone under the blazing sun. One of the agents fetched Marlowe his stool, and he sat down before me.

“So, James,” he said, taking hold of my left hand and caressing it in his own, “where is your Sinemet and Eldepryl? I searched your backpack and your pockets but found nothing.”